Kiss of the vampire
"The Girl with the Sharp sword"
Mission 39 : GomBurZa
The sparring session left the plane vibrating with the echoes of their clash. Deyviel's chest heaved, sweat streaking down his temples as he steadied his stance, eyes still sharp with adrenaline. Ben, meanwhile, was casually brushing dust off his shirt, as if they hadn't just turned the cargo bay into a training ground.
"You're improving," Ben said with that infuriating half-smile. "But you're still thinking too much about what ability you're using. Adopt or Survive—it doesn't matter. Your body knows before you do. You just need to let it."
Deyviel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, frowning. "Easy for you to say. My body isn't exactly predictable. What if next time it doesn't trigger in time?"
"Then you'll be dead," Ben replied bluntly, striding past him to grab his coat. "But that's why we train. You can't rely on luck when your power is literally designed to spit in the face of it."
The engines hummed louder as the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "We'll be landing shortly. Please prepare for descent."
Ben strapped his sword case to his back and glanced over. "And remember… in one loop, you only had Survive. In another, only Adopt. This time, you might have both. That means your limits aren't set in stone. They shift, like the loop itself."
Deyviel blinked, unsettled. "So… you're saying even my own memories can't be trusted?"
"Not always," Ben said quietly. His eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "But if you learn to feel what's flowing through you instead of questioning it, you'll know which ability is awake. Don't chase the memory—chase the instinct."
The plane gave a gentle jolt as the wheels met the tarmac. Outside the small oval windows, the gray outline of the county airport came into view, dotted with hangars and perimeter lights. Compared to the grandeur of Elisia's mansion or the scarlet halls of the vampire courts, it looked almost mundane—just steel, asphalt, and quiet fog rolling in from the countryside.
Ben stretched lazily as the engines wound down. "Alright. Time to play tourists," he muttered, voice low. "Keep your hood up. A place like this? People talk. And we can't afford whispers traveling faster than we do."
Deyviel pulled up his hood, adjusting the strap of his sword. His body still thrummed faintly with the aftershock of their spar—like his blood was still undecided between Survive and Adopt. But his eyes flickered with something sharper now: focus.
The cargo door lowered with a mechanical groan, letting in the cool night air of the countryside. Ben was the first to step out, hands in his pockets, gaze scanning the airport surroundings with a predator's ease.
Deyviel followed close behind. For the first time since the spar, he felt the weight of the silence between them—not hostile, but heavy, like the calm before something inevitable.
Ben glanced at him, lips curling into a smirk. "You're not going to break this plane with our next spar. The hangar's sturdier. Maybe we'll test how much your body really wants to survive once we're settled."
Deyviel exhaled through his nose, his grip tightening on his blade's hilt. "Yeah. Let's."
The two shadows disappeared into the fog of the airport, their path already set for the next storm waiting to meet them.
The three robed figures straightened, their movements precise, almost ceremonial.
The first stepped forward, the oldest in appearance, with a calm but stern face.
"I am Mariano Gómez." His voice carried the weight of a sermon. "Once a priest, executed for crimes I did not commit."
The second inclined his head, sharp-eyed and dignified.
"José Burgos," he said simply. "Scholar. Believer. Martyr."
The last, younger than the other two, smirked faintly as if amused at Deyviel's confusion.
"And Jacinto Zamora. Priest, rebel, sinner in the eyes of men, but not of God."
Their names struck like a hammer in Deyviel's chest.
"Wait… Gómez, Burgos, Zamora… GomBurZa?!" He blinked hard, his sword lowering. "No way. That's… that's impossible. You guys were executed centuries ago!"
Ben chuckled, crossing his arms. "Now you see why I told you this trip ain't just some joyride."
Deyviel's eyes darted between the three men, his face a mix of disbelief and wariness.
"But… how? How the hell are you still alive? People don't just live for hundreds of years. Unless…" He swallowed hard, his instincts screaming again. "Don't tell me—you really are vampires?"
Mariano's stern gaze fixed on him.
"No. We are not of the cursed blood. When our bodies were destroyed, our faith and Ki bound us beyond death. Where others found only oblivion, we found… preservation."
José Burgos added, his voice smooth and steady:
"We were not spared because of mercy. We were spared because history itself demanded we endure. To watch. To wait. To stand when the time would call for us again."
Jacinto Zamora chuckled, shaking his head. "Think of us as relics that refused to rot. Neither dead, nor fully alive. But make no mistake, boy—our wills are sharper than steel."
