Chapter 60: The Second Time, Imprint
Translated by Addis of Exiled Rebels Scanlations
Editor: PlumSauce
John put on his insulated gloves and, at the butler’s hint, unlocked the silver shackles on Arthur’s wrists. He heard sounds from the other room. He hesitated for a moment, and then an intense pain shot through his arm, almost enough to make him faint. Within the binding magic, bloodkin couldn’t walk, but their limbs had a small range of movement.
The bloodkin in the chair moved with incredible speed, and John didn’t have a chance to react. The unlocked silver shackles were twisted around his arm, his wrist bent back at a horrifying angle, and his gloves and ring were ripped from his hands.
The old mage and the two mortal-born demons scrambled, trying to break the binding magic so that the other bloodkin could join the fight.
Carolyn snatched the cane-sword from the bloodkin beside her and charged in first. The cane-sword was feather-light and awkward to wield — the only advantage was its silver coating.
She knew she couldn’t win a one-on-one fight against a bloodkin. Her goal wasn’t victory — it was to prevent him from putting on that ring.
The Fallen One tried to slip the ring onto his finger to gain freedom of movement but never had the chance. Carolyn’s precise actions took him by surprise.
The target of the thin blade was his chest, but his arm blocked it. He swung his arm aside violently, snapping the slender sword, and the force threw Carolyn against the wall.
The Fallen One felt no pain. Directly gripping the silver-coated blade, he lunged at John behind him. Luckily, the binding magic dissolved at that moment. John regained his agility and dodged just in time.
As the Fallen One tried to rush out of the room, the real Arthur stood at the doorway. Outside, a dozen Menkovár servants waited, along with the mages and demons among the guests. Escape was impossible.
Coraci had just pushed open the hall doors, panting as he ran in. He noticed John trapped at the far end of the room, a position that was difficult to evade or flee from.
Behind Coraci, some previously hesitant guests also gained some courage. If humans could rush in, what were they afraid of?
“You really are Sartre?” Arthur stepped closer. Sartre instinctively backed away.
“Yes,” the Fallen One nodded, a strange smile on his face. “Master, Father. I know you well, right? Wasn’t my imitation perfect?”
“What do you want?” Arthur roared.
“To kill you, replace you, and then kill them all,” Sartre said, sweeping his gaze over the bloodkin outside. “Maybe I’ll leave one alive — perhaps the hunter Danny — so the Menkovárs think it was you. That way, I can die as well.”
His words were utterly nonsensical. Perhaps, as Arthur had said, his mind had long been unstable.
“I don’t want to hunt you,” Arthur said. “You can escape anywhere… As long as you stay away from the Menkovárs and don’t kill indiscriminately, you can live… No, even if you want to die, no one will stop you!” He paused, thinking. “Sartre, we just met not long ago, right on Jibi Island. I didn’t tell anyone about that meeting. Since then, you have wanted to…”
“Earlier than that,” Sartre said, still staring at Arthur, though his expression had changed. “As for that meeting… To disguise myself as you, I had to see exactly what you looked like now. Though vampires rarely change much.”
“How did you manage that…” Arthur studied Sartre. This wasn’t illusion magic — it was transformation magic. Beyond that, he probably had one or two perception-blocking spells, making it impossible for Arthur to sense him nearby.
Thinking about it now, such ancient magic could exist — but Sartre wasn’t a spellcaster. He hadn’t even studied the most basic bloodkin magic.
“Not long ago, I wanted to feed on a human,” Sartre said casually. “Maybe one of your guests? Anyway, he was a spellcaster. He resisted and even cast spells on me… But when he realized I was a Menkovár Fallen One, he said he could help me.”
The strange, illogical behavior felt eerily familiar. Hearing this, Coraci felt a shiver run down his spine. He remembered the man who appeared repeatedly in the Association’s case records.
“Who did you see?” Arthur pressed.
Sartre shook his head. “I don’t know, and I don’t care who he is. He said he could help, so I let him,” he said, spreading his hands and shifting his stance. “Ha. I really look like you.”
Coraci couldn’t hold back. “Who did you see? Tell me what he looked like!”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Sartre sighed. “Besides, I truly don’t know who he is.”
He looked up at Arthur whose face was confused and pained, like a knightly servant who had lost his master. Continuing, he glanced at Carolyn, who was massaging her back after getting up, and then lowered his eyes to look at John…
Just as Sartre’s expression wavered, Arthur charged in front of him, driving the blood-stained silver stake into his chest.
