So, Did You Rock It?

Blades scraped and sparks flew. Silvester's saber—the Argent Harpesion—was a freakish weapon that, even when blocked, took the rebound and used that force to smash the enemy aside. Knocking it away meant tracking the silver blade's every motion to the very end.

Thud!

Even as he swung the sword, Silvester snapped a kick that whipped Shane's jaw sideways. Shane took the blow and launched himself through the air, yet still raked his claws through empty space and flung a spray of venom.

Sssssss!

The synthetic resin of the ballistic armor corroded and burned away. Kevlar and other materials resistant to chemicals should never have melted so easily. But the venom of Scar was closer to pure image than chemistry; it dissolved and poisoned any substance. It was the same sort of legendary poison that appeared in old tales.

"Ugh."

Powerful as Silvester was, he had taken a considerable volume of the toxin. A single drop of Scar's venom was enough to kill an elephant.

"Hahahaha! This is the absolute best! Did every vampire hunter fight in this state of mind? You maniacs! No wonder you all go insane!"

Shane roared with laughter and charged. It was not his first time tasting Psychedelic Moon, yet unlike the moment Messiah had forced Doom Surfer into him, he had administered the drug of his own free will and was using it to fight. Adrenaline and hostility fused with the narcotic into an astonishing synergistic high. For a vampire who had lived so long that only boredom remained, it was pure diversion. That alone seemed to flush away every lump of resentment and discontent that had sat in his chest.

"Hmm."

Silvester fired the Beast. Shane read the muzzle, twisted, and slipped past the shot. Those were the reflexes of a Juk-yo-class vampire whose VT exceeded seven hundred thousand. Psychedelic Moon, it seemed, worked miracles even on vampires.

"Kyaaaah!"

Shane came in like a gale, spraying venom with every strike. Silvester swept the Argent Harpesion to bat the droplets aside, but the wires trailing from the blade could not endure the toxin and snapped one after another. Trying to stop the rain with a stick was futile; he was forced to give ground. Shane had already grown accustomed to Scar's combat style.

Considering that a Scar with only three hundred thousand VT had once stood against Yuda's onslaught, the sheer terror of that toxic power needed no further explanation.

"……."

Sssssss!

Silvester guarded with the silver saber and retreated. The venom had completely killed the function of his left arm. He wanted to hide the fact… yet the Beast slipped from his grip and clattered to the ground.

"Ha… hahahahaha! How does it feel now, you smug Jinma hunter? Has some of that arrogance finally drained away?"

Shane sneered and closed another step. Green aura bloomed from his entire body, corroding everything around him. The more familiar he became with the bloodline ability, the sharper his battlefield responses grew. If he was not stopped here, he would truly become a Jinma worthy of the name.

"……I see."

Silvester holstered the Beast, took the Argent Harpesion in his right hand, and bit the hem of his coat so he could raise the ruined left arm as a makeshift shield.

"You're going to face me with a body like that? I've still got power to spare! Hahahaha!"

"Is that so."

Silvester fixed a gaze colder than ice on the swaggering Shane. That stare alone told him the vampire was deep in narcotic rapture. Even so—could he still win against a man in that state?

But……

Still gripping the coat hem in his teeth, Silvester smiled.

"Cry for me, you slut. Prove your purity with your tears!"

The instant those words landed, Shane's triumphant momentum collapsed.

"Well then……"

"Die!"

They both lunged. Shane condensed his venom and unleashed it in a single burst while his kukri drew a green arc through the air. Silvester met the assault with nothing but the silver saber, no magic at all.

"Haaah!"

With dazzling swordplay Silvester nullified every strike of blade and claw—yet he could not stop the flying venom. Shane's kukri finally came in and sheared Silvester's left arm clean off. Aiming for the neck, the cut split the arm from the fingers upward like kindling. In that heartbeat Shane was certain of victory. But—

"It's over."

Instead of the severed arm, Silvester spat the Wordstone he had been holding in his mouth straight into Shane's face. Biting the coat and lifting the paralyzed arm had been nothing more than a feint to conceal the preparatory steps of the spell. While the startled Shane flinched at the sudden appearance of the stone, Silvester kicked him square in the forehead and released the magic sealed inside.

