The moon hung like a silver coin in the ink-black sky, veiled by drifting threads of mist.
Its pale light filtered through the forest canopy, draping the world in an eerie glow.
Shadows stretched and swayed, restless in the breeze, as if waiting for something to begin.
Then it came.
A clank of steel echoed through the trees.
Boots brushing leaves.
Rhythmic. Measured. Intentional.
The forest held its breath.
And then—steel sang.
A blade of compressed wind erupted from Mira’s right rapier, slicing through the dark with a roar.
The crescent-shaped blast slammed into the chest of the nearest cloaked figure, hurling him into a tree with a crunch of ribs and bark.
Another came from her blind side, blade arcing toward her ribs.
But Mira was already moving.
She twisted—sidestepped, parried, countered—and stomped her heel into the moss-covered ground.
The earth answered.
A jagged spike of stone burst upward beneath the attacker’s feet, launching him into the air with a startled cry.
Mira met him mid-air and struck him across the skull with the flat of her blade.
He hit the ground and stayed there.
To her left, someone shouted and flung a fireball.
Mira’s off-hand rapier spun in her fingers, glowing faintly with mana. She sliced through the flame, cleaving it in half.
The heat curled past her shoulders as the halves fizzled into steam.
And they were all moving now.
Six. Seven.
Closing in. Surrounding her.
She didn’t back down.
With a breath, Mira surged forward.
Her rapiers flashed—green leather hilts steady in her grip, the runes carved along their spines glowing with magic.
Steel clashed. Sparks flew.
She caught a spear with her left blade and spun inside the wielder’s reach, driving the hilt of her right rapier into his gut.
As he doubled over, she finished him with a swift kick to the side of the head.
Another cloaked figure swung low. Mira leapt, twisted in the air, and rained down a flurry of crescent wind blades.
Each one struck with surgical precision, dropping the attacker with a groan.
The rest tried to trap her in a ring, cutting off her escape.
But she didn’t let them.
With a surge of mana, she vanished into the air—blinking behind one of her attackers, appearing like a whisper in a storm.
She swept his legs out from under him, struck his jaw with her elbow, then dropped him with a crack of her pommel.
Another rushed from behind.
Without turning, Mira slammed her elbow backward, catching him square in the face—as she raised her other hand to release a cone of compressed air into a third figure’s chest, launching him into the undergrowth with a crash.
Still more came. Two, from either side. Perfectly timed.
Mira crouched low. “You guys are really annoying,” she muttered.
She gathered energy into her core and slammed her foot into the earth.
A ring of jagged stone spikes erupted, halting most of the charging figures mid-charge.
All except one.
He leapt the barrier—only to find Mira already rising to meet him, mid-air.
"Time to say goodnight." Her rapiers struck—one into the ribs, the other the jaw.
He crumpled like a doll and hit the ground hard, unmoving.
Silence fell.
The wind stilled.
Mira stood in the center of the clearing, breathing low and steady.
Her twin blades shimmered with moonlight and mana.
Around her, bodies lay groaning, dazed—but alive.
Not a single one dead.
She turned.
Toward the one who had never moved.
The leader.
He stood beyond the ring of stone spikes, arms crossed, his presence still and heavy like a tombstone.
Hood drawn low, face shadowed. Watching. Unblinking.
Unmoved.
While his followers fell, he hadn’t lifted a finger.
Now, slowly, he raised one hand.
And clapped.
Once.
Twice.
A third time, slower.
The sound echoed like a hollow drum through the trees.
“Well,” he said, voice smooth and unhurried—velvet wrapped around iron. “That was… exquisite.”
Mira kept her rapiers raised, stance guarded.
“Who are you?” she said coldly. “Show yourself.”
A low chuckle escaped him.
“As you wish.”
The figure raised his hands and slowly drew back his hood.
Mira’s breath caught in her throat.
He looked no older than twenty-five—almost too perfect.
Sharp features. Pale skin. Tousled black hair that framed his face like shadow. But his eyes—
Crimson.
Not bloodshot.
But glowing.
Ancient. Unnatural. And not human.
“Vampire,” Mira said, her voice like drawn steel.
He inclined his head in mock applause. “Correct. And you, I presume, are the Saintess of the South?”
She didn’t answer. Her stance stayed tight. Blades still ready.