In that instant, a twisted smile spread across Sartre’s face.
He didn’t have time to dodge. A white light erupted from him, accompanied by a deafening roar.
Most people were completely unprepared, blinded instantly by the white light. A split-second before, someone lunged toward Coraci and draped a cloak over him.
Coraci felt the cloak offered protection — it had to be cast by one of the spellcasters among the guests.
The bloodkin’s heartrending screams tore through the air, and the mortal-born demon guests nearby fell as well. Some couldn’t even cry out — they just convulsed violently.
Coraci’s hands and feet were still outside the cloak, but he felt no pain. The human guests were temporarily blinded by the intense light, their ears ringing from the roar, but the explosion caused them no physical harm.
“It’s a holy fire spell…” he said to the mage beside him who had helped him. “The Fallen One had a trigger spell on him!”
A trigger spell had been cast on Sartre’s heart. Once attacked, the condition was fulfilled — holy flames would erupt, immolating both him and the dark creatures around him.
Coraci had been shielded from the blinding light in the instant it erupted. Now, the white brilliance persisted, piercing his eyes. Even after lifting the cloak, he had to keep them closed.
There was no time to thank the mage — he wanted to reach John immediately. John had been too close to Sartre!
He took a step forward, and a hand gripped his shoulder tightly.
“Let me go!” The hand was incredibly strong, and he couldn’t break free. The other also increased the strength of their grip, almost making him fall again.
“Y-you… who are you?” a voice whispered near his ear.
It sounded unfamiliar, yet oddly familiar. Coraci couldn’t see, but he sensed the person standing right next to him. Very tall, though not muscular.
The hand on his shoulder didn’t feel human — or even alive. It was stiff, mechanical, like a corpse.
“Who are you? Why…do you feel so familiar?” the voice asked again, hesitant.
Coraci remembered. He knew that voice.
Years ago, he had heard the same question — Who are you?
Back then, his colleagues had been killed one by one, and he had been bound by magic, unable to move. Smith had escaped when he could, and the enemy had not pursued.
The enemy held a dagger in one hand and a cruelly inscribed spell rune in the other, ready to release power at any moment. Yet he hadn’t attacked Coraci. Before the Association reinforcements arrived, he had left.
Before departing, he had looked at the injured Coraci and murmured, confused, “Who are you?”
At the time, Coraci had thought the question was because of Eyes of Truth; because during their encounter, he had seen through the enemy’s illusion. Today, he no longer thought so.
This was the man who had guided Burton to kill Crystal; who had solo attacked the Association’s staff after the Arcane Covenant’s underground research station had fallen; who had appeared near the Bewildering Monster couple’s house, helped them with their injuries, and then vanished…and who had cast spells on the Fallen One Sartre to enable his insane plan — a self-proclaimed physician, dark-haired and blue-eyed, tall man of Eastern European blood.
If he was a remnant of the Arcane Covenant, what was his goal? His actions made no sense. There was no profit, no “research value” which is what the Covenant prized the most.
“Who are you!” Coraci shouted. What mattered more than the answer was knowing John was okay.
He swung his arm, and the figure stepped back in silence.
“Coraci?” Liz’s voice came from nearby. “I heard you! Are you okay?”
She moved closer step by step, unable to see clearly, only catching fragments of his shouts.
The hand left his shoulder. Coraci spun around abruptly, his eyes watering from the white light. The person beside him let go and gradually disappeared into the distance.
“I’m fine!” Coraci called out to Liz. He closed his eyes again and headed toward the room where he remembered John being.
He touched the wall and followed it inside, hearing Carolyn get up and stumble again, cursing in frustration.
His hand brushed against cold, taut skin — bloodkin skin.
“John?” He grasped the arm, confirming it was him by the familiar fabric of his T-shirt. “Are you awake? It’s me, Coraci. Answer me…”
John didn’t respond. Coraci felt something sticky, like burned human flesh. He endured the stinging light and opened his eyes again.
John was beside him. The exposed skin had been almost entirely ravaged by the holy flames.
“John, it’s me,” Coraci whispered. The white light hadn’t yet faded, but he felt the world around him plunge into darkness. “Please…respond… Don’t fall asleep…”
Surface burns could immobilize a bloodkin. Their injuries looked horrific, but they usually recovered slowly. Holy flames, however, were different. When it destroyed the bodies of dark creatures, it also seared their souls. Weaker beings could actually be burned to death, and the process was agonizing.
