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Victor wasn't exactly worried when he saw the dark elf leap toward him. The blades around the boy danced through the air like sharpened serpents — fast and precise — but nothing Victor couldn't deflect with a lazy tap or a casual sidestep.
There was something strange about that magic. The boy manipulated invisible threads that guided the daggers, making them return, change course, or perform impossible movements.
This guy is weird… and annoying. I don't feel like fighting him at all.
Victor dodged with a deadpan expression, almost bored. His red eyes were half-closed, as if he were about to fall asleep. Truth be told, he didn't even understand why he was fighting. He had already said he wasn't a vampire — but the elf insisted on attacking him anyway.
He could just walk away… but ignoring someone who was clearly giving their all would be rude. And Victor wasn't that kind of person. If someone was taking it seriously, the least he could do was give them a fair fight — or in his case, pretend he was lowering himself to match them.
He landed softly after avoiding yet another strike.
"Hey," he muttered, nearly yawning, "what's your ability?"
"As if I'd tell you, you stupid monster!"
"Fair."
Another dagger came spinning, and Victor sighed. So many identical attacks… it was almost offensive.
Does this guy actually know how to fight? Or is he improvising and praying?
Annoyed and wanting to end it, Victor extended two fingers and caught the blade midair again — this time with enough force to prevent it from snapping back to the elf.
"See? You're gonna have to try harder. This is getting boring."
"I knew you'd do that…"
The elf grinned — and then the blade shone. A pure gold glow took over the dagger, burning Victor's skin like living fire. He immediately released it, the weapon clinking against the ground.
Holy magic.
The true weakness of his kind. Power capable of rejecting his existence — of actually hurting him.
Victor frowned. That made no sense. Dark elves didn't use holy magic. It was impossible — their bodies rejected it, and they suffered for even attempting it.
Yet there it was — that glow. Sacred, pure. A living miracle.
"Ha! That hurt, didn't it?!" the elf laughed proudly, daggers floating around him once more. "Bet you didn't expect that!'"
Victor looked at the slightly burned tips of his fingers and blew on them, as if it were just a tiny scratch.
"Honestly… that's impressive. You've got some hidden talent there."
"Just accept your defeat already! The fact that this worked proves you're a vampire!" he shouted, pulling the daggers back with his invisible strings.
"Just accept that I'm not a vampire," Victor replied in the same tired tone.
Civilians watched from afar, frightened and confused. No one dared intervene. They all knew that elf: Zeth, the blessed one. A walking miracle. A living legend of his race.
Three hundred years ago, he had been born dead. And resurrected by divine light inside his mother's womb, his soul forced back into his body to grow again. But existing had a price — every use of that power caused unbearable pain, as if he were dying all over again. But after centuries, he'd gotten better at enduring it.
To the elves, he was still a teenager; a healthy elf can live past a thousand years. Zeth's childish way of thinking and acting was easily justified, but even so, everyone was disappointed.
Victor blinked slowly, almost pitying him. He even respected the effort.
But he wasn't a vampire. And repeating it was getting annoying.
"I told you," Victor sighed, "I'm not a vampire."
"Then what are you?!"
Victor disappeared.
A silent blur — a clean, simple vanishing — [Ghost Step]. In the next blink, he reappeared in front of the elf, fingertip touching his forehead.
"I'm a Metamorph," he said — and flicked him.
Just a flick.
But the force behind it launched Zeth like a cannonball, tearing through the air and crashing into a stack of crates at the side of the street. Wood, paper, and fruit flew everywhere.
Silence.
Then a faint groan.
Victor walked toward the unconscious elf, hand on the back of his neck, expression tired.
'Man… such a hassle…'
He turned back to the shopfront, where Burst was still standing, watching everything.
"Is the pie done?"
After all, that fight… was boring. It wouldn't give him any evolution. Just wasted time.
The inhabitants present called it: the fastest fight in the history of Aster. It wasn't worth it in the slightest.
But meat pie… that was worth the trouble.
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