- [Vampire Lord Inkume and the Heroine Dorime] -

A sharp clang reverberates through the chamber as steel meets steel. The Vampire Lord has turned, his black rapier intercepting her silver blade with effortless precision. A shockwave bursts from the point of impact, rippling outward like an unseen force. Guests nearest to them are thrown back, their exclamations of surprise lost in the ensuing chaos. The shockwave sweeps through the hall, toppling tables laden with ornate dishes and sending elaborate decorations crashing from the walls. A gust of cold mountain air slips through the grand hall's towering windows, stirring the myriad of candles that line the room. Shadows dance and twist across the marble floor, mingling with the elegant sweep of gowns and the polished boots of masked guests. The scent of aged wine and exotic spices fills the air, undercut by the faint metallic hint of an approaching storm.

Crystal goblets shatter upon the marble floor, mingling with spilled wine that spreads like dark blood. A cacophony of startled cries fills the room as dancers are knocked off their feet, stumbling over one another in a tangle of silk and velvet by a powerful shockwave. The musicians cling to their instruments, notes turning discordant before fading into silence.

Amidst the disarray, the Vampire Lord and the heroine stand locked together, swords pressed against each other. Their gazes meet — his inscrutable, hers fierce and unyielding behind the mask. For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of them, the sounds of the disrupted ball fading into a distant roar.

He blocked that attack just in time. It’s a good thing his shitty abilities prevent him from dying like a chump. Who the fuck is this?! A hero, after all of his efforts to make sure this exact moment didn’t happen, it sure seems to have happened nonetheless.

God, he hates this troublesome world. It would be better off destroyed.

Inkume tilts his head ever so slightly. “An unexpected guest,” he says, his voice smooth and deep. “Had I known you were coming, I would have made special preparations.”

She steadies her breathing, masking the nervous energy that coils within her. “The night should always expect the sun to inevitably rise,” she replies, her tone measured.

Fuck, that’s cool.

Behind his mask, the Vampire Lord's eyes flicker, a hint of something akin to admiration flashing briefly before it's hidden beneath his stoic facade. He finds the line striking, almost poetic, but he offers no outward acknowledgment.

Gotta keep up the charade.

He casts a quick glance around the throne room. The disarray is evident — overturned tables, scattered masks, and guests scrambling to regain their footing. Concern flashes in his eyes, though he hides it well. A confrontation here, amidst so many, risks unnecessary harm.

“Perhaps,” he begins, his blade still pressed against hers, "we might postpone this matter until a more opportune moment? It seems a shame to ruin such a delightful evening,” offers Inkume, hoping to use his otherworldly charm to defuse the time bomb that came kicking down his door.

There’s an obvious calculation here in his head. He’s the evil Vampire Lord. This is, allegedly, some great hero.

He knows this song and dance. There’s no way he’s going to get out of this alive unless he does something about the matter. Master Cray-Anthony, guide his hand. She narrows her eyes, not lowering her weapon. Pulling back slightly, he offers a slight, formal bow. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Vampire Lord Inkume.”

— In the background, a legion of undead servants clap and cheer. Those who do not are dragged away immediately.

She meets his gaze evenly. “Dorime. Summoned hero, destined to stop you,” she replies curtly, shortly, and promptly. There isn’t much of any emotion in her voice and the way she’s looking at him makes it seem like this is a troublesome chore she’s handling on her way, rather than some great battle of fate.

Fuck. She’s cool. That’s bad for him.

They circle each other slowly, swords poised. The room around them is tense, guests watching from a cautious distance. Whispers ripple through the crowd, a mix of fear and curiosity.

Inkume gestures subtly with his free hand. “You see, I'm merely hosting a dance for my friends and company. I assure you, I've done nothing wrong this evening.”

Dorime holds her ground. “Evil is not innocent just because it was sleeping when it was to be killed.”

…Huh?

Inkume pauses at her words, a familiar phrase tugging at his memory. It's almost close enough to be from a book he cherished long ago — a favorite he thought no one else remembered. Fi-Fi certainly never knew Swordserer. His grip on the rapier tightens ever so slightly. “Interesting choice of words.”

She steps forward, pressing her blade against his once more. “Surrender to me now. Bow your head and swear yourself as my servant, and I may consider letting you live.”

