The wheat erupted.
Like a vile beast rising from the abyss, Grant tore through the golden stalks—a blur of pale steel and blackened bone.
Dirt flew. Wheat stems snapped.
The reanimated knight surged forward with terrifying momentum, shield raised, longsword drawn in a brutal crossguard.
The silent elf turned at the last second—moonblade flashing to meet the blow.
CLANG!
The impact rang through the field like a church bell struck by a sledgehammer.
The elf skidded back, boots carving shallow furrows in the earth.
His eyes—previously narrowed and unreadable—flared wide. His calm shattered.
That thing before him should not exist.
"A death knight?"
No answer. Grant advanced without pause, every motion silent and inhumanly fluid.
His blade sang through the air, driven by necromantic precision and a menacing aura.
The elf dodged left, then right, weaving beneath a diagonal strike.
He countered—moonblade arcing upward in a graceful slash that shimmered with cold silver light.
CHING!
Grant's shield snapped into place, absorbing the blow with a dull thud.
They clashed again. Sparks flew.
Grant pressed the advantage—step, strike, bash.
Sword hammered downward like a falling guillotine.
The elf blocked, parried, retaliated.
His movements were sharp but defensive—more dancer than duelist—forced back by sheer brutality.
Freya hid Gale in the wheat field, her eyes gleaming crimson from the shadows.
She could feel it—through the tether—Grant was powerful, but the elf was faster. Too fast for a corpse.
The elf spun, cloak whirling. His moonblade bit through Grant's shoulder armor in a glancing blow that would've cleaved flesh from bone—if there was flesh left.
Grant didn't flinch.[Harden]
He surged forward, shoulder-checking the elf hard enough to send him staggering.
The elf recovered, sliding into a low stance. For the first time, he spoke—not to Freya, but to Grant. Almost to himself.
"You shouldn't be here."
Grant answered with a war cry like a gust of wind over a graveyard. No breath. Just cold rage.
Their blades met again—silver moonlight against cold iron. Shield battering aside finesse. Moonblade dancing like a phantom.
Steel screamed. The field burned with motion.
And above them, the clouds parted—moonlight spilling down like judgment as the clash intensified.
Every blow from Grant was thunder. Every step from the elf, lightning.
The wheat flattened around them—stalks falling beneath their boots, their blades, the shockwaves of their collision.
The elf was quick—very quick.
Even Grant, with unnaturally sharp reflexes, began to falter.
The moonblade wasn't just elegant. It was enchanted. Each strike left a gleaming arc in the air—cutting deeper, faster.
Another slash slipped past Grant's guard, slicing off a chunk of jawbone. He staggered.
The elf closed in—ready to finish the job.
And then—from the side, a crimson flash streaked through the air.
It's the Reaper's Scythe!
CLANK!
The elf barely turned his blade in time.
The Reaper's Scythe met the moonblade in a spray of sparks—steel shrieking as Freya landed between the two warriors, eyes blazing crimson in the moonlight.
"Did you miss me?" she smirked, already twisting the scythe for another strike.
The elf's expression hardened. He leapt back—silent, calculating.
Freya didn't let him breathe.
She lunged, scythe sweeping low in a savage arc. The elf parried, but the force sent him sliding across the churned earth.
Grant advanced beside her—shield raised, sword steady. The undead knight flanked left as Freya pressed from the right.
A pincer.
Steel and shadow.
The elf moved like moonlight on water—twisting, ducking, whirling. His blade flashed between them in near-blinding arcs.
But now, the tempo was shifting.
Grant blocked a blow meant for Freya's side, returning with a shield bash that staggered the elf.
Freya stepped in, scythe slashing high—forcing the elf into another desperate parry.
She grinned. "Not so calm now, are you?"
The elf said nothing, but his breathing had quickened. His cloak was tattered. Hair damp with sweat.
He darted sideways—trying to separate them—but Grant mirrored the move, cutting him off with a crushing horizontal swing.
The elf ducked, only to meet Freya's heel to his ribs.
CRACK.
He reeled—moonblade spinning wide.
Grant didn't hesitate. His longsword came down like a cleaver.
The elf rolled away at the last second—a shallow cut tracing his back.
He was bleeding now. Slower. Each movement cost him more.
Freya circled. Grant stalked forward like a reaper's hound.
Their coordination was uncanny—no words needed. Each motion synced like a grim duet.
Scythe and sword. Vampire and death knight.
Another exchange—Freya went high, Grant low. The elf blocked one, barely dodged the other.
But they were closing in.
He spun to retreat—and Freya was already there.
"Too late," she whispered—and brought the scythe down.
The elf barely raised his moonblade in time—CLANG!—but stumbled into Grant's path.
The knight's shield slammed into his chest, launching him backward in a burst of gold and dust.
He crashed hard—dyeing the field with blood.
For a moment, all was still.
The elf tried to rise—bloodied, breath ragged—but Freya and Grant were already upon him, shadows cast long by the silver moon.
