With the sword in hand, he took a step toward the room's exit, feeling the tension building in his body. It was as if the very air around him was charged with energy, almost tangible, and a strange aura—like an insatiable thirst for blood—seeped into his senses.

  Hitory looked around, searching for any clue. That’s when he felt it. A presence… a dark, dense, and thirsty aura, spreading through the air. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to focus. The sensation was clear, unmistakable—there was something or someone nearby, and this entity's aura was filled with an insatiable hunger. Something that was guiding him to where Tekime might be.

  He couldn’t waste time. Even without fully understanding what was happening to him, Hitory knew his instincts were now in control. He ran, fast and determined steps, guided by that presence that, though strange, called to him like a beacon in the dark.

  The bloodlust he sensed seemed directly linked to Tekime’s situation. Hitory was determined to find her, to save her—and perhaps, save himself. The rusted sword, now more than just a burden, felt almost alive in his hands, reacting to the urgency of the moment.

  With each step, the aura intensified, a premonition that the battle ahead would be more challenging than anything he had faced before. He didn’t know what he would find, but one thing he knew for sure: he wouldn’t turn back. He had a promise to fulfill, and no spirit, force, or curse would stop him from keeping it.

  Hitory’s heart raced as he entered the room, his eyes scanning the darkness until they landed on the scene before him. The sight froze him for a moment, pressure tightening his chest, leaving him breathless.

  On the ground lay Anon, a deep hole in his chest, blood still warm and spread around him like the mark of a brutal and sudden end. But the worst was ahead—Tekime, arms weak and faltering, was being held tightly by a vampire with an immaculate appearance, dressed elegantly. He was draining her blood, his mouth near her neck, a dark thread of blood dripping from the corners of his lips.

  The vampire, a creature that looked born of darkness itself, stared at Hitory for a moment—cold, calculating eyes and a smile that was more a promise of pain than pleasure.

  Hitory felt nothing but a deep chill within. He felt the sword slip from his fingers, landing heavily on the ground. His thoughts scrambled, but one thing was clear: Tekime was dead (or about to die), and he had to try to help—he had to act fast.

  The vampire, still absorbed in his macabre ritual, didn’t seem to notice Hitory’s arrival—or perhaps completely dismissed him. But the sense of urgency pulsed within. The pain of what was happening was so intense his legs trembled, barely able to move. What did he have? A rusted sword? But how much could it help him now?

  The pressure inside Hitory rose like a storm on the verge of bursting. He felt the dark aura expand, the impulse to fight overwhelming him. So immersed was he in his fury, in the need to save Tekime, that the rest of the world around him seemed to vanish.

  With every breath, his mind grew foggier. He felt a growing power, a dark energy forming inside him, almost like second nature, as if his body already knew what to do. He didn’t care about anything else, only the fact that Tekime was being drained, her life slipping from her arms as the vampire held her tight.

  Hitory’s gaze locked on the scene, and hatred swelled within. The vampire was nothing but a shadow, an obstacle between him and his promise. He didn’t want to be a hero. He didn’t want to be the good guy. He needed no justifications or morality. Hitory just wanted to save Tekime—nothing more.

  Each step he took forward was firm, as if the ground trembled beneath him. His hand, still clutching Tharion’s helmet, trembled slightly but quickly steadied. The weight of the rusted sword seemed to grow lighter, as if the weight of the situation itself forced him to act.

  With a silent explosion, the energy inside him intensified, and a wave of fury consumed him. There was no more time for reasoning. No time for questions. He felt the presence of the sword, the legacy of Tharion, and the strength of the pact he had sealed. All he needed now was a single move.

  The fury he felt transformed into pure violence. The vampire, still lost in the act of draining Tekime’s blood, didn’t have time to react when the blade cut through the air—an extension of Hitory’s own hatred.

  But he no longer cared about the vampire or the sword. His only focus was saving Tekime—and nothing else mattered.

  Tekime, still alive but with the thread of her life nearly severed, saw Hitory at the entrance of the vast room. She raised her arm as if begging to be saved.

  Hitory, upon seeing the scene, completely lost control of his mind. He realized that once again, he was losing someone important to him, and the pressure inside him grew like a storm ready to explode. Rage and pain mingled, and he felt the dark aura within expand, driving him to act. The impulse to fight consumed him. Immersed in his fury, in the need to save Tekime, the rest of the world vanished.

  Hitory ran toward the vampire, each step heavy and resolute. The fury consuming him made him increasingly irrational, his humanity fading. The sight of Tekime being cruelly tossed aside fed his rage, and with it, his body began to transform into something grotesque and monstrous.

  The vampire, in a fluid motion, flung Tekime away like a sack of meat. He then turned—and before Hitory could even react—the vampire was already in front of him. With supernatural speed, the monster launched his claws, more like blades than mere nails, directly at Hitory.

  The impact was inevitable. The vampire’s claws cut deep into Hitory’s skin, slicing his flesh with macabre precision. The blow, which should have been fatal, was even more disturbing in the way the blade tore through his body with a sickening sound. The cut sliced through his abdomen with surgical precision, blood erupting in a grotesque fountain, dark and violent. Hitory felt pain pulse through his entire body, but darkness dulled the sensation. He simply fell—his body grotesquely split, half his flesh hanging loose, as if being dragged toward death.

