Chapter 10 – The Serpent I
Before the cloaked man stepped out of the shadow to confront Princess Corrin and the hunter, he contemplated the second part of his dream, the memories coursing through him. His mind whirled with visions of a lost age, of an era marked by bloodshed and the crushing weight of destiny. Yet, in the present moment, his focus was entirely on the hunter before him—Abel.
The ruins of a once-great castle.
The aftermath of battle lingered in the air, a thick, oppressive stillness that stifled even the faintest sounds. The death and destruction were apparent in the lifeless bodies scattered across the cold stone floors, remnants of what had once been the pinnacle of vampiric power.
But from that silence, a new force stirred— Michael Roa Valdamjong's first breath of unlife, his eyes snapping open to the darkness. He was no longer the man he had once been, but something far darker, more formidable. The transition from mortal to vampire had left an indelible mark on his form. Gone was the flesh of a man; in its place stood something far more elegant and terrifying. His long blonde hair, flowing like liquid gold, framed his aristocratic features—high cheekbones and a jawline that was now sharp, bearing the mark of a predator. His once blue eyes now gleamed crimson, burning with a malevolence that matched his hunger for power.
The taste of blood lingered on his lips, a memory that now felt like a part of him—a reminder of the transformation he had undergone. It wasn't just his body that had changed; his mind, his very essence, had been remade. No longer driven by a desire for immortality alone, Roa's ambition had grown into something far more sinister. Power, not just survival, became his sole objective. He now stood at the threshold of his reign, a ruler among the Dead Apostles, his thirst no longer for mere blood but for absolute supremacy.
As he took in the devastation around him, a cruel satisfaction curled his lips into a smirk. The ruins, the bodies of his fallen allies—these were the remnants of those who had dared to oppose him. They had believed they could challenge the inevitable, that they could stop the coming darkness. They had been wrong. Roa was their future, the future of the Dead Apostles, and they had failed to see it. He was their successor, their ruler, and their conqueror.
His mind wandered to the faces of those he had once known, particularly Arcueid. Her beauty, her strength, and her betrayal now haunted him, blending into the anguish that twisted within him. "You were too weak, Arcueid," he whispered to the empty air. "Your beauty, your grace... they were your downfall. You couldn't control the beast inside, but I will bend it to my will."
Power surged within him as he strode through the wreckage of the castle, his eyes dark with the potential for further destruction. His newfound power wasn't only physical; it was a deep, spiritual hunger to dominate—to create a world where only the strong ruled. The Dead Apostles would become instruments of his will, but only if they were kept in check, only if he remained their supreme leader.
As his influence grew, dissent emerged. Some of the Dead Apostles, emboldened by the chaos that had engulfed their ranks, believed they could rise against him. Roa was no stranger to rebellion; it was a constant in the world he sought to reshape. He had dealt with traitors before, and he would not tolerate such disobedience. He crushed their ambitions with ruthless efficiency, demonstrating to them the futility of resistance. They were beneath him—tools to be used and discarded. They would never surpass him.
But his rule was not without challenges. The most formidable of them came in the form of Altrouge, Arcueid's sister and another powerful True Ancestor. She emerged from the shadows, a fierce and relentless force, determined to reclaim what she believed was hers. Their battle was inevitable, a clash of titanic forces that shook the very earth beneath them. Altrouge fought with unmatched fury, but Roa had evolved beyond her limitations. His mastery of his new abilities, his dark ingenuity, turned the tide in his favor. In the end, it was Roa who stood victorious, his charisma and brutal efficiency solidifying his rule.
"You thought you could challenge me, Altrouge," he spoke with a wicked smile, standing over her defeated form. "You are but a shadow of what I have become."
With Altrouge's defeat, Roa's power swelled, and his ambition grew ever larger. The remnants of the True Ancestors and their once-glorious dominion now belonged to him. He was not just a Dead Apostle; he was a force of nature, a king among the Dead, and nothing—not even the strongest of his kin—could threaten his reign.
Now, Roa stood at the precipice of a new era, his mind consumed with a singular thought: he would reshape the world, bend it to his will, and reign supreme over all. He was no longer bound by the limitations of his past. He had transcended those weak, mortal aspirations and embraced the darkness. The future was his to control, and those who would dare to stand against him would be crushed beneath his heel. The world was his, and blood would flow freely in the new order he would forge.
The world trembled under the weight of impending doom as Michael Roa Valdamjong's name became synonymous with fear and despair. His malevolence spread like wildfire, whispered in dark alleys and spoken in hushed tones by those who remembered the time before his rise. Entire landscapes lay in ruin, scarred by the aftermath of his unyielding thirst for power. As a Dead Apostle, his presence suffocated hope and extinguished the last flames of resistance.
Amidst the chaos he had wrought, a flicker of defiance stirred—born of pain, loss, and an unrelenting desire for justice. Arcueid Brunestud, the True Ancestor, had witnessed the destruction of her kin, the fall of her castle, and the corruption of the world she had sworn to protect. Grief-stricken, she formed an alliance with the Burial Agency, an organization devoted to eradicating the darkness that plagued humanity.
As Arcueid stood at the battlefield's edge, her form radiated an ethereal light against the gathering storm clouds. The air crackled with tension, thick with a palpable dread. Behind her, the Burial Agency's forces stood ready—clad in battle armor and armed with weapons blessed by ancient rites. They knew the task was monumental, but they also knew it was necessary.
"Remember," Arcueid called, her voice unwavering despite the tempest raging within her, "we fight not just for ourselves, but for all who have suffered at his hand. We will reclaim what he has stolen."
