Kiss of the vampire volume 2 (KOTV)
" The Girl with the Sharp sword"
Mission 12: The One Who Stood Alone!
"When gods fall and monsters burn… only one man remains unshaken."
Meanwhile — The Battlefield Outside the Crimson Palace
Steel clashed with flesh.
But the sound wasn't chaos. It was rhythm. A slow, haunting beat—like the ticking of a forgotten clock buried in snow.
Ben Rayleigh stood tall, sword dragging behind him, carving a shallow line through the frost-covered ground. His coat billowed, soaked in blood—his or someone else's, it didn't matter anymore. His expression was unreadable. Not rage, not resolve. Just... hollow.
Like a man misplaced.
A relic from another age.
"You don't belong here, human!" roared Beowolf, towering and snarling, claws twitching.
Ben didn't answer right away. He tilted his head slightly, as if the snow whispered something only he could hear. His eyes didn't lock onto Beowolf—they looked past him. As though seeing an enemy from another battlefield. Another century.
"Neither do you," Ben muttered, finally, voice low—like a memory spoken aloud. "But here we are."
Then he moved.
Not like a berserker, not with fury or fanfare. But with grim precision. Every step, every strike, was surgical. Worn. Practiced a thousand times on a thousand nameless corpses. The way he fought wasn't beautiful or heroic—it was inevitable.
Beowolf lunged. Claws swept in wide arcs.
Ben sidestepped. Slashed once.
Blood sprayed.
Again.
Then again.
Until Beowolf staggered, panting. Eyes wide.
"What... are you?"
Ben stepped forward, dragging his blade behind him, the metal humming like a distant war song.
"Someone who forgot the answer to that question a long time ago."
He wasn't the calm in the storm. He was the silence after it. A warrior lost in time—not just in years, but in meaning. Still moving. Still killing. Because that's all he remembered how to do.
Beowolf grinned wide, sharp teeth bared like a predator savoring a slow kill.
"You've gotten stronger, I'll give you that, Rayleigh…" he sneered, blood leaking from the edge of his jaw. "But strength means nothing when you never use it in time. When it never saves the people who mattered."
Ben didn't blink. He simply stood, sword lowered at his side, the wind rustling his coat, the snow melting on his shoulders.
"How many friends died screaming while you watched?" Beowolf pressed, stepping forward, each footstep cracking the earth beneath. "How many last words did you hear while you stood there, too late, too slow? Your strength is tragic. It never came when it counted. And now all you are… is a shadow."
Still nothing.
Ben's aura began to swell. Slow. Silent. A cold pressure wrapped the battlefield like black fog spreading from his boots. The ground trembled beneath his silence—not from power flaring wildly, but from something deeper. He wasn't showing off.
He was farming.
The weight of his presence twisted the air itself. Fear, tension, anger—he was collecting it. Letting the emotions of his enemy feed into him. Letting the battlefield remember.
His eyes lifted. Dull. Focused. Empty of heat.
"…You talk too much."
Ben's voice cut through the snow like a blade across glass.
He stepped forward once. Beowolf tensed.
"Old monster, still clinging to the sound of your own voice. Still desperate to matter."
Another step. Beowolf's grin cracked.
"Centuries alive, and you're still reaching for relevance with claws dulled by time."
His aura deepened—slower, heavier now. The kind of pressure that made your lungs forget how to breathe. Even the sky above them seemed darker.
"You call me a ghost?" Ben's eyes narrowed. "Ghosts linger because someone remembers them. But you…"
He paused.
"You're already fading."
Beowolf lunged in fury, veins bulging, mouth split wide in a beast's roar. But before his claw even reached Ben—
—the air around Ben cracked.
Snap.
Beowolf froze.
His claw had stopped inches from Ben's face, trembling.
Ben hadn't moved. He didn't need to.
The sheer weight of his aura had paralyzed the beast's arm.
"…You've already lost."
He raised his sword slowly, deliberately. And Beowolf—primordial titan, fear of ages past—took a step back.
