Taking Charge

I was never in the limelight. Never the one leading, never the one commanding. Always working for someone else, always standing just behind the throne. That was my place. That was what I was good at.

With my ability to read minds, I was bound to go far, and I did. But no matter how much I achieved, it was always in service to another. That was how it should be.

When Mabbel rose to lead the Gloomtaurs, I was surprised. She wasn't the same person I had known as a child. After she lost her mother, after she lost her father in the attack, she changed. Hardened. It made sense, looking back. We worked well together. She led, and I followed. It was perfect.

Until now.

The moment I felt control return to my body, I nearly collapsed. My stomach churned, my legs wobbled. I gagged, barely keeping the bile down. It was as if I had woken from a dream only to realize I had been sleepwalking through a nightmare. Had I truly been nothing more than a puppet? My fingers twitched, moving under my own will again, and the horror of what had happened sank in.

I wasn't the only one. The Gloomtaurs around me, all three hundred or so left, stood there, dazed and unsteady. Their eyes darted around, as lost as I felt.

Then I saw her.

Ophelia stood before me, cold silver eyes locking onto mine, cutting through me like blades. Behind her, her forces were being slaughtered. The bodies piled up, their screams filling the air, but she didn't turn. She didn't flinch. She just stared at me.

"Unfortunately, I cannot grant you temporary access to the Supreme Command due to your constitution," she said, her voice smooth, detached. "But still, you must lead your people now. You are now the one in charge... so make sure they do not die, understood?"

My mouth went dry. My heart pounded.

"H-How do I do that?" The words felt small. I felt small. "I've never done something like that. Why me? Why not Mabbel?"

She didn't blink.

"Use your mind-reading capabilities. Not just on a single person, but the entire army."

I stared. My jaw went slack. "I—I've tried that before, but that's just not possible! Why me!? You're going to get us killed!"

A hole drilled into her forehead.

I recoiled as silver metal shimmered through her body, flowing like liquid, morphing into a new set of armor. A spear made from that very same substance formed in her right hand, its weight shifting effortlessly.

"It will be you who has killed your army if they end up dying," she said, voice colder than before. "Because you refused to step up."

Then she was gone.

She burst through the chaos, cutting straight toward the vampire, leaving me in the dirt, gasping as I scrambled to my feet. I turned, and the battlefield unraveled before me.

The Gloomtaurs crumbled.

For all the horror of being controlled, at least under Ophelia's command, there had been no fear, no hesitation—only the drive to kill. Now, reality crashed down on them. Pain. Uncertainty. The frontline shattered in an instant.

Mabbel was still deep in enemy lines. Alone. If I didn't act, she was going to die.

I tried to speak. My voice caught. Then I forced it out.

"REGROUP!"

Nobody listened.

Panic clawed at my chest. My mind reached out, desperate, grabbing onto the nearest Gloomtaur's thoughts—only to be hit with a flood of fear, agony, and desperation. I flinched, nearly stumbling again.

Stupid!

I didn't need to know what my own people were thinking. I needed to know what the enemy was thinking.

I reached out, focused on one of the bandits swarming a Gloomtaur. In an instant, I saw it—his next move, his next strike. Without thinking, I shouted, "Dodge left! Sweep the leg!"

Obviously not wanting to die, the Gloomtaur obeyed. The bandit's blade whiffed through empty air. A quick counterattack sent the bandit sprawling, and my soldier barely made it back to my side.

Again.

Another Gloomtaur was cornered. I read the mind of his attacker. "Fall back! The one behind you is going for your blind spot!"

He obeyed. He lived.

Each time a life was saved, people started listening.

Mabbel, still deep in enemy ranks, glanced my way. Even through the blood and sweat, I saw the faintest ghost of a smile.

I shouted louder. Gloomtaurs followed my orders. The chaos became controlled, the scattered forces pulling back together. The bandit army—once an overwhelming tide—found itself pushed back.

But it wouldn't last.

I knew that.

Ophelia's words echoed in my head.

I had to try.

I reached for another mind. Then another. Splitting my focus. It snapped almost instantly, my head throbbing from the strain. I gritted my teeth. I tried again.

Too many thoughts. Too much at once.

But then I saw them. My people. Dying.

I tried again.

And again.

Pain tore through my skull. My stomach twisted. My vision blurred. But I kept going, stretching my mind across the entire frontline.

Then it hit me like a hammer.

I staggered. Vomit spilled from my lips. The weight of it all crushed down on me, but I forced myself to stand.

