Kiss of the vampire
" The Girl with a Sharp sword"
Mission 41 : the Decent of a God
The sudden, monstrous surge of power from Denver was not the glorious awakening of a hero, but the violent, agonizing seizure of a vessel overwhelmed. He had pulled back the sacrificial ki, yes, but he had also pulled back the toxic, overwhelming power of the Abyss Mark that Lancer had meticulously prepared.
Denver fell to one knee, a primal scream trapped in his throat. His body was tearing itself apart, the stolen ki raging against the confines of his human flesh. The Mark of Greed on his chest, a stylized serpent eating its own tail, burned not with strength, but with a terrifying, unsustainable fever.
Lancer, initially shocked, saw the unstable nature of the power and his predatory smile returned, wider and colder than before.
"Foolish boy," Lancer sneered, dropping the dazed Ghellee and Elisia on the roof. "You consumed a poison you were not ready for. You tried to take too much."
Lancer's own ki, though momentarily depleted, was vast and infinitely more controlled. He didn't waste time with attacks. He simply reached out with his mind, his eyes glowing with black energy, and exerted absolute spiritual dominance over the raw power in Denver.
"That mark is meant for true power, not for a whining lapdog of the Black Knights," Lancer declared.
A sickening, tearing sensation ripped through Denver's chest. The Mark of Greed began to peel itself away—not by force, but by an ultimate psychic claim. Denver thrashed, his body convulsing as his very life force was pulled out with the mark.
"Stop!" Captain Ethan roared, leaping onto a pile of crates and unleashing a powerful ki blast.
Lancer didn't even flinch. A shimmer of black energy deflected Ethan's attack like it was wind, and Lancer's focus remained solely on Denver.
The serpent was being pulled from the flesh.
As the final energy of the Mark of Greed was about to be wrenched from Denver's chest, taking his life with it, Lancer roared, forcing the mark to reform onto his own body. Instead of the coiled serpent, however, the Mark of Greed instantly dissolved and reformed into a new, complex symbol on Lancer's torso—the sigil of the Sin of Pride.
The transfer was complete. Denver J. Siege (DJ) collapsed, his skin ash-gray, his pulse fluttering, the vacant space on his chest a screaming white burn.
Lancer, now pulsing with the titanic fusion of his power and the newly claimed Sin of Pride, threw his head back and let out a laugh that was pure, horrifying triumph.
"The Sin of Pride is mine! Now, witness the coming of the Outer Gods!"
He turned toward the gaping hole leading to the catacombs and let loose a massive torrent of Abyss-ki. In the chamber below, the altar roared to life. The entire city of Paris shook as the Hell Gate, now fully charged, began to tear open. The pulsing red-black light in the catacomb shaft indicated the threshold was seconds from breaking.
Lancer was bathed in the blinding red light of the opening gate, his power absolute. He didn't notice the faint, almost silent displacement of air high above the rooftop.
Then, a blur of motion, fast as lightning, descended directly between Lancer and the collapsed Denver.
Deyviel landed hard, his bare feet shattering the slate of the rooftop. He was instantly surrounded by a vibrant, oceanic blue ki that radiated confidence and control. The mark on his chest—the true Mark of Greed—pulsed fiercely.
He casually kicked Denver's lifeless body into the relative safety behind a chimney.
Lancer froze, his eyes widening in genuine, utter shock. The activation of the gate faltered for a critical second.
"De-Deyviel?!" Denver gasped weakly, his eyes barely cracking open, seeing his brother's silhouette against the blinding gate light.
Deyviel glanced back, a cocky, half-feral grin splitting his bruised face.
"Yo. Miss me? Rest a bit, I'll take care of things here, brother."
He turned his full attention to Lancer, his stance shifting into the grounded, coiled position of the Royal Guard, now overlaid with the aggressive hunger of Greed.
Lancer quickly regained his composure, his expression twisting from shock to furious recognition. "You! The other brat. The true host of Greed. You survived the training... and now you dare to interfere?"
Lancer knew he couldn't stop the ritual now; the energy was too volatile. He had to defend the gate. He drew his blade and let out a high-pitched psychic cry.
Instantly, from the shadows on surrounding rooftops, five figures landed, each radiating the grotesque, unique power of an Abyss Mark. They were the other five Sin-Series users—the Apostles.
"Excellent timing, boy!" Lancer roared, pointing his new Mark of Pride at Deyviel. "You brought the ultimate power to be added to my ritual! Kill him! Bring me his mark!"
One of the Apostles, a lithe woman with eyes full of desperate yearning—the Sin of Lust—sprinted forward, followed closely by the snarling, broad-shouldered man known as Alex, bearing the Sin of Envy. Lancer, fueled by Pride, prepared to join the fray.
Just as the trio of Sins prepared to strike, a booming voice echoed from the alley below.
"Hold it right there, boys and girls!"
