The violet haze thinned overhead like smoke finally giving way to wind. Patches of real sky—pale, exhausted blue—peeked through for the first time in what felt like years. Down on the cracked streets of the shattered city, the sin zombies staggered, groaned once, then collapsed to their knees. Skin that had been gray and veined with black slowly flushed with color again. Eyes cleared. People blinked, confused, crying, hugging strangers who minutes ago had been trying to tear their throats out. The air itself felt lighter, like the world had been holding its breath and finally let it go.
Rolien floated down first, boots touching broken concrete with a soft crunch. His prosthetic arm sparked one last time before going dark, and he didn't even care. Kieth landed beside him, the Hulkbuster plates retracting with tired metallic sighs, helmet flipping up so Rolien could see the sweat and blood on his face. They looked at each other—really looked—and Rolien reached out, clapping Kieth's gauntlet with his good hand. A small, weary grin tugged at both their mouths. They'd made it. Somehow.
Then they turned toward Deyviel.
He stood a little apart, head tilted back, staring up at that clearing sky like he was memorizing it. A soft smile played on his lips—quiet, almost peaceful. Light caught in his eyes, the blue bright and clear again, no trace of black left.
A voice rolled across the ruins, warm and ancient, coming from everywhere and nowhere.
"Congratulations, heroes. You've sealed the outer gods… for the time being. But don't celebrate yet. They'll claw their way back sooner than you'd like. Get stronger. Faster than you ever thought possible. This war isn't over."
Golden script unfurled in the air in front of Rolien—lines of text only he could see, unlocking blueprints and formulas in his mind: early human-made boats, armored tanks, the very first crude jeep prototypes, advanced gunpowder recipes that smelled of sulfur and possibility. His eyes widened; he felt the knowledge settle like seeds in fresh soil.
For Kieth, Martin, and the others still catching their breath farther back, shimmering tickets materialized—five in total, glowing softly. One-way passes to Earth. Real Earth. Home.
Deyviel got nothing.
Rolien and Kieth turned toward him at the same moment. That's when they saw it: faint cracks spreading across his skin like porcelain about to shatter, soft white light seeping through every fracture. He was glowing—gentle at first, then brighter, as if something inside him had finally burned all the way through.
"Deyviel—!" Rolien started forward.
An invisible wall stopped them cold. The Great Sage appeared between them, translucent and sorrowful, robes drifting though there was no wind.
"He exhausted everything," the Sage said quietly. "His life force. His existence. He poured it all in to make the seal hold. There won't be a him anymore. He'll be erased. Completely."
Kieth's voice cracked. "Can't you—just this once—give him a pass? Bend the rules?"
The Sage shook his head, eyes old and tired. "I'm sorry. That's beyond even my reach. My power has limits, and this… this is one of them. Your best hope now is the heroes still standing. Find a way, if there is one."
Rolien's fists clenched so hard the servos in his prosthetic whined. "Damn it," he shouted, voice raw and breaking. "Why did it have to be you burning yourself out? We could've found another way!"
Deyviel just looked at them, that same calm smile still there. Light particles were already lifting off his shoulders like fireflies. "Nah. It's fine. There wasn't another option on the table. So I went all in." His voice was softer now, almost carried on the breeze. "I'm betting every last coin on you two. Finish what we started. Get rid of those fake-ass gods for good. I'm counting on you."
Footsteps pounded behind them—Denver, running full tilt, face flushed from helping the newly restored people find their families. "Hey, guys!" he yelled, waving. "We did it! We—"
He skidded to a stop, eyes locking on the glowing figure. Deyviel lifted a hand in a lazy wave, light swallowing his outline.
"Take care of them when they need it, yeah?" he said to Rolien and Kieth. They could only nod, throats too tight for words.
Then the light flared, gentle and final. Deyviel's form dissolved into countless soft motes that drifted upward, catching the first real sunlight in months, until there was nothing left but empty air.
Denver reached the spot a second too late. He stared at the place his best friend had been, confusion creasing his face.
"We won," he said slowly, voice small. "Hey… whos's Dey..v..?"
Rolien and Kieth couldn't answer. They just stood there, watching the last sparks of light fade into the clearing sky, carrying their friend somewhere none of them could follow.
Not yet.
Then everything went to black.
Kiss Of The Vampire
" The Girl with The sharp Sword part 2"
Mission 9: new world!
