In the three years since Victor von Reinherz joined the Fang Hunters at age eleven, he had already carved a bloody swath through the vampire race. His feats were the stuff of whispered legends among the Church's ranks and dreaded rumors among the undead. With his Brain Grid Blood Battle Technique fused with Incarceration and Destruction, Victor became a singularity of devastation—capable of sealing vampires with unearthly ease, or outright annihilating their mana reserves at a cellular level.
Yet, the Fang Hunters had discovered a far more terrifying truth lurking behind the seeming decline of the vampire race: Draculla, the first vampire, had never truly lost his grip. For centuries, he had consumed vampire after vampire, forging them into his thralls—a hidden legion under his control. When Fang Hunters struck down a "True Progenitor," they believed it dead, only to have Draculla revive it from afar using an unknown power.
It was a nightmarish revelation. The newly established frontlines, which Victor had helped fortify with the Church's blessings, were crushed overnight when an Elder vampire believed sealed rose again under Draculla's command. Survivors spoke of an unholy tether connecting all vampires to their originator, as if Draculla's blood thrummed in their veins, allowing him to resurrect them at will.
The Fang Hunters realized that the entire vampire race was, in essence, Draculla's personal army. Their "immortality" came from Draculla's hidden power to reconstitute them if they fell. This horrifying fact made it clear that no victory against lesser vampires was permanent—not unless Draculla himself was sealed. Yet Draculla was now rumored to be stronger than ever, courtesy of a "limit break" enchantment bestowed by the Sephiroth Graal.
The Sephiroth Graal, in the hands of Valerie Tepes, had once granted Victor an unlimited blood supply. But it turned out the Graal could do more—it could implant a unique "limit break" in each individual the wielder chose to enhance, magnifying their natural talents. Draculla's stolen portion of the Graal's power manifested as an ability to absorb and summon anything he consumed, thereby multiplying his strength and resurrecting his thralls at will.
For Victor, the limit break took a different shape—something he wryly called "Battle Continuation, Bitch." As bizarre as the name sounded, it summed up the enchantment's effect: the longer Victor fought, the stronger he grew. His stamina replenished itself almost infinitely, his holy factor soared, and his destructive capabilities scaled with each passing minute.
No one dared experiment further with these enchantments. They were too dangerous, and even Valerie, who possessed the Graal, knew each usage ate away at her life force. The Fang Hunters made a grim decision: they would only bestow the limit break enchantment as a last resort. Meanwhile, Draculla used his stolen enchantment freely, reveling in each new atrocity to increase his power.
By age fourteen, Victor had achieved a mastery of Clergy Magic up to Level 5, a remarkable feat rarely seen in one so young. His holy factor, boosted by the Excalibur experiment that had implanted a "holy factor" in his body, gave him an unparalleled edge against vampires. Now, not only could he seal them with Incarceration and tear them apart with Destruction, but he could also incinerate them with potent holy incantations. High-level vampires who once might have withstood his attacks now found themselves vaporized by a well-timed exorcism or a surge of sanctified flames.
The Church watched in awe—and growing concern. For all his power, Victor was still a mortal. If he attempted to face a True Ancestor or Draculla himself, there was no guarantee he'd survive. And yet, that was precisely what he intended to do.
I am Sshak'oth-Lyevrales, a True Progenitor of the vampire race. My name alone once made mortal hearts quake, and my illusions were said to rival those of Elder gods. Tonight, the sky is red with flames, the streets littered with twisted metal and broken wards. I stride through the wreckage, unchallenged, unstoppable. Humans scramble away in terror, or lie motionless where I have torn their fragile defenses apart.
And yet, amid the stench of blood and ozone, I sense a different presence. A single figure stands among the ruins, backlit by the flicker of dying streetlights. A child—no more than fourteen, if my eyes do not deceive me. A slender frame, messy black hair, and a battered coat that seems far too large for him. Even from this distance, I detect a potent swirl of holy energy and the copper tang of lethal blood. My interest piques.
