Hajun pleaded, "Niorh..please calm down! This isn't the right place to act like this!"
Niorh responded, "Who are you?"
"I'm Hajun! King Kazelle's assistant! Ring any bells?"
"Bells? You have bells?"
Hajun slapped his own face again out of frustration, "Oh my goodness."
'If this keeps up, she'll slaughter those people! Niorh is strange, yes, but despite that, the one thing that made Kazelle take her as his wife was because..well..she's just like him. She may be even more brutal than him when it comes to protecting things she cares about, or if someone dare tries to show any hostility towards her. I'm holding her back, she should've attacked me by now, but she hasn't. Does that mean..is there a small fragment of a memory with her?! Even though she never talked to anyone but Kazelle and her daughter Sella, she showed me kindness. There has to be a way to make her stop. She doesn't go around killing things, and with humans, it's possible to feed on their blood, but it would kill them instantly based on how powerful a vampire is, and when vampires are starving, they tend to not knowingly drain a human of all their blood, that's why we tend to discipline and training when it comes to those things. But since Niorh's memories have been wiped..she might not be able to control herself. I have to do something fast!'
Hajun continued to be dragged along, and the people kept running.
Niorh said to Hajun, "Let go."
"N-No! Stop for a second before THOSE people show up!"
"People? More Food."
"I know where you can get a ton of food! Limitless amounts! More food than these humans! You'll never run out!"
'How much of their memories did Visceris erase?!'
Niorh replied, "How much food?"
"A lot…I'll show you where it is if you just follow me and don't drain these humans."
"Mm. Take me."
"To the Umbral Quarter forest we go. But please don't do anything crazy."
"…No promises. Lead."
…
Kazelle strode through the lamp-lit alleys of New Babel under the cloak of night, his footsteps a silent rhythm in sync with the pulsing heart of the steampunk metropolis. The city, a marvel of Victorian architecture and cutting-edge innovation, was alive with the nocturnal escapades of its denizens, each lost in their pursuit of nightly pleasures or the drowning of daylight toils. As for Kazelle, the new world around him was a playground of curiosities, and he was both its malevolent patron and its avid explorer.
'Hm. The way these humans are talking, I have to blend my speech in as well. This clothing on me, I don't know how I have it on but it is bloody, cloaked in the insides of those cultists and that zealot. I have to find a new attire. Human blood pleasures me, but yet disturbs me.'
His first encounter was in front of a bustling tavern, its windows aglow with warmth and laughter. Unfamiliar melodies poured into the streets, mingling with the sound of clinking glasses and hearty conversation.
"And what devilry brings you to 'The Cog & Chain' this fine eve?" asked the burly barkeep as Kazelle approached, a hint of wary humor edging his words.
"Hearing the merriment, I thought to indulge in your... libations," Kazelle replied with a velvet voice, the corners of his mouth curling into an impish smile.
Eyebrows raised, the barkeep let out a hearty guffaw, "By all means, sir, but mind you, the absinthe is particularly potent tonight. Wouldn't want you ending up prancing on the tables, bewitched by the Green Fairy."
Within moments, Kazelle found himself before a vibrant concoction, its emerald hues swirling in the glass—a serpentine dance. He sipped, arched an eyebrow, and conceded, "An intoxicating charm indeed." A murmur rippled through the patrons, their gazes darting between their virescent drinks and the enigmatic stranger.
Whispers followed him like a shadow as he departed, though Kazelle paid them no heed, his curiosity drawing him towards the market district where the night's allure blossomed under the gleam of gaslights. The marketplace, even at this late hour, was a tapestry of sound and color, vendors hawking wares from exotic spices to mechanical oddities.
"Sir, sir!" hailed a voice with the sharpness of a con artist's grin. "Perhaps a gentleman of your... unique... stature would be interested in our finest mechanical timepiece."
Kazelle regarded the glinting gadget and casually quipped, "And what good is time to one such as I? Does it tick away to some impending doom, or is it simply a pattern we dance to with blind obedience?"
The vendor, caught off guard, stammered, "Well, I—I suppose it's just there to keep appointments, sir."
"Aha, appointments," Kazelle mused, his tone mocking. "Very well, I shall take it. For what use have I for appointments, if not to woefully neglect them?"
