Kiss of the Vampire
"The Void"
Volume 3
Mission 7 : Jealousy
The violet void hung heavy around them, thick and oppressive, like breathing through wet ash. Rolien stood at the center, his chest heaving, blood dripping from a fresh cut on his cheek that burned with that unnatural rot. Deyviel and Kieth flanked him now, their auras clashing against the miasma—Deyviel's dragon fire roaring blue and fierce, Kieth's Rider energy crackling in sharp, multicolored bursts. The three of them together felt like a storm pushing back against an endless night, but Rolien could sense it: the void was watching, waiting for one of them to crack.
Below, through a fractured rift in the domain's "floor"—a tear showing glimpses of the battlefield outside—Ben fought alone against the tide. His greatsword swung in wide, brutal arcs, silver ki trailing like comet tails, holding back a wave of Sin remnants that tried to flood in. He looked small from up here, but unbreakable, his back turned to them like a wall no one could pass.
Xexaria's massive form shifted, tumors bubbling slower now, her hundreds of eyes blinking in chaotic patterns. Pus dripped from open sores, hissing as it hit the drifting shards of time. The stench rolled off her in waves—rotting flesh mixed with something sweeter, like fruit gone bad in the sun. It clung to Rolien's throat, making every breath feel like swallowing dirt. She didn't attack right away. Instead, her gurgling laugh faded into something quieter, almost thoughtful. All those eyes fixed on the three of them—then drifted down to Ben below.
Recognition flickered in a few of them, the ones that weren't weeping black tears. Her form rippled, like a memory surfacing from deep sludge.
"Elferion…" The word bubbled out, wet and choked, a thousand throats speaking it at once. It wasn't a question. It was pain, old and raw, dragging itself up from the grave.
Rolien tensed, his prosthetic arm humming faintly. "What did you say?"
Xexaria's limb dragged forward, slow, leaving trails of sludge that ate at the void. "His power… in you. All of you." Her eyes—some narrowing, others widening—swept over Deyviel's dragon aura, Kieth's shifting Rider energy, Rolien's violet spirit lines, and down to Ben's silver ki flashing in the rift. "The favored one's gift… from our father."
Deyviel's grip tightened on Yamato, confusion mixing with anger in his chest. "What the hell are you talking about?"
But Xexaria didn't answer him. Her form convulsed slightly, like the memory hurt more than any wound. In her mind—or what passed for it in that festering mass—old images surfaced, sharp as knives after eons buried.
She remembered the cradle days, when the supreme creator shaped the twelve old gods from his own light. They were siblings, bound to worlds like parents to children. Xexaria's Verdantia had been her heart—lush, cycling through life and gentle death, renewal her quiet joy. She'd felt every bloom, every fade, like it was her own breath. Her siblings shared that bond, or so she'd thought.
Then came Elferion. Not born divine—a human, fragile and fleeting, plucked from some forgotten death and raised to stand beside the throne. Beautiful beyond words, wings of pure light, eyes that held the creator's favor like stars. The supreme one doted on him, showering Earth with gifts the others could only watch from afar. Jealousy stirred first in the Embodiment of Death—that rogue shadow born outside the order, whispering poison into willing ears. "Why him? A mortal over us?"
The nine listened. Envy spread like vines, choking their loyalty. Death instigated the revolt, promising power unbound if they shattered the creator's chains. Xexaria tried to stay loyal at first, begging her siblings to stop as the war tore realities apart. Verdantia burned in the crossfire—her rivers boiling, forests screaming as they withered. She poured everything into healing it, her renewal twisting under the strain, but it wasn't enough.
The war escalated to its bitter climax. The nine, driven mad by betrayal and Death's relentless whispers, turned on the creator himself. Xexaria, heartbroken and lost, joined them in that final moment of madness. She felt it as her renewal surged one last time—not to heal, but to strike. Her power, twisted by grief and jealousy, struck the creator's core—a blow that cracked his divine form, light bleeding from wounds that shouldn't exist. The others followed, Death laughing as they tore at the source of their existence. The supreme one fell, not dead—gods like him don't die—but shattered, his essence scattering like stars in a storm. In that instant, Xexaria felt the full horror: the warmth of creation turning cold inside her, renewal souring into decay as the patricide consumed her from within. They had killed their father, the one who made them, all for a mortal's favor.