Azure fire erupted in a perfect circle and roasted Shane's head with searing heat. Though the Church refused to acknowledge rune magic, the sun-rune Sowulo and the daylight-rune Dagaz were nothing less than death sentences for a vampire.

"Kraaaagh!"

Shane arched like a drawn bow, writhing. Flames towered from his skull in a pillar; only a stone statue could have remained unharmed.

"Looks like you're not the type who cries after all!"

Silvester kicked off Shane's body, flipped elegantly through the air, and landed. He clamped the silver saber between his teeth in place of the missing arm and charged.

"Ah……"

A flash. Several strokes of brilliant sword-light, and the new Jinma of the Ireland Astate clan simply dropped from the sky to the asphalt. Blood poured from every severed surface; without the usual binding force the hemorrhage would not stop. As his blood drained, the narcotic rapture faded with terrifying speed and cold rushed in.

"Hah… hah… ah…… is this…… what dying feels like?"

Silvester watched the dying vampire in silence and sheathed his blade. Using rune magic—even to win—had never sat well with his tastes. Only white magic that called upon the power of the higher planes was tacitly tolerated by the Church.

Officially the Church denied magic altogether, yet white magic that borrowed the strength of angels was still practiced by the more virtuous among the Kabbalists.

"Hahaha…… this is awkward. I lose face in front of my brother."

"Don't worry, vampire. Just go to hell first and wait for me."

"……Right. Heh. Dying at the hands of some cast-off Catholic bastard isn't the worst way to reach hell. Here—take this."

Shane grumbled and tossed a key. Silvester caught it and stared in disbelief.

"……A car key?"

"Better than leaving it on the road…… You use it."

"Hmm."

Silvester turned the key over in his fingers and fell briefly into thought. His Corvette was a wreck, but only the chassis had been ruined; the basic frame was intact. Still, while it was in the shop, driving a Lamborghini Miura…… what extravagant luxury that would be!

"Very well. I accept. What do you want in return? A painless death?"

"Not a chance…… I'm having far too much fun right now."

Shane felt his vision darken yet refused the offer. Silvester looked down at him with a cold smile.

"As you wish, vampire. It seems none of you ever truly repent."

"Cough… urgh…… What, is the fallen priest going to hear my confession?"

Silvester considered for a moment… then shook his head.

"Tempting, but I'll pass. Doing that now would only make me hate myself more."

He murmured the words and sat on the guardrail. Dawn was breaking. Protocol demanded he kill the vampire at once and seal the blood, yet as thanks for the Lamborghini Miura he decided to leave him a little longer. Vampire and vampire hunter simply sat there in silence, watching the sunrise approach.

"So…… Did you Rock it?"

It was the same morning as always.

With Arjuna destroyed and both vampires and hunters lying low to avoid the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠police, Se-gun finished his usual training, dropped bread into the toaster, opened a heavy-equipment operator's manual, and switched on the television.

Training and studying when you never knew when you might die was a thoroughly contradictory act. Did he learn these skills because he believed a day would come when he could use them?

But how many days were left for that? Se-gun gave a self-mocking smile and stared at the screen.

"Heh……"

TV Kindergarten was on—one of those preschool programs. Even as a child he had found it too childish to watch, yet now that he was older and his mind had coarsened, it was oddly watchable. The program was ending; the staff roll rolled by and commercials began. Living off kids' pocket money must be tough. He nodded at the thought, changed channels, and spread cream cheese and peanut butter half-and-half on the popped toast. Then he drowned the salad in dressing…… He had never cared much about food before, but without a daily dose of green leaves his body deteriorated and night work became harder.

"My skin's been getting a little worse lately too."

He muttered the nonsense and smacked himself on the head. The phone started ringing again.

"Ah…… here we go."

A few nights ago he had annihilated the Ireland Astate led by Shane and drained every drop of their blood. Sharp-eyed Sarhyuk had wisely stayed out of it, but it had still been exhausting work. Fighting the vampires themselves had been easier than quietly retrieving the explosives before the police found them, or sucking every last corpse dry…… Thinking that way almost felt disrespectful to the vampires.

"You put up a decent fight. Not bad, gentlemen."

