Kiss of the vampire
" The Girl with the Sharp sword"
Mission 40: Dance with Danger!
The sun burned high above the mountain. The air was heavy with heat, cicadas shrieking in the trees. Deyviel stood barefoot in the clearing, chest bare, sweat dripping down his muscles. His body bore countless bruises, scars of sticks and kicks and days of punishment—but his eyes burned sharper than ever.
The three priests stood before him in a triangle, bastons gleaming in their hands. Their expressions were unreadable.
Ben sat lazily on a rock nearby, chewing a piece of dried fruit. "Alright, brat. You've been holding your stance against one of them. Cute. But today's different."
Mariano's voice cut in, calm but sharp as a blade.
"Today, you face all three."
Deyviel's brows shot up. "Wait—what?"
Jacinto rolled his shoulders, his grin wide and wolfish. "Royal Guard is not meant for sparring, boy. It's for survival when the world wants you crushed. If you can't withstand three of us… you'll never withstand an army."
Burgos slammed his baston against the ground. "Stance ready. Now."
Deyviel clenched his jaw and raised his arms, forming the Royal Guard stance. Legs grounded, hands open but coiled, his breathing slow and steady. His pulse hammered, but he forced himself to stay calm.
Mariano struck first—fast and direct, a baston thrust toward Deyviel's ribs. Deyviel absorbed it, his stance shifting slightly, redirecting the force into the earth beneath his feet.
But before he could exhale, Jacinto spun in with a low Yaw-Yan kick. The impact cracked against Deyviel's thigh, pain blooming instantly. He nearly faltered, but his body remembered the months under the waterfall, the hunger, the exhaustion. He bit down the scream and stood tall.
Then Burgos came in from behind, his baston arcing toward Deyviel's shoulder. Deyviel twisted, raising his guard just in time. The impact reverberated through his arms, but instead of collapsing, he redirected—the force snapping back into Burgos' own wrist. The older man blinked, impressed, and stepped back.
Ben whistled. "Not bad, brat. You're actually lasting longer than I thought."
The priests didn't let up. Mariano's baston whirled like a storm, Jacinto's kicks hammered in with bone-cracking speed, and Burgos shifted angles relentlessly. The world became a blur of strikes, Deyviel at the center like a stone in a river of blows.
Every nerve in his body screamed. His legs shook. His arms burned. Each strike tested his stance, his will, his breath. And then—
CRACK!
Jacinto's heel smashed against his guard. Deyviel staggered back two steps, nearly losing balance. But his eyes lit up with fury, and he roared.
"Old fossils! You'll have to do better than that!"
He planted himself again. This time, when Burgos came in with a heavy overhead strike, Deyviel's body reacted differently. His guard didn't just absorb—he channeled. The baston's force shot back into Burgos' arm, knocking the priest off balance.
Mariano's eyes narrowed. "He's learning…"
Jacinto lunged with another Yaw-Yan roundhouse, but Deyviel met it head-on. His forearms caught the shin, the stance absorbing the brutal force. Then—like water returning to the ocean—he released it back. The shockwave blasted Jacinto off his feet, sending him rolling in the dirt.
Silence fell.
Deyviel panted, sweat dripping, his arms trembling but his stance still unbroken. A wild grin spread across his face.
"Heh… I finally did it."
Ben's smirk widened, eyes sharp as he stood.
"Not bad, brat. Took months of hell, but you've finally scratched the surface. The Royal Guard… the wall that turns enemies into their own worst weapon."
Mariano exhaled, lowering his baston.
"Do not grow arrogant, boy. This is only the beginning. What you reflected today was a fraction. Against monsters like Lancer, you'll need to reflect far greater storms."
Jacinto, picking himself off the ground with a laugh, spat to the side. "Hah! Not bad, brat. For the first time, you hit back without even throwing a punch."
Deyviel straightened, bruised and battered but grinning.
"Then keep hitting me. I'll take it all—until I can turn even the gods' strikes back on them."