Denver's boots pounded against the cracked asphalt of the back alley, his breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts that fogged the chilly night air. The moon hung low over the city skyline, a bloated silver disc that made the shadows stretch like fingers reaching for him. He could hear the werewolf ahead—its ragged pants, the scrape of claws on concrete, the occasional low growl that vibrated through his chest like a warning he couldn't ignore. This bastard had torn through three families in the last week, leaving bodies mangled in ways that turned even seasoned hunters' stomachs. Livestock hits were one thing, the kind of shadowy raids that kept the peace treaty fragile but intact. But civilians? That crossed the line, and the Bureau had handed Denver the kill order without a second thought.
He gripped his silver-edged knife tighter, the handle slick with sweat despite the cold. Denver wasn't the biggest guy in the Bureau—lean, wiry, with a face that still looked too young for the scars it carried—but he was fast, and he knew how to end things quick. The werewolf had led him on this chase through Denver's underbelly for miles now, from the warehouse district where it'd been spotted feeding on a stray cow, right into the maze of abandoned lots near the river. Smart, trying to lose him in the urban sprawl, but Denver had tracked worse.
Up ahead, the beast skidded around a corner, its massive form silhouetted against a flickering streetlamp. It was big, easily seven feet on its hind legs, fur matted with blood and dirt, eyes glowing that feral yellow that screamed rogue. No pack markings, no hesitation in its kills—just pure, unbridled hunger. Denver's heart hammered, not from fear exactly, but from that electric mix of adrenaline and anger. These things were supposed to be reined in now, with their reps in the Senate passing laws to keep the kin in line. Vampires slinking through the night, devils whispering deals in boardrooms, werewolves howling under controlled moons. Even the dragons, locked away by those ancient deities for a century, were just myths to scare kids these days. But rogues like this one? They spat on the fragile peace, reminding everyone why humans still needed hunters.
Denver rounded the corner, spotting the werewolf scrambling up a chain-link fence toward an old factory lot. "Not today, you furry fuck," he muttered under his breath, holstering the knife and pulling his crossbow from his back in one fluid motion. He fired a bolt—silver-tipped, laced with wolfsbane extract. It whistled through the air, grazing the beast's shoulder with a sizzle that made it yelp and tumble over the fence.
The werewolf hit the ground hard, rolling into a crouch, its muscles rippling under the fur as it turned to face him. Denver vaulted the fence, landing light on his feet, crossbow already reloading. The thing lunged first, claws slashing in a wide arc aimed at his throat. He ducked low, feeling the whoosh of air above his head, and countered with a upward stab of his knife into its underbelly. The blade bit in shallow—damn, its hide was tougher than expected—but blood sprayed hot across his arm, and the werewolf staggered back with a roar that echoed off the rusted factory walls.
It came at him again, faster this time, feinting left with a swipe before barreling right with its full weight. Denver twisted aside, but not quick enough; its shoulder clipped him, sending him sprawling into a pile of debris. Pain exploded in his ribs, sharp and familiar, but he rolled through it, coming up on one knee and firing the crossbow point-blank. The bolt sank into the werewolf's thigh, eliciting a howl that was half pain, half rage. It limped forward, jaws snapping, and Denver met it head-on—dodging a bite that grazed his jacket, then driving his knife into its chest with both hands. He twisted the blade, feeling the resistance of muscle and bone give way, the creature's hot breath choking him as it thrashed.
They grappled for a moment, a whirlwind of fur and steel—Denver's free hand grabbing its muzzle to wrench it aside, avoiding those fangs by inches, while his knife dug deeper. The werewolf's claws raked his side, fire blooming across his skin, but he held on, pushing until he felt its heart stutter and stop. It collapsed in a heap, body shifting back to human form in death, just a naked, broken man staring sightless at the sky.
Denver slumped against the fence, chest heaving, blood trickling from his wounds. He wiped his face, smearing dirt and sweat, and pulled out his radio. "Bureau, this is Denver. Target down. Send cleanup." His voice was steady, but inside, a quiet unease stirred—like something was missing from the hunt, a partner he couldn't quite picture, a voice that should've been bantering in his ear. He shook it off, chalking it up to fatigue. The world was full of shadows these days, but at least one less monster prowled the streets tonight.
