My SuperVillain System: Building Legion of SSS-Ranked SuperHeroines
Chapter 122 - Vampire vs. Cruxius

Chapter 122: Chapter 122 - Vampire vs. Cruxius

’Punny humans.’ While moving through the corridor, the man with his crimson gaze, sharp and deep as if made out of blood, looked around the hallway.

His clear amusement at seeing this mortal place decorated like all the riches of the world made him feel how small humans were for sticking to mortal things that would vanish just like them.

And of course, vampires themselves were rich, especially the world’s top ten richest individuals who were all from vampire heritage, though hidden from public records.

They held the riches accumulated throughout thousands of years, yet covered by a hidden veil.

Even before this mutation started and the appearance of superheroes filled this world, they—the ones possessing so much power that was illogical to humans—existed. Yet, the arrival of the new ones created a balance.

A balance that vampires never wanted, making them clearly stand on the edge, though not completely threatened due to their grip on humanity being too deep to even manipulate things in a way creating a web where they watched humans possessing superpowers, fighting each other while unaware of another existence.

"So I am late."

Pulling the man from his thoughts was a voice, causing him to look towards the front hallway where a single man was moving towards him in the same arrogant posture he was in—hands casually tucked in his pocket.

It was Cruxius, entering the hallway—his steps unhurried, the casual sharpness of his presence slicing through the silence like a paper cut.

His eyes, cold and unreadable, landed on the man ahead.

The vampire halted.

His crimson gaze, deep like ancient wine and vicious in its stillness, settled on the newcomer. His smile widened—a slow, unsettling curve that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

A chuckle, dry and hollow, cracked the air like brittle wood. He shook his head slowly, as if amused by fate itself.

"You look the same as your mother," the vampire said in a hushed voice, almost reverent... almost.

Cruxius didn’t blink; he just observed the man in front of him, instantly recognizing his identity as a vampire simply by seeing the bloodstains on his clothes. There wasn’t any mark on his hand, seemingly absorbed due to their unique property and blood manipulation art, even without needing a system to check the status.

"But I hope I can say the same for you," he replied, his voice laced with that signature indifference, sharp yet laced with veiled poison. "Because I don’t think any mother would want to have a son with your face."

A twitch. The vampire’s lip curled, a moment of cracked vanity.

He raised his hand, brushing the side of his neck with fingers that carried centuries of blood, before muttering, "You should be grateful that I’m here as a messenger. If not for such words... you’d already be scattered into pieces."

Cruxius gave a small tilt of his head, that ever-so-faint smirk curving on his lips. His tone was mocking, like a child amused by a ghost story.

"Funny how, in today’s time, even dead bodies are starting to throw threats."

The air turned cold, not from temperature, but from tension—the kind that coils in the lungs like smoke.

The vampire’s eyes narrowed.

"Watch your tongue, boy," he said with an edge now, the civil veil thinning, the predator beneath stirring. "You’re in no place to—"

Cruxius raised a hand, lazily interrupting, clearly aware that the consequences of offending the man in front of him might end with his death, but amusingly... the issue here was the fact that he could not die.

"Shouldn’t you be the one with no place in this world? Especially given that it belongs to humans?" Cruxius stated, finally halting just five steps away from the man, standing tilted, his head giving a smirk and a cold gaze, clearly undermining the presence of him. It was especially vivid that this was not going to end well for either of them.

The vampire gave a slow, raspy laugh. "Is that what you think? That we’re forgotten?"

"No," Cruxius said, his gaze unblinking. "I think you’re trying too hard to remind us."

Silence stretched—unforgiving, pregnant with something thick and unspoken.

Then, the vampire’s demeanor shifted. The smirk returned, but this time, it was deeper... darker.

"I see," he murmured. "So the little shadow has grown a spine. Your mother would’ve been proud."

A flicker crossed Cruxius’ expression—brief, unreadable.

"Careful," he said quietly. "You’re starting to sound like you knew her."

"I did," the vampire said simply, shrugging his shoulder before ruffling his hair, lifting it as though it was a mark embedded on his skull hidden behind his hair. "You see this mark... it reminds me—"

"Shut up, I’m not going to listen to your nonsense." Cruxius’ voice sliced through like a switchblade—cold, abrupt, laced with disgust.

The vampire paused mid-motion, hand still raised near the faded sigil scorched into his scalp, just beneath the curtain of dark, time-worn hair. His smile didn’t falter—but something in it darkened. Hardened.

"You are very similar to her," the vampire muttered, almost too softly, a whisper brushed against the edge of contempt. "Impulsive. Emotional. Just like she was in her final moments."

