Kiss of the vampire "the Girl with the Sharp sword" volume 2
Mission 18 : When the world trembles!
Three coffins stood apart from the others.
Smaller ones for the kids. A simple pine box for the old man.
And beside them, wrapped in soft white cloth and placed in a small, flower-lined basket—
Momo.
No medals. No flags. No final rites read over her body.
Just the weight of love.
And loss.
---
Some flowers had been left gently near her—picked by Maya before dawn. Wild ones. The kind Momo liked to nap beside in the garden.
A single silver bell rested near her head.
It didn't ring anymore.
---
A small crowd had gathered. Just enough to feel the emptiness.
A few hunters stood respectfully nearby—quiet, hands folded, unsure how to look at the graves without their guts twisting. These weren't just mission casualties. These were family.
General McDougal stood at the side, back straight, hat pressed to his chest. But his sharp expression couldn't hide the pain behind his eyes.
He kept glancing at Deyviel.
Expecting something.
A breakdown. A prayer. A scream.
But he didn't move.
Didn't cry.
Didn't speak.
He stood behind the four graves, a silent shadow in black, rain drying on his shoulders but not soaking in. His expression was blank. Distant. Like the boy inside him had gone into hiding—and only the shell remained.
---
Maya knelt first.
She touched the edge of Touru's coffin, tracing the grain of the wood with trembling fingers.
> "He was gonna grow up a menace," she murmured.
Her voice cracked—just enough to sting.
> "Said he wanted to build a robot cat for Momo. 'Cause real ones die too easy…"
Her throat tightened.
> "I told him that was stupid."
A weak, bitter laugh.
> "Now I wish I let him try."
She turned to Lina's casket. On top of it, someone had laid her favorite ribbon. Faded red. Still tied in a bow.
Maya reached out and placed a soft kiss on the wood.
> "I'll never forget her laugh."
Then finally, she looked at Momo.
And for a second—she broke.
Her shoulders shook once. Just once.
> "She used to curl on my chest when I had nightmares."
Her voice barely carried.
> "Now she's the nightmare I can't wake from."
---
Behind her, Deyviel took a slow, soundless breath.
He stepped forward, each footfall deliberate.
The silence around him deepened. Even the wind felt like it held back.
No one stopped him.
No one spoke.
He approached the graves and knelt—gently—before his father's casket. Then the next. Then the next. His eyes landed last on Momo's small basket.
He reached into his coat, pulled out her collar, still damp from the rain and stained with ash.
He placed it beside her gently, with both hands.
---
> "She waited at the door every night," he said softly, voice rough from disuse. "Even when I came home late. Even when I didn't deserve her."
He paused.
> "I told her I'd take her out for fried fish next week…"
His voice trailed off.
He blinked—and tears finally welled up.
Not from his eyes.
But from somewhere deeper.
The kind of grief that leaks through skin without warning.
---
McDougal stepped forward. Careful. Controlled.
> "Deyviel… I know words are useless now. But they died with love around them. That's more than most get."
Still nothing.
Just silence.
Until—
> "They were supposed to be safe."
Deyviel said it like a confession.
Or a curse.
> "That's why I built this place. Why I fought so hard to come back."
> "And now… there's no one left to come back to."
---
The clouds above finally let go.
Rain began to fall again—light, steady, cold.
It fell on the graves. On the wildflowers. On Momo's still body.
And on Deyviel's hands, still trembling, resting over the earth.
---
As the others began to retreat, shovels in hand, Maya stayed. Deyviel stayed.
They helped bury them all.
Three graves.
And one for Momo.
No fanfare.
No anthem.
Just earth over memory.
And a world too quiet.
---
Hours later, when the others were gone, Deyviel was still there.
Kneeling between the four markers.
He placed the dented chocolate pudding beside Touru's grave.
A folded drawing at Lina's.
His father's broken watch—still cracked, still ticking—on the old man's.
And for Momo—
Just a finger tracing the edge of her bell.
> "I'm sorry," he whispered.
> "For being too slow."
> "For thinking I could protect you all."
> "For not dying in your place."
His voice cracked again.
> "I'll never… come home again. Not really."
He stood at last.
Face blank. Eyes dry.
And walked away from the graves.