He snatched it, and walked away, and the vendor said, "You gotta pay for that?"
Kazelle turned around, grinning, "I do? Kings don't pay for stuff."
Fear ran down the vendors spine, "Uh nothing.."
The crowd chuckled, a mix of amusement and unease drawing their eyes back to their curious wares, while others nervously joked among themselves. "That man's as touched in the head as he is in attire," one whispered with a nervous smirk.
Kazelle's journey through the city's veins soon brought him to an automatous theater, where mechanical performers enacted famous plays to the delight of all ages. A peculiar fascination took hold of Kazelle as gears and pistons brought to life heroes and villains of old.
"How quaint," he mused out loud, drawing sidelong glances from a nearby couple. "To think, they merely wind them up, and away they go, bereft of the calamities of the heart."
"W-Were you looking for something a bit more—mortal in your drama, sir?" the man asked, a tremor in his voice.
Kazelle stared at the mechanical spectacle, a whimsical glint in his eyes. "Not at all. It is the relentless ticking underneath their performance that I find so... remarkably human."
Dismayed, the couple found an excuse to shift to a distant row, leaving the fiendishly charming Kazelle to ruminate alone in the flickers of limelight.
Through each eventful encounter, the citizens of New Babel could not shake off the disconcerting aurora that Kazelle radiated—his appearance both compelling and alien, his words a blend of deep insight and menacing wit. The night progressed, with New Babel undulating between laughter and whispers, never fully deciding whether to embrace the dangerous allure of their newcomer or to keep him at arm's length, careful not to stir the fog of unease that settled like a blanket over their world.
Kazelle continued his nocturnal revelries, sauntering with an air of haughtiness that could only be worn by someone who knew they were outside the reach of petty concerns. The darkened alleys and cobbled streets of New Babel unfurled before him like the pages of an undiscovered novel, each chapter filled with intrigue and opportunity for indulgence.
Upon reaching a corner where the lamplight flickered uncertainly, casting an ambivalent glow on the street vendor's odd collection, Kazelle eyes fixed upon an array of masks. "For the balls and masquerades, sir," the vendor coaxed. "Perhaps a man of enigma deserves a guise to match?"
Kazelle picked up a mask forged from cold iron and lined with delicate filigree. "A mask," he mused, "to conceal or reveal what is already veiled by shadows?" The vendor chuckled nervously, unsure of how to respond to such an alien query.
With the silent grace of a specter, Kazelle drifted away, mask in hand, leaving the vendor to puzzle over the encounter while he said, "W-Wait you have to pay for those!"
As the clock tower chimed midnight, resonating through the city's heart, Kazelle found himself amidst the steam and sweat of New Babel's industrial district. The stench of oil and metal permeated the air, and the ground thrummed with the machinery's unceasing labor below. He reveled in the symphony of productivity, a stark contrast to his own undying idleness.
Then, the velvet night was pierced by the scent of danger and the softer tread of malicious intent. A shiver of anticipation ran through Kazelle spine as he sensed the approach of thieves from the shadows of an adjacent alley.
"Lookst what we have here, boys," sneered the leader of the ragtag band, his voice dripping with the arrogance of one who believes they hold the upper hand. "A dandy gentleman in our midst, ripe for plucking."
His cronies, a patchwork ensemble of some of New Babel's most unsavory elements, cackled and postured, brandishing rusted blades and cocked pistols.
Kazelle turned with a grin, a bored disdain in his gaze. "I suppose you intend to divest me of my newly acquired trinkets?" he drawled, taking in their confidence with mocking sobriety.
Another thug, with missing teeth and a wicked grin, piped up, "Aye, and anything else your pockets be hiding!"
"Ew. Gross. No."
With the merest flick of his finger—a gesture so understated that it bordered on languid—the scene erupted into chaos. It was as though the shadows themselves rose up in allegiance to his will, painting the walls with the hapless thugs in a visceral display of carnage. The alleyway, once echoing with bravado, now whispered with the ghosts of the dispatched.