"Die knowing this," Ben said, almost gently. "In your entire long, pathetic life… you never once mattered enough to be feared."
The blade rose. A heartbeat passed.
And then it fell.
Beowolf didn't move at first.
Smoke curled from the air where Ben's sword had carved down, leaving a fissure in the earth that glowed faintly with heat. Snow evaporated instantly. For a moment, it looked like it was over.
But then—
"Tch."
From the side—a blur.
Ben turned his head an inch too late.
Beowolf's real body burst from the shadows behind him, mouth twisted in a vicious grin. The one Ben had cut down… was a skin-shed—a dummy form made of muscle fiber and blood. A decoy. The real Beowolf was faster. Smarter. Cunning in the way only ancient predators could be.
Claws slashed forward, and this time—they connected.
A shallow cut opened across Ben's cheek. A single, clean line. Thin. Red.
Beowolf landed a few meters away, crouched and panting, grinning like a wolf that just tasted its first blood in days.
"Not so untouchable now, are you?"
Ben stood still, back to him.
Slowly, he lifted a gloved hand and touched his cheek. The blood smeared against the leather.
He stared at it for a moment.
Then turned—expression calm. Unbothered. His aura still hadn't dipped. If anything, it had sharpened.
His brow lifted, just slightly.
And then he smiled. Cold. Icy.
His voice dropped, low and measured.
"All of that…"
Ben looked at Beowolf. Not with hate. Not even irritation. Just disappointment.
"…just for a drop of blood."
He said it in a deep, unblinking tone—a perfect mimicry of Thanos, but with Ben's own cutting edge. Not playful. Not mocking.
Just cruel.
Beowolf's grin twitched.
Ben raised his sword again—one hand, no stance.
"You're proud of that?" he said quietly.
"You think this makes you a threat? You're still prey, Beowolf."
The sky rumbled.
The snow around Ben's feet melted in a perfect circle.
His aura surged—not in anger. Not even to intimidate.
It just was.
"You're lucky." Ben's voice dropped another octave. "Now I don't have to hold back to keep you alive."
Beowolf blinked.
For the first time in centuries…
He felt fear.
BOOM!
Beowolf lunged again, driven by frustration now more than strategy. His claws were a blur, each slash strong enough to split boulders, each swing tearing through trees, snow, and stone with devastating force.
But Ben Rayleigh?
He was already gone before the strikes landed.
A shift of his shoulder. A tilt of his head. A slight step to the left.
He didn't dodge like a man trying to survive—
He moved like someone watching a child throw punches in slow motion.
CLANG!
Beowolf's arm crashed down, and Ben raised his sword—not to block, but to redirect. With a twist of the wrist, he turned the entire force of the blow to the side. The impact made a crater beside them, but Ben didn't even flinch.
His aura pulsed.
Not a fiery blaze. Not chaotic lightning.
But a calm, crushing pressure. Like standing at the bottom of the ocean.
Each second it grew. Farming. Feeding. Building.
Ben didn't say a word.
"RAAAAGHH!!" Beowolf bellowed, his muscles bulging with primordial strength. He shifted forms slightly, his fur growing darker, his jaw wider, eyes burning with an ancient fury. This wasn't brute strength anymore—this was desperation.
He spun mid-air and slammed both fists down—
"DIE ALREADY!!"
Ben slid one foot back.
Brought his sword up—
CRACK-BOOM!
The shockwave blasted out in all directions. Trees shattered. Mountains trembled.
When the dust cleared, Ben stood firm.
One hand braced the sword vertically in front of him, both palms on the hilt. The ground under his feet was untouched. His coat rippled slightly from the air pressure.
A thin line of red trickled from his other cheek.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, like a man bored at a dinner party.
Then his gaze met Beowolf's.
Cold. Dead calm.
"You're getting slower."
Ben flicked the blood off his blade with a twist.
Beowolf snarled, more furious than ever—
But then he paused.
The air had gotten heavier. Much heavier.