The priests exchanged glances, pride hidden behind their stern faces. The boy was no longer just flailing with instinct. He was becoming.
And Ben, watching from the sidelines, muttered to himself with a rare seriousness.
"…Yeah. He's getting closer. Too close."
The sun burned high above the mountain. The air was heavy with heat, cicadas shrieking in the trees. Deyviel stood barefoot in the clearing, chest bare, sweat dripping down his muscles. His body bore countless bruises, scars of sticks and kicks and days of punishment—but his eyes burned sharper than ever.
The three priests stood before him in a triangle, bastons gleaming in their hands. Their expressions were unreadable.
Ben sat lazily on a rock nearby, chewing a piece of dried fruit. "Alright, brat. You've been holding your stance against one of them. Cute. But today's different."
Mariano's voice cut in, calm but sharp as a blade.
"Today, you face all three."
Deyviel's brows shot up. "Wait—what?"
Jacinto rolled his shoulders, his grin wide and wolfish. "Royal Guard is not meant for sparring, boy. It's for survival when the world wants you crushed. If you can't withstand three of us… you'll never withstand an army."
Burgos slammed his baston against the ground. "Stance ready. Now."
Deyviel clenched his jaw and raised his arms, forming the Royal Guard stance. Legs grounded, hands open but coiled, his breathing slow and steady. His pulse hammered, but he forced himself to stay calm.
Mariano struck first—fast and direct, a baston thrust toward Deyviel's ribs. Deyviel absorbed it, his stance shifting slightly, redirecting the force into the earth beneath his feet.
But before he could exhale, Jacinto spun in with a low Yaw-Yan kick. The impact cracked against Deyviel's thigh, pain blooming instantly. He nearly faltered, but his body remembered the months under the waterfall, the hunger, the exhaustion. He bit down the scream and stood tall.
Then Burgos came in from behind, his baston arcing toward Deyviel's shoulder. Deyviel twisted, raising his guard just in time. The impact reverberated through his arms, but instead of collapsing, he redirected—the force snapping back into Burgos' own wrist. The older man blinked, impressed, and stepped back.
Ben whistled. "Not bad, brat. You're actually lasting longer than I thought."
The priests didn't let up. Mariano's baston whirled like a storm, Jacinto's kicks hammered in with bone-cracking speed, and Burgos shifted angles relentlessly. The world became a blur of strikes, Deyviel at the center like a stone in a river of blows.
Every nerve in his body screamed. His legs shook. His arms burned. Each strike tested his stance, his will, his breath. And then—
CRACK!
Jacinto's heel smashed against his guard. Deyviel staggered back two steps, nearly losing balance. But his eyes lit up with fury, and he roared.
"Old fossils! You'll have to do better than that!"
He planted himself again. This time, when Burgos came in with a heavy overhead strike, Deyviel's body reacted differently. His guard didn't just absorb—he channeled. The baston's force shot back into Burgos' arm, knocking the priest off balance.
Mariano's eyes narrowed. "He's learning…"
Jacinto lunged with another Yaw-Yan roundhouse, but Deyviel met it head-on. His forearms caught the shin, the stance absorbing the brutal force. Then—like water returning to the ocean—he released it back. The shockwave blasted Jacinto off his feet, sending him rolling in the dirt.
Silence fell.
Deyviel panted, sweat dripping, his arms trembling but his stance still unbroken. A wild grin spread across his face.
"Heh… I finally did it."
Ben's smirk widened, eyes sharp as he stood.
"Not bad, brat. Took months of hell, but you've finally scratched the surface. The Royal Guard… the wall that turns enemies into their own worst weapon."
Mariano exhaled, lowering his baston.
"Do not grow arrogant, boy. This is only the beginning. What you reflected today was a fraction. Against monsters like Lancer, you'll need to reflect far greater storms."
Jacinto, picking himself off the ground with a laugh, spat to the side. "Hah! Not bad, brat. For the first time, you hit back without even throwing a punch."