With a rallying cry, the forces surged forward—a wave of determination crashing toward the dark fortress where Roa awaited. The sky tore open with thunder, lightning illuminating the stark silhouette of the castle—a monument to the nightmares it housed.
Inside the fortress, Roa stood in the heart of a grand chamber, surrounded by the fallen remnants of his kin—an army of vampires whose power he had seized. His long blonde hair framed his face like a golden crown, and his eyes gleamed with malevolence. "Come then, let them try!" he sneered, his voice a haunting melody that echoed off the stone walls. "They shall be the next to fall before my might."
The initial clash was cataclysmic. Steel met sorcery in a deafening explosion of sound, the very air vibrating with the power of their blows. Arcueid moved like a dancer, each strike lethal, her True Ancestor power coursing through her, fueled by the wrath of the centuries. The Burial Agency unleashed magical projectiles and blessed weapons, cutting through the darkness that had once protected Roa's domain.
But Roa was no ordinary adversary. A master of manipulation, he melted into the shadows, his movements swift and silent, appearing behind his enemies like a wraith. With each slash, he sent agents of the Burial Agency crashing to the ground, his laughter ringing through the chaos. "Is this the best you can muster? Pathetic!"
The battle raged on, landscapes warped and changed by the fury of their conflict. The earth trembled, fissures opening as spells collided, uprooting trees, and tearing down structures that had stood for centuries. Rivers of blood painted the ground, each drop a testament to the stakes at play.
Arcueid felt her energy begin to fade. Her allies, one by one, fell before Roa's relentless onslaught. Yet she pressed on, her heart heavy with the weight of their hopes. Desperation clawed at her, urging her to fight harder, to rally those still standing.
"Do not give in!" she shouted, her voice ringing with the strength of her resolve. "We can end this! We will end this!"
Her aura blazed brighter, and in a moment of clarity, she summoned the full extent of her power. Light surged from her form, cutting through the darkness like a divine spear. A devastating wave of energy erupted from her, obliterating Roa's minions, scattering them like leaves before a storm. The battlefield shifted, the tides turned—if only for a moment.
But Roa, ever the strategist, emerged from the shadows with a grin that twisted his features. "You think you can defeat me so easily?" he taunted, dodging the energy blast with a predatory grace. He retaliated with a surge of dark energy, a wave that threatened to swallow Arcueid whole.
Their powers collided in an explosion that shook the very earth beneath them. The sky itself seemed to tear apart, the heavens shattering under their might. Mountains were uprooted, the land buckling beneath their fury. The battle between them was no longer just one of strength, but of will, each strike a contest of ideologies. Roa reveled in the chaos, his laughter rising above the cacophony, while Arcueid fought with the weight of grief and contempt in every blow.
Time stretched on—an eternity of struggle—before Arcueid finally found an opening. With a surge of power, she lunged forward, her hands glowing with pure energy, and drove them into Roa's chest. The shock of the strike echoed through him, and his eyes widened in disbelief. The world seemed to stop as her power engulfed him in a blinding light.
Roa dropped to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "This... this cannot be," he whispered, his voice full of shock. "I was meant to rule—to transcend mortality!"
But even as life slipped from him, a twisted smile crossed his face. "You think you've won, Arcueid?" he croaked. "I have achieved immortality beyond your comprehension. Through reincarnation... I cannot be extinguished. My soul will persist... I will return!"
With his final breath, the light consumed him, leaving nothing but a hollow shell. The battlefield fell silent. The echoes of battle faded into the distance, leaving Arcueid alone among the wreckage of her victory.
She stood amidst the ruin, her heart heavy with the weight of what had transpired. She had defeated him, yes, but at what cost? The world lay in shambles, scarred by their battle. And the losses... the countless lives lost... they would haunt her forever.
"He cannot be gone," she whispered to the empty sky. "Not if he can return... not if he can defy the end."
The realization sank in, mingling with the grief that choked her breath. She had won, but the victory felt hollow. Roa's laughter, even in death, seemed to echo in her mind. His words rang true: the cycle would continue. As long as Roa lived, so too would the battle between light and darkness endure.
The clash was inevitable.
Abel gripped his blade tightly, eyes narrowing. His pistol hung loosely in his other hand, its weight a reminder of the choices he had made. The cloaked man, standing like a shadow, his figure barely distinguishable from the darkened surroundings, exuded an aura of cold confidence. As the tension mounted, a silence fell between them, broken only by the faint crackling of the wind and the distant sound of footsteps echoing in the distance.
Without warning, the cloaked man moved.
A swift, fluid dash, like a shadow released from its bonds. His form blurred as he disappeared into the darkness, only to reappear directly behind Abel, his blade aimed for the hunter's back. Shadowstrike. A move born from his vampiric nature, merging dark magic with his deadly precision.
But Abel was no novice. His instincts, honed through countless battles, screamed at him to react. He spun around, bringing his blade up just in time to deflect the cloaked man's strike. The sound of steel on steel rang through the air, sending sparks flying as the two locked in an unyielding struggle.
The cloaked man smiled beneath his shadowed hood, savoring the thrill of battle. He withdrew his blade, only to vanish again, melding into the darkness. Abel's eyes darted around, searching for any sign of movement. Then—there. The cloaked figure materialized from the shadows, launching another series of rapid strikes, each one faster than the last, forcing Abel to retreat step by step.
Blood Mirage. The cloaked man's form splintered into multiple shadowy copies, each one shifting and flickering like illusions. Abel's gaze flickered between them, every shadow a potential threat, but no way to tell which was the true foe.
Abel's pistol came up, the barrel smoking as he fired into the shadows, hoping to reveal the real threat. The shots rang out, but they passed harmlessly through the phantoms, their forms dissipating with each pull of the trigger. His breathing quickened. He had to focus. The cloaked man was playing with him.
