"Oh, I did," the vampire said simply. He gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulder. Raising a hand, he roughly ruffled his own hair, pulling the dark, ti-worn strands back as though trying to reveal a hidden mark embedded on his skull. "You see this mark... it constantly reminds —"
"Shut up. I’m not going to stand here and listen to your nostalgic nonsense."
Cruxius’s voice sliced through the air like a switchblade—cold, painfully abrupt, and thickly laced with pure disgust.
The vampire paused mid-motion, his hand still hovering near a faded sigil severely scorched into his scalp. His smile didn’t falter—but sothing deep within it darkened. It hardened into solid ice.
"You are very similar to her," the vampire muttered softly. It was a whisper brushing right against the jagged edge of contempt. "Impulsive. Highly emotional. Just like she was in her final, pathetic monts."
Cruxius blinked. Just once.
Then ca the violent shift.
He took a single, deliberate step forward.
The lazy arrogance in his posture didn’t fade—it morphed. It hardened into sothing significantly colder. Sothing much crueler.
"You know," he began, his tone almost pleasantly conversational, "I can clearly see how hard you are trying to provoke ."
And in one terrifyingly smooth motion, he reached behind his back.
The soft, deadly whisper of leather brushing against steel echoed in the quiet hall. He pulled out a heavy weapon—the glint of black chro erging beneath the dim lighting.
A Desert Eagle.
Thick. Unreasonably imposing. A hand-cannon that looked like it had absolutely no business resting in civilian hands—and especially not in his.
It rested with a disturbing, practiced familiarity in Cruxius’s firm grip. He tilted the heavy barrel slightly upward, leveling the sights directly at the center of the vampire’s chest.
He offered no final warning.
The trigger clicked.
A deafening thunderclap echoed down the marbled hallway—raw and ear-splitting. The first massive shot barked out like a miniature cannon.
But before the heavy shell could even finish tearing through the air, the space around them violently fractured.
[Use of dinsional morph detected: 24-hour Reset Activated]
Dozens—no, hundreds—of tiny, glowing circular portals shimred into sudden existence around the vampire. They wove a dizzying, disorienting pattern in mid-air.
They effortlessly absorbed the speeding bullet... and spat it back out a fraction of a second later.
From every conceivable direction.
The quiet air instantly filled with the deafening roar of overlapping gunfire. An overwhelming storm of heavy tal rained down like divine wrath upon the vampire.
The bullets struck him from all sides. They tore through his head, his chest, his pale limbs—effortlessly piercing tough flesh and cracking ancient bone.
The impacts painted the pristine marbled floor and the golden-accented walls in ssy, abstract shades of bright crimson.
The vampire’s eyes widened—not in genuine fear, but in pure, unadulterated surprise.
His body violently convulsed under the relentless, heavy impact. He was riddled and torn apart, instantly turned into a grotesque, bleeding sculpture of sheer mutilation.
Dark blood sprayed across the walls. Chunks of flesh burst outward.
Yet, he smiled.
Even as his physical body practically exploded into wet fragnts—ripped entirely apart in a grotesque symphony of gore and violence.
Even then, he kept smiling.
Because the very next second, his ruined form began to unnaturally stitch itself back together.
Torn muscles rapidly twisted like writhing snakes, shattered bones audibly reford, and shredded flesh re-knitted seamlessly.
Within seconds, he stood completely whole—virtually untouched.
It was as if nothing had happened at all.
He casually cracked his neck—first to the left, then to the right. Loud, sickening pops echoed in the now-silent hall.
Then, his crimson gaze slowly returned to Cruxius.
He was entirely unfazed. And terrifyingly cold.
"It seems," the vampire said, his voice now dripping with ancient, lethal venom, "you desperately need to be taught your place, Delicacy."
"’Delicacy’?" Cruxius just smirked, genuine amusent dancing in the sharp curl of his lips.
Without breaking eye contact for a second, his free hand shifted—gripping the bottom hem of his crisp shirt. Slowly, and very deliberately, he pulled the fabric up, revealing the bare, toned skin of his side. The lean muscles were taut, thick veins faintly visible beneath the pale surface.
He offered his empty hand toward the vampire, his palm open and incredibly steady.
"Go on," Cruxius taunted, his voice dropping to a low, daring whisper. The kind of sound that slips right under a predator’s skin. "If you were a pretty woman, I might actually consider offering my neck... but here goes nothing."
The vampire’s gaze instantly snapped down to the exposed patch of skin.
His crimson eyes narrowed into slits, hungrily tracing the slow, steady rhythm of breath beneath the flesh—the subtle rise, the living, thrumming pulse.
Then, the scent hit him. The sll of his blood.
Rich. Absurdly refined. Undeniably Royal.
Incredibly dangerous.
And overwhelmingly tempting.
No more words left the ancient creature’s mouth.
He didn’t need them.
His body simply blurred out of existence—dark shadows curling and dragging behind him. It was an inhuman burst of movent, a sudden gust of death cloaked in absolute silence.
He lunged forward, his elongated fangs flashing brightly beneath the chandeliers’ dim glow. He was a starving predator, fully ready to tear his teeth into pure divinity.
But—
Mid-air, just a fraction of an inch before his sharp teeth pierced the warm flesh, his eyes caught sothing.
A brief flicker.
A mark.
It was faint and deliberately hidden, but it was certainly no mistake.
Just beneath Cruxius’s collarbone, etched deeply into his skin not with cheap ink but with heavy legacy—glowed a very specific symbol.
It was an old, terrifying sigil, pulsing a deep red like an unblinking eye that had been silently watching all along.
Ancient. Intimately familiar. A brutal seal carved not for re decoration, but for absolute judgnt.
The vampire’s heavy boots slamd hard against the marble floor, aggressively skidding to a halt. The quiet hallway hissed sharply with the violent friction of his abrupt withdrawal.
He didn’t strike.
He didn’t dare move another inch.
His tense body slowly rose from its predatory crouch, standing rigidly straight. His crimson eyes were blown wide open, fearfully locked onto that glowing mark.
"...So that’s your little ga," the vampire said, his voice coiled tight with massive restraint.
Cruxius blinked once. Very slowly. "Ga?"
"Don’t play dumb with ," the vampire growled low in his throat.
But there was sothing else swimming beneath the surface of his tone now. It wasn’t just anger. It wasn’t just fear.
It was pure recognition.
A horrifying understanding.
"You deliberately lured ," the vampire accused, taking a cautious half-step forward, sheer tension tightening every single inch of his pale fra. "You exposed yourself on purpose. You actively wanted to bite."
There was no hasty denial from Cruxius.
No defensive excuse.
Only that arrogant smirk—still lingering, still confidently watching the predator realize it was actually the prey.
"Right," the vampire hissed, his raspy voice rising in pitch. "Because you actually thought I’d drink it and die on the spot. You thought I wouldn’t recognize the scent."
A dry, bitter laugh escaped the creature’s lips. It was rough and entirely hollow—splintering the air like old, dry bone.
"The blood of a Crimson Bearer," he stated, glaring at the boy. "A Royal-born, especially... it is highly fatal to any vampire without the proper lineage to endure it. You wanted to drop dead the exact mont your cursed blood touched my tongue."
Cruxius offered a small shrug. The motion was casual—infuriatingly so.
"I an... you almost fell for it."
User Comments
0 comments from readers