A murmur spreads through the guests, and a few of Inkume's companions begin to move forward, hands reaching for weapons hidden beneath luxurious attire.

Inkume raises a gloved hand, signaling them to stay back. “There's no need for that,” he says firmly, concern evident in the slight crease of his brow. He doesn't wish for them to be harmed, not when he's uncertain of the full extent of Dorime's power. He’s sure enough as is that she’s strong as nails. That single strike he countered took out every single window in the throne room and nearly his elbow, and he’s literally supposed to be the most powerful thing on this planet at this point.

He blocks a swift strike from her, their swords clashing again. Those around the area who aren’t still clinging to the floor fly away, tumbling over each other. “You're quite confident,” he remarks, pushing her attack back as he works on coming up with a plan.

“Confidence comes easily when you're on the side of justice,” she replies, the silver metal of her sword reflecting in her eyes.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

So cool.

They exchange a series of quick blows, each testing the other's defenses. The guests watch with a mixture of awe and apprehension as the castle groans from the constant rattling running through its bones. Inkume parries another strike, then with a deft movement, he twists his wrist. His rapier connects with the hilt of her sword, disarming her. The silver blade spins through the air. In a fluid motion, he catches it with his free hand. A hiss escapes him as the holy metal burns his skin, smoke curling from where he grips the blade. He ignores the pain, focusing his gaze on Dorime.

She blinks, momentarily caught off guard.

Holding both swords toward her in a scissored cross, he offers a faint smile. “Strong, but inexperienced. I’ve been practicing this for longer than you’ve been alive,” he lies, hoping that will get her to settle down and drop the matter. “You were better at dancing than fighting.”

He’s been here, like, a year-ish. But she doesn’t need to know that.

Her eyes dart to the rapier in his other hand. Desperate not to lose the advantage, she lunges forward and grabs the black rapier, taking it by the blade, which he hadn’t expected. The cursed metal sears her skin, but she grasps it firmly and throws it into the air, catching its grip and pointing his own weapon back at him. They stand facing each other, each wielding the other's weapon, cloaks billowing dramatically in the lingering gusts from the earlier shockwave.

Inkume raises an eyebrow. “This was a bad trade,” he remarks. “I’m still making payments on that,” says the Vampire Lord, nodding his head slightly.

That’s not a joke. The troll smith is still after him for the money.

She smirks, despite the pain. “Mine was free.”

A pause settles between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Then, almost simultaneously, they move. The duel intensifies as they trade blows with renewed vigor. Each strike is powerful, the air humming with energy as the holy and cursed metals clash. Around them, the throne room quakes. Cracks spiderweb across the marble floor, and chandeliers sway precariously. Guests scramble for cover, ducking behind pillars and beneath tables. The once-grand ball has descended into chaos.

Dorime moves with agility, her movements precise yet tinged with hesitation. Inkume notices the slight uncertainty in her stance, the way her eyes flicker with doubt before each attack. He capitalizes on it, pressing her defenses. But there's something else. An unseen force seems to shield her, subtle but undeniably present. Each time he aims for a decisive blow, his strike is deflected by an invisible barrier or diverted just enough to miss.

He sidesteps a thrust, then counters with a swift slash. “You fight well,” he concedes. “But there's something peculiar about your technique,” probes Inkume, trying to get some information toward his suspicions.

He can smell it on her.

— The smell of cosmic bullshit.

She doesn't respond, focusing instead on matching his pace. Her mind races, beads of sweat forming beneath her mask. She can feel the strain, both from the battle and from maintaining the facade of confidence.

He watches her closely, a realization dawning. Her movements, her stance — it all seems familiar. As they press apart again, she shifts into a new position, one that triggers a memory.

A memory of an old book. It’s all too clear in his mind’s eye.

She’s faking it.

No fucking way.

Inkume's eyes widen slightly.

She gets ready to attack again, and he realizes that she’s perfectly copying the stance of the hero from Swordserer. Fi-FI, himself, Hwa-Young, and now her — transmigrators seem pretty common in this world. But she, this ‘hero’, doesn’t seem to know that. He seizes the opportunity, weaving past her defenses that take place exactly as he expects them to. His motion is fluid, calculated. With a swift motion, he brings the silver sword across her cheek, a thin line of blood appearing where the blade grazes her skin.

