The arrow of blood is only an inch away from taking me out.
Instead, I move, letting it pierce my bicep. I fall to the ground intentionally to get out of the way of the vampyr.
Pain.
This body can't hold back the pain like the other one can. I grit my teeth as I come back up to standing.
This vampyr could be handled by this body, only if it were fresh, without a single wound. I look upon the body of the vampyr, trying to find the mark of its owner.
I find the single red horn I was looking for with ease. It's one of Diablo's own, but undoubtedly, it's not ranked. Otherwise, its very presence would have caused the humans to pass out.
It's a handsome vampyr, created most likely in the 1900s, as it wears an Italian-made suit. I get into a fighting stance. My sword rests upon my right shoulder with my left foot forward and my weight on my right.
The vampyr grins, showing off teeth with golden grills.
"Are you the fella who killed four of us already?"
I nod. Any time I can get is on my side. I need someone else, anyone else, to get here. Not only that, I need time to restructure my biceps and send my energy into the blade.
"Good. I'll cut to the chase, kid. You've got potential... Join us as we make the world ours."
"Why? Do you think you'll beat me?"
"Yes. I know I will. If you can take down four of us, imagine what you could do with regeneration and blood manipulation. You'd be a threat! I can imagine!"
I grit my teeth and grin. I've finished doing what's needed.
"Continue imagining you mosquito."
A smile creeps onto its face, and it gets into a fighting stance. I wait; it needs to make the first move.
It does so, moving towards me and with its fist readied. My eyes adjust to its movement with unexpected ease. My sixth sense almost returns in completion, and I watch the fist's path.
I push my calves to move me in an instant. In a swift movement, I cut the hand off at the wrist and move to the head.
It blocks it.
I jump back.
It pursues.
I am about to use another technique when I feel my heart give out. This body can't handle it, I knew it. Yet I pushed it further, hoping for a little bit more.
Blood drips out from my mouth, but I keep moving, dodging its incoming attacks.
My experience in using my Energy allows me to form a heart-adjacent organ in an instant. Yet it's not enough, my soul is overwhelming the body.
I keep moving.
Then my vision goes black.
I hear my voice say, "Fuck!"
I feel the wind blow past me, and I smell orchids. I feel the ground under me and know that the body has fallen.
That smell, though, I know it.
If the wind is what I think it is. I have been saved after all.
The vampyr speaks with clear confusion in its voice, "Who in the seven hells are you?"
A voice replies. I grin, it's smooth, soft, and delicate.
"I am Michael, the Battle Angel, and First Guard of the King of the Angels."
I feel the wind of power being projected, and I know now. That is no fraud.
I pump energy into my eyes, seeing when I am not supposed to. It burns, but it's a comfort to see him.
I hear the girl who was talking about the mall say, "That's the guy I was talking about."
It may well have been, for I do not know when Michael began to trail me. Michael has white hair still, and his eyes look down upon the ground with mirth. Before he opens his mouth, I know what he is going to say.
"My King, it seems you've lost your touch. Perhaps you should retire."
I scoff and begin to get back up. I move backwards toward the circle of people who've surrounded the fight.
I reply, "My body?"
He nods upwards towards the moon. A woman is rapidly approaching with a wooden casket, and from the massive spiked ball, I know who it is.
She lands with ease, carrying a casket that is easily a thousand pounds, and drops it next to me. She's as beautiful as ever, with ginger hair flowing behind her and blue eyes distant. Her skin matches the pale light of the moon, and I remember what an amazing creation she is. Lucia of the Half Moon, the only current half-vampyr in existence.
"Hello there, danger man."
I grin, and before walking towards the casket, I kiss Lucia's hand. A smile spreads across her face.
I reply, "Can you two handle the rest?"
Simultaneously, they reply, "Of course."
Then Lucia is gone, flashing away so fast that even my eyes cannot see her.
I watch for a moment as the vampyr's confusion turns into annoyance. His handsome face twists and blasts towards Michael. I grin as Michael cuts him into bite-sized pieces. The man has lost none of his touch.
I open the casket and staring at me is my lifeless body. I know its exact measurements, as I crafted it. Before my birth, my spirit had been so strong that I shaped my body.