Deyviel straightened, bruised and battered but grinning.
"Then keep hitting me. I'll take it all—until I can turn even the gods' strikes back on them."
The priests exchanged glances, pride hidden behind their stern faces. The boy wPOV: Denver
The rain hadn't stopped since they set foot in Paris. The city looked beautiful under the lights, but for the Black Knights, its elegance was nothing more than a thin veil covering rot. For months, they had walked its streets, turned over stones, and followed faint whispers about a hell gate hidden somewhere beneath the city.
Denver's boots splashed against the shallow puddles of the cobblestone alley. His hood was drawn low, shadows hiding his sharp eyes as he glanced around. Months… and still nothing. He clenched his fists. "We've been chasing ghosts here. Are we even close?"
Captain Ethan walked ahead, calm despite the damp cold. He adjusted his gloves and shot Denver a glance over his shoulder. "Patience. This isn't some open field. Hell gates aren't meant to be found easily."
"But still…" Denver muttered, his irritation showing. "We've been combing through tunnels, catacombs, old ruins… and every lead dries up. Meanwhile, Deyviel—"
"—is fine." Ethan cut him off, his voice steady, almost firm. "From what I've heard, they're training him. Captain Ben and I agreed it was necessary. Don't worry. He'll come back sharper than ever."
Denver narrowed his eyes. "Training? For months?"
A chuckle slipped out from Ethan, though his gaze stayed fixed on the alley ahead. "Royal Guard training isn't a few sparring sessions, Denver. It's hell made flesh. If anyone can endure it, it's that stubborn brat."
From the side, one of the Black Knights jogged up, whispering low. "Captain, east side clear. No sign of activity. Locals don't know anything."
"Report it in," Ethan said, nodding. The knight tapped a comm rune at his ear, sending the message back to their scattered comrades.
Denver frowned, scanning the alley as the others regrouped. Hell gate or no hell gate, every day we're wasting here feels heavier… He pulled out a worn map, marking their path. His mind, however, kept drifting back to Deyviel. What kind of training keeps him away this long?
The night grew colder as the group pressed deeper into the labyrinth of Paris. The streets were nearly silent, except for the distant hum of nightlife far away. Every corner felt like a throat waiting to close on them.
Ethan suddenly raised a , sig nagt. ling a halt. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing at the faint echo of footsteps behind them. "Stay sharp. We're not alone."
The Black Knights spread out instantly, forming a loose circle, blades ready. Denver tightened his grip on his sword, exhaling slow. His earlier frustrations vanished into pure focus.
Hell gate, missing comrades, or something worse… this city isn't done with us yet.as no longer just flailing with instinct. He was becoming.
And Ben, watching from the sidelines, muttered to himself with a rare seriousness.
"…Yeah. He's getting closer. Too close."
The torchlight flickered against the walls, making the streaks of blood shimmer wetly. Denver swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed to turn back, but his legs moved forward anyway. The others followed, boots crunching softly on gravel and bone dust.
The trail snaked deeper into the catacombs. With each step, the silence pressed heavier, broken only by the occasional drop of water hitting stone.
"Feels like a damn trap," muttered one of the knights.
"Everything down here is a trap," Ethan replied flatly. "Keep your nerves tight."
Denver forced his breathing slow, but his hand never left the hilt of his blade. If this is a hell gate… then every step we take is one step closer to something we're not ready for.
They rounded a bend—then froze.
Ahead, the trail of blood widened into a smear, painting the floor and wall. A corpse lay crumpled against the stone, throat torn out, ribs cracked wide as if something had feasted on it. The body was pale, skin gray, and its eyes bulged with terror even in death.
One of the knights gagged. "Gods…"
Denver crouched, inspecting. The corpse wore a tattered cloak—not a civilian, but a cultist.
Ethan knelt beside him, frowning. "Not our kill. Something else hunts here."
The torch sputtered. For an instant, Denver thought he saw movement—something slithering deeper into the dark, just beyond the circle of light.
