CHAPTER 191: SHADOWS AGAINST IRON

The ground shook as Ralkor the Ironhide stepped forward, each footfall like a hammer striking the earth. His skin gleamed faintly under the blood-red moonlight, not soft like flesh but rugged like forged steel. His massive arms were crossed over his chest, muscles bulging beneath the iron-like hide, and his eyes burned with a cold golden gleam.

Syran, cloaked in a swirl of shadows, narrowed his eyes. His body sank into the darkness beneath him, vanishing from sight in a heartbeat. The arena gasped.

"Shadow Step..." murmured one of the onlookers.

The next instant, Syran reappeared right at Ralkor’s side, his dagger flashing toward the werewolf’s throat.

Clang!

The sound was like steel striking an anvil. Sparks scattered in the air. Syran’s blade, infused with shadow energy, had not even nicked the wolf’s skin.

Ralkor slowly turned his head, unfazed. "Your tricks won’t work on me."

Syran leapt back, vanishing into the air like smoke. His voice echoed from multiple directions at once, cold and calm.

"Every wall has a crack. I’ll find yours."

Ralkor chuckled, low and rumbling. "Then come and die searching."

He stomped the ground, and the earth split beneath him. Rocks and dust burst upward as Syran reappeared, his daggers moving faster than the eye could follow, stabbing at Ralkor’s chest, ribs, and neck.

But each strike rang out like hammer on steel. Clang! Clang! Clang! Sparks flew wildly, illuminating the battlefield.

"Impossible..." a spectator muttered. "His entire body is... metal?"

No — it wasn’t metal. It was flesh that had transformed beyond mortal limits, every cell condensed into something harder than any blade. That was Ralkor the Ironhide’s gift: the body of an unbreakable fortress.

Syran skidded back, his daggers trembling in his hands. His arms ached from the recoil of his own strikes.

"...So this is your game. Strength that cannot be pierced."

Ralkor smirked. "Correct. So tell me — what use is speed and stealth when you cannot even scratch your foe?"

The werewolf lunged forward. His massive fist swung down like a falling boulder. Syran flickered into shadow, reappearing behind him instantly, his dagger aimed for Ralkor’s spine.

The blade hit. Clang! Another useless spark.

Ralkor spun, faster than Syran expected, his elbow slamming into Syran’s chest. The vampire was thrown across the arena, crashing into the shattered ground.

The crowd roared.

"Is Syran finished already?!"

"No... look!"

The shadows twisted, and Syran emerged from the debris without a scratch, his cloak of darkness wrapping tightly around him. His crimson eyes gleamed dangerously.

"I’ll pierce you from the inside then."

He vanished again, but this time, instead of striking the surface, he aimed for the tiniest of gaps — the joints where even the toughest armor had weakness. His blade slid toward Ralkor’s armpit, then another dagger to his inner thigh, both movements as swift as a whisper.

But Ralkor anticipated it. His body flexed, muscles hardening at the exact moment of impact. Clang! Clang! The blows bounced off harmlessly.

Syran hissed under his breath. Even his weak points are impenetrable...!

Ralkor slammed both fists into the ground. The shockwave sent cracks splitting outward like a spiderweb. The shadows themselves trembled, breaking Syran’s footing.

Caught off balance for the briefest second, Syran had to roll aside as Ralkor’s enormous foot came down where he had stood. The impact left a crater.

"Run, shadow," Ralkor growled. "I will break you when you tire."

But Syran only smirked, his form dissolving back into smoke. His voice echoed again, multiplied in the night.

"I don’t need to pierce you everywhere... I just need one strike to matter."

He darted out again, this time from above, his daggers merging into one long spear of shadow. He thrust down at Ralkor’s head with all his might.

Ralkor raised his arms to block. The impact shook the arena, a shockwave rippling outward. Dust and blood-mist scattered into the air.

When the haze cleared, Syran stood panting, his spear cracked, and Ralkor’s arms still crossed — unscathed.

The Ironhide smirked.

"Then try again. And again. And again. Until you realize the futility."

The crowd went silent, the tension unbearable.

And yet, Syran smiled faintly, his fangs glinting.

"Perfect. You’re exactly the kind of wall I love breaking."

He melted back into the shadows once more, ready to test the limits of this fortress.

The battlefield in Blood Valley was a storm of chaos. Shadows clashed with blood, steel, and claws as the vampire elites tore through endless waves of masked vampires and rogue werewolves. But in the center of it all, one duel was stealing every gaze— Gordon against Vexa Moonscar.

Vexa’s speed was relentless. She darted around Gordon like a streak of silver light, her claws tearing grooves into the blood-soaked ground. Every slash she threw carried lethal intent, yet none connected cleanly.

"You’re slowing down,"

Gordon muttered, his eyes glowing crimson as the blood armor around him pulsed like a living thing.

Vexa smirked, her fangs glinting. "Or maybe you’re too slow to notice."

In a blur, she vanished. A sonic crack split the air as she reappeared behind him, claws descending. But instead of flesh, her claws scraped across the hardened blood plating his back—sparks flying. Gordon didn’t even flinch.

