Chapter 88: Heartbeat
Translated by Addis of Exiled Rebels Scanlations
Editor: PlumSauce
With a bitter smile, Coraci thought, Of course John was afraid. Even a demon or a zombie would rattle him. Back in the Bunker prison, he had worried he might die there… John was, after all, an ordinary human — or rather, an “ordinary bloodkin”. Now, facing a devil covered in blood, how could he not be afraid?
“Coraci, stay where you are and don’t move,” John said again.
Hearing his words, Coraci realized he had started moving forward again. It was his own body, yet controlling it had become so difficult.
He was attracted to the battle deep in the forest. His soul hungered for fight, for destruction, constantly trying to seize his entire consciousness.
John instinctively stepped back as Coraci approached. He clenched his fists and advanced again. He had to make Coraci stop — either retreat back inside the house or withdraw all his power.
Coraci stood a short distance in front of Lucian, blocking anyone from the Association from reaching him. Moreover, he seemed unaware that he couldn’t even hear their voices, oblivious to the danger.
The sunlight scorched his skin, his mind clouding. John told himself that being burned by holy fire on Jibi Island had hurt far worse; a few minutes in the sun was nothing.
It wasn’t all bad. The sunlight weakened his speed and strength, reduced his aggression; even in this place with the strong stench of blood, he would not lose control. Under the sun, he felt like a rusty machine — no impulse, not even the strength to bare his fangs. I should be grateful for the sun, he thought.
Coraci lowered his head and gestured for John to retreat to the shade of a tree. It reminded John of three years ago — outside the Atwood manor, Coraci had silently stopped him from walking into the sunlight.
He didn’t retreat but continued forward, reaching his hand out to Coraci.
“If you really don’t want to stop…then come here,” he said.
A few thin blades cut John’s skin, the wounds hissing in the sunlight. He shut his eyes and strode swiftly toward Coraci, stepping into the center of the whistling blades.
John grabbed Coraci’s wrist, pulling him close into his embrace. Coraci kept his head down, sweat beading on his forehead. John understood — he could not respond; simply controlling his power had nearly drained all his energy.
Holding him tightly, John’s legs buckled, and they both fell to the ground. In the sun, wounds could not heal quickly. He endured the pain, the burning, the fear, and the omnipresent metallic stench of blood… Even knowing a rogue blade might cut his neck in any second, he didn’t want to let go.
After several tense seconds, he felt Coraci’s body warm up, regaining the heat of life. The black light contracted further until it vanished.
Two exorcists ran past them to aid the heavily wounded Lucian. John kept his eyes closed, listening to them call for emergency help and the sounds of battle in the forest. The light was too bright to open his eyes; all he sensed was Coraci shifting slightly in his arms.
Coraci breathed deeply, like someone drowning, and looked toward where the sun was shining. Liz walked over, expressionless.
She threw a blackout blanket over John and Coraci’s heads, then turned to survey the house, its structure shredded beyond recognition.
From the forest, the “ancient wolf-branch lycanthrope” ran toward them. Midway, its form blurred, then solidified into a blonde woman in her thirties — the shapeshifter Smith, now known as Anastasia.
Smith rubbed a slightly strained limb, carefully watching Liz, Lucian, and John and Coraci. The blackout blanket covered the latter pair, looking almost comical, though he could not smile in such a moment.
“Do you hear that?” John suddenly said from under the blanket.
Liz remained blank, unreactive. Smith faintly heard it too. Shapeshifters’ senses were sharper than humans’ but weaker than bloodkin’s. “What do you hear? Drums?” he asked.
“Hmm…or thunder?” John murmured to himself.
The sound resembled distant muted thunder, or a timpani. They could not locate its source, only that it grew clearer with each pulse.
“It’s a heartbeat… He’s going free.”
A weak voice spoke from behind. Lucian, awake. Liz shivered and kneeled beside him. Lucian exerted all his strength to move his fingers, pointing to Charlotte’s nearby body.
“She has…”
“What about her?” Liz leaned closer.
“She has a scroll case. Find it.”
Smith went over and searched for her, retrieving it from beneath Charlotte’s suit jacket — a small antique ivory scroll case.
Lucian could not summon the strength to look; he only knew someone had it, which was enough. He gazed toward the completely ravaged estate. “Take it to the north tower library.”
“What?” Liz said, confused.
“North tower, library,” Lucian said laboriously. “There, you’ll know what to look for. If we’re lucky…we can resist for a while.”
“Resist what?” In her heart, Liz already knew the answer, but could not believe it.
“Resist the devil sacrifice.”
