The standoff stretched.
Not loud.
Not violent.
Just heavy.
Sacrifice's eyes—dull, ember-dark—remained fixed on the knight's visor. The vampire stared back, unmoving, spear still leveled, though the pressure behind it had changed. Not weaker.
Uncertain.
Around them, the camp breathed.
Fifty Sarkaz.
Fifty heartbeats.
Fifty sets of eyes that had seen enough death to recognize when it was being delayed rather than prevented.
[Sacrifice]: Time is running out.
Her voice carried easily, calm enough to be mistaken for indifference.
[Sacrifice]: And my patients are losing their patience.
As if summoned by the words, someone behind her shifted their weight. Another muttered under their breath. A wounded man coughed—wet, angry, unfinished.
The knight heard it.
He tightened his grip on the spear.
[Unknown Knight]: You're remarkably calm for someone with a weapon at her throat.
[Sacrifice]: I have had worse instruments inside my body.
That gave him pause.
Just a fraction.
[Sacrifice]: You are injured.
The knight stiffened.
[Sacrifice]: Left lung irritation. Dehydration. Blood loss within the last twelve hours. Your heartbeat is uneven.
She tilted her head slightly, listening—not to him, but to the rhythm beneath his armor.
[Sacrifice]: You are burning more energy than you can replace.
A breath escaped him through his teeth.
[Unknown Knight]: You talk too much for someone about to die.
Sacrifice nodded.
[Sacrifice]: That is statistically true in most cases.
She took a single step forward.
The spear pressed harder.
Blood slid warm down her collarbone.
No one moved to stop her.
[Sacrifice]: But not this one.
The knight's arm trembled again—this time, visibly.
Then he lowered his spear.
For half a heartbeat, the camp relaxed.
That was the mistake.
He moved faster than thought—armor blurring red as he lunged forward, eyes igniting like coals. His mouth opened wide, fangs bared, instincts overriding reason.
He went for her throat.
Not to kill.
To feed.
His teeth sank into Sacrifice's neck with brutal force.
Blood spilled.
And then—
He screamed.
Not in triumph.
In agony.
The sound tore out of him raw and animal, echoing beneath the broken overpass. He tore himself away, stumbling back, hands clawing at his own face as smoke poured from his mouth and nostrils.
His blood boiled.
No—his entire body did.
Diablo's blood flooded his system.
Semi-molten.
Alive.
Wrong.
His veins lit up beneath his skin like glowing cracks in cooling magma. The ground beneath his boots hissed as droplets fell, burning black pits into the ash. He slammed his head into the earth again and again, howling, smashing his helm against stone until it dented inward.
He ripped it off and screamed louder.
He fell to his knees, then to all fours, clawing at the black sand—shoving it into his mouth, grinding it between his teeth, desperate to smother the heat tearing him apart from the inside.
The smell of scorched iron and burned blood filled the air.
No one moved.
Not a single Sarkaz raised a weapon.
They watched—frozen between horror and awe—as the vampire convulsed, body smoking, muscles locking and unlocking as if his own skeleton were trying to escape him.
Sacrifice staggered once.
Then steadied.
Blood still ran from her neck, glowing faintly before cooling as it hit the ground. The wound was already closing, flesh knitting itself together with angry heat.
The knight screamed again, voice cracking, fingers digging trenches into the dirt as if he could bury the pain alive.
[Sacrifice]: You lost control.
The knight barely had time to register them before she was already kneeling again, one knee pinning his shoulder, grip firm at his jaw. There was no anger in her movements—only procedure.
She forced the first bag between his teeth and squeezed.
Blood flooded his mouth.
Cold. Stabilized. Treated.
The reaction was immediate. The glow beneath his skin dulled, veins darkening back to normal. The screaming cut off mid-breath, collapsing into ragged gasps. His muscles seized once, twice—then loosened, strength draining out of him like water through cracked stone.
She didn't stop.
The second bag followed. Then the third.
Only when his breathing steadied—uneven, exhausted, but no longer burning—did she release him.
[Sacrifice]: I can forgive you for that.
Her tone was flat. Absolute.
She stood, looking down at him as one might look at a patient who had made a dangerous, stupid choice.
[Sacrifice]: But the next time I see you point those fangs at my other patients—
She didn't stop.
The second bag followed. Then the third.
Only when his breathing steadied—uneven, exhausted, but no longer burning—did she release him.
Blood still stained her collar, faintly luminous where it had touched the air, but she ignored it.
[Sacrifice]: I can forgive you for that.
Her tone was flat. Absolute.
She stood, looking down at him as one might look at a patient who had made a dangerous, stupid choice.
[Sacrifice]: But the next time I see you point those fangs at my other patients—
She leaned just enough for him to see her eyes.
Not anger.
[Sacrifice]: I will force-feed you my blood for an hour.
The silence that followed was thick.
The knight finally looked up at her.
Fear was written plainly across his face now—not fear of death, but of understanding. He knew exactly what she meant. With his strength drained, his body trembling, pride stripped bare—
He was helpless.
A piece of meat on a cutting board.
He swallowed, the last of the blood bags sliding from his grip.
[Unknown Knight]: …Understood, B—Boss.
The word tasted strange in his mouth.
Sacrifice did not react.
She placed two blood bags into his hands with clinical efficiency, as if finishing a prescription.
[Sacrifice]: Drink them slowly.
Then she turned away.
No warning.
No glance back.
[Sacrifice]: Good. Then behave like a member.