"Yield," Freya said, voice low.
He met her eyes—and said nothing.
But his eyes said it all. Never!!
Freya's eyes glowed like twin embers.
"So be it," she whispered.
The Reaper's Scythe vanished into mist.
She stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, boots crushing broken wheat and trailing shadow.
The elf's breath hitched—still defiant, still glaring—but his body betrayed him. He couldn't move. Couldn't lift the moonblade.
Too slow now. Too wounded.
Freya knelt beside him, one cold hand tilting his chin toward her.
"Such a pretty vein," she murmured.
Then her [Fangs] sank in.
The moment her lips met skin, the world changed.
His blood—so rich, so laced with power.
Her mind reeled as the essence flooded her—arcane threads unraveling in her veins like fireworks: golden, silver, red. Magic. Strength. Speed.
She gasped.
Her whole body lit up with heat and hunger and a glorious sense of weightlessness.
It was like breathing for the first time. Like she'd been sleeping with chains on—and now they shattered.
Everything sharpened. The wind slowed. The stars burned brighter.
She could hear his heartbeat falter. Taste the mana in his marrow.
He twitched—once—and went limp.
She pulled away with a shuddering breath, crimson dripping from her lips, eyes wide and wild with rapture.
Grant stood behind her—silent, still. Watching. Waiting.
Freya rose.
For a moment, she just stood there—staring down at her trembling hands. Trembling not from weakness—but power.
This... this was no ordinary blood.
This was elite. Old. Arcane.
She'd never felt so alive.
And then—
"NO!!"
A scream tore through the wheat field.
Freya turned just in time to see the chatty elf limping through the stalks, blade clutched in white-knuckled hands, face twisted in despair.
He skidded to a halt at the edge of the clearing, staring at the crumpled, blood-drained body of his companion.
His eyes locked with Freya's—now glowing, power-charged eyes.
"You… damn you, vampire!"
Freya just smiled, fangs still red.
"You're late, darling. Party's over," she purred.
The elf screamed again—this time in rage—and the air shimmered as he lunged at Freya with vengeance in his heart.
His blade burst out like a silver tempest—eyes blazing with grief and wrath.
Freya didn't move.
Not at first.
She just stood there, bathed in moonlight and blood, as if amused.
The air cracked as the elf closed the distance, cloak flaring like wings, sword thrusting toward her heart.
And then—
She vanished.
A blur of shadows and black silk.
The elf gasped—too late.
A cold whisper grazed his ear. "Too slow, darling."
She was behind him now.
He spun, slashing wildly. Nothing.
A flicker in the wheat.
He turned again—only to catch the blunt end of the Reaper's Scythe square in the ribs.
WHUMP.
He flew back with a strangled cry, crashing through the stalks in a tumble of limbs and fury.
Freya strolled after him, twirling the scythe idly.
"What a dramatic night, huh?" she mused. "Don't you think?"
The chatty elf roared, leaping up—blade flashing in a wild arc.
Freya sidestepped like it was nothing, her crimson eyes lazily tracking the motion, then tapped the flat of his blade with her scythe.
TING.
The force of it spun him like a child's toy.
He barely recovered before she was on him again—each strike a blur, each motion impossibly fast.
He couldn't land a blow.
Couldn't even touch her.
Freya danced circles around him, grinning like a devil in a ballgown.
The elf screamed in frustration, "Damn you! Why did you kill him? Why!?"
Freya reappeared in front of him—like a ghost. With incredible strength, she grabbed his face and slammed him to the ground.
Thump!
The earth cracked like a spiderweb. Everything went silent.
The chatty elf—motionless, but still breathing.
"Because life is about karma, darling," Freya whispered in his ear. "If you try to kill someone, you better be prepared to die."
Drowning in his own blood, his eyes still burned with fire.
Freya's smile was razor-thin.
"So much rage," she said, voice almost tender. "So much pain. I wonder…"
She tilted her head. "Will you taste as good as your companion?"
He spat in her face.
She didn't even blink.
"Adorable. Good night, darling."
Then she bit.[Fangs]
The scream that followed was short—cut off in a wet gurgle as her lips pressed to his neck, and his blood rushed into her like wildfire.
It was sweeter than the first—more raw, more reckless, laced with emotion and pain.
His mana burned bright—like a shooting star devoured in an instant.
Freya's back arched.
Her hair floated around her like a silver halo. Her veins glowed faintly red beneath porcelain skin.
Every pulse, every twitch of the dying elf's body made her stronger.
Grant stood at the edge of the ruined clearing, a silent sentinel.
The wheat around them had flattened entirely—bent beneath violence and death.
When Freya finally pulled back, her mouth was red again—dripping, glistening, savage.
The elf in her arms sagged—lifeless, broken.
She let him fall like discarded fabric.
Moonlight shone down upon her bloodstained figure, her silhouette framed in silver, her eyes twin lanterns of infernal delight.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand—and laughed. Softly. Madly.
Then she looked up at the stars—eyes still glowing...