Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Apologies for not posting for a week—I've been busy with several things. Here's the latest chapter.
As an apology for the delay (and for missing last week's Powerstone goal), I'll be posting the next chapter as well and will post again on the weekend.
-------------------------------------------------------
Klaus vs Stefan
As Stefan lunged at Klaus, fangs bared, the Hybrid barely moved—just a blur of motion, his hand snapping out to parry the strike. The counter came like a thunderbolt. Klaus drove his fist into Stefan's ribs, the blow caving flesh and bone with a dull crack. Before Stefan could react, Klaus followed with a vicious jab to the liver, fingers digging deep before wrenching his hand free. The impact sent Stefan sprawling, his body skipping across the floor and colliding with a cracked pillar that shuddered under the hit.
Stefan hit the ground hard, a strangled sound leaving his throat. Pain radiated through his side, but he gritted his teeth, dragging himself up, palms scraping against the dirt and debris. He refused to stay down.
Klaus watched him with a slow, cruel tilt of the head—like a cat watching a half-dead mouse. "You know, Stefan," he drawled, stepping forward leisurely, "I could have killed you easily—many times, in fact. You've tested my patience more than most. But I didn't. Do you know why?"
Stefan forced himself upright, blood on his lip, glaring murder. His body shook, but his eyes didn't waver.
Klaus smirked, circling him. "Because your Ripper self, as you like to call it, was something I hadn't had in a long time—a friend. A companion. Someone I treated as a brother." His tone softened briefly, almost wistful, before sharpening again.
"Even when you and Rebekah… fraternized," he continued, his mouth curling in disdain, "I gave my permission. And you should be joyous—because that kind of permission hasn't been granted to anyone in the past millennia."
Stefan charged again, a snarl ripping from his throat. Klaus sidestepped, caught his wrist mid-strike, and twisted sharply until the bone gave a sickening crack. Stefan grunted, drove his elbow into Klaus's face with his free arm, breaking the hold. The counter barely staggered the Hybrid. Klaus grinned, blood trickling from his lip, before he blurred forward—too fast for Stefan to follow—and backhanded him so hard the sound cracked through the night. Stefan's body hit the far wall and dropped like a stone.
Still, Stefan pushed himself up again, breath ragged, fury burning bright. He swung wildly; Klaus caught the punch, squeezed until knuckles popped, then slammed his knee into Stefan's gut. The air left him in a choked gasp.
Klaus sighed, shaking his head. "When our father hunted us down in Chicago, I made sure you couldn't be harmed. I erased your memories to keep you safe. And yet, ever since I set foot in this town, you've been nothing but pathetic—preaching about the doppelgänger and her virtues, acting as though you're somehow better than me."
Klaus moved as he spoke, punctuating his words with precise, brutal hits—an uppercut that snapped Stefan's head back, a shoulder ram that sent him crashing through a desk. He advanced relentlessly, expression darkening. "You detest me?" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "You, who can't even understand yourself, dare to lecture me about my issues?"
Stefan staggered to his feet again, chest heaving, hands curled into fists. Klaus only smiled—a predator toying with his prey.
"But I let it go," Klaus said, feigning a wistful sigh as he brushed dust from his coat. "Because I thought—deep down—my friend was still in there. I kept giving you mercy, Stefan." His smirk vanished; his voice turned cold. "But it seems you won't understand until I show you my cruelty."
He blurred forward again—faster than a blink—and his hand clamped around Stefan's throat. The world tilted as Klaus lifted him off the ground with effortless strength, fingers digging in, crushing. Stefan kicked out, clawing at his arm, choking for air.
Klaus leaned in close, his voice low and venomous. "You even dared to kidnap my family," he hissed, features shifting, fangs descending. "And yet, you still breathe—a testament to my friendship."
The Hybrid's grip tightened; Stefan's windpipe creaked under the pressure. Then, with a contemptuous flick, Klaus slammed him down. The impact cracked the floor beneath Stefan's knees.
Klaus crouched beside him, voice eerily calm now. "Because when I give my loyalty, I don't take it back. And when I receive loyalty, I expect it to be upheld." His eyes locked on Stefan's, a storm of rage and disappointment behind them. "You failed on both counts."
Stefan spat blood, glaring up with defiance that trembled between courage and death wish. Klaus almost smiled—almost.
"For the sake of what we once had," he said quietly, "stay down. Otherwise, this will be the last time you ever get up."