A massive, black-clad figure rocketed onto the rooftop with impossible speed, landing next to Deyviel with the force of a thunderclap. It was Ben Rayleigh, Captain of the Royal Guard, his gray eyes shining with fierce amusement.
He surveyed the six Apostles, the pulsing gate, and the battered forms of Denver, Ghellee, and Elisia.
Ben gave the remaining three Sin users (Sloth, Wrath, and Gluttony) a dangerous smile and elbowed Deyviel. "I'll take the three easier ones. Seems fair, eh?"
Deyviel didn't even look at him, his entire focus already locked on Lancer, Lust, and Envy.
"Yeah, I'll manage," Deyviel said, his voice a low growl that carried the deep sound of the earth.
Ben's smirk widened. "You know the drill, runt. Take their Sins' marks. You stop the gate by breaking their connection to the Abyss. If we let him open it, the Outer Gods will emerge here."
"Got it, old man," Deyviel replied, rolling his shoulders.
"I'm not that old," Ben muttered, his sword already clearing its sheath with a shing that cut through the gate's ominous hum.
The air snapped. Ben launched himself at Sloth, Wrath, and Gluttony, his movement a hurricane of disciplined power.
The battle for the world began: Deyviel (Greed) vs. Lancer (Pride), Lust, and Envy (Alex).
As the Apostles clashed with the Black Knights, the Hell Gate below Paris continued to pulse, its light growing from angry red to a sickening, molten orange. It was slowly, irrevocably, opening.
The fight exploded across the Parisian rooftop.
Ben Rayleigh was a storm of disciplined force, his every move decades of honed skill against the erratic fury of the Apostles. He focused on the three less aggressive Sins: Sloth, Wrath, and Gluttony. His movements were precise, designed to incapacitate rather than kill, buying precious time. He slammed his elbow into Sloth's jaw, knocking the Apostle into a chimney, then twisted to parry Wrath's berserk dual-sword attack before driving his heel into Gluttony's solar plexus.
But all eyes—even Ben's—were drawn to Deyviel.
The true host of Greed didn't fight with the cold efficiency of the Royal Guard. He moved with a feral, exhilarating hunger. His ki pulsed like a chaotic, blue tide, absorbing the energy of the moon and the raw force of the opening gate.
The trio opposing him was lethal: Lancer (Pride), whose attacks were sweeping, arrogant arcs of black energy; the sleek, lightning-fast strikes of the woman bearing Lust; and Alex (Envy), whose every move was a perfectly mirrored, slightly corrupted imitation of Deyviel's own fighting style.
Deyviel met the combined assault with relentless motion. Lancer's arrogant ki-blade strike came first—a massive overhead slash. Deyviel shifted his stance, redirecting the force not into the ground, but into the next incoming attack: a wicked, clawing strike from Lust. The two forces met and shattered, giving Deyviel the space to move.
He spun, ducking beneath a mirroring back-fist from Envy. He didn't punch; he slipped his stance, letting the attack pass so close it burned his cheek, then exploded forward, his whole body a coiled spring aimed right at Lancer.
"Come and take it!" Deyviel roared, knowing his challenge would appeal directly to Lancer's new Sin of Pride.
As the battle raged, the Hell Gate below reached its critical point. The churning, molten-orange light solidified into a swirling vortex, and from its heart, a noxious, sickly green-black mist surged upward, silently engulfing the rooftops and spilling into the streets of Paris.
This was the Miasma of the Abyss, carrying the Sin Virus.
Down in the streets, the effect was immediate and catastrophic. An elderly baker, who always harbored deep resentment for his successful neighbor, stopped mid-sentence. His eyes went flat, then bulged with a terrible, possessive malice. The skin on his back cracked open, growing thick, mossy green plates—he became a Sin Zombie of Envy.
In a darkened apartment, a beautiful woman obsessed with physical pleasure began to change. Her skin rotted away, exposing muscle and bone, while her physical features grotesquely inflated and exaggerated. She lumbered into the street, a shrieking monster of lust—a Sin Zombie of Lust.
A collective, low groan rose from the city. The ordinary people of Paris, their latent vices accelerated and corrupted by the virus, were transforming into horrifying, lumbering reflections of the seven deadly sins.
Ben, who had just dropped Wrath with a devastating, chi-infused strike, felt the shift in the air and saw the rising tide of unnatural fog. He looked down and saw a grotesque, bloated figure staggering from an alley, its mouth stretched in an endless, devouring grin—a Sin Zombie of Gluttony.
His eyes widened in horror. "Fuck! This is bad!"
He knew this wasn't just a gate; it was a plague ship. The miasma would spread globally in hours.
"Deyviel!" Ben's voice cracked with urgency. "Ignore them! You need to stop the gate now! You have to break the altar's link!"
Deyviel, having just dodged a vicious pincer attack from Lust and Envy, looked over. He saw the black, oily smoke and the twisted horrors beginning to flood the streets. His face, bruised and bleeding, tightened into a mask of grim resolve.
