A dense wind rushes in through the shattered arches, swirling with erratic life before escaping into the open, rushing out through fractured windows that have lost their colored glass. Rainwater drips from cracks in the ceiling overhead, collecting in shallow puddles across the slick marble floor. Statues with chipped faces stand beneath tattered drapes that trail from splintered columns — each pillar carved with unreadable inscriptions that had always been etched into their surfaces but had been simply mistaken as being the scratches and grooves of time. Lanterns, battered and dented, cast unsteady specks of orange across the dark stones, flickering in and out of strength whenever the wind resurges. Outside, far beyond the jagged edges of toppled battlements, the scarlet moon holds sway in both the sky and the world below it. Its glow penetrates the night and seeps into every corner, painting the thresholds of the ancient throne room with an otherworldly glimmer. The sensation in the tense, high-pressure air is cold, wet, and foreboding. There is a faint chemical tang to it all that mingles with the smell of stone dust and old mortar, while the echoes of frightened whispers carry through corridors that are hidden behind broken doors.

  A procession of guests crowds the throne room, all of them transfixed by a dance that has abruptly ceased. They stand with pale faces and hearts pounding. Their eyes wander across the broken walls and the spidery lines in the ceiling, minds hovering on the horrific possibility that everything is about to collapse in both a literal and metaphorical sense. Other people run in all directions, flooding out into the hallways.

  The living doll Schaufenster’s glass eyes reflect the pulsating red from the moon outside. A faint clockwork click resonates from within her body whenever a joint bends. She stands on the uneven floor, ignoring the flutter of movement and the startled murmurs around her as a shape begins to meld together from dark sludge — the same black tint as both the metal and the tainted waters deep below the castle’s grounds.

  Her gaze flickers between those who linger in the room as the ceiling crumbles around them. Her posture conveys a tense seriousness as her eyes land on Inkume. “I’m afraid that I have been keeping a grave secret,” says the doll, her leg sizzling as a mass forms together. Ruby eyes form together in a pair as they drift around in a shape made of that sludge. But then one more eye appears, and then one more after that. A thick, black, living slop crawls over the side of the abyss, and inside of it loosely float dozens of red, shining eyes with ocular cords visibly dragging behind them, lashing around like parasitic worms trying to find something firm to latch onto.

  Inkume shifts in his stance. His left hand rests near the hilt of the hero’s blade in his hand, though there is tension in his shoulders. His eyes narrow in tired curiosity, waiting for her to continue.

  “Get away from there!” calls Azalea to the doll, being held back by Cvet as she tries to struggle. Schaufenster stands there, her hands behind her back, sparing an idle glance toward the elf before looking back at Inkume. Schaufenster stands there, pressing her wooden palms together with difficulty. “Back then, back one thousand years ago, he never truly died,” she says, voice pitched higher from the strain of forcing out each word as she looks down at the crawling mass pooling around her feet. “The original Vampire Lord from one thousand years prior.” Her eyes flick to the crowd, then to Inkume as the sludge begins to slowly reconstitute itself.

  “That’s impossible!” calls Agnis, holding a sword ready that she confiscated from a hollow guardsman. “The church’s documentation is extremely thorough. There was nothing left of him!” argues the knight. None of them seem to be sure as to what to do or if they should make a move or not. “The last hero destroyed every trace of him in their final duel.”

  Inkume narrows his eyes, the hairs on his neck standing on end. “No… they didn’t,” he notes, realizing, as he looks at the doll and pieces together what must have happened in his mind’s eye.

  Schaufenster bends down, touching the ooze around her legs. She holds a scoop of it in her palm, the ball of sludge dripping through her fingers like thick tar. A red eye inside of it bulges, observing the space. “He only lost a physical duel,” says Schaufenster. “His spirit and wounded essence refused to fade because, for better or worse,” she starts, looking at the ruby eye in her hands as black ooze runs down her forearm. “I still admired him wholeheartedly. That was the moment everything changed.”

  Despite everything that happened back then, some part of Schaufenster still admired the old Vampire Lord for whatever reasons she might have had — sensical or not. “I was there when it happened,” says the doll. “When that last hero struck him,” she explains, almost sadly, as the black goop bubbles and begins to take shape. “I saw it happen.”

  And, because of the Vampire Lord’s special, stupid ability that Inkume himself has made use of several times — the inability to ever lose a duel if winning it would be a greater feat of admiration for any watchers to see him win it — he survived.

  The hero’s strike destroyed the old Vampire Lord’s body and form all those many centuries ago, but the old Vampire Lord himself survived, and what remained of him after that near-total destruction went into the dark crevices of the old ruin — the castle. There, he would wait and influence the happenings of the ages to his advantage so that one day a new Vampire Lord would come and restore the castle — and so himself — to power.

  One thousand years later, Inkume came and did just that.

  For his entire journey, Inkume had been thinking that it was fate itself conspiring to make him begin bringing the castle to power and the elements of the forbidden ritual into play. But this was never the case. It was never something so abstract as ‘fate’ conspiring against him.

  — It was the influence of the old Vampire Lord, still here, still acting in the name of his mission.

  Dorime rubs at her arms, looking out of the side of her eyes at everyone. “…I have no idea what’s going on,” mutters the warrior under her breath, though not so quietly that others fail to hear.

  “Fourth arc useful idiot protagonist plot twist,” says Inkume dryly, coming up with a plan. This girl seems media-savvy; she’s picked up on things fast. No need to mince words. “We’re at the reveal. I’ll catch you up later.”

  “Oh, shit,” she replies almost jovially, looking back at the doll, the abyss behind her growing larger. Dorime blinks a few times. “Cool stuff.”

  Snatch’s eyes narrow, and the edges of her wispy hair ripple with worried energy. Bark sniffs the air, unsettled by an intangible stench as she starts to growl, her hair standing on end as a familiar presence begins to form again before them, by the gaping wound the old castle is bleeding black blood from.

  Schaufenster’s voice tightens. “My belief in him protected him from destruction that day,” she explains in words what Inkume had already pieced together. “He was nearly dead, but he dissolved into the castle walls so he could rest and bide his time,” she explains. “He waited for the day that a new Vampire Lord might rebuild the fortress, saturating it with magic so his own wounds would mend.” She lifts her small face — cheeks of polished porcelain shining. “All of your power, Lord Inkume — every monstrous increment — has fueled the keep’s restoration. And has now, with the boon of the blood moon, restored him.”

  Inkume’s mouth sets in a grim line.

  The doll turns, motioning toward the wide crack behind her, one that splits the throne room’s floor with its jagged gape. A faint viscosity of black slime roils up, creeping from the gloom across the carved rubble. The last of the shape emerges, enormous and dribbling, reminiscent of thick tar with a vaguely humanoid silhouette. Its presence releases a wave of putrid, pulsing pressure and then condenses itself together into a tight mass — a human silhouette — perfect, pristine, and deeply unnatural in its flawlessness of build and stature.

  — He’s hot. The old Vampire Lord stands there, formed together into something close enough to a person.

  “Damn, why is he hot?” asks the strange hero, looking around at everyone’s otherwise very tense expressions that do not match her tone or question. She looks back at the reshaping entity across the room. “But, like, also, like, he strangles cats in the park?” she asks, rubbing the back of her head. “Is that a vibe? Just me? He’s totally gonna monologue, right?” She asks, getting ignored. “Can I have my sword back before he does that?”