In a heartbeat, the cloaked man reappeared behind Abel, his sword drawn for another deadly strike. But Abel was ready. His blade snapped upward in a graceful arc, catching the cloaked man's sword with a perfect counter. The force of the impact sent a tremor through Abel's arm, but he held firm, twisting his body to bring his knee up into the cloaked man's gut.
The cloaked man staggered back, momentarily disoriented. Abel didn't wait for him to recover. With a swift motion, he drew his pistol and fired point-blank. The shot rang out, the muzzle flash blinding in the darkness.
But once again, it was too late. The cloaked man had already moved, vanishing once more into the shadows, his laughter echoing through the night.
"You'll have to do better than that, hunter," the cloaked man taunted, his voice distorted by the shifting shadows around him. "You can't fight what you cannot see."
Abel's heart pounded, but his resolve hardened. He wasn't here to play games.
The cloaked man reappeared—this time in front of him—just as Abel's senses screamed. With a roar, Abel hurled his sword forward in a desperate strike, but the cloaked man was faster. He blurred into the shadows, reappearing behind Abel and slashing across his back. Blood sprayed from the wound as Abel's vision swam with pain, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to falter.
He wasn't done yet.
With one final, desperate move, Abel slashed through the air, breaking through the cloaked man's illusions with a raw, determined fury. His blade met something solid—a flicker of dark energy. It was then that he realized. He didn't need to fight what he couldn't see—he needed to strike what was real.
With one fluid motion, Abel turned and aimed his pistol at the cloaked man's heart. As he pulled the trigger, the night seemed to freeze in time. The bullet, infused with a magical sigil, connected with the cloaked figure's chest, and a burst of dark energy exploded outward, tearing through the shadows.
The cloaked man screamed, his illusions shattered, and his body crumpled to the ground. Abel stood over him, panting, blood dripping from his wounds. The hunter had won—at least for now.
But the night was far from over.
Corrin stepped forward, her movements measured as her Shadow Yato gleamed in the moonlight, its edge sharp enough to split the very air itself. She approached Abel cautiously, eyes locked on the still form of the cloaked man who had just risen from the ground. The wound Abel had inflicted on him, the deep gash through his chest, had already begun to close, the blood flowing back into his body as though it had never been spilled. The cloaked man's laughter rang out like a mocking echo, chilling the air.
"Well now," he mused, his voice dripping with amusement, "that was a rather impressive display of skill, hunter. I must commend you for holding your ground... but how quaint it is that you still cling to your weapons. You, with your true power, relying on blades and pistols rather than the gifts that flow through your very blood. A mistake." He tilted his head, studying Abel with an almost amused gaze. "Your heritage is a miraculous gift, one that could make you unstoppable. Yet you squander it, caught in your misguided attempts to suppress it." He chuckled, his voice dark and filled with derision. "Rather than fighting it, you should embrace it. Embrace what you are."
Abel's eyes darkened at the cloaked man's words, his stomach turning in disgust. The very thought of giving in to that monstrous heritage, to surrender to the very thing that had cost him so much, was anathema to him. The beast that lurked within, the vampire that he had once been—no, he would never succumb to that again. The very idea made his skin crawl. He took a step back, a sickening cold knot twisting in his gut. "You think I should embrace it? Become like you?" His voice was low, disgust seeping into every word. "I'd rather die than be a slave to that cursed blood."
The cloaked man's lips curled into a smile, his eyes gleaming with a cold, knowing glint. "How typical," he sneered. "You resist your power because you fear it. You think that by suppressing it, you are keeping yourself 'pure.' But you are nothing more than a prisoner to your own weakness. You cannot change what you are, Abel. You are the very thing you despise. And until you accept it, until you reclaim the strength that lies within you, you will always be nothing more than a pale imitation of what you could be."
Corrin's eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on the Shadow Yato. She wasn't one to give in to her anger easily, but the words of this cloaked man—his taunting, his insults—struck a nerve deep within her. Her voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, a steely resolve that burned behind her words.
"You speak of power as though it is the only thing that matters," she said, her tone cutting through the tension like a blade. "But you are wrong. Power is not a gift—it is a responsibility. What you call 'strength' is nothing more than a curse, one that seeks only to destroy. It is not strength that makes a person who they are, but how they choose to wield it. Abel's fight is not against his heritage, but against the darkness that seeks to consume him, to make him into something he is not. He has chosen a different path—one of control, of restraint. And that, that is what makes him stronger than any monster you could ever become."
She took a step forward, her eyes fixed on the cloaked man with a burning intensity. "I've seen what happens when power goes unchecked, when it is allowed to rule a person without limits. I've seen lives destroyed, friends lost, and entire kingdoms crumbled under the weight of unchecked ambition. I will not stand by and watch as you try to twist Abel into something he is not, something he will never be."
The cloaked man's smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of something darker, something more dangerous. But Corrin's words had struck deep, her voice unyielding as she spoke, unwavering in her conviction. "You may try to twist Abel's nature, to make him embrace that which he loathes, but you are forgetting something." Her eyes locked onto the cloaked man's with a fierce certainty. "Abel is not like you. And he will never be like you. His heart, his soul, are not yours to claim."
The cloaked man, his expression now hardened, gave a low, mocking laugh.
"You speak so confidently of restraint and purity, but you fail to understand," he said, his voice smooth yet venomous. "Abel is just like me. He always has been. After all, I shaped him in my very own image."
Abel's body stiffened at the words. The weight of the cloaked man's declaration hit him like a thunderclap. His heart skipped a beat, his breath catching in his throat. "What are you talking about?" Abel asked, his voice strained, but there was a hint of fear beneath the surface—fear that he didn't want to acknowledge.