"You," I say, letting my voice echo across the ravaged city block. "Are you the Fang Hunter they sent to die in vain?"
He does not tremble. He merely lifts his gaze, revealing a face streaked with dust and sweat. I see knuckle-dusters shaped like crosses on his hands, faintly glowing. How quaint. "I'm Victor von Reinherz," he replies, voice steady. "I've come to seal you."
Seal me? I almost laugh. How many times have I heard that from would-be heroes? The smell of scorched asphalt and singed flesh still lingers in the air, remnants of the Church's exorcists who tried to bar my path. They, too, believed they could seal me. Now their corpses feed the crows.
But there is something unusual about this boy. The aura around him prickles my skin. I sense Incarceration and Destruction swirling in his blood—a dual synergy that I thought impossible for a single Fang Hunter. My curiosity stirs, yet I remain confident in my superiority. After all, a child is a child.
"Very well," I say, letting a faint grin tug at my lips. "I'll indulge you, boy. Let's see what this 'seal' amounts to."
I raise my right hand, weaving a typical magic circle that crackles with arcane power. Shadows swirl, forming an orb of roiling black fire in my palm. Without ceremony, I hurl it at the child. The orb scorches a path through the air, warping it with sheer heat. Any normal hunter would be incinerated on impact.
He dodges—barely. The explosion rips through a nearby building, shattering windows and sending shards of concrete flying. The child stumbles, rolling across the ground in a shower of sparks. I smell his blood in the air. Good. He's wounded already.
But he stands, albeit unsteadily. The cross-shaped knuckles on his hands glint in the flickering light. "Pattern 32 – Stechende Blitzattacke!" he shouts, voice echoing with surprising clarity. His blood arcs outward in a flurry of cross-shaped projectiles, each sparking with holy white fire-like energy.
I conjure a mana shield, a transparent barrier that has repelled centuries of assaults. The cross-shapes slam against it with a crackle of static, but the barrier holds firm. With a flick of my wrist, I dispel the remnants of his sacred flame. "Pathetic," I sneer.
Before he can recover, I vanish in a burst of speed, reappearing at his flank. A single backhand sends him crashing through a broken car window. The child coughs up blood, eyes wide with pain. My illusions swirl around me, forming half a dozen spectral clones, each armed with the same roiling black fire. We converge on him, attacking from every angle.
He tries to raise a shield—Pattern 74 – Unzerbrechlich Kreuzschild, I hear him shout. A massive cross-shaped barrier forms, shimmering with red-and-gold energy. But my illusions, enhanced by centuries of practice, exploit the cracks in his defense. The barrier splinters under the combined assault, shards of magical glass raining down.
He's blasted backward, landing in a heap of rubble. For a moment, he doesn't move, and I feel certain I've broken his spirit. Another worthless Fang Hunter, undone by a True Progenitor's might.
But then, unbelievably, he rises again. He's gasping, blood trickling from a cut above his eyebrow, but he's on his feet. "Pattern 11 – Wirbelsturm!" he yells. Blood-laced wind roars into existence, a vortex of swirling cross shapes. The spinning gale slams into my illusions, dispelling them, and momentarily obscures my vision with dust and debris.
I hiss, conjuring another wave of black fire to burn through his vortex. The swirling wind dissipates, revealing him kneeling on one knee. He's trembling, shoulders shaking, eyes half-lidded in exhaustion. I sense the fear in his heart, the knowledge that I outclass him. My grin widens.
"Give up," I taunt. "Your body can't handle this. I can smell the damage in your lungs, your cracked ribs. Lay down your arms, and I may grant you a swift end."
He looks up, and there's a flicker of something in his gaze—resolve. "No," he whispers, forcing himself to stand. "Not while… not while Draculla's thralls keep terrorizing the innocent."
I laugh. "You speak of Draculla as if you can stop him. Pathetic child."
He doesn't answer. Instead, he clutches his knuckle-dusters, and I notice a subtle change in the air around him. Something about the way he breathes. Is that… a second wind?