  However, a rancid stench seeps into every breath they take, thick enough that eyes water and throats burn. Inkume can sense the dreadful aura saturating the air around him — tangible evil that is so heavy that tension creeps up even his spine and that’s saying something considering he himself is also actually supposed to be the greatest evil in the world. He can’t help but wonder if this is what others feel when they see him. Guttural resonance echoes from its center, an unholy sound that unsettles the crowd more than any roar could. The many bulging, raging red eyes drift around the oozing body, forming together in his face, along his neck, and his arms. Parts of him lacks definition. Instead, it bears swirling blackness and the many blazing points of light that might be called eyes. It reminds Inkume of the water below the castle’s underground, the portal to the underworld.

  The stones crack out further below him, the gash in the castle widening.

  Snatch flickers over to Inkume, her face contorting in fear as she shields herself behind him. “Master,” says the ghost quietly in worry into his ear, holding his shoulder tightly. Inkume lifts an arm, shielding her with it.

  An eye blink of silence clings to the hall before the old Vampire Lord finally makes an identifiable noise that might be called a laugh. It is humorless and nauseating — pressing into the skull of anyone listening.

  He, it, takes a step forward, black slime dripping from elongated fingers that now hold Schaufenster’s hand. The sludge in her palm having connected with the rest of it to make the shape of the man. The slash of the scarlet moon illuminates him from above, turning each droplet into a shining drip of blood. “Finally,” he says, his free hand holding his face as he laughs. “The endless night has come! You worthless fool,” he says, addressing Inkume, swiping out a hand through the air and sending droplets of black ink into the stone where the liquid sizzles and eats away at the rockwork.

  Dorime leans over toward Inkume, holding a hand by the side of her mouth. “Evil monologue time. No, really. Do you maybe wanna give me my sword back?” she asks quietly again.

  “I’ve watched you drift about for months, squandering these gifts. A thousand years I’ve endured, waiting to complete my return. And for what? To see my inheritance wasted on your friendly invitations and pointless indulgences?” The old Vampire Lord steps forward, dragging Schaufenster after him. The small doll stumbles, barely keeping up as her feet trudge through the muck. “Watching this circus unfold in my domain was worse than the thousand years of empty silence!”

  Inkume keeps his composure, though he clenches the swords in his hands. The crowd behind him presses toward the exit, but many realize that the double doors sealed themselves moments before, sealed shut by an unseen barrier as the throne room seals itself off, the castle shaping and morphing to close all exits.

  The old Vampire Lord’s unnervingly fluid limbs reach out, snagging Schaufenster by her small wooden torso. She twitches, letting out a squeak of genuine agony. Smoke rises where his muddy blackness touches her body, dissolving and melting the varnish on her limbs. “You,” he barks at the doll. “You made me wait century after century in a half-dead slumber.”

  Schaufenster tries to pry herself free, voice trembling. “Wait! No, I-”

  He tightens the hold, ignoring her words. She releases a chilled, choking sound. Pieces of her arms burn away, leaving black scorch marks in the wooden grain.

  Inkume rushes forward with a burst of energy, ignoring the crowd’s alarmed shouts. But before Inkume can reach him, the floor breaks open once more. A towering sarcophagus, adorned with nightmarish runes, bursts from the stone. Its lid crashes shut within a hair’s breadth of caving in Inkume’s chest. He flinches away, narrowly escaping being crushed as its stone lids slam shut, the insides lined with a wall of spikes. The sarcophagus rattles, the extended silver blade stuck in its slammed lid as its only prize.

  But in that same moment, a silhouette lunges past him. Her boots skid over the slick stone, a hand running over the jutting hilt of the sword that she yanks out of the coffin and thrusts at the monstrous figure’s chest, but the tar-like body barely shudders from the impact. A blast wave shakes the castle, the air beyond the strike rippling in fluid motion as if it liquified into a disturbed pool for a second.

  The room goes silent, everyone looking as the heroine stands there with the tip of her sword stuck not in the monster’s chest but rather in the core of the wooden doll, whom he had simply lifted in front of himself as a living shield without so much as a glint of life in his eyes.

  “Hey. Why did you let him finish monologuing, asshole?” she asks, looking back over her shoulder at Inkume.

  “Schaufenster!” calls Inkume before looking at the distant heroine with venom. “Because there are rules, idiot!” he replies desperately, trying to find a way to explain this convoluted mess to her as simply as possible. “Dodge!”

  She tsks, looking back just in time to see the old Vampire Lord flick up an arm in annoyance that knocks her flying. Dorime collides with a fallen pillar, toppling it in a small avalanche of debris. After the dust settles, she lands near Inkume, who helps her to her feet.

  “Watch what you’re doing!” snaps Inkume, looking over toward the hurt doll he can’t reach.

  “I have no idea what I’m doing,” replies Dorime, looking at him and nursing her shoulder. “Anyway, you’re welcome. Once this is over, remember who it was that saved you and repay your debts accordingly.”

  He looks at her, confused. “Aren’t you trying to kill me?” he asks. “Evil Vampire Lord, remember? Besides, I don’t exactly feel saved,” he notes, looking back at the more obvious threat.

  She wipes her mouth. “You’re clearly an anti-hero at best. I’m quick enough to recognize the classic fake-doppelganger-revealed spiel,” replies the hero, tapping the side of her head. “Yawn.”

  “…Ah… right,” replies Inkume dryly, looking back toward the monstrosity. She’s obviously a transmigrator.

  — And also a hopeless nerd.

  “I guess time can’t make trash be anything else. Not much has changed there.” The old Vampire Lord, still gripping Schaufenster’s shatter frame, simply hurls the pierced doll away to the side. She hits the ground and violently tumbles over herself, limbs scattering across the floor with unnatural clacks as the wooden pieces and joints break. One of her arms shatters completely off at the elbow joint, the broken wood splintering and leaving a trail behind.

  There she lies still.

  Snatch and Bark both leap forward. They coordinate a pincer movement from two sides. It would look impressive had their target shown any reaction. Yet the monstrous vampire simply swats them aside. His many ruby eyes melt together on his face, one after the other, drifting like a droplet of water that presses into the next, forming a wet mass on his face that ripples with each conjoining. “But I guess it at least looks like some cowardly insects finally learned to stand for themselves,” he says. Snatch weighs next to nothing compared to his raw strength, and Bark is hammered toward a half-broken column, both of them sent flying. Snatch vanishes, popping back into existence next to the giant wolf and catching her mid-flight before she smashes into the pillar.

  Suddenly, from overhead, a crack in the highest arches dribbles dust. The entire crowd glances up, shaken by the possibility that the structure might be on the verge of collapse. A thunderous rattle reverberates. The scarlet moon’s glow intensifies, shining with dreadful brilliance into the crumbling hall, enveloping the swirling gloom in an unsettling radiance of red. The old Vampire Lord’s face — the region where those twin lights burn — looks even more unnatural. The floor cracks and the ceiling tears, and the blackness from below begins to meld with the red from above, creating a fluid miasma between the two of them. It’s as if the sky and the ground are both melting and merging into a single, unified brack.

  One spectator stumbles forward, a gangly vampiric minion with attempts to prove loyalty. He rasps at the monster. “Please, great ancestor, I-”

  A black arm flashes out. The lesser vampire’s voice stops instantly, replaced by a crunch as his neck is severed by a black tendril and his body falls into the abyss, still carrying the moment of his steps. The rest of the watchers recoil in dismay, but the old Lord does not spare even the faintest acknowledgment, as he seems to be focused on the spreading darkness at his feet.