With their creator broken, the nine struck at Earth next—Elferion's jewel. But the supreme one's final act, in his fading light, was to shield his favored: power woven into Elferion to repel them, a barrier no revolt could breach. Xexaria and her siblings clashed against it, injuring Elferion gravely—his light flickering, wings cracking—but the toll was devastating. Mortally wounded, they retreated to the abyss, seething and broken.
When they returned, strength regained, Elferion was ready. He'd forged an army: his son the Dragon King, flames that seared divinity; Lancer the Vampire King, shadows and blood; Erabus the Werewolf, savage fury; Luceferous the Devil, infernal cunning. The battle scarred the cosmos—realities bleeding, stars dying. Xexaria fought with desperate rot, spreading decay like a plague, but Elferion's forces held. In a shattering strike, they sealed her and the nine into the Hell Gates—prisons of dragon fire and angelic light.
But before the gates closed, vengeance burned bright: they erased Elferion from angelic existence, stripping his name from the heavens, scattering his power like ashes into descendants and bones.
Now, seeing echoes of that power in these three—and Ben below, wielding something similar—stirred it all up again. The rot in her core churned with old rage, jealousy, that aching abandonment. "His light… in mortals again," she rasped, eyes weeping thicker tears. "Father's favor… stolen from us."
Rolien felt a chill that had nothing to do with the void. "You're saying… our powers come from him? From Elferion?"
Xexaria's laugh bubbled up, bitter and broken. "Fragments… bones of the beautiful thief. He stands beside father still… while we rot."
Deyviel's eyes darkened, a flicker of the monster inside stirring at the mention. Kieth shifted uncomfortably, his armor humming. Rolien's chest tightened—anger for these guys fighting with borrowed light, pity for the god who'd lost everything to jealousy and betrayal.
But Xexaria's pain twisted back into hunger. "Then I'll rot you too… make you feel what abandonment tastes like."
She surged forward, limbs crashing down.
The three braced—Deyviel's dragon fire roaring, Kieth's Rider energy shifting, Rolien's spirit lines glowing violet.
The void roared with them.
The violet void pulsed like a wound that wouldn't close, shards of frozen time drifting lazily around them, each one catching the light of their auras in fractured reflections. Rolien's breath came in short, ragged pulls, the rot from Xexaria's last strike still burning in his lungs like he'd swallowed acid. His prosthetic arm sparked faintly, violet spirit energy flickering as he tried to steady it. Deyviel stood to his left, Yamato gripped tight, dragon fire simmering low but ready to explode. Kieth on his right, Decade armor humming with that familiar mechanical whine, his stance loose but tense—like a coiled spring waiting for the wrong move.
Xexaria loomed across from them, her festering mass shifting slower now, tumors bubbling with wet pops that echoed in the emptiness. Pus dripped from her sores, hissing where it touched the drifting shards, turning them black and brittle. Her hundreds of eyes blinked out of sync, some fixed on Rolien with this weird, hungry focus. The stench hit harder up close—rotting meat mixed with overripe fruit, sweet and sickening, clinging to the back of Rolien's throat. It made his stomach twist, but he forced himself to meet her gaze, heart pounding with a mix of fear and that stubborn fire that kept him going.
She didn't lunge right away. Instead, her gurgling voice rolled out, thoughtful and bitter. "You… the key. Your light… it's awakening. Father's gift. Elferion's echo… in a mortal shell."
Rolien's blood ran cold. Awakening? The words sank into him like hooks, pulling at doubts he'd buried deep—the fear that his power wasn't really his, that he was just some tool in a bigger game. His prosthetic arm hummed louder, spirit lines glowing brighter, like his body was responding even if his mind reeled. "What the hell are you talking about?" he muttered, voice rough, but inside it felt like the void was pressing closer, whispering that maybe she was right.
Xexaria's form rippled, eyes narrowing in what almost looked like envy. "The Angelic Series… Divine skill. You carry it. Not borrowed. Awakened. Father's favor… again."