The cloaked man's grin widened, a glint of malice in his eyes. Without warning, he pulled the hood of his cloak back, revealing his face. Abel's eyes widened in shock as the man's features came into view.
He was young—far younger than Abel had expected. His spiky dark purple hair framed a visage that was unsettlingly familiar, though Abel could not place it. The man's attire was unmistakably Nohrian—dark, regal, and imposing, with armored pieces and fur-lined edges that dripped with power and nobility. But it was the aura surrounding him that made Abel's heart pound in his chest, a heavy, suffocating dark energy that sent a shiver down his spine.
The cloaked man's smile twisted into something both cruel and amused. "Still don't recognize me, Kyo?" he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. "I made you what you are, after all. You are my creation."
Abel's blood ran cold. His hand tightened around his blade, but the words, the name—Kyo—struck him like a bolt of lightning. A surge of memories flashed through his mind, fractured and hazy, but unmistakably connected. The rumors. The whispers that had haunted him for over a century. They had said he was dead. That he had died a hundred years ago. But here, standing before him, was a man who should not have existed, speaking to him with a cruel familiarity that made his stomach churn.
Abel's hands tightened around the hilt of his blade, the weight of the name causing his throat to close up. "No... no, this can't be... you should be dead!" The words slipped from his lips in disbelief, his voice barely a whisper as he tried to make sense of the impossibility before him.
The man only grinned wider, the dark aura surrounding him intensifying with every passing second. "Dead?" He scoffed, his voice dripping with mockery. "For someone like me, death has always been an inconvenience. It's never been an inevitable fate. I refuse to be bound by such a simple thing."
The man, now fully revealed, advanced, stepping closer with a languid, almost predatory grace, his smile never faltering. "You disappoint me, Kyo," he continued, his voice filled with a sickening amusement. "Always struggling, always trying to suppress what you are. You will never escape it, you know. You will never escape me."
Corrin, who had been watching the exchange with growing concern, narrowed her eyes. Her grip on Shadow Yato tightened as she took in the energy that swirled around the cloaked man—an energy she had seen once before. Her mind raced with realization. "Abel," she said, her voice low and filled with quiet understanding, "this aura... it's the same as when you remove your rosary. This man… he is the source."
"No," Abel whispered, the word barely escaping his lips. "I'm not like you. I won't be like you."
The cloaked man's grin faltered for a moment, but his eyes remained filled with an almost predatory hunger. "You might think so. But you'll never escape. And neither will she." He gestured toward Corrin, his eyes glinting darkly. "But that's fine. I'll have my fun with you both."
Abel's pulse raced. He had to end this. He had to stop him. But even as he raised his blade, ready for the next strike, part of him—the part that had been Kyo—couldn't help but wonder if it was already too late.
Abel's body surged forward with all his remaining strength, the blade raised high, ready to strike down the man. But as he moved, the air around him crackled, and the vampire raised his hand with eerie calm. With a sinister smirk spreading across his face, he called out, "Trap!"
In that instant, the ground beneath Abel erupted in a violent surge of magic. Pillars of jagged lightning shot upward from the earth, striking with precision and swiftness. The crackling arcs of energy closed in around him, weaving together into a cage of blinding light. Abel's body jerked as the lightning coursed through him, the cage binding him in a vice of crackling energy that paralyzed him, leaving him unable to move or escape.
Abel grit his teeth, struggling against the current that held him in place, but it was no use. His limbs were bound by the relentless power, and his vision blurred from the sheer force of the magical imprisonment.
Corrin's eyes widened in shock, the realization of the trap sinking in. She could sense the power behind the stranger's magic, and it was like nothing she had ever encountered before.
She stepped forward, but the man's gaze shifted toward her, his smile widening as he watched her approach. "Ah," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, filled with twisted amusement. "The child of prophecy..." His eyes glittered as they settled on her with an unnerving hunger. "Full and ripe," he mused under his breath. His words seemed to hang in the air, thick with a dark promise.
He took a slow, deliberate step toward her, his movements calculated, his gaze never leaving her. His dark energy seemed to grow heavier with each passing second, surrounding the both of them with an oppressive weight. "Do you know who I am, child?" he asked, his tone suddenly colder, more mocking. "Do you know why you were always destined to cross paths with me?"
He paused, letting the silence stretch between them like a tension-filled cord. Then, with an almost theatrical flourish, he bowed deeply. As he straightened, he raised his head, revealing a wide, twisted grin.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he said with a malicious gleam in his eyes. "I am Count Zio, a former Nohrian nobleman—at least, that's the name I currently occupy." He let out a low chuckle, savoring the discomfort in the air. "But my true name, child, is Roa. Michael Roa Valdamjong. The Serpent of Akasha. The Infinite Reincarnator."
Abel's breath caught in his throat as his mind reeled. His eyes widened, disbelief written across his face. The name… the title… it couldn't be. Roa. Michael Roa Valdamjong—the one who had haunted the nightmares of his world, the one who was supposed to have been vanquished a century ago. This couldn't be real.
"No…" Abel whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're… you're supposed to be dead! You were—"
Zio—Roa—smiled cruelly, his lips curling into a sinister grin. "And yet, here I stand, in a new form. Alive. You should know better than anyone that death has never been my true end. Not for someone like me. I am beyond such limitations. Do you really think I could be destroyed so easily, my wayward son?"
Abel's body shivered, the weight of Roa's words crashing into him like a tidal wave. The man—the monster—had returned, and not just as a mere specter, but in a new vessel, a new form. It was impossible, yet undeniably real. His mind spun, trying to make sense of it. Roa was really here. But how?
