CHAPTER 127: CHAPTER 127- BLOOD MIST

"What?"

The vampire’s voice cracked, the tremble in it betraying his fury.

He stared at Cruxius with wild, glowing eyes. That name—the full name—his titles, his secrets, all spoken aloud by a human. And worse, by a boy barely past twenty, standing with his hands in his pockets, speaking down to him with the arrogance of a monarch.

Alath’s lips peeled back, baring elongated fangs. His aura flared like a crimson wind.

"You—wretched brat. You dare insult the Blood Throne—!"

Before anyone could blink, he lunged.

A blur of black and red, cape tearing through the air, clawed fingers aimed for Cruxius’s throat.

But Cruxius didn’t move. He didn’t even look surprised.

Because something had already caught him by the back of his coat.

A hand.

Slender, gloved, feminine.

Ytrisia.

Her silver hair shimmered in motion, her face calm, but her eyes gleamed with sharp focus.

Without a word, she yanked Cruxius back like a ragdoll, his body sliding across the floor with a quiet grunt as she stepped in his place.

And then she moved.

"Run, Cruxius."

Her voice was calm. But her fist wasn’t.

It launched forward with brutal speed, aimed straight for the vampire’s face.

Alath’s eyes widened. He twisted midair to block—

CRACK!

The punch landed on his forearm. A shockwave burst from the point of impact, shattering one of the office windows behind him. Wood splinters from the desk flew. Books fell from the shelves.

Alath skidded back, boots grinding into the marble.

Ytrisia didn’t pause. She leapt forward again, her foot kicking the ground hard—too hard.

The tile shattered beneath her, and she rocketed toward him like a bullet. Her body surged with glowing threads of violet-blue energy—the stored kinetic force from his attack, now powering her movements.

Alath roared and countered, slashing his clawed hands forward.

She ducked low, slid under, and twisted her body mid-slide—channeling the momentum of her movement—upward punch to his ribs.

THUD!

A grunt left his mouth as he was lifted slightly off the floor.

Ermond rushed forward, shielding the women.

Raekin stood by the desk, unmoved, his eyes fixed on the fight.

Alath landed hard, coat billowing, his feet dragging as he caught himself.

"You dare strike me?! Filthy human wench!"

Ytrisia tilted her head slightly. "You’re slower than I expected."

Alath’s aura erupted, fangs bared. Shadows burst from his back like wings. He vanished.

A blur.

Appearing behind her.

His claw slashed for her spine.

But her elbow was already moving.

She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to.

She transferred the momentum of his approach directly into her own strike. Her elbow cracked back into his face as though he’d run into a steel wall.

SMASH!

Alath crashed into the office wall, shattering a wooden cabinet. Books exploded in every direction. Dust and splinters filled the air.

But he didn’t stay down.

He rose with a snarl, face bruised, blood trailing from his nose.

"I’ll drink your blood first."

Ytrisia exhaled slowly, opening and closing her fists, her body humming with energy now—the kinetic charge building with every movement, every attack she absorbed or delivered.

"Try."

This time, they both moved.

Vampire claws and enhanced fists clashed in the narrow space. Desks cracked. The chandelier shook violently above. Papers flew like birds in a storm.

Every time Alath landed a hit—she absorbed it.

Every slap, every kick, every slam into furniture—she turned it back into raw power, enhancing her strikes, moving faster, hitting harder.

She jumped off a shattered chair, spun midair, and landed a roundhouse to his head.

Boom!

He flew into the corner bookshelf. Dust exploded from the impact.

But then—

CRACK!

Alath vanished and reappeared behind her—a dagger in hand, long and black, forged in vampire fire.

He stabbed forward—straight for her heart.

But a chair flew in the way.

Crashed into the dagger.

Thrown—by Cruxius.

He stood across the room, arms still down, but one foot nudging the wreckage of another chair—grinning faintly.

"Don’t stab her, Alath. She’s the only one here who actually can fight you."

Alath growled, teeth red with blood.

Ytrisia stepped forward, brushing her shoulder. "I told you to leave, Cruxius."

And then—

She surged forward with all the built-up kinetic force.

Her fist burned with light now. Energy whirling around it like a storm.

She punched.

Straight into his chest.

BOOM!

The vampire flew backward through the broken wall—out of the office.

The hallway echoed with the sound of impact.

Silence followed.

For a breathless moment, there was only the sound of crumbling wood and the faint flutter of dislodged papers.

Then—

He stood.

Through the ruined doorway, Alath’s figure rose amidst the dust, shoulders trembling—not with pain, but with rage. His jaw twitched, and blood trickled down his temple. He spat to the side, the red splatter hissing like acid on the polished floor.

His voice was no longer calm. It was guttural.

"You insects..."

His body dissolved.

One moment solid—next, a ripple.

Then mist.

Dark, thick, and pulsing red with malice.

It flooded the broken doorway, curling around the floor like smoke, slithering across walls, swallowing the light as it moved into the room.

"Shit—" Cruxius stepped back, eyes narrowing. "Ytrisia—!"

Too late.

She swung.

But her fist passed through air.

The mist had no center—no form. And then—slashes.

Sharp streaks of force sliced from within the smoke. One caught her thigh—another tore her coat at the shoulder. She twisted to defend, but the mist was everywhere—attacking from every side, vanishing before retaliation.

Her fists blurred in every direction, kinetic energy surging in arcs—but none of it landed.

Another gash. This time at her ribs.

She gritted her teeth and jumped back—but the air turned heavy. A metallic stench bloomed in her nose.

Iron.

Blood.

Poison.

She stumbled.

Her knees buckled under her. Breath hitching. Arms trembling.

"I—I can’t breathe right—"

Around her, Cruxius saw the others crumbling.

Ermond had collapsed near the fireplace, clutching his chest. One of the maids was slumped against a wall, eyes wide in terror, face drenched in sweat.

Even Raekin, proud and unmoved before, was gripping the edge of the desk, veins bulging in his arms.

The mist wasn’t just visual.

It was a weapon—filling lungs, clogging senses, leeching strength.

"Ytrisia!"