Kazelle looked upon his handiwork, a resplendent horror beneath the sputtering gaslight, his expression unchanging except for the slightest smiling curve of satisfaction on his lips. "Let this be a lesson learned," Lushen whispered to the night air, knowing full well there were no survivors to heed his words. "The night, with all its temptations, belongs to the creatures that truly understand its depths. Even in this world, there are foul peasants. You know you were fucking with a king, right? Foolish humans are annoying."
He put on the mask he stole earlier, and left.
Continuing his nocturnal expedition, Kazelle sauntered through the maze of cobblestone streets, his silhouette a graceful specter amidst the fumes and shadows of New Babel. Enthralled by the city's nocturnal charms, he found himself outside a decadent establishment where the allure of risk and fortune beckoned—the Velvet Piston, an infamous gambling den alive with the clatter of dice and the rustling of playing cards.
With the merest hint of a smirk, he parted the velvet drapes and sauntered in. "Care for a game of chance, my fine sir?" cooed the dealer, his eyes wary yet fixed on the potential profits of an inexperienced gambler.
"I find chance a dull playmate, but I am intrigued to observe," Kazelle replied, his tone dripping with nonchalant malice as he leaned against the plush upholstery, watching the players clutch their cards with greedy anticipation.
A lady with a cigarette holder glanced at him through the wisps of smoke. "Some say the lady luck is fickle. Ever tempted her to stay a while?"
With a sardonic lilt, he replied, "Temptation is a dance I reserve for the deserving. Lady Luck, I fear, lacks the necessary... depth."
Laughter erupted around the room, and even the dealer couldn't resist a chuckle despite the palpable tension that Kazelle's presence conjured.
'This place..is filled with many..things. It's forbidden for my kin to make an ally out of a human, so I will keep my distance if they try to lure me with emotional attachments.'
As he kept going down the sidewalk, steamed vehicles surrounded him fast, it was the New Babels Constabulary, basically the police.
They got out of their vehicles as onlookers watched; a few Sergeants exclaimed, "Guy In the mask! You have a warrant for your arrest!"
Kazelle replied, "Arrest? What's that mean? Does that mean you guys want to fight? Okay, I'll entertain you. Don't die in the process-."
"Hold it," a familiar voice of the Constabulary spoke, and the other officers turned around to see her.
"It's her.."
"Superintendent Beckham.."
"She never really comes out of her office unless it's important, right?"
"Yeah, that's what I heard too. But this is just a thief, what could she possibly want with this man?"
"It's trouble all the time when she's here.."
"That's what she's known for."
"I don't like it."
Superintendent Beckham, wearing a suit under trench coat with black gloves. She had a cigarette in her mouth, and she had long braided white and black hair, and orange shades, and she had a bandaid on her face. And she was being accompanied by a little boy.
"Go home. He's coming with me."
One of the Sergeants there, with slick blonde hair and blue eyes, Sergeant Burnstead said, "We have a warrant for this guy, he's been stealing everything he's touched-!"
"-Can it, shithead."
"Tch! I'm tired of you doing this."
"Oh?"
"Hiding in that office of yours, then coming down whenever you feel like it to overthrow our Justice! You might as well set these evildoers free! Since you have a high rank in the Constabulary, you use that to overthrow our own warrants because of-."
"And I'm supposed to care?"
"I'm pretty sure I'm speaking for every constabulary in the department, ever since your father passed-."
Click!
Superintendent Beckham pointed her gun at Burnstead's head, it was a golden revolver, and it already had steam leaking from the nose of it.
The crowd of officers paused, sweat ran down their forbears as they saw the look Beckham was giving Burnstead.
Beckham said, "Don't mention his name around me again. I'll splatter your brain juice on the ground and make it form into a rain puddle."
Burnstead responded, "Or what? You gonna shoot me? In front of everyone? You wont be able to cover that one up, nor overthrow it. You abuse your power."
"Get lost. He's mine."
"..Pfft. You can't keep this up forever, Beckham."
"I can and I will. Now get away."
Burnstead backed away as Beckham put her gun away, and he told the other officers, "Let's get outta here."
The officers all started to get in their vehicles, and drive off.
Beckham sighed, "Damn pests. Always in the way."
'A ruthless human, she is. Even though all of them have a hint of ruthlessness in them, this one is fully exploiting it to her fullest potential.' Kazelle thought with a grin.