Beside him, Corrin's hand tightened around the hilt of her Shadow Yato. Her eyes narrowed, the depth of the situation settling in. She could feel the dark energy swirling around them, the oppressive weight that seemed to emanate from this man—this Roa. She had heard of his name, but to see him standing before them, mocking Abel with his existence, was an entirely different thing.
Her heart raced, not out of fear, but a deep, simmering fury that she kept in check. She had heard of beings like him—immortal, insidious—and she knew that this wasn't just a fight for Abel's life; it was a battle for his very soul. The weight of what Roa said struck her with chilling clarity: he had shaped Abel. The vampire blood that Abel had fought so hard to suppress, the darkness he struggled to control, was a direct result of Roa's influence. Abel was not just his victim—he was his creation.
"Wayward son…" Corrin's voice was low, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. She narrowed her eyes at Roa, her body tensing with the rising realization of just how insidious this man was. "You... you twisted him, didn't you? You made him this way. You turned him into something he's not, something he never wanted to be."
Abel had been through so much already. She had seen the struggle in him when he battled Malkav, or how he held onto his humanity despite the darkness that wanted to consume him. And now this man—Roa—was standing here, claiming ownership of Abel's suffering. Corrin's chest tightened with a sense of righteous anger.
"You think you can manipulate him," she continued, her voice growing colder, "but you're wrong. You don't know Abel at all. He isn't yours to control. He's his own man—my ally. And no matter how hard you try to twist him, we will stop you."
Corrin stood firm, her gaze unwavering. She could feel the darkness pressing in from all around them, the weight of Roa's aura suffocating the air. Yet, in that moment, her resolve burned brighter. "You're not going to win," she declared, her voice full of conviction. "Not while I'm here to protect him."
Roa's smirk only deepened as Corrin's defiant words echoed through the tense air. She stood before him, unwavering, her Shadow Yato gleaming with deadly intent, her dragon powers swelling beneath her skin. Yet Roa, with his centuries of power and manipulative cunning, knew that his victory was assured. His voice dripped with contempt as he spoke, the very air around them growing heavier with every word.
"Ah, the naive princess," Roa taunted, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "You think you stand a chance? With your paltry accomplishments in the war, you believe you can oppose me? I've seen empires crumble, gods bow before me, and the supernatural world tremble. King Garon? Your siblings? They are nothing but insects to me, Corrin. You are simply one more in a long line of failures, destined to fall just like the rest."
Corrin's hands tightened around the hilt of her sword. Her teeth ground together in fury at his words, but she could not afford to be distracted. The weight of the battle was pressing down on her; the very aura of Roa made her skin crawl, suffocating her as his overwhelming presence tried to take control of the battlefield.
"Then let me show you what a failure can do," Corrin muttered, her voice fierce as she called upon her dragon powers. Her form shifted slightly, her eyes blazing with the power of her heritage, and she darted forward, her Shadow Yato crackling with energy as she closed the gap between them.
Roa, however, was ready. With a casual flick of his wrist, he unleashed a wave of dark energy, his Blood Siphon ability activating as Corrin struck. The moment her blade made contact with his body, Roa's form seemed to ripple, his energy bending and warping. The strike made no true mark on him as he absorbed the force of it, siphoning the life from her in the process.
"Foolish," Roa sneered. "You think you can defeat me with a sword? My power is beyond anything you can imagine. Each blow you strike feeds me, strengthens me."
Corrin winced, feeling the draining pull on her body, the strength leaving her limbs as if she were being drained dry. Her vision blurred for a split second, but she recovered with a ferocity that matched her bloodline. She retaliated quickly, a series of slashes aimed directly at his heart, hoping to pierce through his defenses. But Roa was too swift. He danced around her, his form flickering like smoke, impossible to track.
"You're weak, Princess," Roa mocked, his voice full of dark amusement. "It's almost pathetic. Do you truly think you can challenge me, after all that I have done, all that I have become?"
Corrin gritted her teeth, pushing through the pain. She couldn't let herself falter. She couldn't let him win. But Roa's mastery over his dark powers made every attack feel like a desperate act. He dodged, parried, and absorbed with cruel precision, his Blood Siphon draining her strength with every strike.
As if to add insult to injury, Roa stepped back, holding his hand up to the air. The atmosphere around them seemed to darken, a cold mist swirling from his very being. "I have no need for a slow death, princess," he said with a satisfied grin. "But now, I think it's time to end this."
With a sudden, violent gesture, Roa activated his ultimate ability: Twilight's Pact. The ground trembled as the air itself grew thick with oppressive dark magic. A red and black mist poured from his body, swirling in jagged patterns around him like a storm of cursed energy. The mist seeped into the very earth, corroding everything it touched. Every inch of her skin burned as the air grew heavy with the weight of the dark aura, the energy sapping her strength even more than his siphoning ever had.
"Do you feel that?" Roa's voice was a mocking whisper in the mist. "The despair? The death that clings to everything? This is what happens when you dare to oppose me. You will be nothing more than dust in the wind. And when you die, I will feast on your soul, as I have feasted on so many before you."
Corrin gasped, feeling the weight of his words. The suffocating darkness surrounding her seemed to seep into her very bones. The mist burned as though it were alive, like it was trying to devour her from the inside out. Her body felt heavy, sluggish—she was being consumed by the very essence of Roa's power. She gripped her Shadow Yato tighter, but it felt like a futile gesture. Her strength was waning.
Yet, she refused to give in. She slashed with everything she had left, the energy in her blade glowing bright as it cut through the oppressive fog. But the mist seemed to close around her, extinguishing her efforts, each strike of her sword met with a sharp, stinging recoil as her energy continued to fade.
