Kiss of the Vampire "The Void"
Mission 8: The instigator!
The violet void was suffocating now, the air thick with rot and chaos that clawed at their minds. Rolien's vision blurred from blood loss, his prosthetic arm sparking wildly, violet lines flickering like dying embers. Every breath burned, the miasma eating at his spirit energy, making his limbs feel like lead. Kieth's armor was cracked in a dozen places, sparks spitting as he shifted forms just to stay standing. Deyviel—or whatever was wearing his face—stood back, aura building slow and dark, that twisted grin fixed as he watched.
Xexaria and Thokk pressed harder. Xexaria's limbs crashed down in waves of festering sludge, rot spreading faster, trying to overwhelm them with sheer decay. Thokk's chaos swirled in unpredictable bursts, warping space so attacks missed by inches or hit twice as hard.
Rolien staggered under a tentacle strike that grazed his side—pain exploding hot and nauseating, rot burning deep. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright. Come on… I can't fall here. Not now.
Then it hit.
A ping—sharp, insistent, cutting through the pain.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — AWAKENING SEQUENCE INITIATED]
His vision whited out for a heartbeat.
[Spirit Core "Dimension" — Synchronization 100%]
[Angelic Series Fragment: "Key of Dimensional Fracture" — PARTIAL ACTIVATION]
[New Authority Unlocked: Dimensional Anchor (Level 1)]
The change wasn't explosive. It was quiet. Subtle. But Rolien felt it—like the void suddenly had edges he could grip.
Golden lines appeared in his vision—thin scars across space, fractures he could sense, touch, hold.
Not control.
Hold.
Xexaria lunged, rot flooding toward him. Rolien raised his hand—not to attack, but to anchor. A golden line flared between him and her limb. The rot slowed, like it hit an invisible wall. Not stopped—just held, straining against the fracture he controlled.
Thokk's chaos surged next, shadows coiling to unravel him. Rolien shifted his stance, anchoring another line. The chaos bent, twisted, but couldn't fully reach—caught in the dimensional scar like a fly in amber.
It wasn't dominance. It was defense—buying time, holding the line where everything else failed.
Xexaria shrieked, eyes widening. "The Key… he holds us?!"
Thokk's laughter cracked with frustration. "A mortal anchor? Pathetic!"
But they couldn't break through—not yet. Rolien's arms trembled, blood dripping from his nose as the strain built. He wasn't pushing them back. He was stalling them, forcing the gods to fight against the fractures themselves.
Kieth saw it—the opening. "Rolien's got 'em locked! I'm prepping something big—cover me!"
He slammed his belt, energy surging. "Final Form Ride—Superior!"
Light exploded around him. Armor plates unfolded and locked in layers—sleek, metallic red and gold, repulsors glowing on palms and chest. Arc reactors spun to life across his suit, humming with raw power. The helmet sealed with a hiss, visor glowing blue.
Superior Iron Man mode—online.
Kieth hovered, repulsors charging with a rising whine. "Proton Cannon—priming. This is gonna hurt."
Deyviel—or the thing wearing his face—staggered suddenly, eyes flickering black to blue. He clutched his head, dropping to one knee.
Inside the dreamscape—a shattered mirror of the battlefield, snow falling upward, Yamato buried in black ice—Deyviel faced himself.
The real him stood there, eyes fierce but tired, dragon aura dim. Across from him, the evil version grinned, black veins crawling up his neck.
"You feel it," Evil Deyviel said, voice echoing. "They're losing. Rolien's holding, but he can't forever. Kieth's cannon might punch a hole, but not big enough. We need the move."
Real Deyviel glared, fists clenched. "No. Last time you took over, you nearly killed them."
"And if I don't?" Evil Deyviel stepped closer, grin fading to something almost serious. "Xexaria. Thokk. The others clawing at the rift. If we fall here, everything falls. Every world. Every timeline. No resets. No second chances."
Real Deyviel's breath hitched. He saw flashes—friends dying, worlds rotting, the multiverse unraveling thread by thread.
Evil Deyviel extended a hand. "Let me use it. The skill. Our best shot—the only shot—to punch them back into the abyss. Buy time for the others to seal this for good."
Real Deyviel hesitated, fear and rage warring in his chest. "If I let you… will I get control back?"
Evil Deyviel's grin returned, sharp. "That's the fun part. We'll see."
Outside, Deyviel's body straightened. Black veins surged, aura exploding darker. He looked at Rolien and Kieth—holding the gods at bay—and nodded.
"Do it," he said, voice layered again. "But make it count."
Rolien gritted his teeth, anchoring harder—golden lines straining as Xexaria and Thokk pushed back. Kieth's cannon whined higher, proton energy condensing into a blinding core.
