Reincarnated as the Vampire Princess' Familiar
Chapter 45 - 44 - Cursed Blood Word

Chapter 45: 44 - Cursed Blood Word

One of them, his face still concealed beneath the hood and the demonic mask characteristic of the Crimson Requiem members, strides toward Ayra with unwavering determination, signaling his subordinates to remain behind.

«Blood Word: Telum!» the man intones with a deep, commanding voice, and in an instant, a massive hammer materializes in his grasp.

At the sight of that weapon, a wave of anguish and fear ripples through the allied ranks. That unease swiftly morphs into a blend of terror and astonishment as the man pulls back his hood, revealing his face—a vampire with a chiseled jawline, seemingly middle-aged, his features marred by a prominent scar on the right side and framed by short, graying hair.

«N-No... this can’t be real...» a soldier murmurs, his voice quivering with disbelief.

«Unfortunately, there’s no doubt... it’s really him—Draven Vorthgen, the former commander,» another soldier adds. «We all thought he had died a hero at the hands of the Crimson Requiem, but instead, that bastard faked his own death to join them...»

«Princess Ayra Valakys... it has been a long time since our last meeting, back when you were little more than a child,» Draven begins, his tone almost casual, as if addressing an old acquaintance. «Your power has grown even more since your battle with Vespera—had I not intervened, she would have certainly perished, and that would have caused us quite the inconvenience.»

So, that time... was it really him who saved Vespera, swooping down from the sky and carrying her away just before the Scarlet Army soldiers arrived? If Draven was once a commander, then his power must be overwhelming. Back then, we were incredibly lucky that he chose to stay out of the fight—but this time, he’s here to battle... and I have a very bad feeling about this.

Ayra raises her weapon against the former commander. «Even if you raised me as if I were your own daughter, I refuse to feel even an ounce of pity for you! I... I...» Her voice trembles, thick with emotion. «...I loved you almost as much as I love my father. You were my hero... and now that you’ve turned into a terrorist... I will kill you with my own hands, damn traitor!»

Without a moment’s hesitation, Ayra launches herself at Draven with a speed that surpasses my ability to track—despite the burning fury within her, her eyes remain eerily cold.

A split second later, a deafening roar splits the air like a thunderclap. The clash between Ayra’s sword and the former commander’s hammer sends tremors through the ground, shattering it with deep, jagged cracks.

Despite the sheer weight of his hammer, Draven wields it with an ease that rivals—if not surpasses—Ayra’s mastery of her dark sword. He delivers crushing blows and deflects her attacks with unnerving precision, as if their difference in skill were insurmountable. Around them, shadows surge from the ground like razor-sharp claws, poised to strike.

Draven swiftly leaps backward, yet one of the shadowy appendages manages to graze his right arm—the very arm wielding his weapon. The wound is shallow, barely more than a scratch, and does nothing to slow his movements. Ayra pursues him without hesitation, launching a relentless frontal assault—dark claws surging behind her, poised to tear into him—when...

«Cursed Blood Word: Daemonvestis!»

An aura of Sanguis energy erupts from Draven’s body, so dense and compact that it takes on a tangible form, encasing him in an armor of bone—a semi-transparent exoskeleton engulfed in crimson flames. From his back, two massive wings extend, while curved horns rise from a skull-shaped helmet. Yet, the glow of his magic is not the usual vibrant red of Sanguis energy, but something darker—almost a deep burgundy.

Cursed Blood Word...? I’ve never heard of anything like this before... What kind of spell is it?! The word Cursed alone suggests something far from ordinary—perhaps forbidden magic, or something even worse. And judging by Ayra’s expression—stunned, almost fearful—she seems to recognize just how dangerous it is.

This time, it’s Ayra who instinctively steps back, as the shadowy claws she commands vanish the moment they come into contact with the flames engulfing Draven’s skeletal armor.

«As if betraying your own people to join those Crimson Requiem terrorists wasn’t enough, you’ve even gone so far as to sell your soul to Rakvaron, the Demon God. And to think that I once looked up to you as a role model, an idol... But now, look at you—fallen so far, utterly disgraced. You disgust me,» Ayra declares, her voice dripping with contempt. She spits in his direction, but her saliva evaporates before it even gets close.

«Years have passed, yet you remain the same naive child as before,» Draven sneers—his pupils no longer the only thing red; now, his entire eyeball glows with a crimson hue.

«You idolized me because I slaughtered hundreds of creatures every day—beings whose only crime was being born weaker than us—and yet, you dare to condemn me for my choices?» Draven roars, taking a heavy step toward Ayra. She steps back, yet not a trace of fear mars her expression—her sword remains firmly pointed at him.