She staggered back, her legs nearly giving way beneath her, the weight of Roa's power almost too much to bear. His words stabbed into her chest like daggers. Yet even as the darkness closed in, something within her sparked. Something deep, something she would never give up.
"I will never... give in to you," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper, but filled with conviction.
But as she spoke, the mist began to surge again, closing in around her, draining her last remnants of strength. She couldn't stop it. Not alone.
Abel's body trembled with pain as the trap spell still clung to him, but the fire in his chest would not be quelled. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to move despite the agony searing through his body. He had to reach Corrin, had to break free. His gaze flickered toward her, where she stood, weakened but unbroken. She was depending on him, and that thought was the only thing keeping him grounded.
His hand, trembling from the strain, moved toward his rosary. With a swift motion, he yanked it off, letting the chain unravel around his arm. A surge of vampiric power rushed through him like a dam breaking—his Nightstalker Mode activated with a violent rush of energy, his senses sharpening as his aura spread out in a wave, shattering the Trap-spell in a flash of dark energy.
The air crackled around him as he rose to his full height, his vampiric features becoming more pronounced—fangs extending from his mouth, eyes glowing a feral red. His claws, now extending from his fingers, glowed with dark power. He could feel his blood boil with rage, his muscles stretching and snapping with newfound strength as the chains that bound him were now loosened.
Zio, who had been watching the whole time with a smirk on his face, finally allowed his amusement to show. His grin widened as he muttered under his breath. "Ah, finally. This is what I wanted to see."
Abel didn't hesitate. He sprinted toward Zio with terrifying speed, his eyes locked on the man who had caused so much destruction. Zio, with a graceful but deadly motion, readied himself. A smirk crossed his face, and he gave a dark, mocking laugh as Abel launched himself into the fray.
The world seemed to shift as they collided. Abel's form blurred in the air, his claws ripping through the atmosphere, while Zio, with terrifying precision, dodged and countered with fluidity that defied normal movement. The sound of their footfalls striking the earth was all that could be heard as they leaped into the air, both becoming black silhouettes, crashing into each other in a brutal flurry of motion. Their speed was beyond Corrin's comprehension—blurs against the darkened sky.
It was clear to her that Abel was relentless, refusing to back down. He fought with a raw, untamed fury, his every movement desperate and aggressive. Yet even as she watched, she realized something—no matter how hard Abel fought, no matter how he pushed himself forward, there was an undeniable disparity. His power was compromised and unrefined, still raw, restrained. Not only by his rosary but also by his lack of mastery. His strikes were wild, fueled by rage and desperation, but lacking the control and experience of a centuries-old vampire like Roa.
For every strike Abel made, Zio countered with ease, his centuries of experience letting him read Abel's movements with terrifying accuracy. In the beginning, Abel's aggression seemed to overwhelm him—his furious attacks, combined with the power of his vampiric transformation, made it look like he might just have a chance. But the fight quickly took a turn. Zio's movements became more fluid, more calculated, each strike a step ahead of Abel. It wasn't long before Abel's attacks slowed, his energy drained by the overwhelming presence of the vampire he fought against.
The shift was brutal. Zio's smug grin never faltered as he expertly danced around Abel's attacks, almost toying with him now. With every misstep Abel made, Zio's strikes became deadlier. And then, with a swift movement, Zio's sword sliced through the air with deadly precision. The sound of steel meeting flesh rang out as Abel's body was thrown to the ground with a sickening thud. Blood splattered on the earth beneath him as he lay sprawled, gasping for breath, his body unable to rise in time to mount another attack.
Zio loomed over him, towering above him like a dark god. His eyes glinted with sadistic pleasure as he gazed down at the fallen vampire, watching as Abel's blood continued to pool around him. "You are a disappointment, Kyo," Zio sneered, his voice low and filled with contempt. "You never could fully embrace what you are. And now look at you. Reduced to nothing more than a failure."
Abel's chest heaved as he tried to force himself up, but the blood loss and the sheer force of Zio's power had left him weak. He coughed, blood splattering onto the earth as his hand clawed helplessly at the ground. But Corrin's faith in him still echoed in his mind. He couldn't give up. Not now. Not when everything depended on him.
Zio's eyes glinted with a sinister light. His calm, deliberate movements betrayed an almost gleeful malice as he reached down and clasped Abel's right wrist—still bound by the rosary. Abel growled low in his throat, struggling against the iron grip, but Zio's strength was immovable. His grip tightened as his lips curled into a smirk.
"Oh, Kyo," Zio said mockingly, his voice soft and venomous. "You've forgotten what true power feels like, haven't you? Allow me the honor of reminding you."
With a dramatic flourish, Zio knelt, his free hand hovering above Abel's trembling arm. He exhaled a slow breath, and a surge of dark energy radiated outward, creating a pulsing, suffocating aura. Shadows twisted and writhed at his feet, circling him like living things eager to obey his will. Then, in a voice that seemed to reverberate with the weight of countless lifetimes, he began to chant:
"The Messiah, through ancient wisdom, beheld the Void,
And in that Void, He saw the Ten Sefirot shattered and forsaken.
Thus, He bound all souls, and all suffering was His to command..."
The words echoed unnaturally, filling the air with a chilling resonance that made the very ground tremble. Corrin, watching from a distance, felt a cold shiver run down her spine as the incantation continued.
"Stop it!" she cried, her voice breaking. "What are you doing to him?!"
Zio ignored her, his focus entirely on the ritual. His voice grew louder, more commanding, as if summoning the Void itself into the world.
"Form is the Infinite; the Infinite is but dust and shadow;
No difference remains, for both are hollow, empty, consumed by darkness.