Kazelle watched, taking off his mask, saying, "Why did you stop our fight?"
"Silence, you."
"Don't think I'm gonna do that. It's punishable to stop a king from his fight."
"A king, huh? That's the first I heard from someone of your kin."
"Kin..you know something then."
"Not safe to talk about it out here, you'll come to my office."
"Commanding me to do anything is punishable by death."
"'Ugh. I can't stop you, because I know how powerful you guys are. I know you were the one who caused that scene at the theatre. But you..saying you're a king, you must have more power than the others, or you just might be lying about your status-."
In the blink of an eye, Kazelle was right in her face with his sharp fingers to her throat, a gust of wind blasted out and shattered windows due to the force of speed.
He smirked, "Lying about my status?"
Beckham kept a straight face, saying, "I know I don't have the power to fight you, even if I merge my body with a red crystal to give me power like the Constabulary and the Vermillion Order, but I'm not scared of anything. But that doesn't mean I wanna die like this. I just wanna set some facts straight, dude."
'A human not scared of me? The king of vampires? Ohoho..she's interesting. Best to keep her around.'
Kazelle said, "Tell me everything you know, and I won't kill you."
"That's why I'm TRYING to get started. And it's not like I know super secret shit, just something your kind might be able to help me with."
"Lead the way."
(Umbral Quarter forest)
Deep within the sylvan embrace of the Umbral Quarter, the clank and clatter of walking machinery disrupted the nocturnal refrain. Constable Gearsley, distinguished by his polished brass armature and keen, led the contingent with methodical precision. He had brown beat hair, blue eyes, wrinkles, and a small mustache. His manner was as sharp as his mind, every step a testament to his unwavering dedication to the law. Beside him trudged the intermediate constable known to all as Bolt, whose youthful vigor was matched only by the exuberance with which his mechanical limbs, adorned with spikes and pistons, propelled him forward. He had short gray hair with red eyes, and scars on his neck.
Bringing up the rear was the youngest of the trio, Constable Ratchet, whose enthusiasm for innovation manifested in a slew of gadgets and gizmos that clattered from his belt. He had a black helmet on his head, red goggles, and a braided beard with a bow at the end of it. His inquisitive nature often led him to dismantle things for the sheer thrill of putting them back together—sometimes better, sometimes just... differently. They were riding with 3 of the members of the Vermillion Order: Aulus, Drusilla, and Cassius.
In their midst, Aulus strode with a swagger typical of his character, the glowing red crystal embedded in his chest peering out like the eye of some arcane sentinel. The crystal's gleam cast a sanguinary hue onto his smug grin, his very aura exuding a certain bravado that insisted upon acknowledgment.
"Aulus," Gearsley said with practiced patience, "try to keep that arrogance in check. It could be our undoing should we be ambushed. The ones above us sanctioned this, meaning we can't fail, we are depended on heavily."
Aulus waved a dismissive hand casually, "Relax, old man—these crystals make us neigh unstoppable. I say let's savor the advantage the blessed fates have seen fit to bestow upon us."
Cassius, ever the spirited one, could barely contain his enthusiasm, his voice a vibrant echo among the trees. "With these powers, we are justice incarnate! To think, such wonders hidden beneath the earth, now ours to wield against the night's vile children!"
Drusilla, her expression carved from stone, kept her focus on the task, her tone clipped and severe. "Do not grow complacent. These vampires are old, cunning. Our newfound strengths are mere tools; without wisdom, they are nothing."
The conversation turned, as it often did on these sojourns, to matters of import discussed among their superiors and during collaborations with the Vermillion Order.
"Our higher-ups are convinced that these crystals are remnants of an ancient civilization, perhaps the very makers of New Babel," Gearsley mused aloud, his voice tinged with reverence. "Indeed, they argue that it may be time to expand beyond our current boundaries."
"Can you imagine?" Ratchet piped up, "A city beyond the Steel Canyons or even airships traveling to the Arcane Isles! Surely, there are more crystals out there!"
Bolt interjected, his voice a modulated timbre that betrayed his measured excitement. "The implications are staggering. The power contained in these crystals could revolutionized our infrastructure; harnessed properly, they might well reshape the world."