  Inkume helps Dorime shift aside, breathing heavily. She meets his gaze with obvious bafflement. She rubs a sore spot on her ribs. “Just explain it to me later,” she says right off the bat.

  “I promise,” Inkume says, eyes desperate. “Help me now, and I’ll repay you however you want. You won’t regret it. Just… help me protect them,” he says, nodding toward his followers.

  “Is like the final result of a found family genre?” she asks, looking at the odd collection of spirits and people.

  “Like, three volumes’ worth at least,” replies Inkume dryly, not rolling his eyes.

  “Damn. I love that stuff,” says Dorime. After staring at him for three pounding heartbeats, Dorime releases a slow exhale. “Fine,” she mutters. She dusts herself off, ignoring an ache in her back. “Hell, if I know what’s going on. But I guess I came here to subdue a Vampire Lord,” she mutters. “Is it always so hectic in this world?” she asks.

  “You get used to that feeling after a few weeks,” replies Inkume and nods. Their eyes flick to each other’s weapons, remembering their earlier exchange. Some faint understanding flows.

  The old Vampire Lord laughs again. “Pathetic. I have no interest in your mortal rummaging or your petty alliances.” Only two ruby eyes remain from his many, now locked in formation. “This world… it’s a place where men like me can become God,” he says, taking a step forward as the maelstrom behind him roars. “And you content yourself with such… trivialities as ‘rest’.”

  “He’s doing another evil monologue!” shouts Inkume, interrupting him. “Now! Buy me a minute!”

  Dorime nods and bursts forward with agile speed, her silver blade shining as she tries to drive its edge into a vulnerable spot on the monstrous creature. He parries with a single fluid motion, black claws meeting steel, and a fresh wave of putrid gloom surges outward. The ground cracks even more, letting out a pungent whiff of whatever noxious presence is locked in the underside of the castle. Inkume sees an opening to gather his beloved companions — Snatch, Bark, and any others who wish to flee. He half-shouts to them, voice echoing in the tall gloom. “Come on! You can’t stay here! We’ll regroup, then -”

  “- No!” barks Snatch, half-dissolved at the edges from the earlier blow, still reeling. She is floating near the collapsed pillar, one translucent arm trembling. “I won’t run, Master. We’re supposed to protect you. Right?”

  “Actually, it’s the other way around,” remarks Inkume, spinning a finger.

  Bark, panting, rises up on all fours. She coughs, eyes shining with primal wrath. “Yes. This place is our home now,” says the wolf goddess, her yellow eyes looking at Inkume. “I’d rather shatter every bone in my body than watch him defile it.”

  A collective hush flows through the others as Dorime’s hero’s strike reverberates, sending a tremor through the castle. Another gust of putrid wind howls into the throne room, and an arc of deep purple lightning blasts from above. The old Vampire Lord endures the blow from Dorime’s blade without visible harm, although he does press back in his footing, his boots carving through the stonework from the sheer weight of the hammering strike.

  Bark lunges again, and Snatch focuses intangible energies in her palm, eyes locked on Inkume’s face for any further instruction. He nods to her. She nods back.

  “The last of your kind failed to kill me,” says the old Vampire Lord. “And he was much more capable than you,” notes the monster, blocking the hero’s strike. “I’ll be sure to keep you alive for a thousand years of torment,” he says, narrowing his eyes as he pushes her back.

  She scowls, not from contempt but from the realization that every second here really is life or death. “Oh? Is that all?!” she grunts, barely swinging her sword out in time to parry as a black, oddly fluid hand clasps at the silver blade and throws her away. She lunges forward anew, her silver sword whirling to intercept the old Vampire Lord’s black talons. Bark charges in coordination, bounding over crumbled debris. Her claws slash for the monster’s slime-like substance, but the scaled chunk of black mass at the target’s side repels them. She grits her teeth, refusing to yield. Suddenly, Snatch circles behind, shimmering in and out of sight while trying to pelt the monster with statues and gargoyles that she’s stealing from the inner battlements.

  A deafening clap thunders, sending a shockwave across the floor. Dorime barely keeps her balance. Sparks and viscous black streaks swirl in the air. The old Vampire Lord stands at the center of it all.

  “You’re out of time,” says the old Vampire Lord. “The ritual cannot be stopped,” he proclaims, a rip running through the castle floor and walls in all directions from the abyss behind him like a spider spreading its legs. Ruby moonlight leaks in through the breaking outer walls as a pattern begins to emerge in the stone.

  Tremors split the floor again, and the monstrous figure swipes an arm to fight Dorime away, nearly twisting her ankle from the force of the impact. She braces herself, closing her eyes in inexperienced dread. But then Bark rams into the sludge-laden torso, forcing the blow off its direct path. Dorime goes spinning but lands in a half-roll behind a broken chunk of column, gasping for breath. She looks up to see the giant wolf instead pinned beneath the old Lord, pinned by the mass of growing, swirling black arms that threaten to stab into her body.

  A potion, sent flying through the air, crashes against his face, and he stumbles back as the liquid goop sizzles over his exterior. Bark slips free and pulls back.

  “Hey, is this like the final boss fight or something?” calls Dorime, not getting any answer. “I’m hearing Latin chanting. Is anyone else hearing Latin chanting?” she asks, looking around herself but getting no response. “Fuck,” mutters the heroine quietly, wiping off her face and getting back up.

  The others are all collecting together. “We got everyone we could out,” says Azalea. “What should we do?”

  Fi-Fi the black-haired maid, Agniss the bunnygirl knight, Azalea the elven priestess, and her younger human brother Cvet all stand behind a cracked dais. They are still present because they believe in a man known for his uncharacteristic compassion.

  Inkume, strong in frame yet undeniably regal in posture, readies himself to slip through a gap. A swirl of black cape around his shoulders and a set to his jaw denote urgency. Before he departs, his look conveys silent gratitude to those who have pledged to stand in his stead. The old Vampire Lord — a shapeless horror of ancient malevolence — looms in the center of this battered throne room beneath a fractured vault of moonlight. Dorime, the heroine with a battered breastplate, stands near the far side, panting and partially slumped against a toppled statue as she, Bark, and Hwa-Young work to distract him. “Listen, everyone. I need you to buy me some time too,” says Inkume. “I have a plan.”

  Snatch hovers in midair, restless energy coursing through her ghostly form. “We’ll keep him off you, Master,” she says, without asking anything more, her gravely voice cracking. She projects as much confidence as she can manage. “We’re not afraid of that jerk!”

  Fi-Fi, hair plastered to her cheeks by sweat and debris, bows stiffly. “You’d better hurry, my lord,” she says in a hushed tone, fists trembling at her sides.

  Agnis steadies her weapon, long ears twitching from nerves. Azalea holds a glowing hand that flickers with spiritual light, while Cvet tries to look brave behind her, his face pale, but his hand rests on the hilt of his old iron sword nonetheless. Inkume nods to them all. “I’ll return quickly.”

  Then he slides through a shadowy gap and is gone. “Stay alive. I need all of you that way,” he adds, and then vanishes, turning into a gnat and then flying away through a crack in the walls.

  Although, as far as the others are concerned, he literally just vanished into thin air.

