Глава 13

It was daytime just a moment ago, but here...

A dark night, and an endless sea.

The stars are changing.

I've never heard of any place like this, not in any records, not in any legends.

So, this must be...

Distant enough, yes.

I do wonder how far we are from Kazdel now.

This land they all call Terra, is it too vast, or is it too small?

Amiya, be careful.

His blood... it's sublimating.

He awakened his blood with that witchcraft.

Don't talk like an outblood, Banshee.

You know, I treat purebloods as equals.

Perhaps, when compared to the Crimson Court, which has spent eons seeking purity, you have been more deeply influenced by Originium.

But, well, among the Sarkaz, you are indeed quite... formidable.

Come, let's not be stingy with my blessing, you cannot reject my gift. Now that I've awakened your power, you are finally worthy of facing me.

Let me hear the screech of your knell, if it can still darken the moonlight.

Crimson ripples spread, and at this moment, the sky is no longer the sky, nor is the sea the sea.

They are only refractions of blood, reflections of blood.

The Sanguinarch smiles faintly, a blood soul pumping like a heart in his palm, reflecting the face of the young Banshee in a structure as deep as life itself.

And then, the blood soul shatters.

'I write, therefore, I command.'

'The night conceals me from death.'

Another incantation...

Another of your shallow incantations.

You have talent, no doubt about that. The flapping of your lips and the doodles of your bone pen are enough to humiliate the so-called Originium 'Arts' of common people.

And yet, why do you resist your heritage so?

Show me your true self, King of the Court, Banshee!

Duq'arael, Sanguinarch of Vampires, Prince of all Blood, demands you show your true self!

Enough, Vampire!

Hold on, Logos—

Black Arts erupt from the girl's hand, parting the sea of blood.

But the blood does not yield, it roars.

The King of Sarkaz's Arts dissolve and shatter, and the red surges even more intensely.

Oh, <i>King of Sarkaz.</i> I nearly forgot you were here.

Cautus, <i>King.</i>

Look at you, you didn't receive even a scrap of my boon.

Cautus blood, tedious and ordinary. No matter how hard I try to scrape something together, I can't find a shred of talent or power.

I can't even say that your blood is mixed or impure, as those adjectives still imply an expectation of return to purity.

But you...

Heh.

There are chaotic bloodlines I approve of, but they are without a doubt all 'formidable' or 'magnificent'.

But what do you have? A laughable motivation? A shallow conviction?

I don't have to answer you.

I just have to defeat you.

Is this our <i>King of Sarkaz?</i> Just stealing a bit of attainment from another, chaotic, and disorderly.

Nothing even on the level of the Banshee's little tricks born of his rebellious mind.

—Even less than that pair of siblings.

Amiya.

Don't let him provoke you. As it stands, his power is still growing.

We need to end this fast.

I know.

We need to get back under clear skies.

In the past...

I once slew a so-called 'King of Sarkaz', and it wasn't particularly difficult.

And I suspect your end will be the same, this time.

You question me with black blades.

I answer you with the gift of death.

Blood rain falls incessantly, as if it will never stop.

Logos and Amiya's shoulders have been soaked red by the rain.

The white-haired Vampire, however, seems to stroll casually under the rain, completely spotless.

Look at the sorry state of yourselves.

Lost in confusion, losing sight of what matters.

Even if no one answers your cries, you can't waste the stage you've been given, don't waste your chance at a grand farewell.

'I state it, therefore, it is prescribed.'

'The wind and rain cease, deprived of the right to flow.'

The moment the words are spoken, the blood rain freezes in midair.

Like curtains, like stars, it refracts the sorrow of the sea, the brilliance of the moons.

The Sanguinarch squints, seemingly unsurprised by the incantation of the Lord of the Banshees. Rather, it is as if he is appreciating a piece of art drawn between heaven and earth.

You've halted the surging? Impressive. Blood pauses at your command.

But—I am its master.

The suspended beads of blood suddenly burst in the air, splattering anything they can reach.

The knell will decay, the order will wear, no?

If you so disdain your noble blood, I might as well extract it and return it to your mother, Banshee.

She will play for you a mournful whistle.

Amiya!

The Vampire only gives Amiya a momentary opportunity, but it is more than enough.

Amiya's palm presses against the Vampire's body, sticky blood burning her palm.

Is this your blood?

Heated by Arts, heated by your talent.

But the hot blood I've seen—

—has all been for the sake of resistance, for the sake of life.

And those people, their blood is much hotter than yours.

Black lines burst from Amiya's palm, piercing through the Vampire's body.

Hngh.

Amiya, fall back!

You didn't get his vitals!

Oh how cold, King of Sarkaz.

A monarch of such little grace you are.

Sanguinarch of Vampires, Prince of the Crimson Court, your offspring fill every battlefield the Sarkaz touch.

You proclaim to them that slaughter and conquest are the ancient traditions of the Vampires.

You've shaped your court into what it is today. You've made the people see all Vampires as nothing more than twisted creatures of desire like yourself.

But the Vampires I know are not like you.

They haven't gone mad like you.

They've only managed to conceal their desires, conditioned to deeply by this age in which they have no home.

Some choose to bow down to the invaders, and I pity them.

No, that's not it.

How do you interpret the blood that your court stands for?

The sufferings of the Sarkaz need no elucidation. All Sarkaz, even those who submit to you, inevitably know the taste of blood.

Overturned in dark alleys, intercepted in dark forests, sometimes a throat is cut, sometimes cold daggers are thrust between ribs.