Deyviel tensed beside him, dragon aura flaring hot. "Shut up with the riddles, you rotting freak."
Kieth shifted his weight, armor clicking softly. "Yeah, lady. We're not here for story time."
But before Xexaria could respond—before any of them could move—the void tore wider. A laugh echoed through it, chaotic and sharp, like glass shattering in a thousand voices at once. The air twisted, colors inverting for a split second as something slithered into the domain—not fully there, but present enough to make the shards vibrate and crack.
Thokk.
The Outer God of Chaos didn't have a solid form—not yet. He was smoke and shadow, swirling in patterns that hurt to look at directly, eyes forming and dissolving in the haze, grins stretching too wide before vanishing. His presence hit like a punch to the gut—wrong in a way that made Rolien's skin crawl, like the world itself was glitching around him. Chaos radiated off him, stronger than Xexaria's rot, wilder, more unpredictable. The void bent to him, shards spinning faster, reality fraying at the edges.
Xexaria recoiled slightly, her mass bubbling in agitation. "Brother… you came."
Thokk's laugh fractured the air again. "Of course, sister. The rift holds—for now. Our siblings claw at it from the abyss, reopening what that dragon whelp sealed. But I slipped through the cracks." His form coalesced a little more—tendrils of shadow reaching out, brushing the edges of the void like fingers testing a cage. "This world smells ripe for unraveling."
The three halted mid-stance, attacks dying in their throats. Deyviel's dragon fire dimmed, Kieth's energy flickered uncertain, and Rolien felt his spirit lines stutter. Thokk's power… it was different. Greater. Xexaria was decay—slow, inevitable. But Thokk? He was chaos itself, the kind that could unmake thoughts before they formed. Rolien's heart raced, a cold sweat breaking out despite the fight. One god was bad enough. Two? And this one felt like he could erase them just by thinking it.
"We… we have to end this fast," Rolien whispered, voice tight with fear he couldn't hide. "If the rift reopens fully… the others get in. Earth falls. Everything falls."
Deyviel nodded, grip white on Yamato. "No more holding back."
Kieth shifted forms, energy surging. "Yeah. Clock's ticking."
But before they could charge—Deyviel's body jerked. His eyes flickered, blue draining to void-black. That twisted grin spread across his face again, the one that wasn't quite him.
Kieth shifted, armor humming. "Clock's ticking."
But before they could move—Deyviel's body jerked hard. His eyes flickered, blue draining to void-black. That twisted grin spread across his face, the one that chilled them to the bone.
The other Deyviel took over.
"I got a solution," he said, voice layered with mocking edge, rougher and colder. "But it won't be a good one. So I need you guys to hold them off."
Rolien and Kieth spun toward him, weapons half-raised, auras flaring defensive. The last time this Deyviel spoke, he'd nearly killed them.
"What?!" they snapped in unison, voices sharp with suspicion.
Evil Deyviel just smiled, slow and sharp, raising his hands like surrender. "Heh, chill out, brats. I'm not your enemy right now." He jerked his thumb toward Xexaria and Thokk's swirling chaos. "But them? If we don't do something, this world—our world—gets eaten. Swallowed by rot and madness."
Rolien hesitated, heart pounding. Trust this thing? After what it did? But the pressure from Thokk was growing, chaos tugging at the edges of his mind like fingers trying to pry thoughts loose.
Kieth's armor clicked softly. "Are you sure your plan's gonna work?"
Evil Deyviel's grin widened, eyes glinting dark. "Don't know. Only one way to find out!"
The two exchanged a quick glance—wary, but the gods looming, the void closing in—they nodded.
"Fine," Rolien said, turning back to the threats.
Kieth shifted forms. "But if you screw us—"
"Yeah, yeah," Evil Deyviel waved it off. "Save it. Just buy me time."
He stepped back, aura shifting—blue dragon fire mixing with something darker, hungrier, the mark on him pulsing like it was waking up.
Rolien and Kieth moved forward, weapons ready.
The void held its breath.
And the fight—the one that could save or doom everything—ignited.
To be continued…