  The moment he disappears, the old Vampire Lord lets out a cutting laugh that reverberates across the stone. It is a wet, scraping sound that makes teeth clench. He steps forward, gore-like black essence oozing at the edges of his tattered aristocratic attire. Though he has a vaguely humanoid structure, details blur into sludgy shapes. Dorime attempts a strike, her sword humming with leftover magical charge. He does not bother to parry. Her blade sinks into the seething darkness where flesh should be, then emerges with no visible damage inflicted. He flings out an arm, smashing her back against a table that she shatters through. He doesn’t bother watching her as she rolls over the ground.

  “Heroes sure have lost their spark over the years.” He scans the rest of them. “What’s the matter? Is your precious ‘Master’ gone already?” he asks, laughing. His eyes focus on them. “You cling to illusions,” he declares, voice oozing condescension. “That imposter has abandoned you in your final hour.” He holds out a hand toward them. “Kneel to me and beg, and I’ll consider letting the most convincing half of you to live,” offers the old Vampire Lord, the castle shaking as one wall after the other collapses. Red, eerie moonlight floods over the arena as holes begin to form in the ceiling. The black, starless sky above the castle is awash in crimson light as the empty night sky absorbs the shine of the blood moon. All behind him, the miasma continues to grow. The sky itself begins to change and alter itself in formation as the red night clouds condense and drift apart over the blood moon, making them look like the rays of a new sun that is rising in the middle of the witching hour — made of ruby red strands that bind it to the world below.

  The light of the sun itself is being drawn down into the underworld.

  Snatch clenches intangible fists, readying herself. Fi-Fi draws a short dagger from beneath her apron, unsure how to strike an entity made of swirling black matter. She trembles but remains close to the group. “Would’ve been better if I was still a skeleton,” she mutters to herself uneasily with a slight laugh.

  Bark’s eyes flash with primal fury. She leaps, powerful muscles propelling her forward in a bounding pounce that aims for the old Vampire Lord’s face. He shifts to the side effortlessly, letting her lunge pass. Her claws scrape an arc across slick stone, sparking. She growls, springing around for another attempt at the same time as Agnss comes. She quickly flanks him, ears flattened against her head. She thrusts her sword, but the black silhouette contorts fluidly. The weapon pierces only swirling shadows. Agnis braces for a counterattack. It strikes her with frightening speed — a backhanded blow that knocks her off her feet. She skids across the floor and slams into a fallen candelabrum, where Cvet yanks her back to her feet.

  Meanwhile, Hwa-Young staggers forward and then jumps onto her broom, launching up into the air to clear some ground space as the floor begins to crumble and more holes begin to appear below the throne room. Each of the pits is filled with a thick, empty blackness that looks more like sludge, like black water, than just sheer contentless void. She lifts her hands in an unsteady motion, chanting a half-forgotten incantation. A wave of golden sparks flutters over the old Lord’s shape. For a heartbeat, his outline stiffens. Then he cracks his neck in a motion that immediately dismisses the spell’s hold. A black swirl of cursed vapors floods out of his body, forcing Hwa-Young to fly in a quick aversive maneuver, eyes wide with alarm as the walls around her are pierced by black needles.

  Azalea steps in, hands shining. She mouths a prayer that echoes through the stone. The old Vampire Lord’s face warps into a sneer. He extends a palm, launching a violent swirl of clotted darkness that collides with Azalea’s protective ward. The light wavers and cracks, sending arcs of harsh power that break the remains of the dais behind her. Rubble rains downward. A dark tendril lashes into the elf from the side and throws her away, where she violently tumbles over the stones toward Schaufenster, just barely missing the edge of a pit.

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  Confusingly, he stares, glaring at Azalea for a time, before his attention is stolen by a blinding shine.

  Dorime tries again, sword raised, letting out a fierce yell that resonates with desperation. She channels hidden reserves of strength. Her blade flares with a bright aura, cutting through the gloom and forcing the old Vampire Lord to step back. A second slash follows, angled toward his core. He moves to block with an inky arm that condenses into a hardened shell. The blade’s aura sputters upon contact, battered by raw ancient might. Dorime’s knees buckle from the strain. The next instant, he lands a direct blow to her midsection, sending her sprawling across a cluster of shattered benches.

  He roars with laughter. “Is this supposed to be impressive?” His words slice into their morale as those who can pull themselves back together and regroup. The outside wall behind the throne collapses, dust and debris flying into the air as coarse particulate as a fog of stone and grime fills the air. Ruby eyes, the same tinge as the blood-soaked light of the moon and the sigil below, shine through the grit. “You are nothing to me. Where is your precious ‘Master’ now?”

  Snatch hisses under her breath. “Too busy for the likes of you.” She whirls overhead, a massive shape in her hands held over her head — the Vampire Lord’s own stone sarcophagus. She bashes the ton-heavy construct downward onto him, followed by a loud crash that shakes the arena as his shape vanishes in the explosion.

  Everything falls quiet for a moment as the dust settles.

  Everyone watches; look at the spot where he was standing a second ago.

  Suddenly, a lashing tendril seizes Snatch’s intangible collar. She gasps, pinned midair by a supernatural force. A face appears from the murk. He tugs her in close, his voice dripping disdain as he looks at the spirit. “You ugly thing, whatever should I do with you so that you remember your place?” asks the old Vampire Lord, tightening his grip. “Because I think you’ve forgotten,” he says, twisting his hand and tightening his grasp. She tries to twist free, but his hold is absolute. He hurls her downward and presses a boot on the back of her spectral head. “What. You. Are.” She screams, intangible face grinding into the gritty floor.

  “Stop!” Fi-Fi yells, dashing forward, but a wave of oppressive aura knocks her away. She collapses near a collapsed archway.

  “Now you see?” The old Vampire Lord’s face flickers in twisted shapes. “He left you to die in vain. Your new master prioritizes his own survival. Did you think anything else was possible for a vampire?” he asks, holding his hands against his own chest. “We are monsters. And monsters look out for themselves first.”

  Snatch attempts a retort, but the pressure on her head increases. A rasp escapes her throat. Her intangible form flickers, starting to distort from the crushing tension on her head. She feels a vile swirl of humiliating panic while the smell of rot and ash saturates her every sense.

  Dorime tries to stand, gripping her cracked blade. Bark is pinned under a fallen chunk of marble. Agnis stumbles, blood on her forehead. Cvet wraps an arm around Azalea to steady her. Hwa-Young coughs from the corner, broomstick shaking in her grasp.

  The old Vampire Lord leans more weight on Snatch’s pinned head. “I want you to squeal,” he hisses, black saliva dribbling from a mouth that can hardly be called a mouth. “Beg.”

  — Snatch starts laughing, her agonized spiel stopping in a second. The old Vampire Lord’s expression changes to confused anger. Her toothy smile widens as her crying turns into a jackal’s cackle. Her eyes look up his way. “Well, I’m not a monster,” replies Snatch plainly. “I’m a ghost, asshole.”

  She immediately melts into a puddle, slipping away, his leg stamping through into nothing as she slips out of his grasp, leaving him standing exactly where he should be.

  A thunderous crash rips across the wall at the far side of the throne room. The entire exterior crumbles in a landslide of stone and roaring wind. Chunks of masonry burst inward, letting cold mountain air surge through the vast gap that emerges. A skeletal shape emerges from the swirl of dusty air: an undead dragon, skeleton ridges lined with runic engravings, glowing sockets where eyes should be. It smashes headlong into the old Vampire Lord, sending him flying in a torrent of crushed brick. The entire floor trembles from the impact.

