Chapter 258: Velra — The Deceiving Ground Spider [4]

The air between them burned, warping the snow into steam that rose like ghosts.

Velra—no, the parasite wearing her body—moved with a dreadful grace. Every step she took left behind ripples of molten earth, her magic distorting the world around her like heat off metal.

Across from her, the man who had once been confident, even mocking, was now running on fumes. His breathing had grown shallow, each exhale visible in the smoldering air. His sword trembled slightly in his grasp—not from fear, but from fatigue.

Still, he didn’t back down.

Velra tilted her head, the motion eerily precise. “Tired already?” she asked, voice lilting like a song and venomous beneath the melody. “How disappointing. I expected more from someone so eager to play hero.”

He didn’t answer. His eyes tracked her every movement, calculating, studying. Behind that exhaustion burned a stubborn spark—a refusal to yield.

Velra’s smile widened. “That look…” she whispered, her tone almost reverent. “That’s what I love about humans. They fight even when they know they’ll die. Pathetic. Admirable. Delicious.”

With a sudden flick of her wrist, magic surged through the ground. A pillar of fire erupted beneath his feet. He reacted instantly, rolling to the side, the flames licking at his coat as he barely avoided being engulfed. The shockwave sent him skidding across the dirt, landing hard on one knee.

“Still dodging?” she mused, watching him from above. “Impressive reflexes… but what will you do when I stop playing?”

The mana pressure around her spiked. The air screamed as her body shimmered, heat fracturing the air like broken glass.

He tightened his grip on his sword. He’d seen that stance before—Velra’s original stance. It was the same one she used the first time they fought, calm and balanced, a style honed through centuries of control.

But this thing wasn’t Velra.

The parasite didn’t understand balance. It only understood destruction.

She lunged forward. The ground behind her exploded.

Her speed was blinding. In the blink of an eye, she was in front of him, her hand wreathed in crimson fire, a claw of pure mana aimed straight for his heart.

His instincts screamed—move!

He brought his sword up just in time, the clash ringing like thunder. Sparks scattered between them, the force of impact hurling him backward. His boots dug deep trenches into the scorched ground as he struggled to stay upright.

Velra laughed—a wild, hollow sound that tore through the battlefield and echoed into the burning air. Her voice carried a cruel rhythm, almost musical.

“Ahh… yes. That’s the face,” she said, her lips curling into a feral grin. “The one that knows there’s no hope left. And it seems… our king is already tired, isn’t he? Hahaha!”

The sound grated against him, more irritating than the searing heat around them.

“Hoo…” He exhaled slowly, brushing the ash off his coat with deliberate calm. “I’m still spry. Unlike someone who collapsed after being chased by a few soldiers, I’m not that frail.”

The jab struck deep—a mocking reminder of her earlier humiliation.

Her smile faltered, just slightly.

Despite standing over what should have been a fading opponent, something inside Velra twisted. The mockery burned through her composure like acid, igniting a fire she didn’t know she still had.

“I’d rather not hear such words from someone as weak as you,” she hissed.

The words dripped with venom.

And then—she moved.

Anger translated into action, raw and immediate. Her hand came up to her chest, nails digging into her skin until droplets of blood beaded against her pale flesh. The air around her crackled as her mana twisted violently, feeding into the wound.

’Ah,’ he realized too late, his eyes narrowing. ’That’s blood magic.’

A dangerous, forbidden art—one that demanded the caster’s own life essence as fuel.

Velra’s blood rose in thin, crimson threads, coiling through the air like living wires. They sparked faintly, pulsing with electricity as they gathered into her palm.

“This body may not be mine,” she whispered, her eyes gleaming with feverish light, “but the power still is.”

The blood shimmered—red and white—and with a sharp motion of her arm—

—Fzzzzzt!

The world blurred.

Before he could even blink, a blinding crimson bolt tore through the air, streaking toward him faster than thought.

He tried to move, but the lightning hit first.

A deafening crack split the battlefield.

The impact threw him backward, the smell of ozone and burnt fabric filling the air. He hit the ground hard, his body trembling from the aftershock. His sword slipped from his grasp, skidding across the scorched earth.

Velra straightened, her breathing ragged but her expression triumphant.

“Kraaak!”

The sound of power still humming in her veins was almost euphoric.

“It ended more anticlimactically than I thought,” she said, voice cool and sharp. But beneath that veneer of calm, excitement quivered like a barely restrained flame.

Her gaze fell on the motionless figure lying amid the smoke and debris.

“…Soon,” she whispered, her tone thick with greed. “Soon, that throne will be mine.”

The wind carried away her laughter, mingling it with the sound of crackling flames.

This vampire had obtained more than just a durable vessel—he had claimed a masterpiece. A body that pulsed with refined mana, with strength honed by centuries of predatory instinct.

But above all, what truly thrilled him was the freedom.

For the first time since his existence began, he was no longer bound by the curse of being a mere imitator—a parasite feeding on the scraps of others. Now, he was the original. He was real.

Dusk’s lips curved into a grin as his crimson eyes flicked toward the fallen figure ahead. Julies lay sprawled across the ruined snow, motionless except for a faint tremor in his chest.

Pathetic.

Dusk began to move, each step slow and deliberate. His boot crunched through the scorched frost as he lifted his hand, black mana rippling at his fingertips.

He intended to finish it. To crush what little life remained.

But then—

Something new reached him.

A scent.

He froze mid-step, his nostrils flaring slightly as a faint, intoxicating fragrance drifted through the haze.

“…Hm?”

The scent curled through the air—rich, sharp, and alive. It wasn’t ordinary blood. It was powerful. Refined. Intelligent.

Vampires were creatures of instinct, and their senses were exquisitely tuned to blood—especially that of strong beings. One drop was enough to tell him everything: the mana density, the vitality, the intelligence that flowed within it.

And this… this blood was unlike any other he’d tasted before.

He didn’t have to guess where it came from.

It was coming from the fallen king.

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