"I've heard whisperings," Drusilla added, "that the Syndicate of Steamwrights seeks audience with the council. They propose exploring the Forbidden Expanse. Imagine, if you will, the possibility of territories unseen by any living New Babelian eye for centuries!"
"And with such expansions," Cassius said, a fierce light shining in his eyes, "justice will spread like dawn's rays, casting out shadow wherever it falls."
Aulus thought with a hidden smug grin, 'Fools.'
Aulus strode with a swagger that cut through the tension like a well-honed blade. "Should've cut through Kell's Pass, faster and less...", he quipped, his nonchalant pushiness evident with every word. "All this sneaking about makes us look like we're afraid of our own shadows."
Cassius, bright-eyed and brimming with the idealism of a knight errant, bounded alongside him. "Ah, but Aulus, the woods hold their own majesty! And justice does not fear the path it takes, for it is the destination that kindles its glory!" he proclaimed, his voice a cheerful fortissimo that cracked the silence.
Drusilla, serene-faced and austere, cast an imperious glance at Cassius before responding. "Glory is a distraction; remember our purpose. We seek the foulness that festers in the heart of the village, not the adulation of bards," she reminded, her tone a blade of ice that seemed to quell the mirth around her.
Gearsley raised a hand, halting the party as they neared the edge of the timeworn forest, the village's outline visible through the interlaced boughs. "Enough chatter. Bolt, survey the perimeter. Let us approach with caution."
Bolt nodded and disappeared into the underbrush with a muted whirr, while Ratchet fiddled with a contraption that buzzed and emitted a series of clicking noises. Aulus rolled his eyes, muttering about 'paranoia', though he knew better than to contest Gearsley's orders. Cassius's hand rested on the hilt of his electro-saber, his enthusiasm barely contained.
As they emerged from the woods, the village lay eerily silent, as though the night had swallowed its soul. The constables and their companions arranged themselves in a semicircle, wary and taut with anticipation.
Then, amidst the pregnant silence, a shadow coalesced above the village roofs—a silhouette against the moonlit tapestry of the night sky. It hovered, an omen of malice, its edges blurring reality as it pulsed with an ephemeral dread. There was a malicious vigour in its presence, a silent promise of a looming nightmare.
Cassius's hand gripped his electro-saber tighter, a whisper of excitement in his voice, "The darkness unveils its champion..."
Drusilla's stance hardened, her eyes narrowing, "Ready yourselves..."
Aulus's smirk transformed into a thin line, a rare acknowledgment of the gravity at hand.
Constable Gearsley's voice broke the tension like a hammer on glass, "Prepare for confrontation. Our duty to New Babel beckons us to face whatever this night be..."
The ethereal figure loomed as if sensing their steely resolve, and with the village as its stage, it set for them a chilling tableau, inviting the constables and their allies into a fray that would echo throughout the annals of New Babel. And as the crimson light from their crystals pulsed in sync with their quickening heartbeats, all knew that the precipice of battle was but a breath away.
As the constables and their allies positioned themselves for battle, the silhouette above Veradisia Village descended with an air of haughty disdain. The figure materialized gracefully upon the cobblestone square, his attire a resplendent blend of Victorian Era high fashion and the intricate mechanized designs of steampunk craftsmanship. His coat—onyx-black with accents of deep crimson—fluttered in an unfelt breeze, while his pale, almost luminescent skin gave him an air of ethereal otherness.
His eyes, dark as the void yet alight with a predatory gleam, surveyed them with a somnolent yet menacing mirth. "What have we here? The enforcers of order come to dance with chaos," he purred, his voice a velvety baritone that seemed to creep into their minds. It was a vampire, but he had no face, just a body in a cloak.
The first to react was Cassius, his youthful exuberance instantly igniting. The red crystal shard at his chest flared brilliantly as he charged forth with an electrified zeal, blue arcs of energy dancing around his saber. "For New Babel and the light of justice!" he cried out.
Yet, before his blade could find its mark, the vampire's form blurred. A ghostly afterimage lingered where he stood as Cassius's saber cleaved through empty air. The vampire's mocking laugh echoed through the village as if taunting them from all sides.