  Snatch’s intangible body, freed from the vicious boot, flickers in disorientation. She scrambles away on all fours, breath ragged. A wave of relief almost undoes her. She spots the huge beast thrashing in the open space; ragged wings spread. The wind it brings cuts through the gloom. Loose rubble bounces around from each of the dragon’s movements.

  “Inkume,” she breathes. And indeed, on the creature’s neck stands, as far as she’s concerned, the real Vampire Lord himself, gripping some enchanted harness affixed to the draconic spine. His cloak flutters in the shrieking gust. He leaps off, landing amidst shattered stone. He rushes to where Snatch lies. “Are you alright?” He kneels, voice low but urgent.

  She is battered, intangible essence frayed. “You… you came back,” she whispers. Her eyes glisten with unspoken gratitude.

  He takes her hand gently. “I said I need you for the rest of eternity, remember?” A flicker of a half smile softens his sharp features. She exhales something between a sob and a laugh, pressing her forehead to his chest in relief.

  Dorime staggers closer, sword balanced in shaky arms, eyes focused on Inkume. “Fucking awesome!” says the girl, pointing at the dragon. She glances at the undead dragon that rears up amid the swirling dust, spitting out a rattling hiss of challenge at the old Vampire Lord.

  “Right?” asks Inkume. “Let’s finish this mess.”

  Dorime feels a sting in her bruised side but nods, stepping off to the edge where Bark tries to wriggle out from beneath the debris. She pulls aside the chunk of marble, pinning the wolf-goddess. Bark stands, muzzle curled in a faint snarl, though relief at Inkume’s return glows in her eyes.

  In the open breach, the undead dragon unleashes a torrent of necrotic flame into the old Vampire Lord, who braces behind a half-formed shield of blackness. Stone melts under scorching blasts. Great arcs of twisted energy ripple across the hall. The old Vampire Lord, knocked from the initial collision, roars with renewed vitriol. He thrusts a hand outward, unleashing a swirling coil of monstrous magic that slams the dragon’s rib cage. The undead beast reels, its tail smashing the floor and sending tremors through everyone’s feet.

  Fi-Fi stands behind Inkume, posture readied with a shallow curtsey, short dagger clutched in whitened knuckles. She notices Agnis limping past and tries to support her. “You okay, Agnis?” Fi-Fi says. Agnis gives a terse nod, holding her leg.

  Behind them comes a rumbling.

  All around, countless undead soldiers — a legion bound to Inkume — flood in through once-hidden passages. There are emaciated skeletal knights, wobbling zombies, half-rotted ghouls, and wraith-like forms swirling with flickers of green flame. Hollow guardsmen press open doors, the magical barriers being broken by skeletal mages with ancient tomes, and black riders rush in. They surge into the throne room, guided by the Vampire Lord’s summons. Thousands of them concentrate around the perimeter, forming a tide of rattling armor and scraping limbs.

  The old Vampire Lord, locked in mid-battle with the undead dragon, howls in contempt. “All this worthless fodder!” He conjures a harsh field of black electricity, incinerating a row of skeletal knights that leaps forward. The corridor behind them collapses in a swirl of rubble. Another group swarms in from the other side, seized by the same destructive magic and reduced to cinders. Waves of lesser undead keep coming, piling in from behind battered doors. The throne room grows thick with the rancid stench of rotting flesh, scorching bone, and swirling rancor. Inkume gestures, commanding caution so the numbers do not charge blindly into doom. But the old Lord barely yields ground. The undead dragon flaps tattered wings, lunging with its skull-like muzzle in an attempt to clamp onto the old Lord’s body. He counters by driving a black-laced spike through the dragon’s rib cage, splintering it. The monster recoils with a rattling shriek.

  The old Vampire Lord merges with a swirling corona of shadow that intensifies around him. He roars, unleashing a deadly incantation. The undead dragon’s entire torso ignites with a maelstrom of corrupted lightning. Bone cracks. Chunks disintegrate in midair. The beast thrashes, wings flailing, eyes extinguishing in a final flicker. Then it collapses into dusty fragments. In the hush that follows, only the old Lord’s triumphant scoff resonates.

  “So pathetically easy,” he remarks. Pieces of shattered skeleton crumble at his feet. “One would think you have forgotten the legends. It took a party of heroes to defeat me once before. Do you see any legendary might among you?” He extends both arms, stance relaxed, fully confident. All the battered fighters gather, dripping sweat or intangible mist. Dorime’s face remains tight with grim anger, a sword trembling in her hand. The old Vampire Lord lets a hateful grin twist his mouth into a black rictus. “The sum of your power is negligible. You can’t challenge me in my castle.” That final word bristles with malicious self-assurance.

  “Actually. It’s my castle now.” Inkume steps forward, eyes narrowed. “And I’ve been doing some redecorating while you were away.” He glances over to a corner of the throne room where a battered stone statue rests, partially hidden behind netted curtains and twisted gears from the defunct clocktower machinery.

  It depicts an ancient archer, wings etched into the stone. It is the statue he found in the clocktower long ago, the statue of a time-frozen member of an ancient hero party.

  On the opposite side, a dusty mound of bones rests in a broken casket, a relic recovered from the cursed forest. It is the bodily remains of a legendary priestess from that same hero party from one thousand years ago. “But I think that these two belong to you,” he says with a smile.

  Snatch flickers into the air, rolling her shoulder, having retrieved both of them from their hiding spots.

  The old Vampire Lord’s swirling aura flares. He reads Inkume’s intent. “No-” he snarls, launching himself forward in a blur of darkness. But Dorime, Bark, and Snatch intercept. Their combined effort only delays him for a breath, enough to disrupt his momentum.

  Inkume dashes across the shattered floor, dodging a falling chunk of ceiling that breaks free from the impact of the undead dragon’s earlier entry. He sets one palm against the statue’s chipped surface, the other against the mound of ancient bones. He nearly falters from the dark energies crashing around him but grips the stone and the remains with unwavering devotion.

  “Stop him!” the old Vampire Lord bellows. A clawed wave of black fluid surges across the floor, fracturing chairs and smothering the undead minions who try to shield Inkume. Hwa-Young leaps forward, summoning a swirling gust that holds the fluid back a moment longer, giving Inkume time to chant.

  He focuses on a technique that calls to the well of power in the castle’s foundation. He feels the strain in his chest. This is no normal summoning. Resurrecting a hero from bones is risky enough; restoring a petrified champion from centuries past is another magnitude. Good thing he’s had practice with the petrified statues in the gardens. Energy crackles around him — a swirl of electric undertones and necromantic pulses that rumble in the pits of every onlooker’s stomach. The air itself grows painfully cold, stinging skin and making hair stand on end.

  Dormant bones begin to glimmer with pale luminescence. The statue’s surface brightens from the inside, fine cracks mending over crumbled limbs. A windy exhalation emerges from empty sockets. Inkume grits his teeth, channels a final surge, and unleashes it. Two new blurs of motion materialize in place of inert husks. A woman in flowing vestments — wearing the crest of an ancient cleric — and a lithe archer with wings of ephemeral starlight on his back. They land unsteadily, each dropping to one knee, startled by their abrupt revival. The newly risen priestess, eyes shining with a timeless knowledge, blinks in confusion. The archer, once stone, now breathes in short, sharp gasps as blood pumps again.