Kiss Of The Vampire
" The Girl With A Sharp Sword part 2"
Mission 9 : New world
Denver's boots pounded against the cracked asphalt of the back alley, his breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts that fogged the chilly night air. The moon hung low over the city skyline, a bloated silver disc that made the shadows stretch like fingers reaching for him. He could hear the werewolf ahead—its ragged pants, the scrape of claws on concrete, the occasional low growl that vibrated through his chest like a warning he couldn't ignore. This bastard had torn through three families in the last week, leaving bodies mangled in ways that turned even seasoned hunters' stomachs. Livestock hits were one thing, the kind of shadowy raids that kept the peace treaty fragile but intact. But civilians? That crossed the line, and the Bureau had handed Denver the kill order without a second thought.
He gripped his silver-edged knife tighter, the handle slick with sweat despite the cold. Denver wasn't the biggest guy in the Bureau—lean, wiry, with a face that still looked too young for the scars it carried—but he was fast, and he knew how to end things quick. The werewolf had led him on this chase through Denver's underbelly for miles now, from the warehouse district where it'd been spotted feeding on a stray cow, right into the maze of abandoned lots near the river. Smart, trying to lose him in the urban sprawl, but Denver had tracked worse.
Up ahead, the beast skidded around a corner, its massive form silhouetted against a flickering streetlamp. It was big, easily seven feet on its hind legs, fur matted with blood and dirt, eyes glowing that feral yellow that screamed rogue. No pack markings, no hesitation in its kills—just pure, unbridled hunger. Denver's heart hammered, not from fear exactly, but from that electric mix of adrenaline and anger. These things were supposed to be reined in now, with their reps in the Senate passing laws to keep the kin in line. Vampires slinking through the night, devils whispering deals in boardrooms, werewolves howling under controlled moons. Even the dragons, locked away by those ancient deities for a century, were just myths to scare kids these days. But rogues like this one? They spat on the fragile peace, reminding everyone why humans still needed hunters.
Denver rounded the corner, spotting the werewolf scrambling up a chain-link fence toward an old factory lot. "Not today, you furry fuck," he muttered under his breath, holstering the knife and pulling his crossbow from his back in one fluid motion. He fired a bolt—silver-tipped, laced with wolfsbane extract. It whistled through the air, grazing the beast's shoulder with a sizzle that made it yelp and tumble over the fence.
The werewolf hit the ground hard, rolling into a crouch, its muscles rippling under the fur as it turned to face him. Denver vaulted the fence, landing light on his feet, crossbow already reloading. The thing lunged first, claws slashing in a wide arc aimed at his throat. He ducked low, feeling the whoosh of air above his head, and countered with a upward stab of his knife into its underbelly. The blade bit in shallow—damn, its hide was tougher than expected—but blood sprayed hot across his arm, and the werewolf staggered back with a roar that echoed off the rusted factory walls.
It came at him again, faster this time, feinting left with a swipe before barreling right with its full weight. Denver twisted aside, but not quick enough; its shoulder clipped him, sending him sprawling into a pile of debris. Pain exploded in his ribs, sharp and familiar, but he rolled through it, coming up on one knee and firing the crossbow point-blank. The bolt sank into the werewolf's thigh, eliciting a howl that was half pain, half rage. It limped forward, jaws snapping, and Denver met it head-on—dodging a bite that grazed his jacket, then driving his knife into its chest with both hands. He twisted the blade, feeling the resistance of muscle and bone give way, the creature's hot breath choking him as it thrashed.
They grappled for a moment, a whirlwind of fur and steel—Denver's free hand grabbing its muzzle to wrench it aside, avoiding those fangs by inches, while his knife dug deeper. The werewolf's claws raked his side, fire blooming across his skin, but he held on, pushing until he felt its heart stutter and stop. It collapsed in a heap, body shifting back to human form in death, just a naked, broken man staring sightless at the sky.
Denver slumped against the fence, chest heaving, blood trickling from his wounds. He wiped his face, smearing dirt and sweat, and pulled out his radio. "Bureau, this is Denver. Target down. Send cleanup." His voice was steady, but inside, a quiet unease stirred—like something was missing from the hunt, a partner he couldn't quite picture, a voice that should've been bantering in his ear. He shook it off, chalking it up to fatigue. The world was full of shadows these days, but at least one less monster prowled the streets tonight.
Denver wasn't always the lone wolf type—pun unintended, but it fits. He grew up in a dusty corner of Colorado, right on the outskirts of what used to be a thriving mining town before the supernatural shit hit the fan for real. His folks were regular people, the kind who worked double shifts at the local diner and hardware store, scraping by without ever knowing about the monsters lurking just beyond the treeline. That changed when he was twelve. A pack of rogue werewolves—back before the Senate treaties tried to paper over the cracks—raided their neighborhood one full moon night. They weren't after livestock; they were pissed about some territorial dispute with a vampire clan that spilled over into human turf.
