Chapter 10 - RACE TO INFORM THE VAMPIRE KING

Suddenly, Vampire City's guards arrived with their prince, a tall, pale young man cloaked in crimson and silver, his eyes glowing faintly with the heritage of night in his veins, and despite the grime of recent battle still smoldering in the air, he bowed gracefully, with the practiced formality of royalty: "Thank you, Demon Slayers. My father, the King, must know this ritual plan." His voice, though calm, carried a subtle urgency, a weight that belied its elegance, and immediately the three of us—Kael, the steel-eyed warrior of the Southern Reaches, Lysaria, the elven arcanist whose sigils still pulsed faintly on the ruined cobblestones, and I, Ashen, the half-wraith born of two worlds—exchanged a look, each understanding that whatever horrors we had faced in the crumbling temple behind us were only the prelude to something far more sinister unraveling beneath the surface of Vampire City's infamous politics and ancient secrets. Around us, the once-sacred site of Gyutaro's binding lay in ruin, its runes flickering out like dying stars, its chains—crafted from soul-steel and blessed by blood-mages three centuries prior—now shattered, and though the demon's corpse sizzled in the wan moonlight, we knew better than to assume death was final when it came to such entities; indeed, we'd only halted his physical manifestation, and even now, whispers of his corrupted essence writhed along the stones like shadows hunting a new host. The prince straightened, glancing nervously at the remnants of the temple and the blood-slicked ground where a dozen acolytes had died in vain to complete the ritual Gyutaro had tricked them into enacting; his voice, though firm, cracked slightly as he asked, "Shall we: A) Escort the prince to the King immediately B) Ask the guards about the ritual details first C) Let them go alone, we're not done with Gyutaro," and in that moment, time itself seemed to hesitate as the wind stilled, the torch flames frozen mid-flicker, even the low hum of the ley lines beneath our feet faltering, and it was Lysaria who broke the silence, stepping forward with narrowed eyes and a hand raised in a subtle weave of detection magic as she said, "We can't move until we know exactly what ritual was attempted here—this wasn't just a summoning; the geometry of the glyphs is off," and she knelt swiftly, tracing the blood patterns carved into the stone, her breath catching as a faint echo responded, a psychic residue flaring into her mind and knocking her back with a gasp, her voice strained: "This was a siphoning ritual… they weren't summoning Gyutaro—they were feeding him," and the prince paled further, looking from her to us with a fresh horror blooming in his eyes, stammering, "Feeding… on what?" and Lysaria, grim now, replied, "On the souls of the chained, the willing, the bound—your people," and at that, Kael's hand shot to his sword, glaring at the prince as though he were complicit, but the youth raised his hands in protest, declaring, "I swear on my bloodline—I knew nothing! This was orchestrated by my uncle, the Lord of Umberspire, he's always sought to reclaim the lost pacts of the ancient court!" and the mention of that name sent a chill through me, for Umberspire was no ordinary noble, but a vampire of the old breed, a relic of the Crimson Accord who had long evaded both justice and mortality, and whose interest in demonology had once nearly razed the Eastern Wall in the Siege of Hollowthorn, and so, with this revelation unveiled, I nodded grimly to Lysaria, who slowly rose and gestured for the prince to continue, and he did, recounting in hushed tones how his uncle had manipulated fringe cults and exiled warlocks to piece together the remnants of the Gyutaro Codex, a tome thought destroyed in the last era, its pages said to be written in the blood of archfiends and sealed in the vaults of the Black Library, and though we had heard rumors of its resurgence, none of us had believed them until now; and so we stood, torn between the urgency of delivering this knowledge to the King and the immediate danger that still thrummed beneath our feet, for Gyutaro's soul was not gone—merely dispersed, hunting, seething—and I felt its presence lingering like a breath on the back of my neck, whispering in a tongue older than shadow, promising that death was merely a doorway, and he would return, stronger, wiser, vengeful, and as the prince looked to us, waiting, hoping, I made the call: "We can't leave yet. C. Let them go alone. We're not done with Gyutaro," and though the guards hesitated, one eyeing me with suspicion, the prince nodded solemnly, understanding the stakes, and turned to depart with half his escort, promising he'd reach the palace with haste, while we returned to the ruins, deeper this time, venturing below the surface where the true heart of the ritual had pulsed; and as we descended into the sub-vaults, the temperature dropped sharply, and the air became thick with the scent of burnt copper and something darker, older, like the taste of a grave sealed in stone, and there, in the deep hollow beneath the temple, we found it—a prison not of this world, cracked open like an egg, its runes pulsing erratically, and at its center, a small, shriveled child-like figure, emaciated yet alive, its eyes glowing with Gyutaro's essence, and Lysaria gasped, realizing it was a soul-forged homunculus, a vessel meant to hold his spirit until a more permanent body could be found, and even as Kael drew his blade to destroy it, the thing smiled, impossibly, and spoke in Gyutaro's voice, soft and venomous: "You came back… good," and the shadows exploded outward in tendrils of corruption, slamming us apart, and I remember pain, like molten glass in my veins, as the essence of the demon tried to force its way into my mind, showing me visions of a world remade in horror, where the skies burned and the seas turned to blood, and I screamed, anchoring myself to reality with every ounce of will, feeling Lysaria's magic encircle me, shielding, binding, even as she bled from her nose and eyes, forcing the entity out, and Kael—gods bless his stubbornness—decapitated the vessel in a single, thunderous swing, severing Gyutaro's anchor before it could take hold; and silence fell again, broken only by our ragged breaths, and the slow dripping of ichor from the shattered altar, and I knew in that moment that we had only delayed the inevitable, that this was no longer about a single ritual gone wrong, but the beginning of something greater, a dark tide rising from the buried sins of history, and the King needed to know, yes, but more than that—we needed to stop Umberspire, now, before he could attempt another binding, another feeding, and Lysaria agreed, wiping blood from her brow as she limped beside me, whispering, "We have to find the Codex before he does," and Kael only nodded grimly, ever the soldier, and thus began the next chapter of our war against the darkness—not as mere demon slayers, but as hunters of the forbidden, wielders of forbidden truths, racing against a clock that ticked in the heartbeats of dying stars.