  Blood flows from his open abdomen, forming puddles around his limp body, while his muscles and internal organs are grotesquely exposed. His life slips away far too quickly, and his vision becomes even more blurred, but in the distance, the image of Tekime is the only thought that remains.

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  The vampire, upon seeing the surgical cut in Hitory, is momentarily stunned. The expectation of witnessing his opponent’s final death dissolves, as Hitory’s body, even with the fatal wound, remains standing—as if death were merely a distant option. Hitory, or what was left of him, rises in the most unnatural way, his eyes void of humanity, overtaken completely by fury.

  The wound that should have been fatal begins to change before the vampire’s eyes. In place of the deep gash, a black scar starts to form, as if the very flesh is being consumed by a dark energy. The scar pulses slowly, and from it, a dense purple smoke begins to emerge, charged with a depraved life force. The smoke, like the essence of death, seems to try to escape Hitory’s body, but instead of weakening him, it only reinforces the grotesque aura surrounding him. It was as if this energy were the reflection of his endurance—a force that fed on pain and death.

  The vampire watches, eyes wide in disbelief. He was certain he had sliced him in half, had destroyed him. But there stood Hitory—unbreakable—defying death in a macabre display. The air around the young man (or whatever he had become) seemed to distort with each breath, the purple smoke intensifying, as if the very environment was being tainted by the darkness emanating from him.

  The vampire steps back once more, his eyes never leaving Hitory—now a vision so far removed from what he once was. What he saw before him was no longer a human, not even something resembling the creature that had attacked him with rage. Hitory, or what remained of him, was transforming—losing the last of his human traits in a horrifying and twisted spectacle.

  On the left side of his forehead, a horn began to form, curving backward with the thickness of an Archon demon. Hitory’s skin became rougher, as if his flesh was solidifying into something dark—something beyond comprehension. His left eye, once normal, now glowed with a fluorescent yellow, while his cornea seemed replaced by a layer of fresh blood, crimson red, as if the very essence of life had been stolen and condensed in his gaze.

  He moves, his heavy steps echoing through the room, and with each movement, the black aura surrounding him seemed to expand, swallowing the light around him. He walks toward the sword that had fallen to the floor—a rusted, forgotten blade—but to him, it seemed to be the only thing still anchoring him to the world. The metal, stained and dirty, shone with a hellish gleam, as if the blade itself recognized the change in Hitory and was willing to follow him on his path of destruction.

  With an outstretched hand, he grabs the sword with crushing strength. The sound of the blade being drawn echoes through the room like a final breath of life, but the energy emanating from Hitory now is something beyond natural. The blade appears to absorb the darkness spilling from his body, as if it too were being infused with this new essence of death that he had become.

  Hitory, now a creature far removed from his original form, looks at the vampire with eyes that no longer recognize humanity—but rather the merciless fury of a primordial force. He was no longer the young man who began this journey, but something far more terrifying. Something that knew no limits.

  As Hitory grips the sword, an indescribable sensation rushes through his hand, as if the blade were alive, reacting to his presence. The sword, which once seemed ordinary, begins to change shape—as if adjusting to the new essence he had become. The rusted metal twists, the rust falling away like dust, and the once crude, deteriorated blade begins to reshape, becoming something entirely different.

  The hilt of the sword transforms, now made of interwoven bones, curling with a disturbing fluidity. The dark veins from which the bone fibers emerge pulse with a life of their own. The blade, which once appeared simply rusted and dull, now glows with a supernatural brilliance. It becomes black as obsidian, the surface shimmering with a malevolent aura. In the center, golden lines appear, tracing strange runes along the blade—as if inscribed by ancient and immortal hands.

  This new blade exudes a crimson aura—dense, hot, and laden with a wicked energy. The air feels oppressive, as if the very environment were being reshaped by the presence of this sword—an artifact of dark power, imbued with the hatred and pain pouring out of Hitory.

  The vampire, watching, realizes what is happening. He knew that sword wasn’t ordinary, but what manifested before him was something that transcended his imagination. The sword was no longer just a weapon—it was an extension of Hitory’s transformation, something that now possessed its own power—a connection to the darkness he exhaled.

  Hitory, eyes filled with blood and fury, looks at the blade in his hand, feeling its energy fuse with his own. He steps forward, the weight of the sword now reflected not just in the metal, but in the aura of destruction surrounding him. He no longer needed words. The sword was all he needed.

  The vampire watches Hitory with a look of total bewilderment, his eyes wide in disbelief. Something was different—very different. Hitory’s back, or what now appeared to be Hitory’s back, was being distorted by a pulsating energy. Two figures were forming—grotesque and imposing—emerging from the darkness that seemed to engulf the young man’s body. They were shadowy, with an oppressive presence that made the air dense and hard to breathe. As if Hitory’s very essence had physically manifested. The figures were not human, but deformed creatures with a cruel and destructive aura. Their outlines seemed made of shadows, yet were tangible—almost as if they were about to devour everything around them.

  The vampire, stunned, feels the coldness of his own existence tremble at the intensity of these figures, and a sense of pure revulsion begins to overwhelm him. He never imagined a human could go so far—as to distort his very soul in such a way.

  “How... how can a human turn his own aura into figures?” the vampire wonders, his eyes still fixed on Hitory. That was no longer a human. Hitory was now something beyond that—something far more dangerous.

  End of Episode 26: “The Kiss of Death”