The vampire stepped calmly over one of his downed subordinates, hands folded behind his back like he was strolling through a garden.
“I’ve heard the stories,” he said. “But tonight, you’ve shown me something stories never could.”
He stopped just beyond the stone spikes, gazing at her with amusement—and something deeper.
“You’re not just dangerous,” he said softly. “But also merciful.”
A faint smile curled across his lips.
“And that,” he added, “makes you much more interesting.”
Mira grinned. “And you’ve got questions to answer. Starting with—what are you doing here?”
The vampire paused. He looked up at the moon and said, “Personally, I don’t mind telling you.”
Then his expression shifted.
“But too bad. I’m here for business tonight.”
Mira scoffed. “Never mind. I’ll beat the answer out of you.”
The moment Mira spoke, the air shifted.
The vampire smiled faintly, almost amused. “Very well, Saintess,” he murmured, “Let's dance.”
And then—he vanished.
No blink, no sound, no warning.
Just gone.
Mira barely had time to react before he reappeared behind her—silent as mist, fast as thought.
Her instincts screamed.
She spun, rapiers lashing out in an arc—but met nothing.
A blur moved past her peripheral. Then a whisper of breath against her neck.
She pivoted again, blades slashing wide.
Clang.
He caught both rapiers barehanded.
“Too slow,” he said softly, his crimson eyes inches from hers, glowing like coals in the dark.
Mira wrenched her swords free and backflipped away, skidding across the forest floor as she flung a blast of wind in his direction.
It tore through the clearing, uprooting ferns and moss—but the vampire was already gone, stepping sideways through the air like gravity didn’t apply.
“He’s strong. Maybe the strongest I've ever met.”
Mira didn’t let him keep the advantage. She slammed her rapier tips into the dirt—mana surging through the runes.
“Bind,” she whispered.
The ground erupted with glowing sigils. Chains of stone burst upward, trying to trap him mid-air.
The vampire clicked his tongue and vanished once more—reappearing effortlessly atop a high branch across the glade, crouched like a shadow made flesh.
The moonlight caught his eyes, casting them in a crimson gleam.
“Impressive,” he called down, voice smooth as silk. “You've fought many, I can tell. But never a vampire… have you?”
Mira’s only answer was a wind-forged spear she hurled toward his chest.
He caught it—with bare hands.
The wind cracked around his fingers as he crushed the spell with a smirk.
“You can’t win a race against the night,” he said.
Then he descended.
Not jumped. But descended—as if floating on nothing, cloak billowing, crimson eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world.
And when he touched the ground, the forest screamed.
Leaves scattered. Trees shuddered. Pressure rolled across the clearing like a crashing wave.
Mira lunged first.
He met her halfway.
Blade met claw.
He moved like a phantom—strikes too fast to follow, steps too light to hear. Every motion was a blur, a ghost, a flicker.
But Mira didn’t retreat.
Rapier against claw. Wind against darkness.
She slashed upward with her left blade—only for him to duck and jab for her throat.
She spun, parried, and blasted a surge of wind at point-blank range.
He staggered—but just for a moment.
He lashed out, his nails like daggers, grazing her cheek.
Blood touched the air. The scent made him smile wider.
“Warm,” he said, delighted. “And sweet.”
She gritted her teeth.
No fear. No hesitation.
She jumped back, twisted, and drove her mana deep into the earth.
A massive spike erupted behind him—forcing him to vault skyward.
Mira didn’t stop.
“Burst!” She whispered.
The spike exploded—pelting the vampire with chunks of burning rock and debris. He tumbled from the air.
She met him as he fell—rapiers crossed, wind surging in a whirlwind around her form.
He landed hard—and Mira was already driving her hilts into his chest.
But he caught her arms, blood dripping from his lip.
They locked eyes.
And for a heartbeat—neither moved.
Then he laughed.
Low. Rich. Thrilled.
“You’re glorious,” he whispered.
"And your breath stinks," Mira sneered.
The vampire's face darkened. He shoved Mira back with a wave of force she had never felt before—like being hit by a collapsing storm.
She flew across the glade, flipped mid-air, and landed in a crouch, gasping.
He stood again, bleeding but upright.
His wounds were already closing.
“Enough warm-up,” the vampire said, crimson eyes glowing brighter. “Let’s see what you’re really capable of… Saintess.”
Mira smirked. "You're so going to regret that."
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