They’d barely stepped into the hills when the ambush sprang, shadows slipping from the stones like wolves from mist. A wrongness pricked Illusionary Mist’s skin; she pulled them back, fighting as they yielded ground.
Hatred coalesced overhead, a storm of killing intent pressing like low thunder. Illusionary Mist’s nerves frayed, yet her resolve hardened—retreat, live, breathe.
Their foes matched their strength, a tide equal to the team. Each felt like Cantata Two, each a duel waiting to happen, and there were many. Numbers and skill tipped the slope against them.
The smell of Blood soaked the not-so-small forest, metal and rot threading the wind. “Anyone hit?” Illusionary Mist asked, and heads shook. The picture sharpened—their power was tied to Blood.
A tome by a Chapter Three spoke of a humanoid Monster called the vampire—more properly, the Blood Clan.
They dwell in the Unfathomed Abyss. Their prince, a Chapter Three, bears a sacred relic of the Blood Clan. Its might is boundless; even a Chapter Three once faltered before that holy blade.
Illusionary Mist couldn’t prove they were Blood Clan, but the feeling stuck like a thorn. This was likely Blood Clan territory. If so, retreat wasn’t caution—it was law.
But the pursuers pressed like winter wind. Claws gleamed, slicing open their Magic Layers as if peeling fruit, intent on keeping them here forever.
Speed was their gospel. Trees were their choir. Illusionary Mist’s strikes snagged on trunks; fast-moving shadows mocked precision. In heartbeats, shallow cuts mapped their skin.
“No way. This is suffocating. Once we hit flat ground, I’m schooling them.”
They weren’t truly stronger; terrain and speed carried them. The Magic Maiden of District Eleven clapped, palms blasting air. Two racing shadows staggered, and the team found breath, found pace.
From the rear, Illusionary Mist caught the sight—red eyes glowing like embers, long ears knifing the night, a pallid face melting into darkness. They tilted glass vials and drank Blood; torn flesh knit fast, like frost receding at dawn.
“Vampires!”
District Eleven recognized them too—the Blood Clan. A vast lineage, prided with a Chapter Three prince and subordinates veiled in rumor. They had trespassed, and the land answered with fangs.
Relief flickered—thank the heavens Illusionary Mist led. A headlong counterattack would’ve felt brave and died foolish. The forest was a trap with the lid already closing.
The eight Blood Clan sensed the plan. The team wouldn’t brawl in bad ground; they’d run for the plains. The Blood Clan refused them that breath. Humans swaggering in and out of their borders? Unforgivable.
They bared full might. Blood spun into ropes, lashing shut the path. Blood honed into spikes and darted for the Magic Maiden of District Nine’s cheek.
Fear flashed; District Nine raised her hand, and every liquid in the world leaned toward her—stream, sap, sweat, and the crimson spikes themselves.
The Blood peeled free from its master’s will, clotted into misshapen lumps, then drew together with nearby moisture, swelling into a single heaving sphere.
Illusionary Mist’s eyes lit. District Nine’s gift braided with water; she could command liquid. Blood is liquid, water-rich, and flowed under her sway.
The Blood Clan were tethered to Blood. Without it, their sharpness dulled to chalk. With District Nine smothering their tide, a counterattack seemed possible—maybe no need for plains at all.
Illusionary Mist still chose the surest road. With their Blood blunted, the threat eased. They didn’t want trouble; if the Blood Clan turned away, perfect. If the chase reached the plains…
One last slope remained. They flew down it like leaves before a gale, hit the foothills in three heartbeats. The flat land opened, and the Blood Clan kept coming.
They’d lost their finest weapon, but not their bodies. They slipped past the strikes of District Eleven and Moon Owl, nimble as swallows; after a few exchanges, both sides wore only scratches.
As Illusionary Mist’s boots kissed the plain, a blood-red figure stepped from the air itself. Crimson mist wrapped the hills like a shroud, and a crushing weight fell from the sky, grinding breath into gravel.