Klaus turned away, leaving Stefan half-collapsed in the dirt, the sound of his own heartbeat roaring in his ears like a countdown.
Rebekah vs Damon
Damon smirked as he circled Rebekah, cocky as ever despite the tension crackling in the air. "You sure you want to do this, Barbie?" he taunted, rolling his shoulders. "I mean, considering how often you Originals get your asses handed to you, I'd hate to ruin your hair again."
Rebekah's eyes darkened, her lips curling in disdain. "You talk too much."
He barely registered the blur before her fist smashed into his ribs like a battering ram. The sound was wet, dull—bone meeting force older and crueler than time. Damon flew backward, crashing through a table, splinters exploding around him. He hit the floor hard enough to dent the tiles beneath him.
He coughed blood, clutching his side, but Rebekah didn't give him even a heartbeat to recover. Her heel came down, boot grinding against his sternum, pinning him as he gasped for air.
"Not so funny now, is it?" she sneered.
Damon grabbed her ankle with both hands and twisted hard. She stumbled, her balance slipping just long enough for him to roll away and scramble upright. He wiped his mouth, grinning through the pain. "Oh, please—was that supposed to hurt?"
Rebekah tilted her head, expression eerily calm. "No." Then she vanished.
She reappeared in front of him—close enough that he saw the flicker of satisfaction in her eyes before her hand clamped around his throat. The next moment, his back hit a stone pillar with a resounding crack. The pillar split down the middle, dust showering over them. Damon's boots scraped against the wall, desperate for traction. Rebekah's grip tightened, cutting off his breath.
He kicked out, landing a solid hit to her midsection. She staggered back half a step, just enough for him to drop to the floor and swing a wild punch. She caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted it sharply until his shoulder popped, and slammed him sideways into a desk. Wood shattered, papers scattered, and Damon crumpled.
Rebekah's smirk sharpened. "You arrogant little worm. You think you can stand against me? Against my family?"
Damon spat blood, forcing himself upright again, leaning into the pain. "Well, considering how many times we've daggered Klaus, I'd say we're doing pretty well."
Her face hardened. Wrong move.
She was on him again in an instant, her fist slamming into his stomach with enough force to lift him off his feet. His breath left him in a ragged wheeze, ribs cracking under the blow. She didn't stop—she grabbed him by the hair, dragged him forward, and rammed his head into the nearest wall. The impact was brutal; blood splattered across the plaster.
Before he could fall, she twisted him around and delivered a savage backhand that split his lip and sent him staggering. She followed with a driving knee to his gut, then spun, her elbow smashing into the back of his skull. The hit sent him sprawling face-first into the debris-strewn floor.
Damon coughed, dragging himself forward on trembling hands, glass and splinters cutting into his palms. Rebekah stalked him, slow and deliberate, the sound of her heels tapping against the floor like a countdown. When she reached him, she grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him upright again, his feet barely touching the ground.
He sagged in her grip, half-conscious, eyes dazed. Rebekah leaned close, voice dropping to a cold whisper against his ear. "Do you know the difference between us, Damon?"
He wheezed, blood on his teeth. "Your… terrible… taste in men?"
Her smile was razor-thin.
Then she drove her hand straight through his abdomen.
The sound was sickening—a wet crunch as skin and muscle gave way. Damon's body convulsed violently, his mouth opening in a silent scream before blood bubbled past his lips. His knees buckled, the color draining from his face as she twisted her hand inside him, savoring the way his body spasmed helplessly.
Rebekah pulled her hand free with a sharp motion, crimson splattering the ground. Damon collapsed, clutching his ruined abdomen, gasping for air that didn't come easily.
"The difference," she said icily, wiping his blood off her fingers, "is that I don't pretend to be something I'm not." She gave his shoulder a light kick, just enough to flip him onto his back. "And you?" Her heel pressed briefly against his chest. "You're nothing but a parasite who leeches off others and calls it charm."
Damon coughed, blood flecking his lips, glaring up at her with fading defiance. "Yeah… well… screw you, too."
Rebekah scoffed. "Not even if you were the last man on Earth."
She turned away, leaving him in a heap of broken flesh and torn pride. The sound of her heels echoed through the ruined room, sharp and steady. Dust swirled in the air, catching the faint light as she walked through the wreckage.
She paused only once, looking back at the carnage—at Damon, gasping and twitching on the ground, the blood already pooling beneath him. A faint sigh escaped her lips as she brushed dust from her dress.