  They pop up on either side of Dorime, who stares at them with wide eyes. She feels something intangible anchor them to her presence. A new swirl of magic forms around the trio. The priestess meets Dorime’s gaze with calm acceptance, reading the situation in an instant. The archer notches a spectral arrow, scanning the battlefield with unwavering focus. Both apparently sense a destiny that ties them to the new hero, Dorime. She feels it as well — an odd, unspoken unity linking them in that moment.

  “Sup?” asks Dorime quietly, lightly lifting a hand.

  The old Vampire Lord snarls, smashing aside a group of undead footmen to clear a path. He seethes at Inkume, who drops to one knee, spent from the intense resurrection spell. “Enough! I’ll end this!” His voice rumbles from a place beyond natural speech. He conjures another salvo of black fluid.

  The two legendary figures do not hesitate. The priestess raises a luminous staff, conjuring a protective barrier around the battered heroes. The archer leaps, using ephemeral wings to gain vantage. He sends forth a hail of bright arrows that slice through the gloom and pepper the old Vampire Lord’s swirling mass, forcing him to dodge. Dorime stands up straighter, her heart renewed. “Let’s do this,” she says. She meets the eyes of the priestess, who acknowledges with a brief nod, and the archer, who nocks another arrow.

  She’s just trying to look cool to the new guys.

  The entire group musters around them, forging a new line of defense. Bark, limping, powers through her pain, prepared to pounce again. Snatch draws intangible daggers once more, face twisted with anger and relief. Fi-Fi helps steady Agnis, who readies her sword. Azalea and Cvet standing together, fighting with one another as they inexperienced attempt to nock a small crossbow. Hwa-Young stands behind them, staff raised. They all channel what remains of their strength. The old Vampire Lord sees that they have reformed. “Pathetic!” he spits, but the slightest wariness flickers over his face.

  A collective blast of light fills the throne room, the night being repelled for just a moment’s time.

  Inkume, finally having a chance now that the threat is being repelled, avoids a chunk of falling ceiling, sprints, and dives to catch Schaufenster’s wooden hand mere moments before the stone underneath her crumbles away. Her frame dangles over the abyss, the black sludge bubbling below as it absorbs everything that falls into it. “Got you!” he says, pulling her back up. He drags her to safety, though her fragile frame trembles from strain.

  Two glass eyes open up, looking at him from inside of a cracked, fractured porcelain head. “I… betrayed you,” she says, eyes wide and guilt-ridden. “I lied to you. Why…?”

  He lifts her in his arms, his expression soft. “Sometimes a second chance needs a third try.” He cradles her carefully. She cannot speak for a few heartbeats, stunned by the sincerity in his voice. She closes her eyes. “Leave me be.”

  “I give the orders here,” replies Inkume.

  “Then it seems like I really am damned to suffer forever,” she mutters, a faint smile barely cracking across her half-shattered face.

  “Welcome to the club,” replies the Vampire Lord dryly. Inkume brings her to Azalea, who stands near a stable portion of the floor. “Take her,” he says, depositing the doll gently into the elf’s arms. Azalea nods, beckoning Cvet to handle the crossbow by himself, which he seems happy to do.

  The old Vampire Lord, forced to contend with the newly resurrected heroes, roars with frustration. He draws upon an endless well of ancient darkness, unleashing a broad wave of destructive force that dents the castle’s walls. The archer flits overhead, firing arrow after arrow that bursts into luminous shards upon impact. The priestess channels holy flames that lick around the old Lord’s swirling shape, each strike chipping more tar-like mass away. Dorime seizes every opening, swinging her blade to sever black congealed tendrils that sprout from his frame. Bark dashes in with savage bites, ignoring the acidic sting scorching her fur. Snatch, intangible, materializes to slice at vulnerable spots, then vanishes again.

  Fi-Fi, behind them, presses forward with her short dagger toward a series of tendrils, accompanied by a wave of shuffling black-armored knights. Agnis leaps onto the rubble, launching a midair thrust with her sword. She strikes the old Lord’s shoulder mass, sending bits of black sludge flying. The presence howls and staggers for the first time. Even Hwa-Young, with her scrambled memory, musters a well-timed incantation that sears off an entire chunk of the monstrous figure’s side. The acrid smell thickens, and defensive black fluid seeps across the floor. The old Lord rages, voice booming with bitter scorn.

  Inkume rushes in to join them. He uses cunning steps, flanking from the side, delivering a slash of his black rapier that resonates with a dark-laced edge. The old Vampire Lord reels momentarily, teleporting back a step in the same manner that Inkume does — both of them knowing the gnat trick. Thin strips of smoky essence peel away from him. The new Vampire Lord’s eyes flick around, seeing that perhaps they might truly be able to do harm collectively.

  Yet a worrying shift of magic envelopes the entire place. Deep in the castle’s bowels, the ritual engages. A calm returns to the monster’s eyes, after he realises something that assures his safety.

  They can’t hurt him. They can’t kill him. His abilities are too potent.

  Ancient wards swirl overhead, their patterns glowing beneath the red moon’s glare. The final step toward an unthinkable event — the Night that Never Ends — traces its outline in the sky above. As more black lightning arcs through the shattered roof, it becomes apparent that power is draining from the castle. Dorime glances at Inkume, who stands with a tense posture. “Hey, so quick question,” she starts through gritted teeth, holding a sore side. “What exactly are we stopping here?” she asks, looking his way.

  “End of the world,” notes Inkume simply, looking back at the swirling energies.

  “Typical,” she remarks dryly.

  The newly revived priestess and archer exchange determined glances, stepping up beside the heroine. Bark sets her jaw, and the rest gather around the giant wolf, before they all hurl themselves once more at the old Vampire Lord. Strikes land. Magical blasts connect. The throne room’s columns crumble from the fierce exchange. Stone chunks crush lesser undead and block side passages. He staggers under the onslaught despite his confidence. Rips open across his swirling body, streaks of oily fluid spatter the floor. The entire mass crackles, revealing that the last wave of combined might has almost seemingly weakened him. In response, a bolt of hateful energy erupts from the center, forcing them all back several steps. Whole sections of the floor collapse into pits, revealing swirling emptiness below.

  Azalea, cradling Schaufenster, rushes to keep from toppling into a chasm that opens near her feet. Cvet helps maintain their balance. Fi-Fi and Agniss cling to each other for stability on the opposite side. Hwa-Young flinches behind crumbling masonry. Bark scrambles to higher ground, pulling Snatch by the arm that she clamps down on. Through the dust, Dorime sees the old Vampire Lord hunched in a swirl of black haze, his face twisted. He’s unreachable, standing by himself on an island surrounded by black sludge that repels the group.

  But Inkume stands in front of him nonetheless, rapier braced, coat billowing behind him in the otherworldly wind that blasts in from every corner. The new Vampire Lord stands on top of the blackwater’s surface, facing the half-man creature that remains on an island by itself.

  A hush falls as the two of them look at each other, both of them recognizing that this fight has no purpose.

  The Vampire Lord cannot be killed by the power of friendship or some shit like that. The abilities are too unique, too specific.

  — Too useless.

  With his socks unable to ever become wet, Inkume stands there atop the water instead, looking at the monster’s ruby eyes that reflect his own.