He raised one hand, and the floating blood blades behind him spun forward like saws. Vexa twisted and weaved between them, her body bending unnaturally fast. She countered with blistering speed, circling Gordon so quickly that she became a streaking afterimage.

Slash. Slash. Slash.

Lines of glowing claw marks carved across his armor.

The vampire general chuckled. "Impressive, but my blood is endless."

The armor reformed instantly, cracks sealing as if time itself bent to his will. With a sudden thrust, he stabbed forward with a crimson sword. Vexa slipped aside at the last instant, but one of the spinning blood plates clipped her leg, slicing deep.

She hissed, stumbling, yet her eyes shone brighter. "Finally... some fun."

She exploded forward again, this time unleashing her true speed. To the watching vampires and werewolves, she was no longer visible—only gusts of wind and blurred shadows. Gordon’s eyes narrowed. He raised his hands, and every droplet of blood in a fifty-meter radius quivered.

"Bloodfield: Crimson Dominion."

The very air thickened. Blood rained upward from the corpses littering the ground, forming a storm around him. The whirling blades multiplied into dozens, orbiting his body in a deadly crimson cyclone.

Vexa darted into the storm, her body flickering in and out of view, clawing through the crimson blades. Sparks and sprays of blood erupted with every collision.

CLANG! CLASH! SHHHH!

But Gordon anticipated her path. He shifted the blades like a puppeteer pulling strings, cutting off her escape. One slipped past her guard, slicing across her torso. Another pierced her shoulder, forcing a gasp from her lips.

"Too slow now," Gordon said coldly.

Vexa growled, blood dripping, her eyes wild. She lunged one final time, claws glowing silver as she aimed for his throat. But Gordon stepped into her charge, letting the blood armor take the brunt, and with his free hand, he drove his sword straight into her stomach.

The impact echoed like thunder.

Vexa gasped, eyes wide. For the first time, she faltered.

Gordon leaned close, his voice sharp as a blade. "Your speed means nothing against my blood."

With a violent twist, he sent her flying across the battlefield. She crashed into the ground, rolling through dirt and shattered stone before coming to a broken stop.

The arena fell silent for a moment.

Vexa staggered, coughing blood, trying to rise—but her legs trembled, refusing her command. Her once radiant speed was extinguished, her breathing ragged.

Gordon pointed his blade at her, crimson eyes gleaming. "You’re finished."

Yet he didn’t deliver the final blow. He let the blood blades fade, the armor melting back into mist.

"Live with your defeat. That is punishment enough."

The vampires roared in triumph, while the werewolves growled in outrage.

Vexa collapsed to her knees, clutching her wound, her pride more broken than her body. She glared at Gordon, hatred burning, but deep inside... she knew she had lost.

And Gordon, standing tall amidst the crimson mist, turned his gaze toward the next battlefield.

"One down," he muttered. "Two remain."

But amidst the chaos above ground, far beneath the Valley’s blood-soaked soil, something stirred.

Deep inside a forgotten cavern — untouched since before even the Vampire King Zalmic claimed his throne — the air was heavy, suffocating, charged with a primal malice. The walls of the cave were not stone but blackened bone, fused together in grotesque shapes, as though the earth itself had bled and hardened. Rivers of thick crimson seeped through the cracks, flowing like veins across the cavern floor.

At the heart of it lay a colossal figure. It was no ordinary monster — its flesh a grotesque tapestry of three legacies: the pale, predatory features of a vampire, the hulking muscle and carapace of a blood beast, and something older, something unknown, a bestial form not recorded in any history. Its hide was torn and scarred from ancient battles, but the wounds were slowly closing, knitting themselves with each drop of blood that seeped into its slumbering body.

It had not been sealed.

It had not been imprisoned.

It was merely sleeping, waiting, healing — biding its time.

And tonight, its time had come.

The Valley above was drenched in blood — oceans of it, spilled by champions, kings, armies. The soil was saturated, feeding the veins of the cavern, pumping rivers of crimson directly into the beast’s resting place.

Then —

THUMP.

The ground above shivered. Stones fell from the cavern ceiling.

THUMP.

The creature’s chest rose, its ribs cracking with the sheer force of its breath. A claw twitched, talons scraping against the bone floor, sparks flying.

And then—

Two enormous eyes snapped open, glowing a dreadful crimson-gold that cut through the suffocating dark. Their light alone carried weight, pressing against the cavern walls like a storm. The beast inhaled, and the cavern filled with a guttural growl that vibrated through the marrow of the earth itself.

The veins pulsed harder, blood flooding the chamber, and its half-healed flesh knit faster. Muscles bulged, bones cracked back into place, wings stitched themselves with tendons fresh and wet.

It looked upward. Not seeing stone, but sensing the battlefield raging above — the roar of champions, the rivers of blood, the endless slaughter.

And it smiled.

A voice, deep and bestial, rumbled through the cavern, shaking the Valley though no ears could hear:

"At last... the feast begins again."