“Chapter Three… a prince?” District Eleven lifted her lashes. The red silhouette ripened into fair skin and a slender form. Silver hair spilled to her waist; a deep red dress breathed with the wind. Black bat wings folded out, veiling the stars.
A wide shadow blanketed the team. High heels clicked on stone set in muddy path—petal-light steps, deliberate, unhurried. She walked toward District Nine.
Ruby eyes narrowed, deep and beautiful. A sweetness unfurled from her—a nectar-laced Blood fragrance, refined, nothing like the iron-stink smeared on the hunters behind.
She was noble.
“I am Caris Dysis Nofele, lord by a prince’s decree of the Blood Clan, come to harvest your heads.”
Blood gathered and sharpened into a Crimson Scythe. No matter how District Nine pushed her Mana, she couldn’t draw the Blood from Caris’s hand. It wasn’t Blood anymore; it felt like stone—immune to her call.
“Your ability is decent. Your Mana is decent. In your tongue, I’m Chapter Three. You’re Cantata Two.”
The warm blade kissed District Nine’s throat. The pressure from the Scythe and its mistress crushed her flat. Moon Owl, beside her, strained and failed—futile as wings under a mountain.
“Reclaim your power!” Caris spoke in Blood Clan tongue, then lifted the Scythe. A gentle sweep opened District Nine’s soft waist. Blood erupted like a fountain; ruined droplets slid down the blade, bead by bead.
District Nine’s liquid sphere burst. The sky began to rain—thick, stinking Blood.
The Blood Clan licked crimson from their cheeks, raised their arms, and shouted Caris’s name in their ancient language, praising her majesty, her terrible grace.
Moon Owl stood closest. The Blood from District Nine’s severed waist swallowed her whole, soaking her feathers, turning breath and sight to scarlet.
She shut her eyes. Images hammered her mind—District Nine and District Nineteen Magic Maidens dying, their shadows falling again and again.
Not even a week had passed, and two from their split, unmanned team were dead. The enemy before them was Chapter Three. No doubt. No mercy.
Next would be her. The next death would be hers. That Crimson Scythe would take her head as easily as it had unmade District Nine’s waist.
District Eleven stared at Caris, a figure untouched by the Blood rain. Her heart clawed at her ribs, trying to escape. The weight of Chapter Three pinned her will, froze her limbs.
“Not the prince… a lord? Is a lord also Chapter Three?”
Despair seeped through Illusionary Mist’s team, slow and cold, a helplessness born of facing a cliff with no handholds.
“No. There’s still a chance.” Illusionary Mist’s resolve blazed first, action second. “I’ll seize her mind for a heartbeat. Then you two run. Live. It’s the only way.”
Her Spirit reached for Moon Owl and District Eleven, words threaded in thought.
“What about you!” Moon Owl’s eyes crushed shut; her scream stayed inside. Illusionary Mist and District Eleven held silence. The silence spoke.
“Go…”
District Eleven scraped together courage and lunged for Moon Owl. Illusionary Mist’s Spirit flowered. Spirit Threads lanced into Caris’s brow.
“Dreams weave color; reality hides within dream. Drown in sweetness. Shed flesh. Abandon pain. Step away from suffering. Bind dream to dream—Δραπέτης.”
Skin cracked in layers; Blood rushed from burst veins. Dyed scarlet, Illusionary Mist’s body smiled and watched them leave.
Her Magic Stone split into petals of crystal. Vast Mana churned it to glittering grains. Wind over sand lifted them, carrying them toward the unseen Abyss.
Spirit slammed into Spirit, then did the impossible and linked. A dream wove into a lattice, became a cage, binding them both. In fearless collision, Illusionary Mist’s Spirit dimmed.
Moon Owl, slung over District Eleven’s shoulder, opened eyes filmed in Blood. Illusionary Mist’s body, soft as soaked clay, swam into view.
And she drifted farther away.
“Don’t grieve. Be strong. Moon Owl, little sister… please take care of Xiao Li for me.”
Wind swept the crystal dust from Moon Owl’s palm, scattered Illusionary Mist’s fading shadow, and carried it away with all the other shattered light.