He didn't waste a breath arguing.
"Got it!"
With a roar, he channeled the full, chaotic power of Greed. He stopped trying to absorb or reflect their attacks. He simply focused on a single, linear path.
Lancer, sensing his intent, threw everything he had into stopping him—a screaming wave of Pride-ki. Lust lunged low, aiming for his legs, and Envy mirrored the attack, aiming high.
Deyviel didn't try to stop them. He made himself small, weaving through the chaos like a ribbon in a gale, his stance momentarily abandoning absorption for pure evasion. He slid under Lancer's massive ki wave, vaulted over Lust's sweeping leg, and narrowly ducked under Envy's strike.
He was a blur of blue ki, not slowing down as he sprinted for the shaft leading to the catacombs. His target: the altar that anchored the Hell Gate.
"Stop him!" Lancer screamed, his voice shaking with furious Pride that his pawn was escaping.
The pursuit was on, with the fate of the world hinging on Deyviel's speed, skill, and sheer Greed to claim victory.
Deyviel hit the shaft opening, the force of his dash carrying him past the edge and into a controlled, screaming descent. Lancer, Lust, and Envy were right behind him, their combined energy a terrifying, destructive wave.
"You won't escape, brat!" Lancer's voice, now thick with the demanding arrogance of Pride, echoed down the shaft.
But just as they reached the edge, Ben materialized above them, his body a flash of black steel. He slammed his sword hilt into the ground, unleashing a focused shockwave of pure ki that was specifically designed to disrupt the Apostles' Marks.
The wave hit the three Sin users with devastating force. Lancer staggered back, his new Mark sputtering. Lust and Envy were thrown clean across the rooftop, their attacks dissolving into the noxious miasma.
"Go! Go, Deyviel!" Ben roared, already spinning to meet Wrath and Sloth who were closing in again.
Deyviel hit the floor of the catacombs, rolling once to absorb the impact, then instantly launching back onto his feet. The altar was directly ahead—a massive stone basin glowing with sickly, pulsing orange light. He could hear the desperate, ragged breathing of Kliev's squad trying to reinforce the wards.
Ben dropped down next to him, breathing heavily but his eyes sharp. The miasma was already thicker here, clawing at their ki shields.
"This is a losing fight," Ben stated, his voice tight. "That miasma is spreading the Sin Virus faster than wildfire. The Royal Guard is an absolute defense, but it's not meant to fight a plague or a god. We need you to reset, Deyviel. Break the Mark, destroy the altar, and seal the gate before it's too late."
Deyviel nodded, his gaze locked on the vortex. He was channeling Greed, the immense, raw power vibrating in his hands.
But before either of them could move, the pulsating orange light of the vortex did something final. It stopped pulsing.
It snapped open.
The silence lasted for a second, then a sound of agonizing, deep rumbling tore through the earth. The air temperature plummeted, and the sickening miasma intensified, turning the catacomb chamber into a soup of rot and despair.
From the swirling portal, something began to emerge.
It was a form that defied human comprehension, a sight that clawed at the sanity of the Black Knights present. It was Xexaria, the Outer God of Rot.
Her body was massive, filling the entire chamber, a colossal, shifting mountain of putrefying flesh that seemed to be woven from moldering cloth, chitinous growths, and weeping sores. She reeked of primordial death, a stench so foul it bypassed the nose and hit the brain directly, making the Black Knights gag and stumble. Her form was fluid, like a mass of tumors constantly collapsing and reforming, and where a face should have been, there was only a gaping, multi-toothed maw surrounded by countless useless, twitching eyes.
As she fully solidified in the chamber, the air cracked with her presence. She was ancient, cosmic, and utterly wrong.
Xexaria's massive, misshapen head slowly, painfully snapped in Deyviel's direction.
"Ahh… the divine user." Her voice was a grating sound, like massive stones grinding together, yet it somehow filled every corner of the catacombs.
She stopped abruptly, her impossible eyes focusing on the Mark of Greed burning on Deyviel's chest. A horrific, gurgling laugh erupted from her maw, shaking the very stones.
"A divine user… and a Sin user at the same time! Hahahaha! What a joke!"
With a screech that made the dust dance and the light flicker, Xexaria completed her emergence. She lifted one gargantuan, oozing limb—a parody of a tentacle—and slammed it against the altar, permanently anchoring the gate open.
Then, at Xexaria's command, the entire catacomb chamber was flooded with the newly transformed. They were the Sin Zombies—the infected masses of Paris—who had followed the scent of the Miasma.
Deyviel and Ben were instantly surrounded by a slow, groaning, but terrifyingly numerous horde of Gluttony, Lust, Sloth, and Envy zombies, their mutated bodies pressed wall-to-wall, cutting off any path to the gate.
"Old man," Deyviel said, his voice flat but carrying a tremor of true seriousness as he raised his guard against the impending horde. "Looks like we have to clear a path through hell itself."
To be continued..