He said something that would have enraged any vampire ghosts who might be listening, then pulled the battery from his phone. With so many hunters gone, the dealers were starving for supply. Importing blood from overseas was an option, yet foreign markets did not seem flush either. Vampire blood was never easy to obtain, and Korea already held—and would continue to attract—quite a few vampires.

What they wanted, in short, was the blood Se-gun had harvested. He had simply suspended dealings because bargaining was a nuisance. Money was no longer urgent; he already had ample stockpiles of Psychedelic Moon, other narcotics, and weapons, so he had no desire to step outside.

One more consolation: the chaos that night had put the police on such high alert that the vampires themselves would have to stay quiet for a while.

"Well, detonating a Claymore in the middle of downtown was a bit much."

The original plan had been elegant—channel the blast through the sewer pipes and fire bearings upward. He had not expected sidewalk fragments to fly. Every year-end they cheerfully tore up the paving stones, yet those same stones shattered into shrapnel. He had no idea where this country's tax money actually went.

"Hmm……"

He opened the refrigerator, took out low-fat milk from the half filled with vampire blood, and flipped channels.

"Morning shows everywhere."

Morning broadcasts were filled with news snippets, field reports, restaurant hunts, and regional delicacies—perfect entertainment for someone who never bothered with variety shows or dramas. Studying while watching television…… excellent multitasking, no?

"……Too quiet."

How long had it been since he had felt this idle? He yawned and closed the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠book. Ever since the Haunting began, concentration refused to come; studying was impossible.

"If I can't study, maybe I should go out for a bit."

He muttered and stretched. Without a bike the station was a twenty-minute walk—perfect distance for an easy run.

"Come to think of it, I need a new bike too."

Silvester had put the Corvette in the shop and was now tooling around in the Lamborghini Miura taken from the vampire. For all his quirks, the man who slept in Snoopy pajamas was remarkably carefree. What if the thing had been booby-trapped? Of course he had checked for transmitters and the rest.

"Still—a Lamborghini Miura. What a bourgeois."

Se-gun grumbled and left the house. Daily physical training was good, but past a certain point stress accumulated in the bones and stress fractures became a headache; rest was necessary. Silvester had warned him not to wander, yet the police had not named him a suspect and the feared Tetra Anax interference had never materialized. They could manipulate human society so thoroughly that socially burying someone and dumping him in prison would have been trivial.

If they had painted Silvester or Se-gun as illegal-alien criminals or bomb terrorists, a single house search would have ended the game, right?

"……In a way we really are dancing to Tetra Anax's tune."

He grumbled while running toward the station. Being morning, students and office workers were everywhere—healthy people of a healthy world, utterly different from an idle parasite like him who rolled around sucking vampire blood. Ah, yet none of them looked particularly happy. The observation gave him a small, mean comfort. That must be what people called a Nolbu heart.

"Mm…… but even after reaching the station I've got nothing to do."

He looked around. Convenience stores existed, yet if he was going to kill time there he might as well have stayed home with a book. Wasn't there somewhere more interesting?

"A movie?"

But ever since becoming a vampire hunter he had lost all appetite for films. Action movies? Hahaha. Did anyone think a man who lived in bloodbaths would enjoy action flicks? Melodrama? That would be even more ridiculous. The only genre left was comedy, yet with summer vacation approaching, comedy films rarely reached theaters.

"Besides, I don't even have a girlfriend."

Of course, a man who might die at any moment taking a lover would be a crime. Even if "lover" meant nothing deeper than a sex partner, expanding relationships while standing on death's doorstep was undesirable. He had no intention of insulting terminal patients who found joy in final connections or the hospice workers who helped them. He simply refused that luxury for himself.

"Dying alone is less of a burden, you see."

He muttered to no one in particular and gave a dry laugh. Truly idle. Even with so little life left, today felt strangely languid.

Murmur murmur murmur……

People stayed quiet, yet the evil spirits chattered. A city was like that—so many deaths, so many thoughts. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, even millions of malevolent spirits would not be strange. With the black sword at hand the spirits feared to show themselves, but he could hardly walk around wearing a zweihander in broad daylight.

"My life really is boring."

Thinking back, whenever boredom struck he used to run straight to Arjuna. Now Arjuna was closed—everyone had fled after the vampire attack.

"Aaargh! Instead of this, where should I go?"