Aulus, gathering wisps of shadow with casual swiftness, launched a volley of darkened bolts directly where he sensed the vampire's presence. "Enough games; let's end this quickly," he sneered, confident in his ability to sense and target the vampire.
The vampire, far quicker than any natural creature, spun around the bolts as if waltzing with death itself. He then invoked his own power, and the Constables were suddenly gripped by the mirage of loved ones, their visages twisted into menacing parodies bent on slaughter.
Gearsley stood face to face with his wife, her gentle features now contorted into a grotesque snarl. His heart ached as he fended off her illusions with calculated strikes, each precisely designed to incapacitate rather than harm. He knew she was nowhere near this tainted place, yet he struggled to separate reality from the nightmarish phantoms that assailed him.
Drusilla, her no-nonsense demeanor shaken, faced down her mentor, a man of integrity and her guide through the ranks. Her breath caught in her throat as she sidestepped his relentless thrusts, deflecting with her twin blades that shimmered with a frost-like radiance. "This betrayal is not of your making," she muttered, acutely aware of the illusion yet compelled to defend her life against it.
Bolt, with his steam-powered limbs thundering, grappled with who appeared to be his younger brother. His heart raced wildly as he found himself having to outmaneuver someone he had protected all his life. "This is vile trickery!" Bolt boomed, his compartmentalized mind working feverishly to dismantle the emotional hold of the illusion.
Amid this pandemonium, Ratchet, the youngest, tweaked a dial on his arm-mounted device, which emitted a pulsing sonar wave. Designed to differentiate the spectral from the substantial, the waves rippled through the village square, causing the illusions to flicker. "Focus on the pulse!" he shouted, hoping to grant his companions clarity amidst the cacophony of deceit.
One by one, the Constables and their companions shook free from the vampire's beguilement. They regrouped, eyes ablaze with newfound resolve, only to find the vampire no longer stood among them. His chilling laughter echoed as a distant whisper, his escape a testament to his unmatched speed and cunning.
As the illusionary fog lifted, they found themselves standing in the village square, the menace vanished into the cryptic embrace of night. The battle, it seemed, was far from over, and the hunt for the vampire would continue through darker paths yet uncharted.
Terror gripped Constable Gearsley like icy shackles as the illusion of his wife, Harriet, lunged at him with a jeweled dagger gleaming with insidious intent. His breath caught as he parried with the flat of his blade, careful to redirect rather than injure. "My love, what has he done to you?" Gearsley's voice broke with anguish. This specter wore her smile, her laughter, and her fury. Each parry was a stab to his own heart, knowing full well it was a malevolent shadow's craft.
Bolt was encircled by the image of his younger brother Toby, the laughter they once shared now twisted into a haunting mockery. Toby's fingers, wrought from the same mechanical precision as Bolt's, reached out with a ferocity that was all too real. "You're not my blood, you're a nightmare made flesh!" Bolt roared against the vision, every dodge and weave tearing at his spirit as much as his frame.
Drusilla crossed blades with the wraith of her mentor, each clanging strike echoing her mentor's words: "Discipline", "Precision", "Justice" — now perverted into taunts. Her mentor's specter hurled accusations, "Failure! Disappointment!" With each parry, Drusilla's grimace tightened. "I will not succumb to your lies," she hissed through gritted teeth, fighting the pain that bloomed within her chest. "This isn't real."
Cassius grappled with the most tragic of mirages — his mother, her tenderness now replaced with an uncharacteristic savagery. "Justice serves the truth, and this — this is the vilest of falsehoods!" he protested, struggling not to succumb to a tide of sorrow that threatened to sweep him away. "You taught me what's right, and I'll honor that — even against you, my own illusion!"
Ratchet, naive and untested, faced what he feared the most: not death, but rejection. His father, the man who had forsaken affection for the pursuit of intellect, now wielded that intellect like a weapon aimed at Ratchet's heart. "Invention requires sacrifice," the specter intoned emotionlessly, as cold as the steel from which he seemed to be forged. "I have nothing left to sacrifice but you." Ratchet, anger simmering beneath his fear, retaliated with a wrenching cry, "Then you sacrifice nothing at all!"