  “How about we call it a night?” asks Inkume, nodding his head. “You take that half of the castle, I’ll take this half,” he suggests jokingly.

  The old Vampire Lord’s malevolent chuckle echoes around them. “You can sense it, can’t you?” asks the old Vampire Lord. “The desire?” he asks, looking at Inkume. “I can smell it on you,” he says, stepping forward. “When the blood calls to you and you want to drink just a little more, when one of these useless beings wastes your precious time and you want to end their insufferable lives.” The man's silhouette changes, bulging in its shoulders and chest as black ooze leaks out of his frame. “When the night calls, soon your precious illusions will fade, and you will realize that you’re a beast like me.”

  Inkume’s gaze flicks upward to the roiling sky that glimpses through the ruined patch of ceiling. The moon glows deeper, reminiscent of fresh blood, shimmering with unnatural intensity. Faint lines of arcane script shimmer across the stone walls. The entire fortress seems to vibrate, resonating with the unstoppable approach of a cataclysmic shift.

  “Why pretend to be this thing, this… person?” it asks. “Look at you, acting like a clown in the circus when you could be a God instead?” asks the entity, its shape continuing to change as the night emboldens itself on the chaos that fills it. “Drop the charade and give in to your natural desires.”

  Inkume looks over his shoulder at everyone and then back at the old creature the previous Vampire Lord is becoming from the sustained damage he’s taken, making it impossible to maintain his perfect, beautiful visage. It smiles, its teeth long and jagged, and its face starts to turn and change into something sharp and long as the black sludge becomes unable to maintain a perfect illusion any longer. But Inkume smiles too, his expression looking much calmer, cleaner, and content with a peaceful light in his crimson eyes that defies the monstrosity of its counterpart.

  It’s human.

  “Clowns make people laugh,” concedes the new Vampire Lord dryly, shrugging to himself indifferently. “That’s nice, if you ask me. You just take yourself too seriously; that’s your problem,” he replies nonchalantly, idly waving his predecessor off with a lackadaisical hand wave. “Vampire Lord this, end the world that,” starts Inkume, tapping the side of his head. “Cringe. Why don’t you get a hobby? I like reading, personally.”

  “What?” asks the shape of a man in a sharp hiss, breaking and pressing out in all the wrong ways as if he were covered in hernias, his mass bulging out in lumps and swells in many places.

  “Said you’re cringe, bro,” replies Inkume simply, looking at the world-ending demon with an expression to match.

  Suddenly, the old Vampire Lord’s entire shape lurches, convulsing. In the center of the swirl, a black orb flickers with raw fury. He roars, flinging lumps of darkness at the walls. Each impact widens fractures in the castle’s structure. Pillars groan. Great sections of the ceiling tilt precariously. The watchers all realize they are moments away from the fortress potentially caving in on itself. Even the floor around the crater where the undead dragon fell has caved deeper, letting a biting wind swirl up from the depths.

  He smashes aside a portion of the balcony that once loomed over the throne. A swirl of shrieking wind blasts through. Loose tapestries — now in tatters — ripple in the corner. The courtyard beyond is visible for a moment, drenched in that crimson moonlight.

  It would seem that it’s time to end this.

  Above them, the moon’s color deepens. The air rattles from the ongoing ritual that draws power from the entire environment. A swirl of darkness churns, threatening to blot out more starlight. Massive arcs of lightning crackle around the castle’s spires, illusions of roosting gargoyles shattering in the searing flashes.

  The ritual moves forward.

  The old Vampire Lord’s core pulses with an unholy synergy of darkness and cosmic red aura. He directs a towering column of black flame upward, ripping a crater in the remains of the ceiling. Cold mountain air and swirling snow funnel inside. The entire group braces, battered by the gale. They see swirling runes fill the sky overhead, forming a gargantuan circle of night-based glyphs that rotate in the heavens. The Night that Never Ends stands on the cusp of unraveling the world’s daybreak forever.

  “What will you do?” asks the monster, looking at Inkume, as the two of them circle each other alone in the epicenter of it all. “You can’t kill me.”

  “You can’t kill me,” replies Inkume, holding his sword out toward the misshapen thing.

  “That’s true,” concedes the dripping, drooling thing that loses its resemblance to a person more and more by the second. His shoulders elongate, his legs buckling in and backward, his fingers stretching into long claws. “But I can hurt you,” it notes. A final roar from the old Vampire Lord rattles the very ground. A concussive pulse blasts from his center — slamming Dorime and the others away. The floor fissures. Everyone is forced to retreat to the edges of what remains stable. Darkness spews from him in aching flares, each release shaking the battered fortress.

  “How the hell can he do that?!” shouts Inkume to the others, as tendrils of black lightning erupt from the monster's sides and lash around.

  This ability is much too cool for the Vampire Lord. It must be some kind of trickery, like with the sarcophagus. Inkume's mind processes the mechanics behind it. He doesn't have anything like that, does he?

  But then it hits him, both literally and mentally.

  He's totally cheesing that useless ability!

  Dorime grips the priestess’s arm, both nearly sliding off a broken ledge. The archer flutters overhead, half a wing bent but still afloat. Bark presses her paws on a shaking chunk of marble, ready to leap back in. Snatch stands at Inkume’s side, intangible weapons at the ready. Fi-Fi, battered and bruised, helps Agnis remain standing. Azalea cradles Schaufenster, who stares at the swirling chaos with wide, wooden eyes. Hwa-Young lifts her staff in a trembling arm, uncertain whether another incantation is even possible.

  Inkume and the monster collide, a black sword striking into a lunging claw and cutting through its palm in the same second that it swipes with its other hand. Inkume vanishes, appearing again a second later and striking again, only to vanish again before the counterstrike lands. The two of them undergo a dance of swords, both of them vanishing into thin air again and again to strike at the other.

  “They’re so fast!” says Dorime, amazed, as she squints, standing on the far edge of a crevice as she only sees the two of them appear and reappear next to each other every other second to exchange blows.

  — She doesn’t see the two small gnats swirling around each other, butting into each other as the world around them shakes and ends in apocalypse.

  A second later, two stone coffins blast out of the ground, crashing into each other in the air where both of the vampires reappear at the same time. Both of them landing with perfect footing on them as they soar in the sky. Inkume’s pristine, glistening hair sparkles in the dew, and the monster’s luscious, gorgeous black mane made out of black magic flows as if beautifully shampooed. Both of them catch the ruby moonlight, their expressions illuminated in perfect shimmer.

  The stone sarcophagi explode, crashing into each other as the two atop them collide, both exchanging blows that land into the other’s body. But somehow, even while being struck, they look graceful and otherworldly. Perfect jaws — yes, even the monster’s — turn to always catch the night glow with every blow, even their grunts of pain sounding only beautifully sensual as they battle for the fate of the world.

  The monster’s eyes glow as it activates its ability to control beasts. “Give in. Surrender,” commands the old Vampire Lord, trying to establish mental dominance over Inkume.

  “You give in and surrender,” replies Inkume, trying the same thing at the same time.

  “No! You give in and surrender!” replies the monster.

  The two of them stare at each other, and a second later, the battle continues, a violent explosion of power shaking the world as they collide. Black tendrils lash out from the sides, striking toward Inkume who finds himself locked into the front with the beast, his sword being stuck in its chest. The blade breaks, his eyes go wide, at the same second as the tendrils crash inward and obscure the scene.

