The Vampire

Amidst a throne room bathed in crimson, a woman sat slumped against the base of her throne. Her bronze skin gleamed under the dim torchlight, marred by streaks of her own blood. Auburn-brown hair clung to her face, and golden jewelry adorned her trembling hands. Her once-pristine white dress was now soaked through with red, the fabric clinging to the dozens of weapons impaling her abdomen. Blood pooled around her, the scent thick in the air.

Her blood-red eyes lifted slowly, shifting past the wounds to the woman standing before her. The figure was eerily composed—long silver hair flowing past her shoulders, cold silver eyes unblinking. Her alabaster skin bore no marks of battle, and unlike the wounded queen, her own flowing white dress remained untouched by blood.

Beyond the pale woman, twenty warriors stood in formation, their dark metal armor etched with golden trims. They had once been her sworn protectors—her Golden Sand Knights. 

Now, they stood behind another.

A faint grin tugged at the lips of the dying woman, revealing two sharp fangs. Her voice was hoarse, yet laced with bitter amusement. "I guess this was too big of a gamble... teaching you my ways. Who knew you would be such a horrible being?"

The silver-haired woman took a step forward, her expression unreadable. "Amunet. Thank you for taking me in. Sheltering me. Clothing me. Feeding me when I had hit my lowest." She paused, silver eyes drifting down to the vampire, who struggled to keep her gaze steady. "However, recently, I've been thinking..."

Amunet coughed, fresh blood spilling from her lips. Her body quivered, yet she still listened.

"Why did I suffer so much? Why was I so unfortunate? Was it me? Or was I just unlucky?"

Reaching down, the pale woman gripped the golden-threaded hilt of a silver blade buried deep in Amunet's body. Without hesitation, she pulled it free. A sharp groan escaped the vampire's throat before she coughed up a violent burst of blood.

Ophelia stared down at her. "Yet, what I should've been thinking all this time was... to never let such an event occur again. Before I grow attached, I must get rid of such a possible attachment."

The knights behind her remained silent, unmoving.

"With your teachings, it was easy to win them over. But I still lacked something—the courage to act. I knew what had to be done, but I was nothing more than a river fish longing for the open sea." Slowly, she reached for the fabric over her chest, pulling it down just enough to reveal her solar plexus. A single rune shimmered there, glowing faintly in blue light. "So I forced myself to take action."

Amunet's eyes widened, a sharp breath catching in her throat.

"Ophelia... you crazy girl. You crazy—"

Another violent cough. More blood. Her vision darkened at the edges. Yet, in that final moment, something shifted. Her eyes widened further, not in pain, but in something else—something that sent an unnatural shiver down Ophelia's spine. The vampire's lips moved, but no sound came out.

Then, her body sank.

Ophelia exhaled, letting her gaze linger on the lifeless form before turning away. A fully armored knight stood at the front of the gathered warriors.

"Anubis…" she addressed him. "... are the preparations ready?"

The knight inclined his head. "Yes, My Lady."

…

(Present Day)

(Back on the battlefield)

The Dark Elf turned sharply, his grip tightening around his longsword as his eyes locked onto the vampire. A chilling presence settled over the battlefield, thick as smoke. The Holy Knights, so relentless before, quickly backed away, their rigid formation breaking.

The vampire's blood-red gaze landed on him, and his stomach twisted. A primal warning. A danger beyond understanding.

"…Who are you?" he asked, his voice steady despite the unease crawling up his spine.

The woman tilted her head slightly, the faintest trace of amusement flickering across her sharp features.

"My name is Amunet," she said, smooth and almost playful. "Nice to meet you."

A shiver shot through him. Something about the way she spoke—so casual, so light, yet carrying an unbearable weight—made his every instinct scream. He turned, eyes flicking to the Holy Knights, and what he saw unsettled him even more.

They were different.

Before, they had moved with rigid, almost mechanical precision, bound by unwavering discipline. Now, they were something else entirely. Their posture, their stance—it was as if their very souls had been stripped away, leaving nothing but husks that moved to Ophelia's will.

Lifeless. Hollow.

Dangerous.

He turned back to Amunet, only to find her smiling even wider.

"…Why are you helping me?" he demanded.

She chuckled. "I'm a gambling woman. What can I say?"

His brow furrowed. Lies. He could tell she was spewing nonsense, yet the sheer presence she radiated said otherwise. This wasn't someone who threw her lot in with the weak.

"…I owe you," he said at last.

Her grin widened.

And then she moved.

The Dark Elf barely had time to react before fangs pierced his neck. A rush of something unnatural surged through his veins—not the draining cold of death, but a roaring, all-consuming fire. His muscles tensed, his vision sharpened, and suddenly, the exhaustion that had been creeping in evaporated.

He felt alive. No—more than that. He felt reborn.

Amunet withdrew, crimson staining her lips, and he turned just in time to see the Holy Knights standing once more. But they were different from before. The lifeless, mechanical movements were gone. Their eyes shimmered, filled with something more… something unnatural.

Then, from the distance, he felt it. A sharp, piercing gaze cutting through the battlefield like a blade.

Silver eyes.

His breath hitched as he spotted her.

Ophelia.

Her armor no longer shimmered like polished steel—it flowed like liquid mercury, spreading from her body to her very hair, making it ripple as if caught in an unseen current. Every inch of her was encased in that shifting, living metal, from the clawed gauntlets at her fingers to the sleek boots that dug into the bloodstained snow.

