Chapter 249: Myth

—Click.

Freedman’s boots crunched through the hard-packed snow as he walked, the cold biting at his cheeks. He found himself grinding his teeth without thinking; the sharp click of his fangs echoed in the quiet like the snap of a trap.

That involuntary motion pulled the memory forward—the arrogant face of the noble who’d hired him, the way the man had looked at him like he was something to be ordered.

“Velra? A vampire noble?” the noble had said, as if checking an item off a list.

“Yes. She’s in the human realm. Assassinate her.”

Simple words, delivered with the effortless cruelty of someone who never had to risk anything themselves.

The job was everything it had sounded like—and worse. Infiltrating the human world was a death sentence for most of his kind.

Parasites like him weren’t made to be assassins; they were made to cling to hosts, to crawl in hidden places. Being the target of an assassination made the whole thing absurdly ironic.

“How am I supposed to pull that off?” Freedman had answered, voice low. “I’m a parasite. I don’t… I can’t just walk up and stab someone.”

The reply had been a scoff, barely concealed. “Hmm? That’s for you to figure out, isn’t it?”

Then the thin, chilling line every Ravarn used: [You must succeed—for the sake of your kin.]

Everything about the Ravarn nobility reeked of entitlement. They spoke as if the world owed them obedience, as if his life—and the lives of his kind—were expendable resources to be deployed at whim.

Freedman had clenched his jaw and told himself what he always told himself in these moments: get the job done, collect the reward, disappear.

No attachments. No second-guessing.

The Ravarn’s offer was poisonous, but it was tempting: a grant of Velra’s fiefdom, rights and residency for his parasite kin, the kind of legitimacy parasites rarely—if ever—received.

He pictured it sometimes: a place where his people could live without hiding, a sliver of safety for those who had nowhere else. The thought warmed something inside him that he hadn’t admitted was cold.

Still, he couldn’t make the fantasy erase the memory of the noble’s expression when he spoke—like a man deciding whether to spare an insect.

“Well,” Freedman muttered to the empty field, a humorless smile twisting his mouth, “they won’t lie. They don’t need to.”

He gripped his cloak tighter against the wind. Obedience had gotten him this far. Obedience would get him the rest of the way—if his skin could take the cost.

He drew a slow breath, tasting the metallic tang of snow and old blood, and set his face toward the cave mouth. The prize was obscene; the price, perhaps, more so.

—Beep.

’Close. It’s to the north.’

The little tracking orb in his palm pulsed again, a steady, obedient heartbeat on the map. The first target moved in jagged, cautious steps—slow enough to please him.

He smiled without humor. “Accept your death quietly,” he murmured. “Vampires cling to life like they cling to their titles.”

To him they were not gods or monsters, just complications—harder to finish off than muscle-headed Ravran or the dour zealots who made a show of dying. Their theatrics, their last terrified prayers and vain defiance… those were the sweetest part. The anticipation of them unraveling made his mouth water.

This wasn’t charity for his kind. It was curiosity. A study. And, truth be told, the thrill of bringing down a noble from one of the three great demon clans had its own addictive appeal. What would the fall of a queen taste like, in memory and rumor? He wanted to know.

“Should be around here.” He crouched, brushing aside a crust of snow. A dark speck clung to the white—one drop of blood, glossy and obscene against the cold. He touched it with a gloved fingertip and felt the faint, pulsing warmth like a lie.

Thud. Thud.

He made his presence louder on purpose—deliberate, casual footsteps designed to lead any casual observer to believe this was a hunter or a courier, not a shadow with a plan. The sound echoed between trunks and rock: confident, nothing like a thief’s whisper.

“Perfect,” he said softly, looking up at the tangle of conifers. The trees were thick here, branches braided together like the fingers of sleeping giants—ideal for hiding a body, or for staging an ambush. No human patrols liked to go deep into that green blackness.

He moved on, ducking beneath boughs frosted with snow, following the faint red trail and the soft pulse of the artifact. The scent of iron grew stronger with every step, and with it his pulse quickened—not from exertion, but from the deliciousness of the chase.

He paused, listening. The wind carried distant shouts and the harsh clatter of activity at the camp—the aftermath of battle—but here, under the trees, the world narrowed to two things: the steady beep in his palm and the promise of what lay ahead.

“Come out,” he whispered to the forest, as if talking to a favored animal. “You can’t hide forever.”

Then he slipped deeper into the woods, a shadow that moved with purpose, eager for the moment when the prey finally revealed itself.