Coraci didn’t lose his composure. He remembered how to tell if an unconscious bloodkin was still alive. He found John’s mouth, slipped a finger inside, and searched for the usual hiding spot of his fangs.
When a bloodkin wasn’t feeding, its fangs remained tucked in, even while dormant. Once a bloodkin died, the fangs slackened and extended outward.
The fangs didn’t appear. John was alive. That was good news, but Coraci couldn’t relax. Lethal holy damage could still gradually kill John. The weaker the dark creature, the greater the danger.
He wanted to give John blood, but John had completely lost consciousness — he couldn’t even move. There were no sharp tools nearby… Coraci took a deep breath, opened his eyes despite the searing light, and pried John’s mouth open.
While doing this, he almost prayed to some god who protected dark creatures — but there was no such religion in the world. John’s face was almost unrecognizable; he could only identify him by his clothing. Holy flames didn’t harm buildings or fabric.
The light had dimmed slightly. Though tears still streamed down Coraci’s face, he could finally keep his eyes open long enough to act. He located the fangs again, carefully applied force on the gums at a particular angle, and forced the tip of the fangs through the gum line.
He cut his own arm with John’s fangs, letting blood drip into John’s mouth. If a bloodkin wanted to regain strength quickly, feeding was the only way.
Strangely, when John had bitten him before, Coraci hadn’t felt pain. As the legends said, bloodkin feeding didn’t hurt. But cutting his own skin with John’s fang burned keenly, like a cut from any ordinary blade.
“Come on… Recover…please…” Blood dripped continuously, but John didn’t move. Coraci prayed that Russell was right — that his soul was stronger than most, that even evil spirits couldn’t consume it. If so, perhaps his blood could provide extra strength. Blood has always been a vehicle of soul power.
Even a bloodkin imprisoned for a hundred years, reduced to skin and bone, could regain vitality after drinking a small amount of human blood. John remained unresponsive. Blood from Coraci’s arm was dripping slower and slower.
Coraci massaged the wound, straddling John and pressing his forearm to John’s lips. He cut deeper with the fangs. Around them, chaos erupted. Humans panicked — running, screaming, trying to aid others. The dark creatures fell silent. A few Menkovár bloodkin remained alive, groaning hoarsely.
Suddenly, vision went black. Coraci wasn’t sure if it was from blood loss or damage from the light. He bent over, the pain in his arm fading. The noise around him dulled. It felt like an invisible wall had formed inside him, shutting out his senses.
It was a strangely familiar experience, though he couldn’t remember when it had happened before. He barely felt himself, yet in the void he glimpsed something glinting like obsidian facets.
It churned, as if trying to break free.
Coraci felt his consciousness sinking. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, didn’t remember wanting to save John, didn’t recall what had just happened. He only wanted to observe that thing, to see the black light clearly. Staring at it, he felt the emotions it radiated — fear, anger, anxiety…even a desire to kill.
Just a little more… The black light approached, expanding, trying to pierce his skin.
Suddenly, sensation returned. Coraci felt his wrist gripped tightly, his body pulled forward into a fall.
He fell onto John’s chest. John bit down on his forearm. The newly awakened bloodkin hadn’t regained consciousness — he was acting on instinct, driven only by hunger.
John’s eyes glowed bright red. Four fangs sank deep into the bleeding wound.
The blood gradually restored his senses. First came pain, the burning feeling as if millions of blades had slashed him, mixed with the stench of melting flesh. It was a terror unlike anything he had ever known — too intense to notice anything else.
“What…is that…”
Liz’s voice trembled from a distance.
The white light had vanished. The temporarily blinded humans were slowly regaining vision.
Squinting, Liz had just helped up a badly injured bloodkin. He possessed a flattened liquor bottle that contained Abyssal demon blood — enough for an emergency transfusion.
Looking up through the panicked crowd, Liz saw Coraci feeding John. Normally, this wouldn’t seem unusual. The Association members might do the same, let alone Coraci. Carolyn was near them, her eyes still blinded by the earlier burst of light, groping to stand.
But the sight before her made her almost doubt her own eyes.
The air around Coraci shimmered and twisted, like heat rippling in a desert. Tiny sparks flickered within it, struggling as if trying to break free.
“What…is that…” Liz repeated, barely above a whisper.
John’s horrific burns were steadily self-healing. He hadn’t fully regained consciousness, acting purely on instinct as he fed.
The changes in Coraci seem to have been interrupted: the strange sparks around Coraci vanished entirely. He lost awareness and collapsed onto John.
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