The fight continues. I hammer him with illusions, illusions that have broken Elders in seconds. He counters with level 5 Clergy Magic, chanting incantations that conjure holy flames to dispel my illusions. Each incantation tears at my shadows, though I still dominate. I fling him across the battlefield, smashing him into walls, blasting him with concentrated mana beams. He bleeds, staggers, groans—but does not break.
Thirty minutes in, I begin to notice that his moves are sharper, his reflexes quicker. He's learning my patterns, reacting faster. When I lunge at him, he manages to deflect my claws with a sudden burst of speed. He lands a punch on my chest that sends a jolt of Destruction through me, making me snarl in genuine pain. This… is new.
I hurl him away again, conjuring a barrier. "How… are you getting stronger?" I growl, voice tinged with frustration. "You should be nearing death by now!"
He coughs, wiping blood from his lip. "It's called Battle Continuation, Bitch," he says hoarsely, a hint of a smirk on his battered face. "The longer I fight, the stronger I get."
Impossible. I've lived for centuries, but never have I heard of such an enchantment. This must be the rumored limit break from the Sephiroth Graal. My rage intensifies. "You… you dare to steal Draculla's secrets?" I hiss, unleashing a volley of black fire orbs. They crash into the ground around him, carving out a crater. He leaps aside with agility that's far beyond what he showed at the start.
Forty minutes, and he's now evading me more fluidly. His blood constructs—cross-shaped shurikens, spears, even swirling storms—gnaw at my wards. The synergy of Incarceration and Destruction forces me to repair my illusions constantly. My illusions flicker, illusions that were once unassailable. I realize with growing alarm that each passing minute sees him recover from injuries that would have crippled him earlier.
An hour in, the battle has wrecked the entire block. Collapsed buildings form a ring of debris around us. The flickering remains of Church wards glimmer on the periphery, powerless to contain the chaos. I conjure a massive wave of shadow-lances, each one sizzling with vampiric mana. He counters with Pattern 111 – Kreuzvernichterlanze—an enormous cross-lance forged from his own blood, glowing a harsh crimson. The lances collide in mid-air, sending a shockwave that topples the last standing lamppost.
He emerges from the dust, drenched in sweat, face pale but eyes burning with an unholy determination. My illusions waver, the synergy of Incarceration and Destruction eroding my magic. "You're insane," I spit. "A mortal child shouldn't be able to fight me this long."
He pants, chest heaving. "Guess… you underestimated me."
I feel my confidence slip. Two hours in, and I can't kill him. Worse, he's pushing me back, blow by blow. My illusions fail to distract him as effectively. My barriers crack under his repeated onslaught. Each time I block a punch or cross-lance, I sense the mana in my body chipping away under the force of Destruction. The holy factor in his blood is burning me from the inside out.
Snarling, I decide to end this in one overwhelming strike. Summoning centuries of arcane knowledge, I raise my arms. A swirling magic circle expands above me, crackling with raw power. I pour my remaining mana into it, forging a giant orb of black and violet energy. The ground trembles, spiderweb cracks racing outward from my feet. This is my ultimate move, an attack that has obliterated entire platoons of exorcists in the past.
He braces himself, eyes widening. I can see the flicker of doubt cross his face. Good. I channel every ounce of hatred, every droplet of vampiric might, into the orb. "Die, child!" I roar, launching the orb in a colossal beam that rips through the air. The buildings behind him crumble as the beam roars forward. I sense the scorching heat even from my vantage point.
Impact. The explosion is cataclysmic, a blinding flare that lights up the night sky like a miniature sun. Chunks of asphalt and twisted rebar fly in all directions. The wind howls with the force of a hurricane. Dust and debris fill the air, obscuring everything.
I hover above the devastation, panting, confident that no mortal—no matter how many attributes—could survive such a cataclysmic blow. Slowly, the dust begins to settle. My lips curl into a triumphant smile. "You're finished," I whisper, half-laughing. "No one could—"
Then I hear it: a phone ringing. A mundane, almost cheerful ringtone echoing through the swirling dust. My laughter catches in my throat. I spin around, confusion turning to dread.
