"T-this isn’t normal..."
"Even parasites shouldn’t move like that—!"
Faceless Imposter turned toward the speaker.
"Oh?" he said. "Is that so?"
He took one step forward.
"Enough! It’s getting a late. I’ll finish all of you now."
"Blood Manipulation: Shard Bloom."
With a flick of both hands, he scattered droplets of blood midair and willed them to expand.
Each droplet bloomed outward like a flower of death—blades of blood arcing silently through the air.
Slash—! Slash—!
Slash—! Slash—!
The air screamed.
Not from sound—but from pressure.
The blood shards tore through space like invisible scythes, each one curving with malicious intent. They didn’t fly randomly.
They hunted.
A Ravarn tried to raise a barrier.
Too slow.
The first shard pierced his forearm, pinning it to his chest.
The second carved straight through his throat.
The third burst from the back of his skull in a spray of crimson.
He collapsed without a sound.
Another demon turned and ran.
Three steps.
That was all he managed.
Blood spears erupted from the pool beneath his feet, impaling his legs, his spine, his jaw—lifting him into the air like a grotesque display.
His scream cut off as a final shard punched through his heart.
Joe stood frozen.
His brain refused to keep up.
This wasn’t combat.
It was slaughter.
Faceless Imposter walked forward as the shards continued to bloom and reap, his movements calm, almost bored. With every step, the blood in the air responded—curving, splitting, reshaping itself at his will.
"Blood manipulation synergizes beautifully with fear," he mused.
"The heart pumps faster. The veins tense. The flow becomes... predictable."
Another Ravarn lunged in desperation, roaring as demonic energy finally exploded from his body.
Faceless Imposter didn’t even look at him. He just raised his middle finger towards the demon and....
"Blood Manipulation: Blood needle."
He muttered different blood magic.
A faint glow traced along hid arms as blood surged to his fingertips, sharp and pressurized. Then in instant blood began form at the tip of its fingers tips, it spun and change it shaped to ...a long, needle-like spike—thin, gleaming crimson, and deadly.
With a subtle twitch of my finger, it shot forward.
Shlick—!
All of this happened within one second.
And just like that, the needle pierced through the skull of the demon and he died instantly.
Silence followed.
Not the heavy kind from before—
But the hollow kind.
The kind left after something has been erased.
Joe’s knees finally gave out.
He staggered back, boots scraping uselessly against cold stone, his breath tearing in and out of his chest like something trapped.
This isn’t a parasite...
This is a monster wearing one like a mask.
The Faceless Imposter stopped.
Slowly—deliberately—he turned toward Joe.
Blood hovered around him like a crimson halo, droplets suspended in midair, quivering faintly as though awaiting a silent command. The sight alone made Joe’s stomach twist.
"...Ah," the creature murmured.
"That reaction. That look."
A faint chuckle escaped him.
"It’s always interesting to see."
He tilted his head, studying Joe the way one might inspect a cracked tool.
Joe’s throat burned.
"...Kill me."
The words fell out before he could stop them.
With that level of control, that kind of presence, there was no escape. Running would only make it uglier.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
"What?"
The creature’s tone lifted slightly, genuinely puzzled.
"What are you talking about?"
Joe blinked.
"...Aren’t you going to kill me?"
The blood halo stilled, slowly sinking back toward the Imposter’s body as if losing interest.
"Hmm." He tapped his chin. "I owe Diamond from long ago. Perhaps sparing you will settle that debt."
Joe frowned weakly.
Owe...? Settle...?
Before he could question it, the bizarre Parasite extended a hand toward him.
"Come with me for now," the Imposter said calmly.
"If you went so far as to cut off your own horn, there must be a reason. I’ll give you a place to hide. We can talk properly there."
Joe stared at the outstretched hand.
Is this how it happens?
Lured in with mercy before being skinned alive?
The doubt flickered—brief, desperate—but vanished just as quickly.
I don’t have a choice.
If this thing wanted him dead, he’d already be gone. Following him at least meant answers.
"...Tch."
Joe took a step forward and immediately lurched, pain exploding through his side.
"Looks like your wounds have worsened," the Imposter observed.
Joe barely managed to stay upright.
"Don’t act like you care," he muttered. "If you’re planning to use me, at least be honest about it."
A pause.
"...You demons are all the same."
The Imposter studied him for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he sighed.
"Well then," he said lightly, "why don’t you close your eyes and rest for a bit?"
Joe scoffed weakly.
"...What, offering charity now? Don’t tell me you plan on carrying me. You don’t look like the type."
The Imposter smiled.
It wasn’t cruel.
It wasn’t kind.
It was amused.
The last thing Joe felt was an arm slipping beneath his back—firm, impossibly steady.
The last thing he heard was the vampire’s voice, low and close to his ear.
"Don’t worry," it murmured.
"I keep my debts."
Darkness swallowed him whole.
---
Darkness didn’t come all at once.
It crept in, thick and heavy, like being dragged beneath deep water. Joe drifted in and out, senses dulled, thoughts breaking apart before they could fully form.
Warmth.
That was the first thing he noticed.
Not the feverish kind that burned under the skin—but a steady, controlled heat, carefully regulated. Something was keeping his body from slipping further.
Still alive...?
His consciousness bobbed weakly.
He became dimly aware of motion—smooth, unhurried. No jostling. No careless dragging. Whoever carried him moved as if Joe’s broken body actually mattered.
"...Annoying," a voice muttered somewhere above him.
"Cutting off your own horn. Do you have any idea how much essence you bled out?"
Joe tried to respond.
Nothing came out.
"Ah. Right. Unconscious."
The voice sighed.
"I suppose you can’t answer."
Joe felt pressure at his side. Fingers—cool, precise—pressed near the wound where the horn had once been. The pain flared briefly, then dulled, as if something was being stitched together from the inside.
Blood stirred.
Not spilling.
Moving.
"...This is crude work," the voice continued, more to itself than to Joe. "No technique. Just desperation."
Joe’s jaw clenched unconsciously.
"Still," the Imposter added, "it takes resolve to do this to yourself."
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, quieter—
"Or madness."