Chapter 50: The Clash of Predators
Chapter 50: The Clash of Predators
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The silence shatters.
A voice—smooth, cold, and soaked in an eerie amusement—echoes through the vast chamber.
"Welcome, hunter. You have come far."
I tense. My grip tightens around my axe.
The chamber is still empty—save for the obsidian throne. But I know better than to trust my eyes.
I scan the darkness, instincts screaming at me that I'm being watched.
"Down here," the voice continues, carrying a quiet, almost mocking amusement. "Where the shadows dance and the light dares not tread."
Then—movement.
From the deepest recesses of the throne, a figure emerges.
Tall. Impossibly graceful. Skin pale as polished bone. Eyes burning like twin embers in the dark.
He moves with the ease of a predator—silent, controlled, radiating an aura of effortless power.
Not a demon.
Something else.
Something worse.
The moment our eyes meet, I know.
This isn't just another obstacle.
This is a vampire
"I am Malkor," he says, stepping forward. His voice is smooth, calm—almost welcoming. "Lord of this… humble abode. And you?"
"Derrick Steins." My voice is hoarse from disuse, rough with the weight of the years.
Malkor tilts his head slightly, as if savoring the name.
"Derrick Steins," he repeats, his lips curling into something between a smile and a sneer. "A name whispered through the winds of Hell. A hunter of considerable renown, I hear."
I say nothing.
I'm not here for small talk.
"And what do you hunt, Derrick Steins?"
My answer is simple. "Power."
A low chuckle escapes him. "Ah. Ambition. Commendable, but hardly unique."
I don't respond.
I just watch.
His every movement. His every shift in posture. The way the air bends around him, thick with something unnatural.
Malkor takes another step forward.
"And yet, you seek more than just strength." His burning eyes narrow slightly. "You seek escape."
The statement is unsettlingly accurate.
He doesn't phrase it as a question.
He already knows.
"Escape from Hell?" Malkor muses. "An audacious goal. Even for one such as yourself."
He studies me, silent for a long moment. Then—he smirks.
"I could offer you something else."
I keep my expression blank. "What?"
Malkor gestures toward the throne. "A different path. A greater one."
His voice lowers, smooth as silk. "Serve me, Derrick Steins. Pledge yourself to me, and I will grant you more than just escape. I will grant you dominion. Strength beyond mortal comprehension. A place at my side, as my chosen executioner."
I say nothing.
Not because I'm considering it.
But because I'm waiting.
Malkor takes my silence as thoughtfulness. His smirk widens.
"You would have all of Hell at your feet. No chains. No prison. Only power."
I exhale slowly. Then, I meet his gaze, unflinching.
"I don't serve."
The smirk vanishes.
For the first time, I see it.
Not amusement. Not intrigue.
Cold, calculating disappointment.
"So be it." His voice hardens. The air thickens, charged with malice. "I had hoped you would be more… reasonable."
The shadows at his feet writhe and shift, coiling like living things.
The temperature drops.
The chamber trembles.
"Your refusal is unfortunate," Malkor says, his voice colder now. "But not unexpected."
His form darkens. Becomes less human.
"You will bow, Derrick Steins." His voice echoes with a terrible finality. "Or you will be broken."
The fight has begun.
---
A Battle of Monsters
Malkor moves first.
He's fast. Faster than anything I've faced before.
A blur of black and crimson, a shadow cutting through the air.
I barely manage to block in time—his claws scraping against my axe with a piercing screech.
The force sends me skidding back, boots grinding against the obsidian floor.
"Not bad," Malkor muses, tilting his head. "Most die on the first strike."
I don't give him the satisfaction of a response.
Instead—I attack.
I launch forward, axe swinging in a brutal arc.
Malkor sidesteps—almost lazily—his form twisting unnaturally. My blade cleaves through nothing but air.
Then, before I can recover—
He's behind me.
Cold fingers graze my neck. "Too slow."
I spin, swinging my fist—only for it to pass through him like mist.
Then—pain.
A sharp, tearing agony lances through my ribs.
I stagger back, gritting my teeth, hand pressing against the wound.
It's deep. Too deep.
He's toying with me.
"You have strength," Malkor murmurs, licking the blood from his fingers. "But strength alone will not save you."
I exhale. The pain is nothing.
I've suffered worse.
I adjust my grip on my axe. "Then I'll just have to hit harder."
Malkor smirks. "Try."
---
The chamber becomes a blur of violence.
Malkor is relentless—his attacks swift, precise, unnatural.
Every move is designed to kill.
Every feint, every flicker of motion, a deadly trap.
I dodge, block, counter—but he's always a step ahead.
For every wound I land, he lands two.
For every strike I throw, he's already preparing his next.
But I don't stop.
I don't falter.
Because I am not weak.
The obsidian floor cracks beneath our battle.
Walls tremble from the force of our blows.
Shadows lash out. Steel sings. Blood spatters.
And still, neither of us yield.
Then—an opening.
A fraction of a second.
But I see it.
And I take it.
I feint left—then pivot hard, bringing my axe down with everything I have.
Malkor moves to dodge—too late.
The blade connects.
A thunderous crack echoes through the chamber as Malkor is sent flying, crashing into the throne with bone-shattering force.
Dust and debris explode outward. The entire fortress shakes.
For the first time—he bleeds.
For the first time—his smirk is gone.
For the first time—I see it.
Not amusement. Not arrogance.
But rage.
Malkor rises from the rubble, crimson eyes burning with something furious and primal.
His voice is no longer smooth. No longer mocking.
"You dare."
The shadows around him convulse, writhing with his fury.
The entire chamber darkens.
Something is coming.
Something worse.
And I grip my axe, heart pounding, as I prepare for the next clash.
Because this fight—
Is far from over.