Once a sacrifice regained freedom, its power would grow. The Atwood family had once used the ritual to prosper. They had killed only a prostitute, and after the Atwood direct bloodline had died out, an ordinary woman became a powerful evil spirit, taking several lives and almost spreading to the nearby town.
If a devil could break free…what then? The Blackmoon ancestors and numerous spellcasters had paid dearly to trap and kill the last one. Once the ritual backfired, the devil’s soul could wreak untold destruction.
Lucian’s face was pale as he looked toward the north tower. “Now… Lizbeth, we only have you.”
Liz looked at him, unable to speak. The bullet had spun into Lucian’s abdomen from behind. The bleeding wasn’t massive, but the injury was severe. Liz hardly dared rely on her medical knowledge to judge it — she was too afraid of reaching a devastating conclusion.
Lucian knew she had many questions. He gave a weak smile, trying to explain but without the strength to say much. “Go to the north tower. Honestly…even I don’t fully understand a lot of things, so…I’m counting on you.”
The sound of the approaching ambulance reached them. The rest would have to be left to the medical personnel.
Liz nodded at her brother, but his gaze was unfocused, unable to respond.
She turned and walked toward the courtyard, weaving around fallen stone sculptures and splintered trees, heading for the north tower library Lucian had spoken of.
Carolyn was helping other hunters drag werewolf corpses. Seeing Liz leave, she dropped the wolf claw and ran to follow.
The hunters grumbled behind them. Smith brushed a hand through his golden hair, muttering weakly, “We need to hide these before ordinary humans see… Never mind. You all move aside, I’ll handle it.”
He handed the scroll case to Carolyn, telling her to take it to Liz, then transformed into a bus-sized black dragon, curling his body as much as possible in the trees. He grabbed and carried the werewolf corpses, struggling to clear the canopy, flying toward a more sparsely populated area.
Carolyn kept close behind Liz, silent — she didn’t know what to say to make Liz feel any better. Maybe nothing would help. Footsteps sounded behind them; others were following. Carolyn glanced back and tugged Liz’s sleeve.
Coraci followed, his eyes still a swirling chaos, impossible to tell where he was focusing. A few steps behind him, John was entirely covered by the blackout blanket, only his feet exposed, looking like a strange umbrella creature. Normally, Carolyn would have laughed and pointed at him, but now it was as if she didn’t even see him; her gaze was fixed entirely on Coraci.
Coraci’s hands hung limply, shoulders slumped. He looked thinner and more fragile than she remembered from three years ago, almost harmless — hard to believe he had caused so much carnage just moments ago.
“I…might be able to help,” he said cautiously. “That heartbeat…and knowledge about…things like me. I can help…”
“If you want to follow, I can’t stop you,” Liz said, pausing briefly to interrupt him before continuing forward.
Coraci drew a deep breath. She looked at him calmly, perhaps she didn’t have any strength left for hate or anger. Her eyes held only icy sorrow.
“Lizbeth,” Coraci said, following them, “when this is over, I’m willing to…”
“I don’t want to talk about your matters,” Liz said without turning back. “From now on, we only talk about the devil beneath the Blackmoon house.”
Coraci nodded, though Liz couldn’t see. Carolyn turned and glanced back at him.
Coraci had never seen that expression on Carolyn’s face before: fearful, bewildered, like a small frightened animal. She and Liz had always been his comrades, his friends. In his memories, no matter how terrifying of a creature they faced, Carolyn had never looked like this.
The scene before them was horrific: bodies of servants and security guards split in two, werewolves impaled onto walls by silver knives; gardeners killed under collapsing structures as they fled…
A partially completed magic circle filled the courtyard, with the corpses of an unfamiliar human and a giant wolf nearby. A miniature submachine gun lay beside the human.
In the center of the circle lay an elderly couple in their sixties. The woman’s throat had been torn open by claws, her body shredded. The man in morning dress had fallen atop her, his back and head cut and torn, legs riddled with bullet holes.
Most corpses bore deep cuts, down to bone, mutilated beyond recognition. Slash marks scarred bodies, walls, trees, and bricks, as if a hurricane of blades had swept through.
Passing through this, Coraci followed silently behind the two girls, never looking aside, never speaking.
John peeked out from the folds of the blanket several times, wanting to speak but unable to find the words.
The north tower had suffered comparatively little damage. Once inside, John finally exposed his head from the blanket. He wanted to grab Coraci’s arm, to offer a hasty reassurance of “this isn’t your fault,” but the words would not come out.