For a thousand years, she'd hidden her strength, restrained herself, played at civility while monsters like Mikael and her brothers dictated her limits. But Mikael was dead. Their chains were gone. There was no reason to pretend anymore.
They kept provoking her family, these human-born vampires—schemers, scavengers, parasites who thought themselves predators. They had forgotten what she was.
Rebekah's gaze lingered on Damon's broken form, her fingers flexing once—temptation humming just beneath her skin. She wanted to finish it. End him. It would take so little.
But she turned away, a cruel smile ghosting across her lips.
Not yet.
Let him crawl. Let him bleed. Let him remember.
Next time, she wouldn't stop.
And neither would Klaus.
Kol vs Bonnie
After neutralizing spells that would incinerate me—Incendia Vultus, a crude but effective fire invocation—spells that conjured acid mists from the Elementum Corruptum branch, and curses that made my blood boil as if I were exposed to sunlight, I found myself entertained. This battle was a rarity—perhaps even the battle of a lifetime.
Nearly a thousand years, and still, magic held its thrill.
In my past life, it had been nothing more than myth—whispered about, maybe hidden in plain sight, but never something I could touch. Never something I could feel flex beneath my will.
But now?
I was controlled chaos.
Bonnie hurled another blast of raw energy—white-hot and unstable. It wasn't elegant, but it carried enough force to rip through stone. I twisted my wrist, drawing a spiral in the air. The runes flared—Vire Constringo—a compression spell. The energy folded inward like crumpled parchment before imploding harmlessly between us.
"Too much emotion," I chided, tone lazy. "You channel through anger, not intent. Anger burns out quickly."
She didn't respond—just screamed a word I recognized: Cadere!
Gravity magic. A favorite of the Bennetts.
The ground beneath me buckled, the pressure doubling, tripling—trying to crush me. I simply raised my hand, fingers glowing with faint blue light. The sigil flared: three interlocking rings—the mark of equilibrium. Equilibrium negates pressure. Old principle. I murmured:
"Ratio Vincit Vis."
Balance conquers force.
The air snapped. The gravity field collapsed.
Bonnie staggered, panting. I smirked. "You really should've studied more before trying to duel an Original witch."
Lightning burst from her palm next, jagged and furious—blood magic mixed with elemental conduction. Clever, but messy. I met it head-on, letting it strike my outstretched hand. The energy crawled up my arm like living fire, searing my skin, but I caught it—redirected it—turning my palm and releasing it back tenfold.
The bolt hit the floor beside her, exploding in a spray of molten debris. She barely rolled aside.
Fighting with magic again after so long—feeling it course through me, unraveling its mysteries with every counter, every sigil burned into the air—it was exhilarating.
I flicked my wrist, leaving glowing marks hanging midair—an arcane lattice of protection. Runae Vitae. They rotated around me like lazy comets. She noticed, and I saw fear flash in her eyes.
Bonnie shifted her stance and began a chant I hadn't heard in centuries:
"Ex Anima, Ex Sanguine, Ex Terra—Coniungo!"
The floor cracked. Roots burst upward, black and smoking with cursed energy—binding runes etched along their veins. They lashed toward me, serpentine.
I grinned, almost delighted. "Blood-binding ritual. How old-school."
I countered with a glyph drawn in the air—my blood as ink, my will as fire. "Solvite!"
The roots froze mid-strike, the sigils along their surface unraveling into mist. They disintegrated before they could touch me. The backlash threw her backward; she coughed blood.
Bonnie was beginning to wane. Her reserves were running low, or perhaps she had overextended herself, burning out her channels. I could feel it—her aura flickered like a dying candle. The Other Side stirred with interest, the faint whisper of long-dead witches gathering like a chorus behind her. They whispered their chants, trying to guide her, to steady her.
Let them try.
If they interfered, I would make the Other Side a prison—a true hell. Even if it required untold sacrifices, I would ensure their meddling came at a cost.
Bonnie knelt before me, exhaustion etched into every movement. Sweat glistened down her neck; her fingers trembled, still glowing faintly red with blood-magic residue. Her green eyes, sharp and unyielding, met mine with defiance.
Behind her, Caroline murmured a desperate, "Please, no…" over and over. A plea. A weakness.
I tilted my head, amused. "I am not Klaus, girl." My voice was calm, almost lazy. "She was given her chances, yet she keeps coming after us. Even when we left her and her little gang alone. Even when we didn't interfere with those doppelgänger mutts she calls friends."