His pulse hammered. "We're not alone."
The comm rune crackled again—another squad reporting in: 'East tunnel sweep… Nothing yet. Wait… we found carvings. Strange markings on the walls. Could be ritual prep.'
"Copy. Don't engage," Ethan whispered harshly into the rune.
He stood, grip tightening on his sword. "Everyone—quiet. Blades ready. Whatever killed that man…" His eyes narrowed into the dark ahead. "…might still be here."
Denver's gut twisted. He scanned the shadows, knuckles white around his hilt. Each skull in the walls seemed to grin wider. The air grew hotter now, faintly trembling, like the earth itself was breathing.
Ethan's jaw clenched. He lifted his torch and whispered, almost reverently:
"We're at the threshold. The gate is near."
And then, from the blackness ahead, came the sound—wet, dragging footsteps.
The beast's claws raked sparks across Ethan's blade, but his focus wasn't on the fight anymore. His eyes darted across the carvings etched deep into the stone wall—spirals that all bled into one massive basin at the chamber's center.
Denver noticed too, his breath catching. "…This isn't just a gate."
Ethan's face darkened. His voice cut through the clash of steel and roar of the beast.
"It's an altar."
The knights froze.
The basin was carved for bodies—two of them.
Denver's stomach twisted. "Then… the key…"
"Ghellee and Elisia," Ethan said flatly, his tone cold as iron. "Lancer already has them. He'll drag them here, spill their blood, and the gate will tear open."
The words crashed heavier than the beast's roar.
"No…" Denver muttered, fury boiling in his veins. His grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles cracked. "We can't let that happen."
The monster lunged, claws blazing with ki. Ethan deflected, sliding back, his eyes never leaving his men.
"Listen well! This guardian is just a lock—meant to delay anyone who tries to interfere. But the real danger is above us. Somewhere in Paris, Lancer is preparing the ritual."
A knight shouted over the clash, "Then what do we do, Captain?!"
Ethan's gaze hardened. "We split. Half of you hold this chamber—make damn sure no one touches it until we return. The rest of us scour the city, every street, every shadow. We find those girls before they're brought here."
Denver gritted his teeth, a sick feeling churning in his chest. He pictured Ghellee's quiet smile, Elisia's defiance even in fear. If Lancer sacrificed them…
"Captain." Denver's voice shook, but his eyes burned with fire. "If he spills their blood here… it's over, isn't it?"
Ethan nodded grimly. "Not just Paris. The whole world."
The beast roared again, charging, but this time Denver didn't back down. He raised his blade high, fury in every breath.
Hold on, Ghellee… Elisia. Just hold on. I'll cut through hell itself before I let him take you.
The beast slammed into the ground again, its ki flaring like wildfire, shaking dust from the centuries-old ceiling.
"Denver! Left!" Ethan Allen barked.
Denver twisted, dragging his sword along the monster's claw and sliding under its chest. The impact rattled his bones, but he dug his blade deep, buying precious seconds.
"Black Knights, listen up!" Ethan's voice thundered, sharp enough to cut through the chaos. "We're splitting. Half of you stay here—this altar must not be touched. If Lancer drags Ghellee and Elisia back, this is where he'll spill their blood."
The knights stiffened, exchanging grim looks.
"Kliev, Emily, Alicia, Christine, Andrew, Cymac, Yumi—you all hold the chamber. Reinforce the walls, lay wards, traps, anything. If that monster breaks free, kill it or die stalling it."
"Yes, Captain!" they shouted, already moving into position.
Denver's heart hammered. His chest felt tight, but his eyes never left Ethan. "And the rest of us?"
Ethan's jaw clenched. "We're heading up. Every alley, every church, every sewer in this damned city—we scour it. Lancer already has the girls. If he starts the ritual before we find him…" He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
Silence fell for a heartbeat, heavy as a coffin.