They both stop.

“Swordserer,” says the Vampire Lord, looking at her from the side of his eyes as he stands next to her, the sword having traveled past her face. “You can’t just copy that stance from the book and nothing else,” he explains. “If you read volume one, you’d remember that the protagonist died because he tried to face the big bad all by himself.”

Frozen, she looks at him in shock. “How…?! How did you…?” She turns her head. “You know Swordserer?!” asks the heroine.

He shrugs. “Eh. It’s my second favorite series,” replies the Vampire Lord dryly. “— After Enfangled.”

Her expression of confusion doesn’t have that long to linger.

A solitary droplet of blood trickles down her face, falling to the cold marble floor. The room seems to hold its breath.

Suddenly, the castle quivers. A low rumble resonates through the walls, growing louder by the second. The very stones beneath them groan, shifting in unnatural ways. The architecture seems to bend and twist, shadows lengthening and distorting. The castle itself is moving. Panic erupts among the guests again. Cries fill the air as they scramble to escape the throne room, some tripping over debris, others huddling together in confusion and fear.

Inkume glances around, his expression one of genuine concern. This isn't his doing. He looks back at Dorime. “What is this?”

She shakes her head, equally bewildered. “I... I didn’t do anything!” she explains, taking a step back.

Through the chaos, a figure emerges from the throngs — a graceful yet unsettling presence. The living doll and guest of honor tonight, Schaufenster, makes her way toward them past the others as the castle rumbles and turns like a waking giant. Her porcelain face is dead and expressionless, eyes unnervingly fixed ahead. She moves smoothly, almost gliding across the fractured floor.

“Ah,” she intones in a voice that seems to echo from everywhere and nowhere. “The final ingredient has arrived.” Her painted glass eyes look at the spot of blood and then toward the stranger by Inkume’s side. “Sarah.” The heroine’s eyes open wide, surprised to hear her old name being spoken.

— In the background, Azalea lets out a feverish, nonsensical cry.

Inkume watches Schaufenster warily. “What have you done?” he asks as the castle rumbles.

She meets his gaze, unblinking. “I did nothing,” replies the doll, shaking her head. She lifts her gaze. “You did everything, Master,” says Schaufenster, staring at the ceiling. “You completed everything needed for the ritual to continue.”

“Uh, bull-fuckin’-shit,” replies Inkume, plainly, pointing a finger at the doll. “I never started any ritual,” he explains. “I was explicitly clear that we will not be beginning any dark rituals to banish the sun in my household, young lady,” scolds the Vampire Lord.

Schaufenster offers a faint smile. “Such strong emotions — anger, determination, fear. They infuse the blood beautifully, don’t they?” she asks. “But you’re mistaken. Of course you aren’t going to begin the ritual. The ritual already began over a thousand years ago,” she explains. “You’re only the one who was supposed to continue it long enough for him to return to complete it himself.” She crosses her arms behind her back, her head looking down as a maelstrom of wind and black specks begins to envelop the throne room. “If only you hadn’t filled the castle with this much raw power, this much strength,” she says, stepping back toward a break that begins to open up in the ground. Black, swirling tar fills the abyss. “Then he might have never been able to pull it all off.”

He narrows his eyes. The castle continues to warp around them, walls pulsating as if alive. Tendrils of shadow creep along the floor, converging toward the center of the room. “Get away from there!” calls Inkume as she steps back toward that pit. It radiates a feeling from itself, an essence — a presence.

It feels bad.

Schaufenster shakes her head. “I wish things would have been different than they are, Master,” she says, taking a further step back. “But my life is more important to me than yours is.” The dread exhaustion is clear in her eyes as she stands there, the violent winds rising out of the black, cracking hole in the throne room as it starts to tear apart, billowing her dress and hair.

From the bottom of the pit, from the guts of the castle itself, a hand made out of inky, black sludge grasps out of the abyss and latches itself onto her ankle, the thick, noxious tar burning away through her stocking and into the wood of her legs with an audible sizzling. A silhouette, a person — a presence — pulls itself out slowly from the abyss, and a single, red, ruby eye glares out as it begins to emerge in the shape of a man. Bats made out of thick, black sludge fly out behind him as he crawls from what might be hell itself after having waited this many centuries to return.

The old Vampire Lord.