Aulus stood his ground as the form of his forsaken lover advanced with deceiving sweetness, her eyes filled with a rancor he knew to be untrue. "I left to spare you from this cursed life, not to return to your blade." he shouted, the shadow's mimicry of her voice rending at the walls he built around his heart. "Get away from me."
'Illusion vampire magic..'
Each encounter was as physical as it was an emotional onslaught, with the vampire's illusion exploiting depths of their vulnerabilities. In this battleground of the mind, the Constables and their compatriots fought not only for survival but for the truth that anchored them to their cause.
The clash of steel and the cries of conflict resonated through the village, a chilling symphony punctuated by the hiss of steam and the crackling hum of energy. Their red crystals pulsed like the heart of the struggle, fueling their abilities and resisting the vampire's manipulations.
As they fought, they slowly began to realize the phantoms bore no wounds, a chilling revelation that provided a cold comfort. With a clarity born of desperation, Gearsley shouted, "Strike true, for they are but shadows! Hold fast to what you know to be real!"
Gearsley, his mechanical mind calculating a myriad of probabilities, summoned his power, transforming the kinetic energy of his parries into explosive blasts. With each careful touch of his wife's blade, he whispered, "Forgive me, Harriet," and released a small shockwave that sent the illusion stumbling back, its form flickering under the assault but quickly regaining shape, relentless in its approach.
Bolt's armor clanked with a heightened fervor as he tapped into his shard's energy, supercharging his limbs and allowing him to counter his 'brother' with even greater speed and force. "I'll dismantle this lie piece by piece if I must!" Bolt thundered as his fists collided with the specter with the might of a pneumatic hammer, rending apparitional flesh and phantom steel alike.
Drusilla's frost-like radiance intensified; her blades became encased in rime as she embraced the icy chill within her. With every graceful lunge and dart, her movements left a trail of frost that sapped the warmth from the ghostly mentor's illusion. "Cold is the heart that betrays," she spat, her breath visible in the icy aura as she drove her mentor back in a flurry of slashes, each leaving frostbitten wounds on the ethereal figure.
Cassius's saber hummed with a brighter azure, lightning crackling more vehemently as emotion turned to focused fury. He danced around his spectral mother, striking not to harm but to jolt the vision away. "Thunder I may command, yet it is the light of truth that will dispel this darkness," he declared, his blade singing with electrical discharges that disrupted the illusion with every close miss.
Veins of red energy crawled up Aulus's arms, encapsulating him in a ghostly armor as he faced off against the distorted image of his beloved. "Our bond was severed by fate, not by betrayal," Aulus cried, thrusting his hand forward to unleash shadowy tendrils that tore through the illusion, seeking to banish the false image and the torment it embodied.
Ratchet, relying not on brute force but on his ingenious contraptions, directed the energy from his shard into his devices. His father's specter loomed close, spouting critiques-turned-curses, as Ratchet activated a concussive blast emitter. "My mind is my own!" he shouted over the roar of the discharge, the emission blasting the illusion into twisting wisps before it could reform.
Amidst the symphony of battle, an unforeseen event unfolded. A muted rumble shook the ground as from beneath the square a hitherto unseen automaton, an ancient protector of the village, awakened by the red crystal's resonance. With a groan of gears and a hiss of steam, it rose to join the fierce ballet, its own crimson eyes flaring as it recognized the invasive phantoms.
Gearsley, sensing an opportunity, leapt onto the back of the automaton, directing its colossal strength. "Two can play at this game," he bellowed, guiding the machine's massive fists to smash at his wife's illusion, the blows echoing like thunderclaps as the phantasmal figure was pounded into less than ephemeral mist.
With the automaton's presence drawing some of the specters' attention, Drusilla's dance became deadlier, her steps deliberate, her strikes leaving a frostbitten path. "No shade can withstand the eternal frost," she whispered, smiting her mentor's shade repeatedly until it was little more than a statue of rimed shadow.
As Aulus grappled with the image of his heartache, he found solace in the machine's indiscriminate assault, its presence a reminder of the tangible world. With a roar of defiance, he channeled his shard's shadow energy to pierce the veil of illusion, splitting the mirage in twain with a blade formed of pure darkness. "Love is my shield, not my undoing!" he bellowed as the two halves of the illusion dissipated into nothingness.
