It was beautiful. The more time Sunday spent in this new world, the more he enjoyed it. He could move freely here. Up and down, forward and backward, as if gravity was but a suggestion and not an anchor that kept him one with the world. Everything spun and shifted, guided by his unconscious desires.

Falling through the empty sky and shooting for the red moon as he desired.

Why was it happening? He could vaguely feel something, a current, a sensation of energy passing through and forth. Was it one of his spells acting up, or was it his mind allowing him to move through this world like fish through water?

The hazy figures of the enemies… No. There were no enemies anymore. All he saw were different red lines that made stone, grass, trees, and sky, and all other shapes. He vaguely remembered there being someone he wanted to hurt, to tear apart and destroy, to make an example out of so his name would spread wide… but the red world had made it all seem unimportant. The mesmerizing beauty and the feeling of complete freedom and strength were all he needed.

The world was composed of strings he could play as if everything was one giant harp and he was the harpist. Sunday laughed and everything rotated around him as he shot in a different direction.

What was he doing again? Did it matter? He felt stronger than anything and anyone and his hands moved like he was conducting an orchestra.

The vague presence of churning spells, screams, and violence echoed in the distance. It didn’t bother him in the slightest as he let himself get lost in the dream-like landscape.

It was life. Pure, simple, and enjoyable.

And above it all was the Moon.

***

Rubien broke through another wall and rolled on the ground. He stood up easily, removing a piece of wood that was stabbing through his abdomen. The mage was hot on his trail as if his sole purpose was hurting the tragically impotent vampire.

Oswald licked his lips and one of his servants handed him a glass of fresh blood as if on cue. It smelled delicious and was only made better by all the new experiences he was having. Living so long could quickly grow dull, especially when their leader had no aspirations of taking over or growing the clan more than necessary.

There were only so many maidens and young men one could enjoy and taste before it too became a part of an ever-repeating circle. Not that it wasn’t pleasurable. It was just that… it lost its shine.

What was happening tonight was all ridiculous, and so fascinating. The mage had lost himself. His eyes, and even his skin, were burning with bloodlight reminiscent of the stories in the old Baron’s library, where the glory of the vampire race and its exemplary scions rested gathering dust for the generations to come. Of course, even eternity couldn’t make most people grab a book and get to reading. Any excuse to not broaden the mind, lest it started accepting things that have no place in an undead monster’s head.

The mage moved erratically, without delicacy or skill. He was a wild beast using the world as a playground. There was an exception to that. His swordplay contrasted sharply by exuding finesse and grace seldom seen in a place like Blumwin. Yet, it was overshadowed by his sudden ability to ignore the directions of the world. He jumped around as if whatever held their feet down to the earth was his to control.

No, he didn’t jump. A vampire jumped. The mage… No. Sunday, he was called, was falling. He fell upward, and he fell downward, and he fell to the sides. And he did it as if it was his life’s vocation.

Oswald watched enthralled as Rubien tried to flee again, only to be grabbed by the mage that had seemingly fallen sideways to catch up. Was it another effect of the strange infusion of essence he had performed shortly before losing himself, or was it another spell entirely? If the blood moon had brought him into a state of trance similar to those the oldest vampire warriors could fall into… then how was he using spells?

Oswald had an unhealthy interest in spells, even though he would never be able to employ one. Spells were fascinating and held secrets beyond the mere abilities most magi were capable of manifesting. To him the theory that they were remnants of the old gods struck truer than most others. Pieces of their scattered sanity and symbols of the glory long gone. Relics to be cherished and preserved.

Not used up by filthy magi.

Rubien hissed as he was once again flung into the mansion without care. It was almost like the mage needed no effort to propel him like an arrow shot from a bow. A simple touch and Rubien fell to the side with far less grace than the one called Sunday.

The true-silver blade even managed to cut at Rubien’s chest mid-air leaving a deep nasty wound that started healing shortly after. Lords like them could take a lot of damage and walk it off. They were essentially immortal, with their weaknesses being their core which was usually in the head and some types of spells. And true-silver, of course. Each drop of blood consumed through the years slowly strengthened vampires and boosted their natural gifts.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Oswald was old, pushing at eight hundred. Rubien was about a hundred years younger or so. Quality of blood also mattered to one's growth and strength. It was a well-kept secret among the higher echelons of the vampire communities that drinking the blood of mages or those who held Talents was the best thing one could do to grow their strength. Second only to being allowed some of the Trueblood of an elder vampire – the elixir that elevated a vampire’s existence and made them more without millennia of suffering in boredom.

Only the Baron and a few lords were privy to the first secret, since spreading that information begged a full-on war when the younger vampires failed to restrain their urges. The latter was common knowledge, but getting ahold of a vampire’s Trueblood was impossible unless they were willing. That’s why ass-kissing was a foremost skill in the vampire world.