Deyviel stood stunned, jaw tight, trying to process the weight of their words.
"So you're saying… you survived all this time because of… Ki? Faith? Both?"
Ben clapped him on the shoulder, grinning.
"Exactly. Ki doesn't just strengthen the body, brat. With the right conviction, it can defy even time itself. And these three… well, they're living proof."
The three priests exchanged a glance, then Mariano said solemnly:
"And now you, child, stand at a crossroads. You carry a brand that ties you to enemies and allies alike. If you are to wield that burden, you must first understand what it means to survive as more than a man."
Deyviel's grip tightened on his sword. His mind spun with questions, but one thing rang in his head clearer than ever:
These men weren't legends in a book anymore—they were here, real, and somehow tied to his path.
The wind howled across the cliffside as the four men stood at the mountain's summit. Deyviel still couldn't shake the strangeness of standing before three historical figures who should've been nothing more than pages in a textbook.
Mariano Gómez raised his hand, palm open, and the air itself seemed to still.
"You are reckless, boy. You swing your sword with instinct and rage, but not discipline. That will only get you killed."
José Burgos stepped forward, unsheathing a wooden baston carved with intricate markings. "Our people, long before our deaths, developed an art—arnis, eskrima, kali. Not just combat, but survival. It was made to resist invaders, to turn even sticks, blades, or empty hands into weapons."
Jacinto Zamora grinned, his stance lowering as he drew a circle with his foot. "But sticks alone won't save you. The body itself is the deadliest weapon. You'll learn Yaw-Yan—the dance of death. A martial art of bone-crushing kicks, twisting strikes, and relentless pressure."
Ben smirked in the background, arms crossed. "That's why I dragged you here. These three aren't just martyrs, brat—they're masters. If you can stand their training, you'll finally stop fighting like a wild dog."
Mariano stepped closer, his presence heavy.
"There is one technique we must carve into your bones before anything else. The Royal Guard Stance."
Deyviel blinked. "Royal Guard? Sounds… fancy. What is it?"
José Burgos tapped his baston against Deyviel's chest.
"It is the impenetrable wall. Defense refined to its peak. When executed properly, no attack can break you. Not steel. Not fire. Not even the cursed powers of the Outer Gods."
Jacinto smirked, suddenly unleashing a Yaw-Yan roundhouse kick that stopped just inches from Deyviel's head. "And when you master it, you won't just block. You'll send back the force of your enemy's strike a hundredfold."
Deyviel flinched but stood his ground. "…So it's like perfect defense?"
Ben's grin widened. "Exactly. But it ain't something you just 'do.' You'll bleed learning it. And you'll learn the hard way these old bastards don't pull punches."
Mariano raised his hand. "Deyviel Kieth Martin. Stand tall."
The boy instinctively shifted into his usual stance, blade forward. But Mariano shook his head.
"No. Empty your guard. No sword. No offense. Only your will."
Deyviel hesitated. "Wait, what? You're telling me to drop my weapon—against you?"
Jacinto smirked, his muscles coiled like a serpent.
"Exactly. Because if you can't survive with only your body, you don't deserve to wield that blade."
Ben chuckled darkly.
"Welcome to hell, brat. Let's see if you can master the guard that once protected kings… and tempered killers."
Deyviel's pulse quickened, but he threw his sword into the dirt, raising his bare hands. His lips curved into a reckless grin.
"Fine… hit me with everything you've got, old fossils."
The three priests circled him, bastons ready, kicks sharp, eyes gleaming like predators. And so began the first lesson of the Royal Guard—mixed with the crushing discipline of Yaw-Yan.
The first strike came like lightning. Mariano's baston snapped forward, aiming straight at Deyviel's temple. Instinct screamed at him to dodge, but he forced himself to stay, tightening his stance. The wood cracked against his arm with bone-jarring force. His whole body rattled.
"Stand tall!" Mariano barked. "You don't evade. You absorb."
The second came faster—Jacinto's Yaw-Yan roundhouse smashing into Deyviel's ribs. Air blasted out of his lungs, and he staggered, but his feet stayed planted.
"Good," Jacinto said, circling with a predator's grin. "But you flinch like a boy, not a warrior. If that was a blade, you'd be cut in half."
Before Deyviel could recover, Burgos slid in low, sweeping with his baston across Deyviel's shin. Pain lanced up his leg, forcing him to one knee.