The once serene darkness of the village square now pulsed with crimson light and the clash of wills. Blood, both real and imagined, stained cobblestones and remains of the warring phantasms alike. Each warrior, through heartache and exertion, lent their strength to the cacophony of battle, drawing on the depths of their courage and their red crystal-given powers to banish the vampiric threat—one illusion at a time.
With a ferocious bellow, Gearsley's entire being radiated with the fierce red glow of his crystal's power. Breaking free from the choking tendrils of the illusion, he lunged at the vampire with a steely determination, the air around him shimmering with the force of his familial magic.
"You cannot run forever!" Gearsley declared as his broadsword cleaved through the misty night, aiming for the specter in the impeccable attire who merely tilted his head in amusement.
In an instant, the vampire's form blurred, evading the strike with a speed that defied the laws of nature. Materializing a few paces away, he rested one hand upon his ornate cane, his eyes aglow, the other languidly adjusting his cufflinks. "My dear Constable," he drawled with a smile that did not reach his sable eyes, "you must be out of sorts to think you can land a blow on one of the Penumbrae."
The word hung in the air like a prophecy, and Gearsley's stance hardened. "The Penumbrae," he spat with contempt, "A rare bloodline who betrays your own for moments of daylight. No better than traitors."
The vampire's laughter was soft, swirling around Gearsley like a cloak. "Oh, how little you comprehend. We are beings of balance, walking the edge that you so fear to tread."
Gearsley grounded himself, the red glow intensifying around him. "I walk the path of Justice," he proclaimed amidst the sputtering lamplights and the creeping fog. "Your kind has no place in our world. Vampires are but whispers of nightmares, creatures banished hundreds of years past. We are the bearers of light against darkness, the wielders of law against chaos. My duty is to eradicate evil, and if darkness returns to our realm, so be it. I shall meet it with blade and fire."
The vampire regarded Gearsley, something akin to respect fleeting across his undead visage. "Then indeed, our encounter is one of tragic necessity," he mused, his indifferent mask briefly slipping to reveal a predator's anticipation. "But tell me, Constable of the crimson flame, have you ever questioned what evil truly is? Or why, after centuries of silence, the night stirs once more?"
Gearsley's eyes narrowed. "I question only how to end the plague that rises."
The vampire chuckled, a sound devoid of joy. "The true plague is ignorance, I'm afraid. But speaking of plagues... The Crimson Spire stands silent, yet something... throbs within its walls. The heartbeat of a king long thought dead."
A flash of determination crossed Gearsley's face. "Speak plainly, creature! Do you mean to tell me the vampire king lives?"
The night seemed to gather around the vampire as he backed away, his smile a parting gift laced with malice. "A gut feeling, Constable. Nothing more shall I say on the matter. Those crystals…only my kin is supposed to have access to those. Those Gorron cultists must have supplied you."
"What-?! These crystals were created with alchemy!"
"You saw it yourself? Or you heard it?"
Gearsley thought, 'Aulus told us he found them..'
The faceless vampire punched Gearsley in the chest, and a large hole blasted within his chest, making blood shoot out.
Gearsley darted backwards in the air, crashing through multiple trees, his body breaking over and over, and then he smashed into a rock, his body crushed and bloody. He laid there, and Bolt and Ratchet saw, screaming, "Gearsley!!!"
Gearsley tried to say, "…The crystals…they.."
Aulus stepped in, knowing what Gearsley was going to say, and he interrupted him, "A faceless vampire. Haven't seen that. Guess I'll be the one to eradicate you."
The faceless vampire said, "Two red crystals you've merged with…hehe…it's killing you. Yet, you still use its power."
"Yeah, to kill the likes of you. Regards from somewhere else."
The vampire dashed towards him as a hurricane of blood was behind him, but Aulus, with glowing red crystal armor on his body dashed forward as well.
The blood hurricane blasted at Aulus, but Aulus punched through it, shattering it immediately.
The vampire gasped, "What?! Impossible! Those damn crystals-!"
Aulus punched the faceless vampire in the face, and its head exploded in a pool of blood, killing him instantly.
Gearsley, on his last breath, said to himself, "He killed him..instantly…?"