Ben hadn't moved much. But his aura had grown wider. Thicker. Louder.
Beowolf staggered slightly.
The pressure now was like standing in the path of an avalanche—except it wasn't moving. It just existed, pressing on his chest, his shoulders, his lungs. A crushing awareness that he was standing in the presence of something far above him.
Ben took one step forward.
Snow evaporated in a line beneath his boots.
He raised the sword slowly, almost lazily—resting it against his shoulder.
"If you're not finished playing..."
Ben's eyes narrowed just slightly.
"...then let me show you what comes after strength."
Beowolf roared—and charged again.
Ben disappeared.
CRACK!
He reappeared behind Beowolf mid-dash, crouched, sword dragging in the snow as sparks flew from the blade.
Beowolf turned too late—
SLASH!
A deep wound tore through his back.
BOOM!
Beowolf spun with a clawed counter, but Ben leaned back, the tips of the claws missing his throat by an inch.
He didn't blink.
Instead, Ben grinned—just a little.
He vanished again.
CLANG—CRACK—SLASH—BOOM!
Like thunder strikes, Ben weaved through the battlefield, delivering precise, punishing blows. Each one carved through Beowolf's hide, each movement calculated to perfection. No wasted motion. No rage.
Only dominance.
"RAAAAAAGH!!!"
Beowolf slammed his fists into the ground, cracking the earth like glass.
His body began to contort—twisting and shifting, bones snapping into longer, sharper forms. His muscles surged grotesquely, fur receding in places to reveal obsidian-like armor plating beneath. His maw widened unnaturally, eyes glowing like twin dying suns.
A black mist poured from his mouth and eyes, thick like tar, as ancient glyphs burned across his chest.
"Witness me, Rayleigh!" Beowolf bellowed, his voice now layered—an ancient growl echoing alongside his own.
"This is my true form! The last beast, the death of kings, the extinction in flesh!"
He lunged—
And the world around him died.
The snow melted. The wind froze mid-air. Every creature within miles fled or fell still.
Ben didn't budge.
Instead, he exhaled.
And the air shimmered—his aura no longer growing.
It was settled.
Complete.
Ben held his blade at his side, tip grazing the dirt.
Then he spoke, low and cold.
"You're loud."
The ground cracked beneath him—then exploded upward as Ben dashed forward, blade tracing a glowing arc of steel.
Beowolf swung both claws down—
Ben vanished between them.
"Fall."
—"Heavenly Breach: First Sever."
A sound like splitting stone echoed across the battlefield. A single vertical slash appeared down Beowolf's chest—thin at first, but glowing.
Then it burst open, a geyser of black blood erupting from it.
"Grrraaagh!" Beowolf roared, stumbling backward. But Ben wasn't done.
He stepped forward again. Blade already mid-motion.
"Second Sever: Soul Cleft."
This one was faster. A diagonal cut across Beowolf's massive leg, slicing through both muscle and enchantment—a cursed limb collapsed with it, buckling the beast's stance.
Ben's eyes flicked up.
Still no emotion.
Just precision.
"Third Sever."
He raised the blade overhead—
The air itself parted as if fearing the swing.
"End of the Path."
—BOOM!!!
Ben's blade came down with the force of judgment. The moment it struck, a shockwave shot skyward, punching a hole through the clouds themselves. A vertical column of light followed—silent, divine, final.
Beowolf's body trembled under the impact. Blood poured. Bones snapped.
But he didn't fall.
Instead—he laughed.
"Heh... finally," Beowolf coughed, blood dripping from his lips. "You're using your name. Thought you'd never say it."
Ben tilted his head slightly, raising an eyebrow.
"You talk too much."
Beowolf's grin widened, even through the pain.
Then—he lunged again. His speed tripled. His claws shrouded in a deep crimson void, his left hand glowing with primordial runes. It wasn't strength anymore—it was old magic. A trick from before time itself.
He slashed—
This time, Ben was a half-second too slow.
The claw grazed his side. Not deep—but enough.
Blood hit the snow.