In the Void, there is no form, no desire, no perception, no will, no consciousness—
Only the echo of death, the endless hunger of the night."
Abel let out a guttural snarl as crimson markings began to appear on his skin, glowing faintly with a malevolent light. The markings slithered across his torso like living serpents, etching intricate, ancient patterns into his flesh. Each stroke of the curse burned like fire, and Abel's body trembled under the strain.
Corrin's eyes widened in horror. "No..." she whispered, her voice trembling. She took a step forward, but the oppressive weight of Zio's power kept her rooted in place. Her instincts screamed at her—this was no ordinary spell.
Zio's voice rose again, his tone filled with cruel authority.
"No eye to see, no ear to hear, no flesh to feel, no mind to know.
No soul, no purpose, no redemption.
No warmth, no light, no hope—only the cold grip of oblivion."
Abel thrashed violently, his clawed hands digging into the dirt as the pain overtook him. His snarls turned into a primal scream, filled with rage and torment. His glowing red eyes burned brighter, flickering like an untamed inferno.
"Abel!" Corrin cried out desperately, but Zio's voice drowned out her words.
"There is no ignorance, no end to ignorance,
No birth, no death, no end to death's reign.
No pain, no release, no escape, no way.
No wisdom, no power, no freedom, no restraint—
All fall under the shadow of His command."
As the chant concluded, the markings on Abel's body flared one final time before settling into a faint, pulsing glow. Abel panted heavily, his body trembling as the aftershocks of the ritual coursed through him. His aura, once restrained and controlled, now felt darker and more erratic—an uncontrollable storm barely held in check.
Zio stood, brushing off his hands as if he'd just finished a mundane task. He looked down at Abel with a satisfied smirk.
"The cursed seal is complete," he said, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. "This little ritual will strengthen your vampiric impulses, Kyo. Your thirst will grow stronger, your control weaker. You'll fight it, of course. But in time, you'll succumb. And when that day comes, you'll finally break the seal of that precious rosary yourself."
Corrin took another step forward, fury and desperation warring in her expression. "You're a monster!" she spat, her voice trembling with righteous anger. "You're no noble. You're nothing but a coward who preys on others to feed your twisted hunger for power!"
Zio turned to her, his smile widening. "Oh, child of prophecy," he said mockingly, bowing low in a mock display of deference. "How quaint. You think words will sway me? You think your bravery is impressive? You're a naive little princess playing at heroism, stumbling blindly into a world far beyond your understanding. Your little war, your victories—they mean nothing to someone like me."
Zio chuckled, amused by her defiance, before turning back to Abel. "Do you hear her, Kyo?" he murmured, crouching to meet Abel's blood-red gaze. "So full of hope, so certain she can save you. But you and I both know the truth. You were shaped in my image, and no matter how hard you fight it, you can't escape what you are. You're mine."
Abel's growl deepened as his claws dug into the dirt. "You... will... not... win," he hissed, his voice raw and guttural with hatred.
Zio laughed darkly, standing to his full height. "Oh, Kyo," he said, spreading his arms as though welcoming the storm. "I've already won."
Abel snarled, his claws raking against the dirt as he pushed himself upright, his crimson eyes blazing with fury. Despite the searing pain from the cursed seal etched into his flesh, he launched himself toward Zio with a guttural roar, aiming a feral slash at the man's chest. But Zio's smirk never faltered. In one fluid motion, he swatted Abel aside like a mere insect, his hand crackling with dark energy. Abel's body hit the ground hard, dirt and debris scattering on impact as a pained groan escaped his lips.
"Tsk, tsk, little one," Zio murmured mockingly, shaking his head. He stepped closer, towering over Abel like a predator relishing its dominance. "Such defiance. Such rage. But all so... unrefined." He leaned in slightly, his smile twisting into something colder, more menacing. "Grow stronger. More cruel. Then, and only then, might I grant you the privilege of challenging me. But not like this." His voice carried a disdainful finality, as though dismissing Abel entirely.
Abel clenched his fists, trembling with frustration and despair. He tried to rise again, but his limbs betrayed him, too weakened by the earlier onslaught and the searing mark carved into his soul. The fire in his eyes flickered, dimmed by the weight of his injuries and the helplessness of the moment.
Zio's piercing gaze fixed itself on Corrin, who was struggling to steady herself, her breathing labored and her grip on the Shadow Yato faltering.
"And as for you..." Zio said, his voice soft yet saturated with malice. He approached her with slow, deliberate steps, each one carrying an oppressive weight that seemed to sap the air from the battlefield. "The princess of prophecy. The naive, foolish idealist who thinks she can stand against me."
Corrin's jaw tightened as she straightened herself, her eyes blazing with defiance even as her body threatened to give out beneath her. "I won't let you win," she said, though her voice trembled with exhaustion and desperation. She tightened her grip on her blade, willing herself to hold her ground, to face him despite the overwhelming despair coursing through her.
Zio chuckled darkly, his amusement tinged with mockery. "Oh, but you misunderstand me, child. I don't need to 'win.' Victory is an inevitability for someone like me. No, what I require..." He extended his hand toward her, his fingers crackling with dark, blood-red energy that radiated malice. "Is something you possess. And whether you give it willingly or not, I will take it."
Corrin's heart pounded in her chest as Zio's presence loomed closer. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to fight, to do anything to resist the overwhelming darkness bearing down on her. But her body felt frozen, her exhaustion and fear chaining her in place. She forced herself to lift the Shadow Yato, its energy responding faintly to her will, but it flickered weakly—a pale glimmer against the suffocating shadow surrounding Zio.