Perhaps it wasn’t entirely Coraci’s fault. The origins of all this lay in the ambitions of the Arcane Covenant. But the tragedy was still connected to him. He hadn’t wanted to lose control, yet he had failed; his will might have been innocent, but his actions were not.
A dull ache pressed against John’s chest. He knew his bloodkin heart couldn’t even beat anymore, and certainly shouldn’t suffer from heart-related pain.
He knew — he had chosen to trust Coraci, to stand by him. That had never changed since three years ago.
At the same time, he knew with equal clarity that, apart from the devil sacrificed by the Blackmoon ancestors, Coraci was the most dangerous thing alive. The hellish scene outside the door proved it.
A crushing sense of paradox tore at John relentlessly. Instinctively, he followed behind Coraci, not knowing what he could accomplish in the library, or what to do next. He hadn’t even contacted his family yet.
Hours had passed since he’d learned his family was in danger. On the way over, he had met members of the Association. They were near the Blackmoon estate, and he had felt Coraci there, so he had rushed here first.
Now John wondered if he shouldn’t continue to follow. This wasn’t his fight anymore. He should leave and confirm his family’s safety… Yet his legs carried him forward as if beyond his control, spiraling them down the staircase into the wide basement of the north tower.
The library wasn’t a majestic magical hall out of a fantasy movie. It looked like a normal archive: clean, simple corridors, sound-dampening carpet, and an unadorned main door.
Liz and Carolyn entered first, with Coraci keeping a little distance behind them. As he prepared to step inside, John suddenly grabbed his wrist.
Coraci turned and saw John’s face, shoulders, and torso marked with shallow and deep wounds, and his eyes a bright, unsettling red.
Those eyes reminded Coraci of Zola and Roy. He was even afraid to speak their names now.
“You…” John still held Coraci’s wrist. “How do you feel right now?”
Each word came with effort. He had so much he wanted to ask — more than a single question — but this was all he could voice.
Coraci shook his head, then nodded, as if unsure what he wanted to express. He closed his eyes, thinking for a few seconds, then said, “You all need to be careful around me, though it should be…relatively safe right now.”
“Safe?”
“I’m clear-headed now. I won’t treat you as enemies. But I…definitely am not absolutely safe. You still need to be careful.” Coraci spoke with deliberate force, biting down on each word.
Beyond that, John noticed Coraci’s heartbeat was irregular — not the slow pulse from releasing devil power, nor the rapid breathing of exertion. His rhythm resembled a patient with PVC1. He wasn’t fully calm yet.
John exhaled. “Maybe I can help steady you a bit and also…help myself. I don’t know if it’ll work, but theoretically, it should. I want to try — okay?”
Though he didn’t fully understand, Coraci nodded.
“Come here,” John said, pulling Coraci closer. “Face me. Wrap your arms around my waist and lift your head.”
Partly the power of their bond, partly Coraci’s own will — he obeyed completely, wrapping his arms around John and lifting his head.
“Close your eyes.” John placed one hand on his back and the other on the back of his head. His lips brushed against Coraci’s neck as his fangs sank gently into the skin.
Coraci shivered, his arms around John going limp. John drew only a small amount of blood, letting his fangs linger in the vessels and flesh.
When bloodkin hunt and feed using their fangs, a unique trait numbs and comforts their prey, reducing resistance. A few strong-willed prey might resist, but most go slack. There was an added effect: for emotionally unstable targets, the bite had a calming, soothing influence.
After withdrawing his fangs, John pressed Coraci’s head into the crook of his neck, holding him tightly for a moment.
“Your wounds are starting to heal,” Coraci said in a muffled voice.
John pressed his cheek to Coraci’s hair. “Yeah. See, this also helps me. The sunlight is killing me.”
“You could take more…”
“Your blood is very strong. This is enough,” John said, honestly, not as comfort. “Enough to restore my self-healing, recover my strength. Looks like you’re doing better too?”
Coraci murmured, “I don’t know… Maybe. Aren’t you leaving?”
“Why would I leave?”
“Because…” Coraci tried to find the right words, but his mind felt sluggish, unlike his old self.
What he wanted to say was: You should go check on your family. I don’t know if they’re safe. He couldn’t manage to express it properly; even thinking one extra syllable felt like a blade called Guilt stabbing into his soul.
John understood. He answered directly, “If you mean my parents…I can’t reach them right now. Even if I went there, it wouldn’t help. And it’s midday. If they’re safe, they would’ve found somewhere to hide. They won’t be out. Better to stay here and protect all of you than wander around aimlessly.”
“Protect us?” Coraci lifted his head, baffled.
John looked into his chaotic eyes. “To keep others from hurting you — and to keep you from hurting them.”
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