Then she moved.

A blur of silver tore across the battlefield, closing the distance in a blink. He raised his blade, instincts screaming—

CLANG.

A clash.

Not his own sword, but a blood-red spear intercepted Ophelia's strike, locking against her mercury-forged weapon. Amunet grunted under the force of the impact, her feet sliding slightly across the dirt. Then, she turned her head, just enough to wink at the Dark Elf.

He didn't hesitate.

Spinning on his heel, he darted away, leading the Holy Knights with him, letting them focus on him instead of the battle unfolding behind them.

The two women faced each other.

One smiling.

The other cold.

And it was Amunet who shivered.

Ophelia's expression was devoid of warmth, her silver eyes unreadable as she twisted her spear, building momentum with a precise flick of her wrist.

Yet, Amunet moved first.

Shifting her grip, she slid her hand up the shaft of her spear, nearly grasping the blade itself, and dashed forward, closing the gap between them in an instant. Her blood-red weapon struck—

Nothing.

It scraped against Ophelia's armor, but not even a scratch remained. The mercury rippled, shifting like water, and Amunet's instincts screamed. She jumped back, creating distance just as the armor tensed, ready to strike back.

Then, Ophelia finally spoke.

"You were supposed to have been captured by the Gloomtaurs three years from now," she murmured, her voice steady. "I suppose you wanted to meet me earlier…"

Amunet's lips curled, though the wariness never left her eyes.

"Of course." She exhaled, her grip firm on her spear. "I wanted to see my favorite student… who seems to have… also regressed back in time."

Vwoom.

The two tore through the atmosphere crackling between them.

Amunet's blood-red spear clashed against Ophelia's mercury-forged weapon, the impact ringing across the battlefield. The instant their weapons met, the mercury rippled, shifting along Ophelia's spear like a living thing. Amunet twisted her grip, using the collision to shift momentum, her body already pivoting as she brought the spear around in a tight arc.

Ophelia flowed with the motion.

Her mercury armor rippled, shifting at the precise moment Amunet's spear cut toward her ribs. The fabric-like metal hardened, absorbing the force. Instead of resisting, Ophelia twisted her upper body, letting the strike glance off as she stepped inward, spearhead reversing toward Amunet's exposed side.

Amunet ducked.

The mercury spear sliced past her ear, missing by centimeters as she dropped low, her own weapon flipping in her hands. She thrust upward, aiming for Ophelia's shoulder. The knight reacted instantly—her gauntlet lashed out, mercury surging from her wrist and hardening into a jagged plate that deflected the spear's tip.

Then she countered.

A step forward. A knee driving toward Amunet's gut.

Amunet wrenched her body sideways, feeling the air shift as the attack barely missed. Her foot shot out, aiming for Ophelia's ankle, but the mercury reacted again—her boot thickened, rooting her stance solidly into the ground.

No time to press further.

Ophelia's spear came down in a ruthless vertical slash. Amunet rolled back, kicking off the dirt to regain her footing. The moment she landed, she flung a hand outward—blood surged from the tip of her spear, twisting into a jagged tendril that lashed toward Ophelia's throat.

Ophelia lifted a single finger.

The mercury spear dissolved, shifting into liquid mid-air before reforming into a sleek, curved crescent. She swung once, cutting through the blood tendril and scattering it into droplets that hissed against the ground.

Amunet exhaled sharply.

She didn't hesitate—she leapt forward again, closing the distance before Ophelia could fully reshape her weapon. A feint—her spear jabbed toward Ophelia's stomach, but at the last second, she yanked it back, spinning the weapon around to strike from the opposite side.

Ophelia adjusted in a heartbeat.

Mercury swirled around her arm, her gauntlet melting into a smooth, flexible whip that wrapped around Amunet's weapon, locking it in place. The vampire's eyes narrowed.

Then she let go of her spear.

With nothing anchoring her movement, she flowed under Ophelia's guard, a palm striking toward her face. Ophelia tilted her head, avoiding the full force, but Amunet still clipped her jaw, forcing her to stagger half a step back.

In that split second, Amunet reclaimed her weapon—her fingers clenched, blood surging up the shaft of her spear, reabsorbing the lost droplets. She wasted no time—her foot dug into the dirt, and she lunged again, spear aimed for Ophelia's shoulder joint.

Ophelia reacted with insane efficiency.

So instead of retreating, she advanced.

Her body twisted, [Immaculate Flow] taking full effect—her torso bent unnaturally, mercury shifting like liquid, allowing her to avoid the stab by mere millimeters. Then, in the same fluid motion, her spear reformed in her hand, a sweeping horizontal strike aiming to carve through Amunet's midsection.

Amunet planted her spear into the ground, using it as a pole to vault over the strike. As she flipped over Ophelia, she spun her weapon mid-air, its tip streaking downward toward her opponent's back.

Ophelia didn't even turn.

A burst of mercury erupted from her shoulder, a hardened spike forming in an instant, forcing Amunet to redirect her attack mid-flight. She landed a few feet away, spear poised.

For a moment, they stood still, watching each other.

Amunet rolled her shoulder, then smirked.

"Do you remember who taught you how to use the spear?"

Ophelia's gaze remained unreadable. A faint lift of an eyebrow. Then, with that same, cold voice, she replied…

"Do you remember who killed you?"

A single vein bulged at Amunet's temple.