The violet void wasn't just empty anymore—it felt like it was breathing down their necks, cold and hungry, every shard of frozen time whispering old regrets in voices that sounded too much like their own. Rolien's boots scraped against nothing as he Blinked short and sharp, violet light trailing him like afterimages. His heart hammered hard enough he could feel it in his throat, fear mixing with that stubborn fire that kept him moving. Xexaria's rot pressed in from one side, thick and suffocating, while Thokk's chaos swirled from the other, unpredictable and sharp, like standing between a slow poison and a sudden storm.
He held them—barely. Golden lines flared in his vision, dimensional scars he could grip, anchor, force to bend just enough to keep their attacks from landing clean. A tentacle from Xexaria whipped toward him; he anchored a line across it, slowing the rot mid-swing so it grazed his shoulder instead of crushing him. Pain bloomed hot and nauseating, the burn spreading like fire under his skin, but he shoved it down, twisting to counter with a Dimension Fist that folded space inward on her limb. She recoiled with a wet shriek, pus spraying, but reformed slower.
Thokk laughed—that fractured, mocking sound—and sent shadows coiling in. Rolien anchored another line, chaos bending around it like water hitting a dam. It held, but the strain hit him hard—blood trickled from his nose, his arms shaking from the effort. It wasn't winning. It was surviving, buying seconds that felt like hours.
Kieth hovered nearby, his new Superior Iron Man suit gleaming red and gold, repulsors charging with a rising whine that cut through the void's hum. "Rolien's got 'em stalled! Keep it up—Proton Cannon's almost ready!"
Evil Deyviel stood back, aura building dark and heavy, that black-veined grin fixed as he watched. Waiting.
But in Thokk's swirling chaos, memories stirred—old, sharp, like knives twisting in wounds that never healed.
He remembered it clear as yesterday, even after eons. The whispers started small, in the quiet between worlds. Death—that rogue shadow, born outside the creator's light, always lurking on the edges like a bad thought you can't shake. Thokk had been the wild one among the twelve, his Fluxara a playground of endless change: rivers shifting paths on whims, skies painting themselves in colors that defied names, creatures evolving mid-dance just because they could. He'd loved it—that electric rush of possibility, the thrill of watching order unravel into something new and beautiful. It made him feel alive, free, like the creator's favorite spark in a too-orderly family.
Death found him during one of those quiet moments, slithering into Fluxara's ever-shifting winds. "Why settle for change when you could command it?" Death's voice was smooth, cold, like frost on glass. "Your father binds you—gives you a world to tend, but not to rule. Look at Elferion."
Elferion. The name burned even now. That ascended mortal, plucked from death and polished into something beautiful—wings of light, eyes like dawn, standing beside the throne as if he'd always belonged. The creator's gaze lingered on him longer, gifts flowing to Earth like water to a favored garden. Thokk tried to laugh it off at first—his way of coping, turning envy into a joke. "Let the pretty boy have his shiny rock. I've got chaos to play with."
But Death whispered deeper, night after night. "He was human. Fragile. Dead. And now he's more loved than you—trueborn, eternal. Why him? Why not us?"
The doubt took root. Thokk felt it twist inside him—that wild joy souring into resentment. Why oversee when he could reshape? Why watch Elferion shine while Fluxara's changes felt like scraps? The nine listened, and Thokk… he joined, not out of pure hate, but a desperate need to feel seen. "If we break the chains," Death promised, "you'll be free. True chaos, unbound."
The revolt came fast. Thokk's power surged in the clashes—unmaking order, twisting realities into knots. But as Verdantia burned, as Xexaria begged them to stop, regret flickered. This chaos… it wasn't creation. It was just breaking.
The climax hit like a storm's heart. The nine turned on the creator himself. Thokk hesitated, that old thrill warring with horror. "Father… why him? Why not us?"
Death whispered in his ear, cold and insistent: "End him. Make him understand our pain. Chaos will set you free."
Thokk struck—his energy unraveling the creator's form, light scattering like dying stars. Regret hit instant and deep, a hollow ache as he watched the one who'd made him shatter. We killed him… for what?
They struck Earth next, but Elferion's shield held. Wounded, they retreated—sealed later in Hell Gates.
Now, facing these mortals echoing Elferion's light, Thokk's chaos boiled with old pain—regret twisted into spite. Death's whispers lingered: Understand our pain? No. Make them feel it.
Back in the void, Thokk's form swirled faster. "Enough games."
He surged, chaos flooding toward Rolien.
Rolien anchored harder, golden lines straining.
Kieth's cannon whined higher.
Evil Deyviel's aura built darker.
The breaking point loomed.