Freedman moved like smoke—drifting through the forest, silent but certain. The snow crunched faintly beneath his boots, muffled by the thick carpet of pine needles beneath the trees. Above him, the sky was bruised violet, clouds shifting as if the heavens themselves were restless.

The orb in his palm pulsed faster now. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Close,” he murmured, his breath forming a faint mist that vanished into the cold.

He could smell it now—the faint, metallic tang of fresh blood. Not just any blood, but her blood. Noble, old, heavy with essence. The scent alone was intoxicating.

’Still alive, huh? Guess you’re not as easy to kill as they hoped.’

He knelt near a frozen stream. The snow was disturbed—drag marks, a streak of red, and faint indentations that looked like claw marks scraping against the ice.

Freedman’s lips curved. “Cornered.”

He stood, brushing the snow from his gloves, and continued along the trail.

Minutes passed. Then, the trees began to thin. Ahead, the forest opened into a hollow surrounded by jagged cliffs. The air here was heavier—colder—and humming faintly with power.

He stepped forward, boots crunching lightly.

The snow stirred.

Freedman’s instincts flared—too late.

A blur of crimson shot past him, fast enough to tear the air. He ducked, feeling the wind slice through his hair as claws like daggers carved into the bark behind him.

He twisted, eyes wide, grinning even as his heartbeat spiked. “There you are.”

Velra stood a few meters away, her form half-hidden in shadow. Her body was ragged—wounds still fresh, her left arm trembling slightly—but her eyes burned bright red, alive with fury and a desperate kind of pride.

“Another hunter,” she hissed, her voice hoarse but venomous. “How many does your kind intend to send after me?”

Freedman straightened, brushing the snow from his shoulders with slow, deliberate motions. His voice was low, almost conversational.

“Depends,” he said. “How long do you plan on breathing?”

Before Velra could respond, her legs gave out beneath her.

She collapsed into the snow with a soft thud, her body trembling from exhaustion. A faint smile—half bitter, half amused—curved her lips.

The blonde vampire, regal even in defeat, dragged herself against the base of a nearby tree. The movement was sluggish, her fingers trembling as she tried to steady herself. The snow beneath her stained red, spreading like a crimson veil.

A faint scent—sweet, almost intoxicating—rose into the cold air. Despair.

“To think you’d find this place so soon…” she murmured, her voice breaking. “Is this where my life ends? By the hands of a human?”

Freedman tilted his head, the corners of his mouth twitching into something between a smirk and a grimace.

“Yes. Well,” he said quietly, “I’m not exactly human.”

His face began to shift.

The skin rippled, the contours of his features melting away until there was nothing left—no eyes, no mouth, no face. Just smooth, pale skin where a human visage should’ve been.

Velra’s eyes widened slightly—not in fear, but in recognition.

“A parasite…” she breathed.

Freedman froze. There was a strange note in her voice—something almost delighted. He could taste the shift in her emotion, the sudden flicker of satisfaction.

’What the hell?’ he thought. ’Why does she seem… pleased?’

It was unnatural.

Normally, his kind’s appearance sent others into panic—horror, disgust, rage. The moment people saw the truth of what he was, they recoiled. Yet here she was, smiling faintly, as if welcoming him.

The finest hunt of his career was suddenly turning sour, losing its flavor by the second.

Freedman frowned, watching her warily.

Velra chuckled softly, her breath shallow but her voice carrying a strange clarity. “You must have been sent by him,” she said. “The Faceless Imposter. So, he foresaw this after all.”

Her eyes, bright with fever and fading strength, shone with a kind of reverent madness. “Hah… I should thank him later.”

Freedman blinked. “What nonsense are you spouting?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she said with a weak laugh. “You and your king… you share the same priestly bond. You’re comrades of the Faceless Imposter, are you not? Then—” She lifted a trembling hand toward him, her tone almost pleading. “Take me to him.”

He stared at her, utterly bewildered.

’Has she lost her mind?’

Her words made no sense. A “Faceless Imposter”? A “King”? He’d never heard of such titles.

The parasites had no monarch. No leader. Not anymore.

Even among his own kind, the so-called King of Parasites was a myth—an ancient ghost story whispered in the dark. A being said to have once ruled over their kind before vanishing from existence. Centuries had passed, and even the oldest among them stopped believing.

And yet… here was a vampire noble—one of the highest of demonkind—speaking that legend aloud, her conviction unwavering.

Freedman’s face tightened, though there was no face to show it.

’She can’t be serious.’

For the first time in a long while, he felt something unfamiliar crawl beneath his skin—an unease he couldn’t quite name.

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