Ben stopped.
Touched his side.
Then looked at the red on his glove.
"Tch."
Beowolf laughed, fangs gleaming. "All that... just for a drop of blood."
Ben's eyes narrowed.
He slowly raised his gaze—and mimicked the voice perfectly, deep and cold:
"All that... just for a drop of blood."
He smiled without humor.
"Pathetic."
Beowolf stumbled, massive body trembling from the weight of the previous slashes. Blood streamed from gaping wounds, steam rising from his cracked armor-flesh.
But then—his eyes rolled back.
His body went still.
"Oh no." Ben's tone was flat, but his grip tightened ever so slightly.
The glyphs on Beowolf's chest flared violently.
He slammed both claws into the ground and howled. Not in pain, but invocation.
Ancient words spilled from his lips. The language of before—the sound of collapsing stars, of deathless time. The sky twisted. Space itself shuddered.
"PRIMORDIAL ASCENSION: BLOOD ECLIPSE!!!"
A vortex of red and black light erupted around Beowolf, warping gravity. Mountains in the distance cracked and bent. The earth levitated beneath him as his form expanded—beyond flesh now. A creature of hate and memory, wearing bone and void like armor.
He no longer had a voice. The sound he made was cosmic, like an old god vomiting up a forgotten universe.
And he rushed Ben—
Faster than before.
Too fast.
But Ben didn't flinch.
He whispered something beneath his breath.
And his blade hummed.
"Heavenly Breach: Final Sever."
Time paused for just a second.
Ben moved once.
Steel whispered through space.
And Beowolf's attack—his ultimate form, his final effort—collapsed.
Cleanly.
From shoulder to hip, Beowolf's massive body split as if unzipped. The void magic inside him tried to surge, but Ben's blade had already cut the core of the spell.
No boom. No final roar.
Just silence.
And a thud.
Beowolf's upper body crashed beside his legs, both halves twitching weakly.
He looked up—barely conscious—as Ben slowly approached.
Not a drop of blood on Ben's uniform.
The wind howled around them again, as if the world had only just remembered how to breathe.
Beowolf's mouth opened, trembling.
"You..."
Ben knelt beside his split head.
His voice was so cold, even the air crystallized at the edges of his breath.
"You lived through countless ages… just to die like this."
He stood.
"I'd call that a waste of time."
Then he walked away, sword humming softly behind him.
No glance back.
Just the wind. And silence.
Beowolf's final roar faded into silence, his massive frame slumping as cracks of light splintered across his skin. The ancient beast—the primordial juggernaut who once shook the gates of heaven—was unraveling.
Light surged from within him. Not divine, not holy—raw, ancient, primordial power. His body didn't fall. It disintegrated, slowly and agonizingly, into radiant particles of light—like shards of a dying star—rising in the air and swirling into a vortex.
Ben Rayleigh stood still as the lights drew toward him.
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
The storm of particles condensed in front of his hand. A deep, metallic pulse echoed with each rotation of the mass. Something was forming… folding… forging.
Then, the glow snapped inward.
The light collapsed into a single object: a jet-black gauntlet, laced with silver runes, plates shaped like a beast's maw gripping around the forearm. It pulsed with every beat of the fading Primordial's power. Spikes lined the knuckles. Claws curved out subtly from the fingers, glowing faintly with ancient seals.
Ben raised the gauntlet slowly, slipping his arm through without a word.
The moment it latched onto him, the air cracked.
A low hum resonated around him—not magic, but something deeper. Ancient. Forbidden.
The gauntlet fused with him, perfectly molded to his form, like it had always belonged there.
The Weapon That Once Sealed Gods.
Ben flexed his fingers. The claws gleamed. The faint symbols on the knuckles blinked, like eyes opening after eons of slumber.
He looked down at his new arm, then muttered coldly:
"You roared like a god… now you're just an echo on my fist."
No grin. No glory.
Just silence.
Ben stared at his arm, the gauntlet now fused with his flesh like it had always been waiting for him.