He glanced at the television mounted in front of the station. Why a TV inside a subway entrance? It seemed to be the local cable channel. The set itself was high-end—perfect flat screen, even a PC-RGB connector on the back—yet the picture had color burn-in. Poor maintenance. Unbelievable that budget money was wasted like this.

"Hmm. Huh?"

Se-gun, about to walk past, suddenly doubted his eyes. Something familiar had flickered across that screen.

The free narrator's voice sounded completely uninterested in who Kim Hyung-nam was or where Seongran Gallery stood. Yet the painting itself struck Se-gun with pure déjà vu. A deep-blue moon that could steal a heart at a glance. Around it colors melted and flowed through a dreamlike world. Yet the underlying lines—the very armature of matter—remained alive, creating an absurd sense of space and depth.

In other words, it was the exact landscape Se-gun always saw under the influence of Psychedelic Moon!

If he were merely nodding off on ordinary drugs he would never survive a firefight. Only this terrifying spatial perception allowed him to stand against vampires. But……

"Beautiful……"

In a voice soft enough to startle any woman nearby, Se-gun murmured while staring at the screen. Because he saw it every night he had never noticed, yet the scenery was terrifyingly beautiful. The moon melted as though shedding tears; color bled free of matter. What remained was only the skeletal frame—a ghastly world. Yet the flowing colors formed rivers and the skeleton itself was so uncanny it could thoroughly seduce an unprotected soul with its grotesque charm.

Ah…… so this is how beautiful it was.

In that moment he fell in love with the painting. The exhibition opened today. For a man with nothing better to do, the opportunity could not have been better.

"Nothing else to do—perfect. Shall I go?"

He reached into his back pocket and checked his wallet. It was stuffed with thick wads of bills. Never knowing when something might happen, he always carried plenty of cash. A man who had erased his identity could not use credit cards or checks—only hard currency.

"Looking at this wallet I look like some old man preparing for compensated dating."

He grumbled and stood before the ticket machine.

"But where the hell is Seongran Gallery?"

Right. He needed to confirm that first. He clicked his tongue. A boy who had passed through the ordinary Korean school system! Naturally he had no connection to art galleries! Yes, yes. He nodded to himself. Of course an ordinary schoolboy also had no connection to firearms that were not standard issue, or cheap Yankee knives, or treasures of the Eastern Church, or any of those things either.

Yet Se-gun conveniently accepted only the parts that suited him and switched tracks at once. Right. First, 114. Call directory assistance and ask.

So far so good.

Beeeeeep~

Busy signal…… Apparently he was not the only one calling after seeing that painting. The work was so unique that people who had never tasted Psychedelic Moon would be astonished by its strangeness, while those who had tasted it would be astonished for entirely different reasons.

"Hmm."

He dusted his hands. Three calls, three busy signals. It felt as if robbers had broken into the gallery, ripped out every phone, and were busy cracking the safe. Se-gun turned his steps toward acquiring a bike first.

"What do you want this time? Kawasaki? Honda? Harley?"

The bike-shop clerk was scowling at the returning Se-gun. Getting angry at a customer—while selling illegal goods no less—was so absurd Se-gun almost laughed. Clearly this store had forgotten the sacred rule that the customer is king when they hung their sign. He wanted to smash that sign to splinters and throw it in the trash, yet he only needed a bike, so he held his temper.

"……Off-road."

"You really are obsessed with off-road. Look, 'off-road' means 'not on-road.' In other words, they're not suited for street riding."

"Swap the tires and they adapt fine. You think I ride off-road for the fashion statement?"

Se-gun glared. The clerk did not back down.

"And a guy like that wrecks a YZ-125? Do you have any idea how much work went into tuning that thing?"

"Hmm. You tuned it? The machine was decent. But I didn't wreck it by crashing into something the way ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you're imagining. If you really don't believe me I can demonstrate my skill right now, so why not shut up?"

Se-gun clicked his tongue, reading the man's thoughts perfectly. The clerk was angry because he believed some talentless amateur had taken a fine machine and destroyed it. Of course, frequently wrecking bikes would infuriate any craftsman who loved his merchandise—but what choice was there? When you fought enemies who bent steel like soft candy, were you supposed to sacrifice your own body instead of the bike?