"Royal Guard is not just blocking," Burgos scolded. "It is taking the enemy's strength, channeling it, and returning it. If you cannot endure, you cannot counter."
Deyviel spat blood onto the dirt, eyes narrowing. "Damn… you old fossils really don't hold back."
Ben exploded in laughter from the sideline, nearly doubling over. "Oh, this is too good! The brat thought training was gonna be kata and meditation—welcome to real hell, kid!"
Gritting his teeth, Deyviel staggered upright again, forcing his body into a stance—knees bent, arms close, breathing steady. Every strike burned, but he focused on one thing: Don't fall. Don't fold.
Mariano tested him again, jabbing the baston at his chest. This time, Deyviel exhaled sharply, tightening his core, and the blow rebounded slightly.
Mariano's brows rose. "Hoh… the boy learns."
Jacinto smirked, launching another kick. Deyviel braced, letting the shin collide with his forearm. Pain erupted, but he didn't budge. Instead, he pushed forward, and for the first time, Jacinto slid a step back.
Burgos chuckled, a rare warmth in his stern voice. "Not bad… not bad at all."
Ben clapped slowly, mock applause. "Look at that, Fossils. He might not be completely hopeless after all."
Deyviel, panting hard, smirked through bloody lips. "Heh… is that all you've got? Hit me harder, old fossils. I can take it."
The three exchanged glances, faint smiles flickering across their usually grim faces.
Mariano lowered his baston, voice solemn. "Then let us carve the Royal Guard into your soul. From this moment on, you will not simply learn to fight… you will learn to endure everything."
Jacinto's grin widened, already winding up another brutal Yaw-Yan kick.
Burgos shifted his bastons into a blur.
And Mariano's aura weighed heavy, like a mountain about to collapse.
The training had only just begun.
The clash went on for hours. Bastons cracked against flesh, Yaw-Yan kicks bruised bone, and every strike felt like it was chiseling away at Deyviel's pride. By the time the sun dipped behind the jagged cliffs, his body was a canvas of purple bruises and raw cuts. He collapsed onto his knees, panting, drenched in sweat.
"Enough." Mariano raised his hand, his voice calm but firm. "He won't last if we keep hammering him like this. His spirit is strong, but his foundation is weak."
Jacinto exhaled, wiping his brow. "True. He's got fire in him, but fire alone doesn't hold a house. The boy's body must be reforged before he can even hope to master the Royal Guard."
Burgos nodded, his expression unreadable. "Then we use the old ways."
Ben's smirk faded just a little, his arms still crossed. "Ohhh… that training, huh? Fossils, you're gonna break the kid before he even learns to block."
Mariano turned to Deyviel, whose shaky hands were trying to push himself upright. "Deyviel Kieth Martin… from this day forward, you will train not just in combat, but in discipline. You will crush your body and spirit until endurance itself becomes your second nature."
Jacinto cracked a grin, already pointing toward the forest trail that led deeper into the mountains. "First stop… the waterfall."
The next day, Deyviel found himself standing before a roaring cascade of white water. The current pounded down the cliff like thunder, splitting into a foaming river below.
"You'll meditate beneath it," Burgos instructed, his tone cold. "Until you can keep your breath steady, even as the weight of a mountain crushes your spine. Lose focus, and you'll drown."
Deyviel gawked at the torrent. "What?! That thing looks like it could snap me in half!"
Ben leaned against a tree, grinning. "Better get in there, brat. They're not gonna let you eat till you last an hour."
With a curse, Deyviel stripped off his shirt and waded into the freezing water. The first impact of the waterfall felt like a giant's fist smashing his shoulders. His knees buckled, and he almost collapsed instantly. But he grit his teeth, growling through the pain. "I… won't… break!"
The waterfall wasn't the end.
Next came the endurance runs—barefoot across jagged terrain, sprinting through forests, scaling cliffs with weighted packs on his back.
"Faster!" Mariano barked, chasing him with a baston, striking at his calves if he slowed down.
Then came the balance drills—standing atop wooden poles planted into the cliffside, the wind threatening to hurl him off at every second. Jacinto would leap and kick at him without warning, forcing him to regain footing or plummet into the ravine below.
At night, when he thought he'd finally collapse into sleep, Burgos forced him into kata—slow, precise motions repeated until his muscles screamed. "Discipline before strength. Precision before speed. Control before power."