«Rakvaron opened our eyes! He revealed to us a vision of a future where vampires no longer spread death and destruction across this world—a future where all races live in absolute peace and harmony, free from the constant fear of being attacked and enslaved by those who crowned themselves rulers of the world!»

«The strong rule over the weak—that is the law of nature!» Ayra retorts. «Tell me, am I wrong, or do the very lycans you fight so fervently for sustain themselves by preying on creatures weaker than them? Does protecting weaker races only matter when it is they who are weak? What hypocrisy!»

«What right do you have to speak? You’ve spent your entire life sheltered behind the walls of the royal castle—you know nothing of the world, nor of the suffering that vampires have inflicted!» Now, even Draven’s hammer ignites, engulfed in the same deep burgundy flames. «I will purge this world of evil, starting with you, Ayra Valakys!»

With a sudden, explosive burst of speed, Draven lunges at Ayra—his massive hammer lifted high, poised to crush its target.

Shadows surge from the ground, enveloping Ayra in a protective bubble, yet it does little to halt Draven’s assault. His flaming hammer crashes down with relentless force, tearing through the dark barrier as if it were mere clay. Within, Ayra barely manages to raise her sword—somehow intercepting the strike before it lands. Still, the impact sends her hurtling backward, shattering through the other side of the bubble at terrifying speed.

Dark tendrils surge from the ground, coiling around her body and catching her just before she can crash. They gently lower her back to her feet, steadying her stance.

N-No... I can’t believe it. Even with the incredible strength Ayra has attained, that man is overwhelming her so effortlessly... I couldn’t even track their exchange of blows—not just because of their speed, but also due to my vision growing increasingly blurred. Yet, Ayra’s visible exhaustion is proof enough—Draven Vorthgen’s power is beyond overwhelming. If even my master cannot stand against him... then we have no hope of victory.

Once more, Ayra thrusts her sword into the ground, summoning dark tendrils that surge toward Draven. Yet, just like before, they disintegrate the moment they meet the scorching flames surrounding his skeletal armor, unable to even graze him.

«Honestly, I expected far more from someone wielding a powerful and legendary Innatus like Umbral. I had hoped you’d at least provide some entertainment—in order to finally test the power of the Cursed Blood Word that the supreme Demon God, Rakvaron, bestowed upon me. But in the end, you’re nothing more than a colossal disappointment,» Draven remarks, his voice laced with sarcastic disappointment as he takes slow, heavy steps toward Ayra.

«You know, there are rumors about you... They say that despite being a vampire, your heart resembles that of a human—sentimental, emotional...» His gaze shifts toward me. «I wonder what would happen if I were to kill your beloved familiar right now. I have no doubt that the fury you’d feel would awaken immense power within you. I must admit, I’m very curious...»

Draven takes another step forward and then... he vanishes!

No... he didn’t vanish—he just moved at a speed beyond my perception. Then, an intense heat engulfs me, like being cast into a roaring pyre. Before I can even comprehend what’s happening, I’m hurled backward along with Ginevra, encased in a red energy bubble that cushions our fall after that sudden burst of force.

The spot where I stood just moments ago is now the center of a furious clash—Ayra and Draven’s weapons colliding in a rapid, thunderous exchange. Blow after blow resounds through the air, until Draven is forced to retreat under the relentless assault of his enraged opponent.

I can only piece together what must have happened—Ayra, in that fleeting fraction of a second when Draven appeared before me, must have pushed me and Ginevra away, shielding us within that red bubble while simultaneously blocking the former commander’s attack.

«You tried to kill my familiar...» Ayra thunders, lifting her sword toward Draven. «...That is an offense I will never forgive!»

Draven, unfazed, lifts his hammer, its flames surging even more intensely. «I’ll give you this—you’ve got guts for a spoiled princess. But don’t worry, after I kill you, I’ll make sure you receive a proper burial... right alongside your familiar—»

Suddenly, Draven halts, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face, as if he has just received long-awaited news. The blazing skeletal armor dissipates, along with his hammer. «It seems our battle ends here for today... what a shame, just when I was starting to enjoy myself. Next time, I promise we’ll fight to the bitter end. We’ll meet again soon, Ayra.»

With those final words, Draven, accompanied by the other members of the Crimson Requiem, vanishes in a red beam shooting toward the sky—it must be Photon Displacement.

As Draven disappears, Ayra collapses to her knees, likely at her limit. The shadows surrounding her fade into nothingness, and her pupils return to their usual crimson hue. Meanwhile, my own eyes, which I had kept open through sheer willpower, grow unbearably heavy—until they finally close, as I lose consciousness in Ginevra’s arms.

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