Cruxius blinked. Once.

Then came the shift.

He took a single step forward.

The arrogance in his posture didn’t fade—it morphed. Hardened into something colder. Crueler.

"You know," he began, almost conversational, "I can see how you are trying to provoke me."

And in one smooth motion, he reached behind his back.

The soft whisper of leather brushing against steel echoed as he pulled out a weapon—a glint of heavy black chrome emerging beneath the hallway’s dim lighting.

The Desert Eagle.

Thick. Imposing. A handgun that looked like it had no business in civilian hands—especially not in his. It rested with disturbing familiarity in Cruxius’ grip, tilted slightly upward as he leveled it with the vampire’s chest.

There was no warning.

The trigger clicked.

A thunderclap echoed down the hallway—raw, deafening. The first shot barked out like a cannon.

But before the shell could even finish its flight, space itself seemed to fracture.

[ Use of dimensional morph detected: 24 hour Reset Activated ]

Dozens—no, hundreds—of tiny, circular portals shimmered into existence around the vampire, weaving a disorienting pattern mid-air. They absorbed the bullet... and spat it out a moment later.

From every direction.

The air filled with gunfire, an overwhelming storm of metal as bullets rained like divine wrath upon the vampire.

They struck him from all sides—head, chest, limbs—piercing through flesh and cracking bone, painting the marbled floor and golden walls in shades of crimson.

The vampire’s eyes widened—not in fear, but in surprise. His body convulsed under the impact, riddled and torn, turned into a grotesque sculpture of mutilation. Blood sprayed. Flesh burst.

He smiled.

Even as his body exploded into fragments—ripped apart in a grotesque symphony of gore.

Even then, he smiled.

Because the very next moment, his form began to stitch itself back together. Muscles twisted, bones reformed, flesh re-knitted.

Within seconds, he stood whole—untouched.

As if nothing had happened.

He cracked his neck—first left, then right. Loud, sickening pops echoed.

Then, his gaze returned to Cruxius.

Unfazed. Cold.

"It seems," he said, voice now laced with ancient venom, "you need to know your place, Delicacy."

"Delicacy?" Cruxius just smirked, amusement dancing in the sharp curl of his lips. Without breaking eye contact, his hand shifted—gripping the edge of his shirt. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled it up, revealing the bare skin of his side, muscles taut, veins faintly visible beneath the surface.

He offered his hand toward the vampire, open and steady.

"Go on," he said, voice a low whisper, the kind that slips under the skin. "If you were a woman, I might consider neck... but here goes nothing?"

The vampire’s gaze snapped to the exposed skin.

Crimson eyes narrowed, tracing the slow rhythm of breath beneath flesh—the subtle rise, the living pulse. The scent. The blood.

Rich. Refined. Royal.

Dangerous.

Tempting.

No words left his mouth.

He didn’t need them.

His body blurred—shadows curling as if dragged with him—movement inhuman, a gust of death cloaked in silence. He lunged, fangs flashing beneath the chandeliers’ dim glow, a predator ready to tear into divinity.

But—

Mid-air, just as his teeth neared flesh, his eyes caught it.

A flicker.

A mark.

Faint and hidden, but not by mistake.

Just beneath Cruxius’ collarbone, etched into skin not with ink but legacy—glowed a symbol. An old sigil, pulsing red like an eye that had been watching all along. Ancient. Familiar. A seal carved not for art, but for judgment.

The vampire’s boots slammed against marble, skidding. The hallway hissed with the friction of abrupt withdrawal.

He didn’t strike.

Didn’t move.

His body slowly rose from its crouch, straightening. Crimson eyes wide, locked on that mark.

"...So that’s your game," he said, voice coiled with restraint.

Cruxius blinked once. Slowly. "Game?"

"Don’t play dumb," the vampire growled. But there was something beneath the surface now. Not anger. Not fear.

Recognition.

Understanding.

"You lured me," he said, stepping forward, tension tightening every inch of his frame. "You exposed yourself on purpose. You wanted me to bite."

No denial.

No defense.

Only that smirk—still lingering, still watching.

"Right," the vampire hissed, voice rising. "Because you thought I’d drink it and die. You thought I wouldn’t know."

A dry laugh escaped his lips, rough and hollow—splintered like old bone.

"The blood of a Crimson Bearer," he said. "A royal-born especially is fatal to those without the lineage to endure it. You wanted me to die the moment your blood touched my tongue."

Cruxius shrugged. The motion was casual—too casual.

"I mean... you almost fell for it."