I stepped closer, magic humming beneath my skin, the runes around my hand pulsing faintly—Primus Ordo runes, first-order energy. They made the air shimmer.
"So, Bonnie Bennett, any last words for your friends?" I smirked. "Know this—you die today. A pity, really. It seems I will be the one to end the main Bennett line. And to think, you come from the same bloodline as one of my mentors."
My tone softened into mock sympathy. "Pray to your ancestors, girl. Pray they do not leave you stranded in the prison that is the Other Side. Perhaps, if you're lucky, you'll pass on to whatever comes next."
I lifted a hand. Sigils flared to life along my fingers—Aether Sigilum, pure kinetic fire threaded with spirit-binding light. Magic thrummed like a living current, bending gravity around it.
Then Bonnie's eyes rolled back, and the room changed.
Power rippled outward like a tidal wave. My runes flickered—then extinguished. The air thickened with spiritual weight, vibrating at a frequency no mortal could endure. Every surface in the room began to hum, dust rising from the floor as invisible pressure pressed in from all directions.
I paused, curiosity piqued.
The spiritual pressure condensed, the veil between realms thinning until I could taste it—cold, metallic, ancient. Whispers filled the room, dozens of voices speaking in reverse, a language only the dead remembered.
And then—clarity.
A presence older than Bonnie. A presence that dripped with ancient wrath and relentless purpose.
I smiled slowly. "My, my… it seems a celebrity of the witch community has decided to grace us with her presence."
The lights flickered blue, then black, as frost formed along the floor. A silhouette took shape behind Bonnie—a woman's outline forged from moonlight and shadow.
Qetsiyah.
"Nikola Mikaelson," her voice rang out like a bell, every syllable vibrating through the bones of the room.
I rolled my eyes. "Kol Mikaelson, darling," I corrected with a lazy grin.
She ignored me, stepping forward. With each movement, reality buckled—the boundary between this plane and the Other Side quivered like disturbed water. The spirits pressed against the veil, whispering, clawing to witness what would follow.
"Kol Mikaelson, the immortal warlock," she said, her dark eyes narrowing. "You still owe favors to the Bennett line."
I tsked softly. "Ah, but Qetsiyah, those debts should be nullified. This is the third time your descendant has acted against me. The rule is simple—three strikes, and you're out."
I chuckled, watching her expression darken. "Do you think I turned Abby instead of this little witch on a whim? I thought she would help her bloodline thrive for the next five centuries. Maybe even reach your level. But instead, Bonnie has done nothing but attack me and my family. And I do not take kindly to that."
The temperature dropped further. Frost crackled across the ceiling as Qetsiyah regarded me in silence. When she spoke, her tone was as sharp as a blade.
"Very well. I will bind an oath with her blood. She will owe you a favor—as long as she is willing."
Bonnie let out a weak, ragged breath, the glow around her fading.
I arched a brow. "No, my lady. Three favors."
Her eyes flashed, the entire room flickering between this plane and the next. "Two," she said, voice echoing in layered tones, "and she will be safe. You will also swear an oath that you will not harm her."
I chuckled, eyes gleaming. "Obviously agreed, dear Qetsiyah."
Runes of blood and starlight flared beneath us—the Pactum Sanguis circle, binding by force of spirit. Bonnie's blood lifted from her veins, suspended midair in threads of crimson light, weaving into the sigil that bridged us. I added my own with a careless flick of the wrist; the moment our magic touched, the room trembled. The pact sealed with a sharp snap—a flash of white that momentarily blinded everyone.
A Bennett witch in my pocket—how delightful.
Their lineage had a nasty habit of locking away things even my kind considered unspeakable—Silas, Arcadius, the Hollow. Their magic was dangerous because it was pure intent—and now, I had the means to wield it indirectly.
And Qetsiyah—well, she was already dangerous. The woman who created the first immortality ritual had counters for every law of magic ever written. She had crafted a cure for eternity itself. Who knew what other horrors she had hidden?
Better not to make her my enemy.
The last flickers of the binding circle died away as Bonnie slumped forward, unconscious. The faint scent of burned sage lingered in the air.
A gasp echoed from somewhere behind me—Caroline, perhaps. It didn't matter.
I sighed, rolling my shoulders, magic still sparking faintly across my fingers. "Well," I said with a smirk, "it seems fate insists on keeping things interesting."
The floor beneath me cracked, another pulse of energy building in the distance.
I turned toward it slowly, grin widening.
"Well," I muttered, stretching my fingers as the next wave of trouble approached, "here we go again."