But he left everything behind.
---
Because this was no longer a place of comfort.
It was a graveyard of what made him human.
And Deyviel—
He was walking toward something colder.
Something the world wasn't ready for.
The rain followed him.
Not harsh, but steady. The kind of rain that seeps into bones and makes silence louder.
Deyviel didn't notice.
Didn't feel the mud splashing under his boots. Didn't flinch when thunder cracked in the far distance. His coat was heavy with water. His sword dragged slightly behind him, the tip scratching the path like a ghost trailing behind a dying man.
Denver's house wasn't far.
It sat on the hill above the eastern cliffs—modest, solid, worn from time but still standing. The windows were lit with faint orange glow. Someone had left a light on for him.
He didn't knock.
Just walked in.
The door creaked open with a slow groan, and the warmth inside brushed against his cold skin—but it didn't reach through.
Denver stepped into the hallway as the door shut behind him.
He didn't speak.
Just looked at Deyviel's face—blank, unreadable, pale from exhaustion—and gave a quiet nod.
> "Room's ready."
---
The guest room was small.
Bare walls. A bed with an old, checkered blanket. A wooden dresser with a cracked mirror. Everything smelled like cedar and soap.
But to Deyviel, it was quiet.
And it wasn't on fire.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
And stared.
The floor creaked once outside the door. Denver, lingering.
> "I can get you something. Food. Coffee. Hell, even bourbon."
No reply.
Denver rubbed the back of his neck, voice softer now.
> "I… I'm sorry about your place. Your family."
Still nothing.
> "They were good. They didn't deserve that."
Nothing.
Not even a breath.
> "If you need anything—"
> "I need the world to give them back," Deyviel muttered, voice hoarse.
Denver swallowed.
> "Yeah. Me too."
He didn't push further. Just left a towel by the door and closed it gently.
Deyviel sat there long after the light under the door vanished.
---
That night, he didn't sleep.
The blanket stayed folded. The bed remained untouched.
He sat on the floor beside the window, staring out at the rain-streaked glass.
In his lap, Momo's old collar.
Around him, silence.
Within him, noise.
Noise that sounded like fire. Screams. The squeak of Lina's laugh. Touru's heavy backpack. The old man's wheezing laugh while burning rice. Momo's soft purr against his chest.
He curled forward.
Pressed his head against the cold wall.
His lips moved—
> "I'm sorry."
But no one answered.
Two weeks
That's how long the world stood still for him.
While others picked up the broken glass and moved forward—Deyviel remained frozen.
He barely spoke. Slept when exhaustion forced him. Ate because Denver left food by the door and wouldn't stop unless he did. The old couch in the living room had become his bed. His armor sat untouched in the corner, still stained with soot and dried blood.
The house was quiet.
And Deyviel… was quieter.
Until the call came.
---
It arrived just past midnight.
Denver had just finished sharpening his twin knives when the alert buzzed in on the encrypted channel. His fingers paused. His expression darkened. Then he tapped into the call.
A shaky voice spoke on the other end—a Black Order agent, breathless.
> "We've confirmed it. One of the Hell Gates… just opened. Europe. London. Coordinates already transmitted."
> "The Guardian's already manifesting. We've got less than 48 hours before it stabilizes and pours out who-knows-what."
> "And the worst part?"
> "It's holding a Primordial Weapon."
> "Get everyone. Tell the Hunters. We're going to war."
---
The next morning, the Hunter HQ was in motion.
War rooms buzzed with movement—maps, projections, old records on Gate fluctuations, Guardian patterns. Dozens of squad leaders were being briefed. Reinforcements were already being airlifted across Europe.
But in the middle of it all—
Deyviel didn't show up.
No one blamed him.
Not really.
---
Denver stood at the porch of his own home, arms crossed, watching Deyviel from behind the screen door. The younger man sat on the same spot he had for days—blanketed in gray morning light, eyes heavy, Momo's bell still in his hand.
Maya was there too.
She'd come earlier, a mission brief tucked under her arm.
But when she saw him—really saw him—her breath faltered.
She couldn't say a word.
She just handed the folder to Denver and walked away.
Because no speech could reach someone whose grief had no bottom.