It was a pity Sunday was an undead. Such a gifted mage, with so many suggested talents… Oswald licked his lips again and took a sip of the warm red blood. His eyes scanned the terrifying darkness. It made him feel like a fledgling vampire, just born from death to serve his new master. How long it had been. How many decades and centuries had passed since he had last known the gift of such deep and all-consuming fear?

It was marvelous.

He had to give credit to Rubien. He was doing well enough in suppressing the urges to fight back. There was a certain level of danger to the lord, but Sunday was hardly in a position to win despite the apparent advantage. Oswald knew that, and Rubien did as well. His enduring of all the rage unleashed by the strange undead mage was a great service to the Baron and Oswald. Knowledge was the most important thing after all. Eons were meaningless without knowledge.

Especially when it came to an otherworlder sent to fight the Divine. It was regretful they had met under such circumstances, but Oswald was going to make sure he made the best of it. It would please the Baron, and give them influence unlike any if they went about it carefully. Perhaps they wouldn’t have to spend eternity locked into the small and unimportant Flower Region…

A loud crash drew his attention and Oswald heard Rubien scream for the first time since the battle had begun. Expectant shivers ran down his spine, but the darkness remained unmoving. Whatever that strange presence protecting the mage was, it wanted him safe and kept in the surrounding area. Was it truly not a Divine? If not a higher power, then what? A foreign god perhaps?

The thought almost made Oswald growl in pleasure. It was better than any blood he had ever tasted. He couldn’t wait to present his findings to the Baron. Hopefully, His Grace wouldn’t be alerted by the commotion.

If the Baron made a personal appearance, the damage would be higher than anything the strange mage could do.

Unless of course, the darkness could destroy the Baron too…

***

Rubien held his head at the ear as he pressed it against his body and forced his regeneration to work faster. The mage before him had transformed from a weak rank two into a fighter worthy of the lord title. It was preposterous, insane, and downright insulting.

At least it explained how Versum had died to him, to some degree. Rubien still didn’t see a half-decent lord losing to the undead mage unless there were other factors involved.

The fight would’ve been long over if Rubien was allowed to fight back, but the strange darkness scared him. Healing himself from the damage it had done to him was an ordeal he didn’t want to experience again. He was sure that if he had a soul, it would’ve been just as badly hurt, if not worse.

Worst of all, it had weakened him. It had made him less than he had been. Not by that much, since the damage hadn’t touched his core, but it had been close. Too close.

Sunday shot through the air again, reaching the ceiling and stepping on it as if it were ground. Even his hair reflected the strange phenomenon. Was he bending the rules of the world? That was magic far higher than a mere rank two. The mage took a few steps, the strange smile never leaving his disgusting face, before he fell to the right, and then again, downwards and straight for Rubien.

The movements were unpredictable and erratic. He had seen magi use spells that allowed them flight, or explosive movements. There was a young girl who utilized one of the latter, but she was unfortunately out of reach since her mother was too important for the city.

Balance, the Baron always demanded. Rubien hated that, but he bowed nonetheless. The Baron was stronger and smarter than him. He had to bow and listen.

The mage attacked yet again and Rubien took it all in stride. He dodged the masterful sword strokes that seemed to grow more unpredictable with each passing minute and barely avoided a punch that would’ve shattered the head of a regular human.

The hand of the undead stopped mid-swing and touched his shoulder gently.

Where was the mage getting his strength from? Was it essence? Was it madness? Rubien knew of the red moon and what it symbolized, but he hadn’t expected there to be such a spell in the city. And much less for it to be in the hands of a mad vampire-hating mage.

The sword found his ribs and cut through like they were butter, making him frown at the sensation of burning. Rubien jumped to the side using as much of his speed as he could and crashed through a window. The edge of the manor’s territory, where Sunday couldn’t follow, was just within reach, but the next moment the world spun for him, and he was flung backward as if an invisible hand had dragged him by the collar.

It had happened a few times, and it was greatly annoying. The first time the phenomenon had only confused his mind, and it had been easy to shrug off. Spells that confused were plentiful, and Rubien liked to snatch a mage or two each century to play with.

The second time, however, it had affected his whole body and applied an instance of force that had thrown him like a puppet on strings.

What he assumed was yet another spell affected him only after a physical touch by the mage. It seemed to bypass the illusion of the mind, directly making it a reality. It was insanity!

He knew very little about spells, as such things were beneath him. But the phenomenon that was making it so difficult to shrug off the mage was not something one should be able to do at such a low rank.

With a snarl, Rubien shook off the splinters and pushed away some of the dust covering what remained of his once beautiful suit. There were no moths to burn him, and yet… here he was.

Insulted. Kicked. Cut apart. Torn almost in half.

Him! A lord!

The mage came again and Rubien almost hit back, barely stopping himself. The memory of the darkness and its rage was still fresh in his mind.

His millisecond of hesitance was enough for a slap to find his cheek and shake him to his non-existent soul.

Rubien screamed in frustration once again.