That body stands at 6 feet 1, its muscular density is unmatched. It's an attractive face, not on purpose, but it has only helped. I built its brain, handcrafting it around my soul. A brain that sees opportunity where there is none.
Every aspect, down to the number of days it can go without eating, was crafted by my soul. I was not the first person ever to do so. Far from it, most angels are capable, but none do what I did.
I built it for both the battlefield and the arts.
Realizing I've been staring at the casket, I begin the Soul Transfer Technique.
Darkness consumes my vision. Then, before me, I see my soul.
A rainbow of colors, however, it primarily consists of purple and red. I watch it burn with the brightness of a star. Undimmed and unrestrained, it is beautiful.
However, it is restrained, restrained by this body. So I grab the chains around it and yank them off. I watch as it leaves, knocking me unconscious.
***
The world is bright in my eyes.
The world is full of smells. Sweetness, blood, sweat, and the smell of dust.
The world is full of sounds. The shuffle of nervous feet, the almost absent breath of my friend, Michael.
The world is full of tastes. The dry air and dust.
The world is full of feeling. I am stuck in a casket.
Memories come rushing back into my head. The soul transfer was completed with ease. I begin to see things from the last body's childhood. My own childhood flashes in my mind. My teenage years, my years fighting in the stars. I remember the first day I met the Archangel Michael.
I remember the first Battle of Angels. I remember the blood I spilled all for a better world. That blood had been necessary, but the Second? That had not been necessary. The Third, that too had been unnecessary. Yet they had forged my kingship and my reputation of an Iron Will.
Then I remember coming to the planet which I had been fighting in the Stars to protect. All to find no one remembered the power. No one remembered the gods they'd worshipped. So I wanted to know it myself, I came down and found myself a vacant body.
From there, I arrive at the face of Michael standing over me with a look of annoyance on his face.
"Are you going to rest all day, My King?"
I move, and my body obeys. I stretch my fingers and arms before getting up and out of the casket. I look upon my other body with pity.
I reply to Michael, "And if I did, Michael?"
"I'd prefer you find a more comfortable place to sleep then."
I grin, and it feels normal.
The soul is at rest, and the mind is at peace. This is my body, and so I know that the wings must eventually unfurl. I cannot let that happen, as it would fry the minds of humans.
Michael says, "You will need armor, My King."
Indeed, he is right. So I feel for it, reaching toward my soul, and I find it. My eyes open to the stars. Twinkling thousands of light-years away.
A wooden closet zooms towards me, and I reach out. It opens, and my vision begins to stretch along with the closet. I can see all the weapons I've ever wielded. However, there is only one weapon that none can surpass me with.
I reach out, and the shelves within the closet adjust. They move, showing me thousands of weapons from different bouts. Then it stops. In front of me is the greatest piece of weaponry I've ever crafted.
A glaive. It's a simple design, a single white gold guard in the shape of six wings adorns it. It's the only thing special on the entire blade, except for the very blade itself. A blade forged by the very thoughts of humanity, the subconscious belief in weaponry. It can cut through anything I can imagine, including the very belief that made it exist.
I grab the wood shaft and, moving to a lower shelf, I grab my armor. It's styled in the late Roman fashion. However, it's white gold, adorned with holes for my wings and wing designs. However, there is one eye in the middle of it.
The last thing to find is my helmet. The shelves once again shift, this time a single helmet shines. Steel and white gold, it stands out amongst the drab other helmets.
Not only that, but it is in the shape of a six-winged angel. The first King of the Angels, Yahweh, wore it upon his head. That is, before Michael and Luci slew his army and took his head after we rebelled against him. Now the helmet is mine, and until I die, it is mine.
Once it is upon my head, the closet closes and disappears amongst the stars.
Within an instant, I return to the intersection. I fasten the armor to myself and remember that I have a golden tongue. I keep it sheathed, knowing that the right time is yet to come.
Michael says, "I can sense their bloodlust; there's a lot more coming."
Yes, this is the time. This is the moment where I unsheathe my tongue.
I say, "Good, summon the angels."