  A large, black panther rushes out through the final opening, turning into a sparkling man with a beautiful cloak who soars through the air. “I still had three years of payments on that sword!” complains Inkume, looking over his shoulder as he flies.

  A second later, he lands again, standing on the bubbling water that begins to glow, having absorbed so much light from the sun that it almost looks like the day has risen.

  There isn’t much time left.

  “There isn’t much time left,” says the monster, mockingly.

  “I was just thinking that too,” notes Inkume, subconsciously running a hand through his pristine, unmarred hair. “Why?” he asks, his eyes scanning the area. He locks his eyes on Snatch, who nods to him. Inkume looks back at the monster. “Why do you want to end the world? I don’t get it,” he says, stepping forward. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand why I’m the way I am, but why are you the way you are?” he asks, rolling a shoulder as he unclasps his cloak and lets it fall to the ground.

  The Vampire Lord and his opposite stare at each other from afar, the ground boiling beneath them and dark miasma filling the consumed night.

  “I’m evil, asshole,” replies the beast.

  Inkume blinks.

  “Oh, really?” he asks. “...You don’t have a troubled childhood or, like… I don’t know, some kind of deep inner pain you’re manifesting out onto the world as revenge?” asks Inkume. “You were reborn here too, like me,” he notes.

  The monster stares at him. “Yes, I asked to be reborn somewhere where I could be evil,” it says, a cruel smile with crooked, sharp teeth stretching across it’s maw.

  “Oh.” The two of them stare at each other as the world ends around them. “That’s good. That’s good,” says Inkume, a smile covering his face as he walks slowly toward the demon. “Then I won’t feel bad about this,” he explains, casually strolling toward it.

  It spreads its long, sinewy arms. “What will you do? We’re evenly matched in everything but time,” says the old Vampire Lord, the night behind him crawling up into a tight compression as the ritual comes close to explosion. The stars in the sky are tense, stretching like the buttons of a taut canvas that are about to burst in all directions from the pressure held against them.

  Inkume walks, strutting forward with his best peacock’s gait, as the wind howls around him, tussling his hair for the very first time. But only because it makes him look cooler, as this is the big finale. A confident smile stays on his face, below his single hand that covers a single eye, as he approaches the monster as if he had all the time in the world, even though he only has seconds left.

  Cool guys don’t rush at the end of things.

  “There’s a lot we have in common,” says Inkume, the water bubbling and hissing around him as he walks over it, thousands of eyes of the dead and the living watching him from near and far as he makes his final approach. “Our powers, our old world, the fact that we both always smell like lilac for some reason,” explains the Vampire Lord, four ruby eyes staring at each other as he stops several feet away from the beast. “But there’s one thing that’s different about us,” says Inkume, the maelstrom billowing through his spirit and perfectly ironed, wrinkle-free clothes as he visibly makes himself ready for one last attack.

  “What’s that?” asks the monster. “Are you going to tell me that you have friends and I don’t it?” it asks mockingly.

  “Yeah, actually,” replies Inkume, and then he vanishes, reappearing a second later in front of the monster with the broken rapier in his hand.

  Inkume’s body lurches, a sharp gasp and several cries coming out from the crowd as a long, slender, black arm pierces through his guts and presses out to the other side. Black blood spurts in all directions, the new Vampire Lord hacking out a mouthful of liquid as he shudders.

  “Who’s cringe now?” asks the monster, lifting its arm into the air, Inkume holding onto the wrist that pierces through his bowels as the light in the sky begins to quiver and darken as the ritual reaches its end.

  Inkume, the perfect wind blowing over his perfectly hurt face, looks into the eyes of the creature but says nothing that his perfect smile doesn’t.

  “You!” replies a gravelly, growling jackal’s voice from behind the monster, who suddenly lurches forward as a wet stab fills the air.

  The demon shakes, looking behind itself and down at Snatch, who is floating there at its back, and then down at the wooden doll’s arm lodged in its leaking, dark flesh — Schaufenster’s broken off arm.

  A wooden stake.

  Snatch presses her boot down, shoving the wood in deeper straight toward its heart and the monster shudders, spasming. It quivers, melting in parts and swelling in others as it lashes around itself. Its ruby eyes diverge and come together over and over like the rest of its body, rippling and quivering as it fights to sustain itself. Monstrous arms yank at the wood, but burn as they try to pull it free.

  “Impossible!” yells a howling voice that comes from the night itself rather than the demon’s body. “I can’t die! It’s impossible!” It screeches, its backward bent knees buckling in and breaking apart.

  But it can.

  Its ruby eyes turn, looking toward the only thing that had kept it safe for so long.

  As long as a Vampire Lord is admired by somebody, it cannot be killed, unless dying would be better for its image than living. This is the nature of its ability, the very same that had kept the entity alive for these thousand years.

  Schaufenster, safely cradled in Azalea’s arms, looks from the distance with a quiet, empty disdain.

  “I’m not going to play with you anymore,” says the one-armed, broken doll.

  The monster screams, its howl filling the night that ripples and wavers as the black sludge drips and melts into the abyss below. The old Vampire Lord sinks, melting into himself and that liquid seeps off the edges of the abyss, leaking into the waters of the spirit world. He fights, his arms thrashing and clawing at everything around him, but finds himself unable to take hold as he drifts away into the blackwater, bubbling and sinking into the sludge of the underworld.

  The entire throne room disintegrates around them. Sections crash into sub-levels, forming a labyrinth of half-ruined passages. The swirling outside wind intensifies, howling with winter bite over the mountaintops. The red moon overhead begins to waver, losing some of its unnatural glow. The circle of runes fizzles in segments, fracturing into ragged arcs that vanish into the swirling black clouds.

  “Master!” calls Snatch, grabbing Inkume’s shoulders as he slumps over onto the ground. “You can’t die! It’ll suck if you die!” she yells, covering the gaping wound with her hands to little avail.

  “Snatch! The ritual!” says Inkume, looking up at her as the castle around them pulses. The ruby incantations that are streamed throughout it pulse and shake, filling with energy as they’re about to erupt.

  “It’s too late!” yells Hwa-Young, who has been frantically working on the side. “We can’t stop it anymore!” she shouts over to them, the wind howling.

  The Night that Never Ends is upon them, victory over the old Vampire Lord or not.

  It’s simply too late.

  Inkume lifts his eyes, looking up toward the sky, toward the missing stars that he himself had stolen by growing in power all of this time.

  Of course.

  Holding his core, he rises to his feet with Snatch’s help.

  If there’s one thing he’s learned on this adventure, it’s that life is always going to do what life does. The best you can do as an individual is to shore yourself up and prepare yourself for the events of the day — or the night — as best as you can so that you can direct them toward a favorable direction. Things that will happen will happen, but we get to decide what to do with those matters post their arrival, and we get to prepare for them before they show up in order to mitigate their effects.

  The castle’s magic is still here, still abundant, and he channels it into himself. Miasma and power swirl around the Vampire Lord as he looks toward the blood moon that haunts the world and puts everything he can into the wild, uncontrolled power that streaks through the air.

  It’s too late to stop the ritual, to prevent the Night that Never Ends. It was destiny.

  — But he can change at least his own, tiny, little piece of it.

  Snatch holds onto him, as raw magic blasts toward the moon, and then everything — all around the world — goes dark.

  And the night comes to stay forevermore.