It hissed once—low and deep—like it was breathing for the first time in millennia.
The clawed gauntlet shimmered with a subtle glow, pulsating with ancient glyphs that shifted across the surface like flowing ink. Across the forearm, a singular name revealed itself in old Primordial script. Ben could read it.
"Fenris-Howl."
He spoke it aloud, like a judgment.
"Fenris-Howl… The Maw That Silences Gods."
It wasn't just a weapon. This was a relic forged in the primordial wars, used by the first beings to chain and seal Outer Gods before language and light even existed. It wasn't built for mortals. It wasn't built for anyone sane.
And now it belonged to Ben Rayleigh.
He clenched his fist. The sound wasn't metal—it was pressure, like gravity folding in.
Suddenly—light flared behind him.
A surviving beastman general, foolish and desperate, charged with a bone scythe raised high. He howled, unaware of the difference in power.
Ben didn't move at first. Just watched him come.
Then—
He shifted.
Not a blur. Not a flash.
He ghosted forward, leaving a flicker of heat and pressure behind.
The scythe met Fenris-Howl.
Shatter.
It broke. The whole thing. The weapon, the arm behind it, the ribs. The beastman flew into the air like a discarded puppet and didn't get up.
Ben didn't even look at him.
He flexed the gauntlet again.
Runes blinked faster now, as if they fed on the conflict, anticipating more.
Ben's voice came out cold and merciless.
"This isn't a weapon. It's a requiem."
He lifted his gauntlet and pointed to the horizon where the battlefield still smoked.
"Tell your gods they're next."
The battlefield was a graveyard of monsters and steel.
Smoke curled around broken stone. Blood and ash soaked into the dying grass. Yet above it all, the Hell Gate still pulsed—towering, twisted, and alive. It clawed at the sky with spires of writhing dark, its core humming with whispers that tasted like madness.
Ben Rayleigh stood alone before it.
Behind him, the survivors were scattered, breathless. Maya crouched over Deyviel's unconscious form, sword trembling in her bloodstained hand. Denver sat slumped against a broken boulder, his breath ragged. Trese held her ground with Crispin and Basilio, blades ready but spent. Alicia, Kliev, Yumi, Emily, Mizuno, and Ethan regrouped near the elven warriors. Even the stoic elf lady—the one Deyviel had simply called that elven woman—looked shaken, blood on her cheek and frost on her cloak.
But none of them moved.
All eyes were on him.
Ben raised his right arm—the Fenris-Howl gauntlet, forged from Beowolf's dying essence, ancient and hungry. Faint light curled up his shoulder, then across his chest like veins of molten silver. The runes engraved into the knuckle-plates blazed, glowing brighter with each pulse of his aura.
His voice cut through the battlefield. Cold. Measured.
"Collapse."
No roar. No drama. Just command.
The gauntlet surged.
The ground cracked beneath him as ancient energy—dense and white-hot—coiled in his palm and released in a silent burst. The beam wasn't wild; it was focused, precise. It tore through the corrupted air and struck the Hell Gate dead center.
For a moment, it resisted.
Then everything caved.
The gate twisted in on itself, its own power devouring it. Like watching a dying star fold into a black hole—except this left nothing. No scream. No flame. Not even dust. Just... gone.
The wind returned.
Ben lowered his hand. The sigils on the gauntlet dimmed, still warm, still awake.
He stood there, silent.
Then turned.
Maya looked up, eyes wide but unreadable. Denver blinked like he was seeing the sun for the first time. Trese sheathed her blade with a slow nod. The rest—Black Knights, elves, all the warriors who had survived this chaos—they didn't cheer.
They just watched.
Because they understood.
This wasn't a victory.
It was a warning.
Ben's gaze swept across them, pausing only briefly on each survivor, then upward, toward the sky as if expecting something worse to come. A storm that hadn't yet broken.
Then, to himself, almost too quiet for anyone to hear—
"One gate down..."
A chill crawled down everyone's spine.
Fade to black.
To be continued...