---
Denver approached. Quiet. Casual. Like he didn't want to wake a sleeping animal.
> "Got news."
He dropped the folder beside Deyviel's foot. A faded map of central London peeked out. Marked red—like it had been bleeding.
> "Hell Gate opened up two days ago. Agents already confirmed. It's one of the old ones."
> "There's a Guardian protecting it. Big. Ancient. Holding something old."
> "Another Primordial Weapon."
No reaction.
Denver inhaled slowly. Then crouched beside him.
> "They're mobilizing full squads. Whole divisions. I'm going. Maya too. Everyone who's left."
> "But…"
He waited.
Let it settle.
> "McDougal said you don't have to go."
That made Deyviel blink—for the first time all morning.
> "He said… he gets it. You've done enough. No one's gonna question it."
Still no reply.
> "But if you want to come…"
> "There'll be a spot for you."
> "Just say the word."
He stood up.
Left the folder.
Left Deyviel with the choice.
No pressure.
Just pain.
---
Inside, after Denver was gone, Deyviel opened the folder.
His eyes scanned the photos.
The satellite shots of the glowing fissure in London's soil.
The energy readings—off the charts.
And at the bottom of the folder—
A sketched silhouette of the Guardian.
Massive. Twisted. Clad in bone and glass. Wings made of fractured mirrors. And in its hand…
A sword made from night itself.
His fingers brushed the paper.
And for a moment—just a flicker—his heart stirred.
Something inside still wanted to fight.
Meanwhile at the evangelist HQ
Far beneath the Vatican—
In a sanctum carved of obsidian and blessed bones, the Pope stood at the center of the Evangelist's war chamber.
He smiled as his disciples knelt before him—hooded, pale-eyed, marked with divine brands on their necks and arms.
> "So… Lancer moves for the Gate."
> "Predictable."
He turned toward the crimson map etched into the stone wall behind him.
London's gate glowed faintly—surrounded by sketches of Guardian sigils, divine wards, and old prophecy runes.
> "Another Primordial Weapon. Another path to Ascension."
> "And he thinks it belongs to him."
> "But no…"
> "That blade belongs to me."
He raised his hand.
A bell chimed in the distance—low, metallic, holy.
> "Mobilize our Saints."
> "Send in the Apostles."
> "Tell them…"
He turned, eyes burning.
> "Make the battlefield bleed."
Few hours later.
POV: Denver
The wind in London was different.
Sharper. Wetter. Carried the scent of iron and ash like the earth itself was bleeding beneath their boots.
They moved in silence, cloaked under night and orders.
Denver stood near the front of the Black Order's forward deployment line, one hand on his sword, the other adjusting the comms feed in his ear. The hum of helicopters above. The rumble of transport trucks behind. Rain pelting against metal.
And Deyviel... wasn't here.
He didn't need to be.
McDougal made that clear.
Still—Denver kept glancing back. Like some stubborn part of him still believed the bastard would come walking in, soaked in rain, coat dragging behind him, sword slung low with that dead-eyed look he'd been carrying since the fire.
But he didn't.
Not yet.
---
The Hunters' combined force moved into position just outside the city ruins—charred buildings, twisted metal, and a pulsating black spire that marked the forming Hell Gate.
The squads fanned out.
Every surviving Captain was here.
What was left of their finest.
Golden Eagle moved first.
> Captain John Cooper led them with that ever-gritty smile—part Texan confidence, part soldier steel. His gold-tinted armor gleamed under the mist. Beside him, Vice Captain Eric James Harper adjusted his revolver blades, one for each hand.
They were urban warfare kings.
Precision. Speed. Fire discipline.
> "Let's not dance around, boys," Cooper said with a slow drawl. "Shoot first, pray later."
---
Then came the Blue Fangs.
Tactical recon elites. Operatives with blades like shadows.
> Captain Brixton Marco gave the nod. His cloak billowed behind him. His voice was always low, clipped, efficient.
> "Mark the alleyways. Loop around the northwest—gate flank position. Eyes on sigil flare."
And at his right?
> Seowon Lee.
She looked like she'd barely finished high school—round cheeks, soft voice, always smiling at the wrong times.
But when she moved?
It was like watching death do ballet.