Then Andrew broke it, shouting from behind. "Captain, what about reinforcements? Shouldn't we call—"
"No time." Ethan cut him short. His tone was iron, but his eyes flicked toward Denver for a fraction of a second. "If Lancer begins the sacrifice, the gate will open before anyone arrives. We're all Paris has."
Denver swallowed hard. His knuckles turned white around his sword. Paris… the world… Ghellee… Elisia.
The beast let out another roar, its ki surging. The chamber shook.
Ethan's voice cut like a whip:
"Denver, with me. We track Lancer."
Denver blinked, then nodded, fire flooding his chest. "Yes, Captain."
Ethan turned to the rest. "Pair off. No one walks alone. If you see anything suspicious, you signal with flares, no hesitation. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!"
The split happened fast. The knights took their stand at the altar—Kliev, Emily, Alicia, Christine, Andrew, Cymac, and Yumi—steel and magic already weaving defenses. The others filed out behind Ethan Allen and Denver, their boots echoing through the tunnels as they climbed toward the Paris night.
The city awaited—its lights glowing, its streets crawling with unseen shadows. Somewhere above, Ghellee and Elisia were being dragged closer to death.
Denver's jaw locked. Hang on… I swear I'll get to you before he does.
The night pressed down like a steel trap, shadows crawling over cobblestones. Denver's boots clattered against the old stone streets, every nerve screaming that danger was near.
"Denver, keep your eyes sharp," Ethan Allen murmured, his tone tight as a drawn bowstring. "Lancer moves fast. He knows the city better than we do."
Denver nodded, gripping his sword tighter. Every alleyway, every rooftop, every flicker of movement made his heart jump. He could feel it—the faint echo of ki, distorted but unmistakable. The girls were near.
Meanwhile, in the catacombs beneath Montmartre, Kliev's squad moved silently, wards glowing faintly along the walls. The air smelled of dust and iron. Each member knew the stakes. One mistake, one misstep, and Ghellee and Elisia could be sacrificed.
Emily whispered, eyes scanning the shadows. "I feel it… something's coming."
Christine's hand went to the wards. "Everyone, brace. It's too quiet."
A soft rumble vibrated through the stone floors. The group froze.
Then, from above, a crackling roar echoed through the catacombs—a ki surge so strong it made the wards flare violently.
"Lancer…" Kliev muttered, teeth gritted. "He's here. He's moving them."
Back above ground, Denver and Ethan reached a narrow alley, the faint sound of screaming carried on the wind. Denver froze. "That's… them. That's the girls."
Ethan's eyes went cold. "We've got minutes. Move."
They sprinted, leaping over debris and overturned carts. The shadows ahead warped, distorting as if reality itself bent under a massive power.
Denver's stomach dropped. In the distance, on a rooftop overlooking the cathedral where the hell gate's altar lay, he saw it: Lancer, holding Ghellee in one arm and Elisia in the other. Their eyes wide with fear, helpless.
Denver felt his blood turn to ice. "We're too late…"
Ethan's hand shot out, grabbing his shoulder. "Not yet. But this next move—watch yourself, Denver. If we fail… the gate opens, and everything we fight for… everything dies."
Suddenly, the ground beneath them shook violently. Stones cracked. From the shadows, dozens of followers—vampire nobles, apostle-like figures with ki flaring in their veins—erupted, encircling them.
Denver's heart raced. He realized with a sickening certainty: they were walking into a trap.
Ethan drew his sword, the blade glowing faintly with ki. "Denver… get ready. There's no turning back."
And at that moment, a distant, chilling laugh echoed from the rooftop, carried by the wind:
"Ah… so the little heroes finally arrived. Too bad… it won't matter."
Denver's stomach dropped as he realized the full weight of their enemy's power.
The hell gate's ritual had already begun.
And somewhere in the shadows, unseen, a surge of power unlike anything he had ever felt started to awaken within him—his body screaming in anticipation, the mark of Greed burning hotter than ever.
Time seemed to freeze.
And then… everything went black.
To be continued