Days bled into weeks.
Deyviel's body hardened. The bruises faded, replaced by scars and defined muscle. His movements grew sharper, his balance steadier, his breathing more controlled. The once wild, reckless boy was slowly being shaped into a weapon honed on both pain and patience.
One evening, under the crimson glow of sunset, Deyviel stood beneath the waterfall once again. This time, his back straightened, his breathing calm, his spirit unmoving despite the mountain's weight crashing down.
Mariano, Burgos, and Jacinto exchanged glances, faint smiles breaking their stoic faces.
Ben, watching from the rocks, smirked proudly. "Heh… look at you, brat. You're starting to look less like a wild dog… and more like a wolf."
Deyviel opened his eyes beneath the torrent, fire burning within.
"Old fossils… keep it coming. I'll take it all."
The months crawled by like a cruel eternity.
The waterfall that once crushed him became his second home. At first, he could barely last five minutes before the torrent snapped his posture and forced him gasping to the rocks. But now? He stood there for hours, eyes closed, body still, breath slow and steady. The freezing water bit into his flesh, but he no longer trembled.
"Good…" Burgos muttered one night as he watched the boy from the riverbank. "The body is learning to endure. Now the mind must follow."
They stripped him of sleep next.
Three days and nights where every time he closed his eyes, Jacinto would strike him with a kick, a baston, or even a splash of cold water. When exhaustion dragged him into near-delirium, they forced him into stance work—legs trembling, arms heavy, muscles burning.
"You think enemies will wait for you to be well-rested?" Mariano's voice cracked like a whip. "Stand tall! Guard is will. Guard is survival!"
Deyviel's jaw clenched, his vision doubled, but he held firm.
Then came hunger.
They tossed him into the woods with nothing—no weapon, no food. Only his body.
"For one week, you eat only what you can hunt or find," Jacinto told him, grinning. "No Ki flares, no flashy tricks. Be a beast if you want to survive."
By the fourth day, Deyviel's stomach gnawed at itself. His body ached. He stumbled through the forest until his instincts sharpened like blades. He learned to trap birds with snare lines, to stalk wild boars with sharpened sticks, to chew bitter roots for energy.
When he returned, half-starved but alive, the three martyrs nodded in approval.
"You're beginning to understand," Burgos said. "Survival is not talent. It is will."
The physical torture was only the surface.
They broke him down spiritually too. Mariano led him into deep caves, lit only by faint torches. There, Deyviel sat cross-legged as the priest's voice echoed:
"Guard is not just body. It is spirit. To defend, you must face yourself. Your rage. Your fear. Your weakness."
The darkness pressed in, whispering illusions of failure, memories of the loops where he died, where his friends bled. Deyviel gritted his teeth, tears burning his eyes, but he refused to bow to them.
Seasons shifted in the mountains. The air grew colder. His body leaner, sharper, more defined. What once broke him now became routine. His balance on the poles sharpened until he could spar blindfolded, sensing Jacinto's strikes only by the shift in the wind. His breath control beneath the waterfall became so refined he could meditate there till dawn without moving.
Even Ben, who had spent most of the time smirking from the sidelines, found himself quietly impressed.
One evening, when the training had stretched into its fourth month, Ben finally spoke up as Deyviel held the Royal Guard stance against Jacinto's flurry of Yaw-Yan kicks.
"Not bad, brat. You're not flailing anymore."
Jacinto's shin smashed against Deyviel's forearms—yet instead of staggering, Deyviel absorbed the impact, his stance immovable.
Then something clicked. His body shifted naturally. Instead of just blocking, he channeled the force back. Jacinto's eyes widened as he was thrown off-balance, nearly stumbling from his own strike's rebound.
Mariano's lips curved into the faintest smile. "At last. The wall begins to form."
Deyviel's chest heaved, his arms trembling, but his eyes burned with pride.
"Finally… I'm getting it."
Ben's smirk widened. "Heh. Took you long enough. Guess these old fossils still got it."
Jacinto spat into the dirt, smirking. "Don't celebrate yet. The stance is only a seed. For it to grow, we'll break you again tomorrow."
Deyviel raised his fists, sweat dripping down his scarred face.
"Old fossils… break me all you want. I'll keep standing."
The mountain roared with the sound of the waterfall, and beneath it, a boy was slowly being reborn into a weapon of unyielding defense.
To be continued..