Orders spilled from my mouth.

"Break the left line! Push forward, now!"

Not wanting to die, the frontlines did exactly that.

"Their right flank is weak! Group up and drive them back!"

Not wanting to die, the frontlines did exactly that.

Once again, not wanting to die, the frontlines did exactly that.

"Block low, then counter! You can turn this around!"

It worked.

We didn't have a strategy. We didn't have formations. But I had control. The battlefield bent under my commands, the Gloomtaurs responding perfectly.

Mabbel made it back to my side.

We were winning.

Then the air shifted.

A shadow flew overhead.

And landed.

The battlefield froze.

A man stood before me, towering at nearly nine feet. Lean muscle stretched across his massive frame. A greatsword rested on his shoulder, effortless.

Slowly, he removed his hood.

Two empty sockets stared back at us.

The frontlines broke. Screams tore through my people.

I couldn't breathe.

The Grumblehold Bandit King. The sole Blinded. The monster who had destroyed our civilization.

And then, Mabbel moved.

Before I could react, she shoved me aside.

She stood there, unshaken, staring up at him despite the vast difference in size. Then she cracked her neck, rolling her shoulders, bloodlust flaring like wildfire.

His did too.

The weight of it crushed the battlefield. Soldiers collapsed, some outright fainting from the sheer force of it. I barely stayed conscious.

And in that moment, the war stopped.

Everyone turned.

Because the real battle was about to begin.

…

(The other side of the battlefield)

Amunet lunged first. Her spear spun across her fingers in a blur, the blood along its length surging toward the tip. She twisted her wrist, feinting high before snapping the weapon low, aiming for Ophelia's knee.

Ophelia didn't step back. Instead, her leg shifted, mercury flowing like liquid down her calf, hardening just before impact. The blood-red spear struck, but the metal absorbed the force, dispersing it harmlessly. Ophelia's counter came instantly—a sharp twist of her hips sent her own spear slicing upward, aiming to catch Amunet under the chin.

Amunet barely wrenched her head back in time, the silvered edge of the weapon missing her throat by a breath. She flipped her spear in a reverse grip, using the blood-soaked shaft to knock Ophelia's strike wide. The moment their weapons separated, she leapt, twisting mid-air, her spear whirling like a crimson cyclone.

Ophelia ducked. Her form blurred, shifting as her body bent unnaturally—[Immaculate Flow] taking full effect. The spear passed harmlessly overhead. But before Amunet could land, Ophelia snapped her fingers.

Amunet's eyes flicked downward.

The snow between them glowed faintly—[Alchemical Genesis] at work. In the blink of an eye, the harmless flakes crystallized into jagged, gleaming shards. Amunet barely managed to angle her landing, her feet skimming over the deadly spikes as she rolled. Ophelia was already moving again.

The moment Amunet's knee touched the ground, a mercury tendril shot toward her. She twisted, planting her spear behind her to vault sideways, narrowly avoiding the jagged spike that would have impaled her. As she landed, she thrust out a hand.

A crimson tendril of blood burst from her spear, snaking toward Ophelia's wrist, aiming to yank her off balance. But Ophelia simply let her mercury armor flow, allowing the liquid metal to separate from her limb entirely before reforming in an instant. Amunet's blood lash snapped harmlessly through the air.

Ophelia was already in motion again.

Her spear whirled, flipping across her shoulders and down her spine, gaining momentum before she struck—a downward arc meant to split Amunet's head open. Amunet barely managed to bring her own weapon up in time. The impact sent her sliding backward, boots skidding through the snow.

She gritted her teeth. Ophelia was getting faster.

Amunet spun her spear across the back of her hand, using the momentum to launch herself forward again. Her weapon became a blur—thrust, twist, reverse grip, feint, snap strike to the ribs. Each movement flowed into the next, a relentless flurry of attacks meant to break through Ophelia's defense.

But Ophelia wasn't blocking.

She didn't need to.

Every time Amunet's weapon should have landed, her armor shifted—mercury rippling and bending, absorbing impacts or letting them slide harmlessly past. And when Amunet tried to catch her in a real opening, [Immaculate Flow] twisted her body in ways that should have been impossible, avoiding the strikes with an unsettling, inhuman ease.

Then Ophelia struck.

A knee shot toward Amunet's stomach. Amunet barely shifted sideways to avoid it, but Ophelia was already moving, twisting her spear around her back before jabbing it toward Amunet's exposed shoulder.