> "I'm gonna kill at least twenty today," she whispered to no one in particular. "Then treat myself to a boba."
---
The Thunderbird Unit took the south end.
> Captain Alexis Delo Santos wiped her goggles clean, jaw tight, black ponytail swinging as she barked orders.
> "Charge packs ready! We breach on my signal!"
Her vice, Jake Miller, shouldered his lightning-imbued hammer and muttered with his usual sarcasm.
> "Didn't think I'd die next to you psychos."
> "Shut up and keep breathing," Alexis shot back.
---
Near the middle formation—
The last surviving member of the Falling Sword, Captain Chloe Natalie Udovenco, stood alone.
She wore black armor, silent as always. Her blade remained sheathed—but the grief in her eyes was louder than any sword clash.
Her entire squad was wiped out by Lancer.
She only spoke once today.
> "I didn't come to survive. I came to repay them."
And no one argued.
---
Then the Dark Void squad.
Black robes, skin-tight armor, body tattoos pulsing like fireflies under skin.
> Captain Ron Ji-Wu looked like someone carved symbols into stone and gave it life. His ink stretched across his neck, arms, face—serpents, tigers, sigils—and every one of them moved when he raised his fists.
> "Do not step into my shadow."
His vice, Zedric Lee, stood back-to-back with him, eyes hidden behind tinted lenses, dual blades at his hips, chewing gum like a man too bored to die.
---
And finally—
Black Dragons.
Or what was left of them.
No captain. Not after the Sky Massacre.
Just two dangerous bastards running on fire and instinct.
> Vice Blake Baker stepped off the truck, dragging a blunt, blackened sword across the ground. His face almost identical to Vincent—except rougher. Tired. Too many sleepless nights and blood-stained dawns.
A massive dragon tattoo coiled around his arm—glowing faintly with crimson veins.
> "Let's just get this over with."
And then...
> Wo Raflaga.
The man of five countries, ten accents, and one volume: loud.
Half his phrases were Cebuano, half English, and all of them had no idea what dialect they should be in.
> "Hoy, oy, pre! Kinsa nagbutang og Hell Gate diri, huh?! The frickin' Londonyo demons? Mga way batasan!"
Blake gave him a look.
> "You're mixing five languages again."
> "Is okay, pre. As long as the demons understand me... before I murder them."
---
Denver smiled briefly, watching them all take position.
> "Still a bunch of freaks," he muttered.
Then his smile faded.
Because one of them was missing.
---
He turned to Maya, who was standing just behind the formation—face half-hidden under her hood, arms crossed, knuckles white.
She saw the look in his eyes before he spoke.
She shook her head once.
> "I couldn't."
Denver sighed, hand on his blade.
> "Then I guess we go without him."
> "Again."
---
Far ahead, beyond the collapsed buildings and mutated trees...
The Hell Gate pulsed.
And beneath it...
Something ancient stirred.
---
Cut to: The Other Side of the Battlefield
The Evangelist army marched.
Under twisted banners of divine flame and bone, their footfalls echoed across the ruined streets. The Pope sat atop a throne-shaped carriage pulled by beasts stitched together from angels and devils.
At his side marched his Twelve Apostles.
And behind them?
The converted children of Elysia.
The "pure."
The fanatics.
Their eyes glowed with unnatural grace.
Their voices sang hymns that made even spirits choke.
> "He shall rise from the sword of ruin..."
> "And only blood shall pave the road to the Garden."
The Pope's lips curled.
He looked to the west—toward the approaching Hunters.
And toward Lancer, somewhere hidden behind the walls of London, ready to claim the Primordial Weapon for himself.
> "Let them come," he whispered.
> "Let them all tear each other apart."
> "And when they fall—"
He smiled like a god wearing human skin.
> "I will be the only one left standing."
London – 6:31 AM
The city woke to sirens.
News drones hovered in the sky.
And on every screen: one image.
A Hell Gate.
A gaping, jagged maw of black and crimson light, pulsing like a heartbeat in the heart of London. Stretching between shattered skyscrapers and swallowing clouds above it. Buildings cracked. Lights flickered. Birds stopped flying.
The streets below?
Panic.