The violet void pulsed like a living wound, every shift sending tremors through the fractured space that clawed at their senses. Rolien's chest heaved, each breath a ragged pull against the rot still burning in his veins. He wiped blood from his lips with the back of his hand, tasting copper and regret, but there was no time to dwell. The anchors he'd set were fading, golden lines flickering like candles in a storm, and he could feel the weight of it all pressing down—friends counting on him, worlds hanging by threads he could barely hold.
Kieth floated nearby, his Superior Iron Man suit dented and humming with strained energy, arc reactors glowing dimmer now. He spat out a curse under his breath, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the void's foul air. "That cannon shot took everything I had. If they hit us again..."
But Evil Deyviel didn't wait for the words. His black-veined form straightened, eyes fully eclipsed in shadow, that twisted grin sharpening into something feral. Inside, the real Deyviel clawed at the edges of his own mind, a storm of fear and fury raging—This is my body, damn you!—but the darker half shoved him deeper, voice echoing like thunder in a cage. "Quiet. We've got one play left, and it's mine."
He raised both hands, palms outward, fingers splayed as if gripping invisible reins. The air around him warped, violet light bending inward, condensing into a crackling core at his chest. "Bypass All," he snarled, the words carrying a weight that made the void itself shudder. It wasn't just power; it was defiance, a hack against reality's code, ignoring limits, shattering rules. Energy surged through him—dragon aura twisted black and vicious—reversing the dimensional rift that had spit these gods into their world.
The rift responded. What had been a tear spewing chaos now inverted, edges curling inward like a mouth closing on prey. A low, grinding roar built, pulling at everything: shards of frozen time, wisps of rot, shadows of flux. Xexaria and Thokk felt it first—a yank at their cores, inexorable, dragging them toward the maw.
Xexaria shrieked, her festering form thrashing in panic. Tentacles lashed out, sludge spraying in desperate arcs, trying to anchor herself to the void's fabric. "No! You dare pull us back?!" Rot flooded the space around her, bubbling and hardening into grotesque barriers, fighting the rift's suction. One tentacle whipped toward Deyviel, fast as a striking snake, aiming to wrap and crush.
Rolien saw it coming. His legs screamed in protest, muscles burning from the strain, but he Blinked—violet flash cutting the distance—and kicked mid-air, prosthetic foot slamming into the tentacle's side. The impact jarred up his spine, pain exploding like fireworks, but he twisted his body, using the momentum to redirect the limb. It veered off course, slamming into a floating shard instead, pus exploding in a harmless spray. He landed hard, staggering, heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and raw fear. Can't let it touch him. Not now.
Thokk wasn't going quietly either. His chaos swirled into a frenzy, shadows coiling and expanding, pushing back against the pull. "You think this ends us, dragon whelp?" He laughed, but it cracked with effort, no longer mocking—just bitter. A burst of unraveling energy shot out, warping space into jagged spikes that hurtled toward Deyviel like living shrapnel.
Kieth moved without thinking, repulsors firing to shove him into the path. "Not on my watch!" He raised his arms, suit plates locking into a defensive shield, energy field humming to life. The first spike hit, cracking against the barrier with a deafening clang—Kieth grunted, feeling the force rattle his bones, suit alarms blaring overload warnings. Another grazed his shoulder, tearing a gash in the armor, hot sparks flying as he twisted away. He fired back a repulsor blast, not to hit but to deflect, buying seconds. Sweat stung his eyes under the helmet; this wasn't just a fight anymore—it was desperation, every block a reminder of how close they were to losing everything.
Evil Deyviel didn't flinch. His focus narrowed, black veins pulsing as he poured more into the reversal. The rift widened its inverted pull, a vortex now, sucking in debris and light. Xexaria's barriers cracked under the strain, chunks of hardened rot crumbling away as she clawed forward, inch by agonizing inch. Thokk's spikes faltered, his form starting to fray at the edges, chaos bleeding into the void like ink in water.
But they fought harder. Xexaria summoned a wave of decay, rolling toward Deyviel in a last-ditch flood. Rolien intercepted again, anchoring a quick golden line to slow it, then kicked through the sludge—foot sinking into the mess, burning like acid on his skin—but he powered through, scattering it enough to weaken the tide.
Thokk twisted, sending a chaos loop that looped around Kieth's guard, aiming for Deyviel's back. Kieth spun, taking the hit square on his chest plate—armor buckling, breath knocked out in a whoosh—but he held, firing a point-blank proton burst to shatter the loop.
Deyviel's hands trembled, aura flaring brighter. "Almost... there." The rift roared louder, pulling the gods inexorably closer. Xexaria's shrieks turned to pleas, Thokk's laughter to growls. One final surge—and they slipped over the edge, forms compressing, sealing away into the abyss beyond.