Standing behind me, battered but alive, is the boy. He's holding a phone in one hand, staring at the screen with a mixture of annoyance and mild amusement. My mind reels. How? My ultimate blast should have vaporized him.
He ends the call, slipping the phone into his coat pocket. "Bad timing," he mutters, as if apologizing to an unseen friend. Then he looks at me, a grim smile forming. "Battle Continuation, Bitch. I can do this all day, The longer this goes, the stronger I get."
Fear floods me for the first time in centuries. Before I can conjure a defense, he speed-blitzes behind me. It's not a flamboyant strike. He simply punches me in the side, almost too gentle to be considered a lethal blow.
Yet agony explodes through my body. Destruction tears at my mana reserves, while Incarceration roots me in place. I choke, feeling my illusions unravel as if a scythe just cleaved through them. My limbs refuse to move, pinned by invisible cross-shaped shackles of blood.
He leans in, voice barely above a whisper. "Despise me. Forgive me. Resign yourself. I willingly shoulder this act of brutality for the sake of the human world."
A swirl of red arcs from his knuckle-dusters, flipping me upside down in mid-air. My eyes bulge with terror. I sense thousands of blood-threads erupt from my body, binding each limb. They compress me, ignoring my attempts to regenerate or shift shape. My illusions fail to manifest. My barrier refuses to form. Everything is undone by the synergy of Incarceration and Destruction.
き
ゅ
う
ひ
ゃ
く
き
ゅ
う
じ
ゅ
う
き
ゅ
う
式
"Kyūhyakukyūjūkyū-shiki
久
遠
棺
封
縛
獄
Ēvihikaito Gefengunisu!"(Pattern 999-Eternal Prison)
He intones, as though performing a sacred ritual. The threads tighten, compressing my ancient flesh into a small, steel cross. My mind whirls in a final, desperate attempt to break free, but it's too late. Darkness envelops me, and I lose all sense of self, my final thought a scream of rage at being bested by a mere child.
Far from the battlefield, Motohama Kenji clutches his eyes in a dimly lit apartment. The air reeks of burnt flesh, and each breath he takes comes out in ragged gasps. He had just deciphered the True Progenitor's name—a monstrous ten-syllable tangle of cosmic nonsense—and sent it to Victor's phone. Doing so required him to open his cursed eyes fully, peering into a level of reality that mortals weren't meant to see.
Now, he pays the price. His vision is gone, replaced by scorching pain that sears his retinas. He collapses onto the floor, tears of blood dripping onto the tiles. The smell of singed cornea hits his nostrils, making him want to gag.
Suddenly, the door to his room bursts open. Mizuki, blind and confined to a wheelchair, wheels in, her voice tinged with worry. "Onii-chan? Did you… did you cook bacon or something? It smells like something's burning."
Kenji forces a shaky laugh. "No, Mizuki," he groans, fighting back tears. "I… I just overdid it. Sent the name… to Victor… h-he should have sealed it by now."
Mizuki frowns, reaching out a hand until she finds his shoulder. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, just… lost my vision temporarily. Don't worry, it'll come back eventually," Kenji murmurs, though the pain suggests otherwise. He wants to reassure her, to hide how severe it is, but he can't keep the tremor out of his voice.
She sits there with him, silent concern etched into her face, even though her own eyes are void. He can't help but feel the crushing guilt anew: the contract that gave him these eyes took her sight away. But if it helps defeat monsters like the one Victor just sealed, maybe there's some purpose in it.
Outside, the city's night hums with oblivious normalcy. Kenji grips Mizuki's hand, tears of blood still streaming, as he prays that Victor is safe. He can't see the future, but he clings to the hope that each sealing, each monstrous foe brought down, is one step closer to ending this nightmare.
"And that is how i met your mother"
Motohama Kenji chimed in while taking off his glasses and opening his All-seeing eyes of god in all of its glory showing its mechanical wonder as issei was staring at him with his mouth agape and his sandwitch's filling fell to the ground
"you fucking what mate?"