Amunet ducked low.

She swept her leg out, aiming for Ophelia's ankle. But mercury surged down, thickening into an armored brace that made her stance unbreakable. Before Amunet could pull away, Ophelia's free hand lashed out—catching the vampire's wrist in an iron grip.

Amunet had a split second to react.

With her other hand, she twisted her spear, blood coiling up the shaft. The moment Ophelia moved to throw her, Amunet used the momentum—flipping mid-air, letting the blood snap her spear back like a whip. The crimson blade slashed across Ophelia's cheek, a single drop of silver blood trickling from the wound.

Ophelia's grip tightened.

Then Amunet felt herself soaring through the air, Ophelia having hurled her like she weighed nothing.

Amunet twisted mid-flight, landing hard, boots digging into the ground. She skidded, barely catching herself before Ophelia was upon her again. The silver-clad warrior flowed forward, spear spinning at impossible speeds. The strikes rained down—merciless, precise, each one honed to kill.

Amunet blocked. She parried. She dodged. But the pressure was mounting.

Ophelia advanced, never stopping, never hesitating. Her spear became an extension of her very body, a seamless dance of destruction.

Amunet gritted her teeth. She needed an opening.

And then—

Ophelia snapped her fingers again.

Amunet's foot hit something. She glanced down.

The snow had changed again. No longer soft—it had hardened into something slick, something unstable.

Ice.

Her footing slipped.

And in that fraction of a second, Ophelia's spear swung down.

However, in that fraction of a second, blood erupted from every inch of Amunet's body. It spurted like crimson geysers, coiling unnaturally in the air before snapping inward, forming something solid in her grasp. 

The shape twisted, shifted, molded itself until she held in her hands something impossible—an archaic, medieval slot machine, carved from solidified blood. The symbols across its surface pulsed like beating hearts, glowing with eerie light.

Ophelia's spear should have torn straight through her. Instead, the mercury blade crashed against the bizarre construct, halting as if striking an immovable force. The moment her weapon made contact, a deep, unnatural clunk echoed from the machine, and the reels within began to spin.

Three rows. Dozens of shifting runes. A blur of symbols cycling faster than the eye could track.

Ophelia's instincts screamed at her. Something about this moment, about this thing, was wrong. Dangerous.

No hesitation.

She gathered everything. Every ounce of power, every bit of speed, every fragment of her will. [Immaculate Flow] surged through her form, mercury rippling like a tidal wave along her weapon. Her spear lengthened, its edges sharpening into a razor-thin crescent. With the force of an executioner's swing, she brought it down, intending to end Amunet in one strike.

Click. Click. Click.

The reels stopped.

Three identical runes lined up in the center of the slot machine, glowing in unison.

Ophelia's eyes flicked toward them—just a fraction of a second, just long enough to register what they were.

However, it was too late.

BOOOOOOM.

A detonation of pure force erupted from the slot machine, a shockwave of blood-red energy tearing through the battlefield. Ophelia's entire body whipped backward, her mercury armor instinctively shifting to absorb the impact. She crashed into the snow, skidding for several meters before digging her spear into the ground to steady herself.

Smoke. No—mist. A thick, suffocating cloud of blood-red mist swallowed the battlefield, rolling in waves, staining the world in crimson.

Then—a crackle.

A bolt of blood-red lightning split the mist.

Ophelia's grip tightened around her weapon as she saw it—a shadow within the storm, monstrous and vast, fangs bared in a beastly grin.

And then—cold.

A blast of icy air surged forward, ripping through the mist like a knife, scattering it into nothingness.

Amunet stood at its heart.

Her tattered clothing was gone. In its place, a flowing red dress, intricate and regal, draped elegantly over her form. A wide-brimmed red hat rested atop her head, casting a long shadow over her glowing crimson eyes. Across her body, golden jewelry had darkened, transformed—now shimmering in a deep, blood-red hue.

And in her grasp, a new weapon.

A long, black staff, sleek as midnight, gripped between both hands. At its end gleamed a blood-red scythe, its curved blade reflecting the dim, scattered light that pierced through the winter-storm-laden sky.

A breath.

Steam curled from Amunet's lips, the air itself chilled from the power surging through her.

Her mouth parted, revealing a gleaming row of fangs—every single tooth sharpened to perfection.

Then, she spoke.

"Lucky~"

Slowly, a wide grin spread across her face.

And then, in a voice laced with something far more dangerous than amusement—something final—she whispered…

"[Jack The Ripper]."