CHAPTER 57: 57: BLOOD QUEEN VS LIGHTNING GOD

Isobel had spent the last two days moving through the city like a shadow, slipping in and out of hospitals under different names, always wearing a calm smile that concealed the urgency in her chest. One after another, she collected crates of blood bags—more than a thousand in total. Each was for the newly turned vampires still locked inside the association building.

They wouldn’t feed on people. Not on her watch. Not yet.

She remembered her own first drink—how the scent of blood had swallowed her mind, how her hands had trembled as instinct drowned every shred of reason. She had nearly killed someone that night. The memory still tightened her throat.

Now, standing on the balcony of the grand staircase, she leaned lazily against the rail and looked down at the figures beginning to stir.

"You guys are finally awake. Was thinking you’d stay dead the entire day," she said, her tone light but carrying the weight of authority.

Hundreds of eyes—some bloodshot, some still hazy—lifted toward her.

"Approximately three thousand vampires-to-be." She let out a small, self-satisfied laugh. "Impressive numbers, even for me. Guess I outdid myself this time."

Dennis, still pale from his transformation, pushed himself up from the floor, his hand instantly flying to his neck where her fangs had pierced him. The others mirrored the motion, as if touching the spot might make sense of the hollow hunger in their chests.

"You... what did you do to me? I thought you killed me?" Dennis’ voice was hoarse, a mix of accusation and confusion.

Isobel tilted her head. "I didn’t kill any of you. I turned you. My army." Her eyes glowed a deep, commanding red. "Now, be good soldiers and come get your blood bag. One each."

Her voice wasn’t loud, but the air around her shifted, pressing in on their minds like an invisible hand. The compulsion hit instantly—none of them could resist.

"What is going on?!" Dennis’ voice rose in panic as he felt his feet moving without permission. "Why are my legs—why am I obeying you?! What the hell did you do to me?!"

But his body betrayed him, pulling him toward the stacked coolers at the side of the room. He grabbed a blood bag with trembling hands and tore it open, his hunger taking over before he could think. Warm liquid rushed into his mouth, and shame burned his face.

One by one, the others fed as well—like a pack of starving predators, no trace of human restraint in their movements.

Isobel waited patiently, arms folded, watching as their breathing steadied and their bodies began to hum with new strength.

"Good," she said finally. "You all stay put. You can’t walk under the sun unless you want to end up dead. I’ll be back soon." She stepped down the stairs at a slow, deliberate pace.

"Where are you going?" Dennis asked, the fight already gone from his tone. The blood had done more than satisfy his hunger—it had bound him to her completely. Somewhere deep inside, he could feel the truth: he could never harm her now, never turn against her.

He was too intelligent to deny reality. That was part of why he’d risen so quickly to become an association branch president—and why he had been able to betray masters in the past without them suspecting. He knew when to stop resisting.

"I have a guest," Isobel said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "I should welcome him... with hospitality."

She pushed open the main doors and stepped into the lightless street. Behind her, the newly turned lingered at the threshold, hesitant to follow.

---

The sky above the city was fractured with faint thunderclouds, their edges glowing faintly with energy. A figure floated high above, watching her with cold detachment.

"You came quicker than I expected, Lightning God. Or should I call you Geralt?" Isobel’s voice carried upward, calm but laced with challenge.

"Where is Dennis?" Geralt’s words cut through the air, ignoring her entirely.

Isobel’s wings erupted from her back—two vast, shadowy things like a fallen angel’s, feathers dripping darkness. Her eyes sharpened. "I heard you were one of the traitors behind my parents’ deaths," she said coldly. "I’d like for you to pay for that."

Geralt’s gaze narrowed. "An early awakened. Rare... gifted. But that doesn’t excuse your disrespect. Who’s behind you? Tell me, and for the sake of your parents, I might spare you." His tone was like ice.

He had arrived the moment Dennis’ distress signal had reached him, not knowing the scene he would find.

"I’m behind myself," Isobel replied, a dangerous smile curving her lips. "And you’d better not underestimate me. It’d be embarrassing for you if I beat you too easily."

She blurred forward, wings slicing the air, her claws reaching for his chest—aiming straight for his heart.

Geralt twisted aside in a flash, his movement as fluid as lightning itself.

"Guess it won’t be easy after all," Isobel sighed, raising her hands in mock surrender.

"To think you could catch the God of Lightning," Geralt said with open disdain. But inside, he hid a flicker of surprise. She was fast—faster than most demigods he knew.

And the last time they’d met, years ago, she had been nothing—weak, cursed, powerless. Even Dennis’ reports had given no hint of this strength.

"Who gave you this power? How are you this strong?" Geralt asked, suspicion flickering in his eyes. The Abyss? A double-cross? No... he couldn’t sense any Abyssal energy from her.

"You don’t need to know," she said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Just know you’re going to die today."

The two shot through the sky, weaving and darting in a deadly chase. Geralt evaded each strike effortlessly at first, but his mind was already calculating. Killing her might provoke retaliation he wasn’t prepared for—not from the Highborn, but from those few dangerous beings who knew who she truly was. Dream among them.

He had already pushed his limits by orchestrating her hellish foster upbringing. If he went further, Dream might stop being neutral—and Geralt was not confident of surviving that fight without godhood.

A flicker of movement caught his eye—her claws raked across his arm, tearing through fabric and skin. The wound was shallow, almost nothing, but it snapped his attention fully back to her.

"She’s getting faster..." he realized instantly. With a strong enough opponent, she was adjusting—adapting to her own strength in real time.

"Stop this madness now," Geralt warned, his voice low and final, "or I will end your life."

Black lightning crackled around him, burning the air, his gaze sharp as a blade. He wasn’t playing anymore. Isobel had crossed the line into being a genuine threat.

"Wow," she grinned through the blood dripping from her own skin. "You’re finally taking the little girl seriously, old man. I was beginning to think you just didn’t fight women."

The tension between them thickened, the storm above answering their rage.