"Stay away from her!" Abel's voice rasped from behind, raw and filled with fury. He clawed at the ground, dragging himself forward despite his battered state, desperation fueling his every movement. But his body refused to obey fully, and he collapsed again, his fists pounding the earth in frustration. "ROA!" he roared, his voice breaking. "Leave her alone!"
Zio glanced over his shoulder at Abel, his smirk widening. "And what will you do, Kyo? Crawl to me like the broken creature you are? How pitiful." His gaze returned to Corrin, dismissing Abel's struggle as if it were nothing more than the thrashing of a dying animal. He raised his hand higher, dark energy coalescing into a swirling, malevolent vortex above his palm.
Corrin's breathing quickened, her thoughts racing as she tried to summon the strength to move, to act, to fight. She clenched her teeth, her resolve hardening even as her body screamed in protest. "You won't take anything from me," she said, her voice low but fierce. She raised the Shadow Yato, its blade trembling in her grip. "Not while I still stand."
"Ah, the fire of defiance," Zio mused, his voice dripping with condescension. "Admirable. Futile, but admirable."
He lashed out with his magic, the vortex exploding toward her in a torrent of dark energy. Corrin raised her sword just in time to block the attack, the impact sending shockwaves through her body as she was driven to one knee.
As the energy subsided, Corrin looked up, her face pale but her eyes still burning with determination. Zio towered above her, his smirk widening as he reached for her once more. The despair in her chest was suffocating, but she forced herself to stand, even as her legs threatened to buckle beneath her.
"Come now, princess," Zio said smoothly, his voice almost a whisper. "Let's not make this more difficult than it needs to be."
"Over my dead body," Corrin spat, gripping the Shadow Yato as tight as she could.
"That," Zio said with a cruel chuckle, "can be arranged."
Before Corrin could react, Zio stood before her. He moved with a speed she couldn't follow, especially not in her current state. He knocked the Shadow Yato from her hands with a brutal strike. The blade clattered across the stone floor, its glow dimming as it skidded out of reach. Corrin, her breath hitching, stumbled but managed to hold her ground, glaring up at Zio with defiance despite her exhaustion. Yet her body betrayed her—trembling under the weight of his oppressive aura.
Zio moved swiftly, his shadowy form blurring as he closed the gap. His cold, clawed hand seized her shoulder with inhuman strength, lifting her slightly off the ground as though she were weightless. His crimson eyes glinted with hunger, and he bared his fangs, leaning closer to her exposed neck.
"Stop!" Abel's voice cut through the air, raw with desperation. He struggled against his injuries, his hand clawing at the ground as he tried to force himself to rise. His vampiric instincts screamed at him to fight, but the curse Zio had inflicted on him burned through his body, rendering him helpless. His voice cracked as he pleaded, "Roa, don't—please!"
Corrin's defiance faltered for a moment, her eyes widening as fear took hold. She struggled against his grip, but Zio's strength was monstrous, unyielding. She gritted her teeth, willing herself not to cry out. "You won't win..." she managed, though her voice trembled with the faintest hint of terror. "I...won't let you."
Zio chuckled darkly, his breath cold against her skin. "Your courage is admirable, little princess," he mocked. "But courage won't save you now." His fangs descended, gleaming like daggers.
Abel's despair boiled over into a roar of frustration, his red eyes blazing with impotent rage. "NO!" he screamed, clawing at the ground in a futile attempt to reach her.
Corrin squeezed her eyes shut as Zio drew closer, the hopelessness of the moment crashing down on her.
Zio leaned in, his cold breath brushing her neck. But before he could strike, a cascade of rainbow-colored magic projectiles streaked through the air, forcing him to release Corrin and leap back in a blur of shadowy movement. The projectiles crackled as they hit the ground, leaving faint multicolored glimmers where they landed.
Zio landed effortlessly, his crimson eyes narrowing as he scanned the battlefield. "What—?" he began, his voice sharp with irritation.
Then he saw the source of the attack.
An elderly man stood a short distance away, leaning lightly on a polished cane. His distinguished appearance was striking: a tailored suit in deep black and crimson, accented by a long, elegant cape that seemed to shimmer faintly as if reflecting all the colors of light. His hair was white and neatly combed back, and his sharp, hawklike eyes glimmered with intelligence and power. His face, though aged, held an air of vitality and command, a faint smirk playing on his lips as if amused by the scene before him.
Zio's eyes narrowed further as he straightened. "You..." he hissed, his earlier mocking tone replaced by one of wariness.
The elderly man's smirk widened. His voice, calm and smooth, carried an undertone of immense authority. "I would've arrived sooner," he said, glancing briefly at Corrin and Abel, "but I had to make sure this little sideshow was worth my time."
Corrin, still trembling from Zio's assault, managed to pull herself up onto one knee. Her eyes flicked between Zio and the stranger, confusion and hope flickering across her face. "Who...who are you?" she managed to ask, her voice faint but determined.
The man turned his gaze toward her, offering a small, knowing smile. "You may call me Zelretch," he said, inclining his head slightly. "A...let's say, seasoned veteran in dealing with unruly creatures like him." His eyes shifted back to Zio, and his expression hardened. "It seems the Serpent of Akasha has found himself yet another vessel. How tediously predictable."
Zio's lips curled into a snarl his fangs glinting. "You meddle where you don't belong."
Zelretch chuckled, his smirk unshaken. "And you cling to life like a bad habit, Serpent. I thought your theatrics had run their course a century ago. Tell me, are you actually incapable of learning, or is it just stubbornness?"
The tension between them was palpable, the air itself seeming to shiver under the weight of their clashing presences. Abel, still on the ground but regaining his composure, looked at Zelretch. "You're here...Wizard Marshal," he muttered under his breath, his crimson eyes flickering with a mixture of awe and disbelief.