She took three steps, then added—almost as an afterthought:
[Sacrifice]: And try not to bite me next time, Mordred.
The name landed like a verdict.
Behind her, the knight froze.
Mordred.
A name.
Not earned through bloodshed.
Not taken by force.
Given.
Around him, the Sarkaz watched in silence—shock lingering in some eyes, envy in others, and dark amusement curling at the edges of a few restrained smiles.
As for Sacrifice, the weight finally caught up to her.
Hours of healing.
Of transferring wounds that should have killed others.
Of spending her own strength as if it were an expendable resource.
She found a relatively sheltered spot beneath the broken span of the overpass, laid her medical kit beside her like a guard dog, and sat down. For a moment, she remained upright, eyes unfocused.
Then she simply tipped forward—and slept.
The exhaustion is claiming its due.
She did not hear the low murmurs of the camp settling.
Did not notice the guards rotating without being told.
Did not sense the way several Sarkaz instinctively positioned themselves between her and the open dark.
While she slept, the world kept moving.
Reth approached the newly named Mordred first.
Not with hostility.
Not with trust either.
Just curiosity sharpened by experience.
[Reth]: You picked a hell of a way to join.
Mordred sat apart from the others, back against fractured concrete, visor off. His armor was still stained black where Diablo's blood had burned it. He held one of the blood bags Sacrifice had given him, turning it slowly in his hand.
[Mordred]: I didn't plan on joining.
Reth snorted softly.
[Reth]: None of us did.
Mordred sat apart from the others, back against fractured concrete, visor off. His armor was still stained black where Diablo's blood had burned it. He held one of the blood bags Sacrifice had given him, turning it slowly in his hand.
[Mordred]: I didn't plan on joining.
Reth snorted softly.
[Reth]: None of us did.
That earned a glance—brief, wary, but real.
Mordred hesitated, then drank. Slowly. As instructed.
[Mordred]: …She could've killed me.
He looked toward Sacrifice's sleeping form.
[Reth]: She chose not to.
That silence lingered.
[Mordred]: Why do you follow her?
Reth didn't answer immediately.
[Reth]: Because when things go bad—and they always do—she doesn't ask if you're worth saving.
He glanced back at Mordred.
[Reth]: She just saves you anyway.
Mordred exhaled, long and quiet.
[Mordred]: …That's dangerous.
Reth smiled thinly.
[Reth]: That's why it works.
Something shifted then—not trust, not yet—but the beginning of understanding. By the time Reth stood to leave, Mordred was no longer entirely alone.
Others still had distanced themselves from him because of the vampires' reputation that is mostly built on blood.
The Oripathy in infected blood made feeding dangerous—unstable, sometimes lethal. A vampire might still bite if driven far enough by hunger, but the risk was real, and so the odds shifted. For once, the infected were not the most vulnerable in a room.
[Inside Sacrifice's Dream]
Sacrifice opened her eyes.
She stood in a quiet place—soft light without a source, warmth without heat. Before her was a woman with pink hair and a gentle smile, seated calmly with a book open in her hands. Her voice was low and soothing as she read aloud.
A tiny bunny-eared girl listened intently at her side.
A green cat girl sat lazily nearby.
And walking beside them was a hooded man—present, yet indistinct, as if reality itself refused to commit to his form.
Sacrifice stepped closer.
She reached for the hooded man.
Her hand passed straight through him.
No resistance. No sensation. Like touching a shadow painted onto air.
Her brow furrowed.
She reached again—this time toward the pink-haired woman.
Her fingers made contact.
Warmth. Fabric. Reality.
The woman's breath caught.
The book slipped from her hands and struck the ground softly. Her eyes fluttered once before closing, her body slumping forward as if pulled into sudden, unnatural sleep.
The reaction was immediate.
The bunny girl gasped.
The green cat girl bristled.
The hooded man turned toward Sacrifice in a single, fluid motion—too fast, too aware.
[???]: Who may you be?
Sacrifice turned toward the voice.
The pink-haired woman was no longer behind her.
The place where she had been seated was empty—no book, no warmth, no trace she had ever been there.
Sacrifice straightened instinctively.
[Sacrifice]: Apologies. My name is Sacrifice.
She inclined her head slightly.
[Sacrifice]: I appear to be lost.
The air shifted.
A familiar presence emerged from the space itself, calm yet heavy with authority.
[Theresa]: My name is Theresa.
The voice was gentle—but carried weight far beyond its softness.
[Theresa]: I am the Sarkaz king of this era.
Sacrifice froze—not in fear, but recognition.
[Theresa]: May I ask… how a gargoyle has entered the Black Crown?
Before Sacrifice could answer—
Blue fire erupted from her chest.
Not explosive.
Not violent.
Uncontrolled.
Flames poured outward, wrapping around her form as her body stretched and reshaped, stone and fire fusing into something vast and unstable. In seconds, she towered over the dreamscape—a giant of burning blue flame and obsidian stone, heat warping the air around her.
Danger incarnate.
Theresa did not retreat.
Sacrifice clenched her fists, the fire surging higher.
[Sacrifice]: …I'm sorry.
Her voice echoed unnaturally, layered with heat and strain.
[Sacrifice]: I can barely maintain this body anymore.
The dream fractured.
Light collapsed inward.
Sacrifice woke with a sharp breath, heat bleeding away from her skin.
Elsewhere, at the same instant, Theresa opened her eyes as well.
The dream ended.
But the Black Crown remembered.
[Chapter end]
This chapter was made hastily. Sorry for any mistakes.