Families fleeing. Traffic snarled. Phones ringing in every pocket. Police officers in riot vests formed shaky barricades, their guns trembling in hands trained for men—not monsters.
> "Clear the roads!"
"Keep the civilians away from the red zone!"
"Don't look directly at the Gate—move!"
Children cried. Mothers screamed.
And still the Gate pulsed.
---
8:04 AM – Hunter Arrival
They came in waves.
Black Order transports. Hovercrafts. Jump jets.
Trucks marked with sigils and UN-military clearance rolled in through the side streets, their tires hissing on rain-slick pavement.
Squads disembarked fast.
Golden Eagle took point, locking down the east quarter.
Blue Fangs vanished into the high-rises for overwatch.
Thunderbird Unit reinforced the police barricades.
Black Knights, Dark Void, and the Dragons—took central flanks.
Each wore their division colors.
Each bore the weight of the last stand.
---
General McDougal exited the command vehicle with his usual stone face.
Cigarette tucked behind one ear.
His coat fluttered behind him as he strode forward.
From across the ruined plaza, the British Military General approached.
> "General MacArthur. Commander of the 3rd European Division."
McDougal nodded.
> "McDougal. Black Order."
No salutes. Just a firm handshake.
> "Let's cut the ceremony," MacArthur said. "My boys will keep the civilians back and protect the Prime Minister's bunker."
> "Good. We'll handle the freak show."
They entered a massive field tent that had been quickly set up nearby—now swarming with analysts, mage-scientists, soldiers, and spellcasters from both the Order and NATO.
A digital projection of the Hell Gate glowed in the center.
> "We believe the Guardian hasn't fully formed yet," one of the Black Order tacticians explained. "Once it completes its core state, we've got one shot to sever it from the inside."
> "And if we fail?" asked one of the European officers.
McDougal lit the cigarette without looking up.
> "Then London becomes Hell's capital."
---
The briefing continued.
Nerves tightened.
Maps were drawn. Entry points assigned.
Then—
The tent entrance flared with divine light.
All guns turned.
And in stepped a man in full silver-white armor. A long white cloak dragged behind him. His chest bore a cross sigil carved in gold.
> "We are not here as enemies."
His voice echoed like it belonged to an old cathedral.
Eyes bright with unnatural calm.
> "I am Sir Aldrich, Holy Knight of the First Circle. On behalf of the Holy Pope—we offer our strength."
McDougal narrowed his eyes.
> "Last time you offered help, seven of my squads went missing."
> "That was a miscommunication. This time…" he glanced at the Gate. "We face extinction. The Guardian must not be allowed to awaken. For the people's sake, we will fight."
Behind him, Paladins and Saints stepped into formation—each glowing faintly, their weapons imbued with light. Apostles knelt and whispered prayers to no god anyone in the tent trusted.
Tension filled the air.
But McDougal didn't argue.
He just nodded once.
> "Then gear up."
---
8:49 AM – The Ground Shook
It started with a low rumble.
Chairs rattled. Coffee spilled. Birds vanished.
Then—
The Hell Gate pulsed.
Like a heart.
A wave of pressure burst out from the chasm, cracking nearby buildings, shattering glass, and throwing entire trucks off their wheels.
Everyone outside turned.
A massive, glowing circle of runes now hovered above the Gate—spinning faster and faster, its edges tearing holes in the sky.
Then—
A scream.
Not human.
Not beast.
Something older than both.
---
High above, on the skeletal rooftops of London's skyline—
Lancer's forces gathered.
Shadowy figures. Eyes burning. Fangs glinting beneath crimson hoods.
The Progenitor of Despair stood at the highest ledge, arms crossed behind his back, watching the Gate open like it was a curtain rising on his stage.
> "Let the curtain fall," he murmured.
> "And let the world see what godless truly means."
---
Cut to: Denver's House – Philippines – 6:00 PM
The camera pans across a quiet, dimly lit living room.
A couch.
The familiar dent where Deyviel used to sit.
But the space is empty.
His armor—once leaning against the wall—is gone.
His sword, his coat, his boots…
Gone.
The only thing left?
An open window.
Curtains flutter in the warm evening breeze.
And as the wind blows through, carrying the smell of rain and ash—
We hear a faint, distant bell.
To be continued..