The void went still. Deyviel dropped to his knees, black veins receding, the real him surfacing with a gasp. Rolien and Kieth collapsed nearby, breathing hard, the weight of survival crashing down like a wave. But that deeper shadow lingered, watching, waiting for its turn.
The rift yawned wider now, a hungry black throat rimmed in violet fire, dragging everything toward it with a low, relentless growl that vibrated in their bones. Xexaria and Thokk clung to the edge like drowning things, half their forms already swallowed. Xexaria's tentacles dug deep into the void's fraying fabric, pus hardening into desperate claws that scraped and tore. Thokk's chaos spun wild counter-currents, shadows whipping into knots to anchor him, his fractured laughter turning into raw, animal snarls.
They weren't going quietly. Not even close.
Rolien floated closest to the mouth, blood still drifting from his nose in lazy crimson beads. His prosthetic arm hung heavy, circuits flickering, but the golden fractures in his vision burned steady. He met Kieth's eyes first—through that glowing blue visor—then Evil Deyviel's pitch-black ones. No words. Just a nod, sharp and tired, the kind that says we've come too far to back out now.
Kieth's repulsors flared brighter, suit groaning as he rerouted every last scrap of power. Rolien felt the shift in his core, that quiet click of spirit energy aligning. Deyviel's aura condensed, black dragon fire licking along Yamato's edge until the blade hummed like a tuning fork.
They moved together.
Rolien inhaled, the void's cold burning his lungs, and Blinked forward—one short, brutal flash that put him right at the rift's lip. He drew his sword in a reverse grip, golden lines surging along the blade until it glowed like dawn breaking through storm clouds. "Equinox Final Slash," he whispered, voice raw.
He spun once, prosthetic foot planting against nothing, and slashed downward in a wide, sweeping arc. The cut didn't just slice space—it balanced it. Light and shadow braided along the edge, a perfect equilibrium that severed Xexaria's anchoring tentacles clean at the base. Pus erupted in a geyser, but the rot couldn't reform fast enough. She shrieked, sliding backward, claws scrabbling for purchase that wasn't there.
Kieth was already moving. He rocketed in low and fast, shoulder-checking a chaos spike aside with a grunt that echoed through his comms. Both arms locked forward, palms glowing white-hot as the chest reactor spun up to dangerous redline. Armor plates along his forearms unfolded into massive barrel extensions—Hulkbuster config slamming into place with heavy metallic clanks.
"Superior Hulkbuster Proton Cannon—full yield!"
The charge built in a rising scream, energy condensing into a sphere so bright it hurt to look at. He braced, boots locking mag-clamps against a drifting shard, and fired. The beam wasn't clean or elegant—it was a brutal, roaring column of gold-white destruction that punched straight into Thokk's swirling core. Chaos exploded outward in ragged sheets, the god's form compressing under the pressure, shadows peeling away like burning paper.
Thokk howled, twisting to throw one last desperate lance of unraveling energy. It grazed Kieth's side, tearing a molten furrow across the red-gold plates. Kieth's HUD flashed critical, pain lancing through his ribs, but he held the beam steady, teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.
Evil Deyviel came last, silent and terrifying. He stepped forward—no Blink, no flight—just walked across the void like it owed him passage. Yamato rose high overhead, black veins racing up his arms until they met the dragon aura coiling around the blade. Inside, the real Deyviel felt every heartbeat like a war drum, terror and fury braided tight: If this doesn't work, we're all gone.
"Final Slash: Abyss Rend."
He brought the sword down in one clean, merciless stroke. No flash, no roar—just a perfect vertical line of absolute black that carved reality itself. The cut raced forward, silent, and met the struggling gods head-on. It severed Thokk's last anchor, sliced through Xexaria's remaining limbs like they were smoke.
The three attacks converged at the exact same moment—Equinox light, proton fire, abyssal dark—slamming into the gods like a tri-hammer blow.
Xexaria's scream cut off as she tumbled backward into the rift, rot trailing behind her like a comet's tail. Thokk followed a heartbeat later, chaos unraveling into silent threads that vanished into the dark.
The rift snapped shut with a sound like the universe exhaling.
Silence rushed in, heavy and sudden.
Rolien drifted, sword arm dropping, exhaustion crashing over him in waves. Kieth's suit powered down with a weary whine, armor plates smoking. Deyviel stood still, black veins slowly receding, Yamato's edge dimming as the real him clawed his way back to the surface.
They looked at each other across the empty violet—three battered figures floating in the aftermath, breathing hard, alive.
For now.
But somewhere deeper, in the sealed dark, something ancient stirred and smiled. The instigator was still waiting.
To be continued