Chapter 63: Fallen Vampir [4]

Maybe he wasn’t human.

Or maybe he had been, once—and left it behind.

Velra stepped closer, slow and graceful, her movements more animal than regal now. Her eyes narrowed, her thoughts no longer dripping with amusement but turning inward, calculating.

“You speak as if you’re part of the old courts,” she said softly, testing him, circling him like a flame around dry parchment. “But there’s no blood in you. No scent. You’re not one of us. So tell me, worm… what are you?”

He didn’t answer right away. That was what intrigued her most.

Not the bluff, not the bravado, but the pause.

The measured silence of someone deciding what version of the truth to feed her.

“I’m the one who just stole your meal,” he said at last, dragging a breath through clenched teeth. “And the one who’ll do it again if you get in my way.”

Velra’s claws twitched at her sides. She hadn’t moved to kill him, not yet, and she hated that she hadn’t. It would’ve been easier. Cleaner.

But now?

Now she needed to know why.

Why this broken insect, crawling in blood, dared speak of Dreck.

Why his eyes didn’t waver.

Why the scent of fate hung over him like a storm just beyond the ridge.

“You want me to believe you’re some… what? Rogue servant of the old thrones? A lost child of the Court?” she sneered, but even she didn’t sound convinced.

The human—he—laughed.

Not loudly. Not long.

But it was real.

And Velra felt it.

The ripple in the air.

The crackle beneath his skin.

No magic. Still no aura.

But something.

Some thread pulling taut behind him—something far older than him, than her.

Something watching.

“I don’t care what you believe,” he said, voice low, eyes half-lidded with disinterest. “But I do care about my hunt. And Alice is mine. Touch her again, and I’ll come back for you.”

Velra froze.

Her fingers curled, trembling—not in fear, but fury.

Screw patience. Screw pretending.

She wasn’t going to wait.

She was going to kill him. Right now.

“I hope you’re as prepared as you are pretentious,” she spat.

With a sharp flick of her fingers, fire surged to life around her palm. Hotter. Wilder.

She hadn’t fully recovered her strength, not yet—but this was more than enough to turn an arrogant fool into ash. Bone and all.

His voice drifted toward her, calm. Unshaken.

“Impressive. You really must be a noble… using your own blood to summon flame.”

Still, he didn’t move. Arms crossed. Watching.

Mocking.

Velra’s nostrils flared. She raised her hand, flame pulsing with wrath.

“Let’s see how long that smug face lasts in the underworld.”

“Haha,” he chuckled. “Terrifying.”

Enough of this.

If he had some hidden trick up his sleeve, she’d burn that too.

She’d incinerated Dreck’s pride before. She could do it again.

“This strike…” she growled, tightening her fist as flames crackled around it, “Not even the great warrior’s descendant could handle it. Let’s see you block this.”

Her feet dug into the ground as she lunged, fist blazing with fire fueled by her blood. A technique meant to obliterate anything in its path—armor, enchantments, even magic barriers.

She felt the impact coming.

But—

“Who says I’ll be hit?”

“What?!”

Her eyes widened, the flame around her hand sputtering as air rushed past.

Her swing cut nothing but wind.

He was gone.

With only four strides, he’d slipped out of her range.

A dead weight of fatigue crashed onto her arms and legs, slowing her movements.

’Damn it—what a careless mistake!’

She hadn’t expected this.

Hadn’t expected him to doged her attack.

Velra gritted her teeth and pivoted.

She wouldn’t stop. Not yet.

With a snarl, she twisted her body and unleashed a backhanded flame strike, then another—a flurry of blazing arcs slicing through the air.

But each one missed.

He moved like smoke—never where she expected, never even breaking a sweat. Every time she thought she had him, he was already a step ahead.

“You’re fast for someone so cocky,” she hissed, flames licking the floor with each step she took forward.

He tilted his head, that lazy smile never leaving his lips.

“You’re burning through your blood like it’s free,” he said. “What happens when it runs out?”

Velra paused—just for a breath.

A mistake.

He closed the distance in an instant, not to strike, but to lean in—just enough to whisper in her ear.

“Must be exhausting… setting yourself on fire just to hurt someone else.”

She roared, swinging her fist again, fire bursting wildly from her knuckles.

Miss.

Another step. Another dodge.

“You really think using your blood to fight makes you strong? It makes you reckless,” he said, already behind her before she could turn. “What will you be when you’re out of fuel?”

“I’ll still be enough to kill you!” she screamed, hurling another desperate burst of fire.

But her vision was beginning to blur.

Her arms trembled.

The heat was starting to bite at her own skin.

Still, he stood there. Arms behind his back now. Just watching her destroy herself.

“You nobles really are something else,” he murmured, almost amused. “So desperate to prove you’re special… you’d bleed yourselves dry for it.”

Velra’s breathing grew heavy. Her next step faltered.

He was right.

Every drop of blood she burned took more from her.

And still, he hadn’t laid a single finger on her.

But she wouldn’t stop. Not now.

Not after this humiliation.

She raised her hand again, preparing another strike—only for his voice to stop her cold.

“Wait,” he said, calm and firm. “What’s the point in fighting each other? We’re both demons.”

Velra froze mid-step.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Demon?

So her gut feeling was right after all.

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you serious? You’re a demon?”

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation.

“Then why were you with that silver-haired girl?” Her voice was still harsh, but laced with confusion now. “Why protect a human?”

He smirked. “I never said I was protecting her. She’s my target. The one I’m going to devour… after I’ve had my fun. That’s why I said she’s mine.”

That… made a disturbing kind of sense.

But something still didn’t sit right.

Velra clenched her jaw. “Then what kind of demon are you? You don’t give off any demonic aura. You feel—empty.”

“You’ve already guessed, haven’t you?” he said, almost amused. “I’m nothing more than a bottom-feeder. A worm. One of the lowest in the demon hierarchy. I can’t even survive on my own. I need a host body.”

He gave her a lazy shrug and reached into his coat, pulling out something small—metal glinting in the low light.

A golden half-mask. It shimmered like something ceremonial, shaped to fit just up to the chin.

He gently placed it over his face.

“Forgive the mask,” he said. “I know it’s a little dramatic, but… my true form is about the size of a finger, and I don’t have a face of my own. This helps me pretend I’m still a person having a conversation.”

The boy—the image of the one who had taunted her—was gone.

What stood in his place wasn’t just another combatant.

It was a presence. A quiet, invasive thing that clung to the skin like oil and shadow.

Even in human form, something had shifted.

His voice lost its earlier playfulness. It was deeper now, steadier.

“Most demons grow stronger on their own,” he said. “But parasites like me—we grow through others. I’ve lived a dozen lives. Killed even more. Every one of them made me… sharper.”

Velra stared at him, fire still simmering at her fingertips—but for the first time, not out of rage.

There was a cold curiosity in her eyes now.

“So you hide inside others… watching. Waiting.”

“Living,” he corrected. “Borrowing. Feeding. Becoming.”

Velra slowly lowered her hand, though she didn’t fully extinguish the flame.

“You’re disgusting. I don’t like Parasite.”

He nodded as if accepting a compliment.

“And yet,” he said, “you were about to burn yourself to cinders for a fight you couldn’t win.”

There was silence between them.

Heavy. Unsettling.

Then he smiled under the mask. “We’re not so different, are we?”

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