He remembers the screams first, sharp and raw, cutting through the quiet like glass shattering. His dad grabbed a shotgun from the closet, the one he used for hunting deer, but it might as well have been a toy against those beasts. Denver hid under the kitchen table, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of his chest, watching through the legs of chairs as fur and fangs tore into everything he knew. His mom didn't make it—clawed across the throat before she could even yell for him to run. Dad lasted a bit longer, blasting one in the face with buckshot that barely slowed it down, but in the end, he went down too, blood pooling on the linoleum floor that Denver had mopped just that morning.
The Bureau found him the next day, curled up in the wreckage, numb and shaking, with dried blood on his hands from trying to wake his parents. They were the ones who cleaned up the mess, the shadowy government outfit that handled "incidents" like this. A grizzled agent named McDougall took him under his wing back then—Brigadier General McDougall now, but at the time he was still wearing the single star, fresh off commanding field ops and not yet buried in paperwork. He saw something in the kid's wide-eyed rage that mirrored his own losses, maybe from whatever ghosts he carried from the early dragon containment wars or the devil uprisings in the '90s.
McDougall trained him personally at first, not just in weapons and tracking, but in the cold art of survival—how to spot a shifter's telltale scent, how to stake a vamp without getting drained, how to whisper deals with devils if it meant staying alive one more night. The old man had this gravelly voice that could cut through gunfire, always barking orders laced with dark jokes that somehow made the horror bearable.
By eighteen, Denver was running solo ops, his lean frame hardened from years of drills and real hunts. He never got close to anyone after that; attachments were liabilities in this line of work. But deep down, there's this hollow ache he can't shake, like he's forgotten something vital, a piece of his past that's slipped through the cracks. Maybe it's the nightmares where he hears a laugh that doesn't belong to anyone he knows, or the way he sometimes grips his knife like it's meant for someone else's hand. He pushes it aside, focuses on the job—the Bureau's his family now, flawed as it is. Killing rogues like that werewolf tonight? It's not just duty; it's the only way he knows to fill the void, one bloody takedown at a time.
Denver keyed the radio again, voice rough from the fight. "Cleanup crew, mark the body for full burn. Rogue, no tags. And send a medic to my position—got some scratches that need stitching."
Static crackled, then Ramirez came back with her usual coffee rasp. "Copy that, Denver. Medic's ten out. You good till then?"
"Yeah. Just peachy." He clicked off and leaned his head against the cold chain-link fence, letting the adrenaline drain out of him in slow waves. The night pressed in close—river damp in the air, distant horns, the faint metallic smell of blood mixing with rust and oil from the old factory.
And then, clear as a bell in his ear, a voice he didn't know said, lazy and amused:
"Man, I thought he was a chick."
Denver froze. The words hung there, light and teasing, like someone standing right beside him cracking a joke after a hard fight. His pulse kicked up again, sharper this time. He scanned the lot—nothing but shadows, the cleanup techs still suiting up by the van, Chen prepping her kit. Nobody close enough to have spoken.
Before he could even open his mouth to answer, the voice came again, warmer now, almost laughing:
"Yeah, like you expected a muscular one?"
The tone was so familiar it hurt—like hearing an old friend rib him about a bad call. Denver's throat tightened. He felt the words forming on his own tongue, some automatic comeback he couldn't quite grab, something clever and quick that would've shut the joke down with a grin.
He swallowed hard instead, breath catching.
"Who the hell was that?" he murmured, voice barely above the wind. "And who was I about to answer?"
The empty air didn't reply. Just the low hum of the city and the ache in his ribs reminding him he was still alive, still alone. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, trying to shake the moment off, but it clung like smoke. That voice had felt real—too real—and for a second the hollow place inside him had felt almost full.
Headlights swept the lot as the Bureau van rolled closer. Chen hopped out, med bag slung over her shoulder, giving him a quick once-over. Denver straightened up, shoved the weirdness down deep where it couldn't distract him, and nodded like everything was fine.
But it wasn't. Not tonight.
As Chen knelt to work on his wounds, he stared past her at the dark, half expecting that laugh to drift back in and finish the joke. It didn't. And the silence that followed felt heavier than any roar a werewolf could make.
To be continued.