Devil Gambit-Chapter 69 : Number Two of Hearts

The coffin creaked.

A slow, haunting groan echoed through the ruined throne room as the lid began to shift.

Zarion in the air twisted violently, like reality itself recoiled.

Pressure built.

Not metaphorical. Physical.

Like the air above them had turned to stone and was pushing down.

Their lungs tightened. Knees buckled. Even the walls of the castle—this ancient, devil-forged monument—quivered beneath the weight.

Something inside that coffin was wrong.

Something that didn’t belong in this world.

The first thing to emerge was a hand.

Pale.

Long-fingered.

Smooth as porcelain, yet carrying the unmistakable aura of death.

A noble’s hand, resting lazily on the edge of the coffin as if waking from a nap.

Then he rose.

The man—or rather, the creature—stepped into the air like it was solid ground.

He was tall. Effortlessly elegant.

His skin shimmered with an ashen-gray hue, like moonlight reflecting off tempered steel.

His dark hair fell to his jaw in layered waves, sleek and immaculate—like a cut from a Victorian noble’s portrait, inked in shadows.

And his eyes...

Dirga’s breath caught.

Dirga had never felt this helpless—not even in the Endless. This wasn’t a fight. This was being measured by something that rewrote the rules.

The irises were the same as Theryn’s—slit and feline—but where hers glowed golden, his were blood-red.

Not dull. Not rust.

Alive, pulsing crimson, like something ancient had stirred.

A flawless face. And yet it didn’t feel human.

"Hello, kids," the man said casually.

His voice was warm. Smooth.

Too smooth.

The kind of voice that would greet you at the gates of Hell with a smile and ask how you’d like to die.

But his presence...

It screamed.

A predator. A monster. A devil who wore grace like armor.

"Let me introduce myself," the man continued, floating above the ground as if the world bent to him.

"My name is Valemir Nocturne."

Silence.

Then Theryn whispered—almost choked.

"...The Dracula."

The name hung in the air like a guillotine.

Valemir chuckled softly, placing a hand on his chest and bowing with dramatic flair.

"Ah. Yes, yes, that’s what they called me once. Dracula. I rather like it," he said, rising with a small smile.

"I am the Number Two... of the Heart Devils."

A devil.

One of the 52 Devil

Dirga’s thoughts raced.

Fuck.

Just when they thought the nightmare was over.

Wasn’t the legend clear? Dracula had abandoned this castle long ago—left it to one of his followers.

So why was he here now?

In person.

Dirga clenched his fists, but his body still ached.

They were in no shape for another fight.

And yet—

Valemir Nocturne, the so-called Dracula, had arrived.

Smiling.

Watching.

Waiting.

...

"Don’t be afraid," Kaela murmured, her voice still hoarse as she sat up slowly. Her eyes shimmered faintly with exhaustion. "He’s just a projection. A mass of compressed energy. He... can’t hurt us like this. Not yet."

"You’re awake?" Saelari was the first to move, rushing to Kaela’s side with a hand on her shoulder. Relief colored her tone.

Dirga and Theryn looked over—but then froze.

Dracula appeared.

No footfall. No signal.

One blink—and he was simply there, standing right before them.

"Hoh? You have interesting eyes," he said casually to Kaela, his blood-red gaze glittering. His smile was warm. Disarming. Like a friend.

But no one could move.

Their bodies were locked in place. Their instincts screaming.

Dracula continued, voice soft, like an old storyteller by a fire. "I only came to see who it was that killed my dear Follower. He’s been slumbering here for centuries... and from what I sense, he had already recovered his full strength."

His tone turned melancholic. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

"I was planning to release him soon—to begin his true task: to find a vessel for me."

Vessel?

The word hit Dirga like a punch to the ribs.

He stared at the devil in disbelief.

Had he heard that correctly?

Was Dracula saying what he thought he was saying?

Dirga’s face darkened.

And the girls—they looked just as shaken.

"You’re wondering why I’d need one, aren’t you?" Dracula said, eyes flicking across each of them. "Allow me to explain..."

He paused—his voice lowering to a grave whisper.

"Long ago, I faced an enemy who nearly destroyed me. My body was shattered, on the edge of oblivion. My Follower—the Butcher—sacrificed much to save me, but he too was deeply wounded. So I laid my body to rest in the depths of Hell to recover... a healing process that could take a millennium."

He gestured lazily toward the shattered hall—the stone still soaked in blood and echoing with the Butcher’s end.

"This castle... my first stronghold. I entrusted it to him—along with this coffin, a vessel containing my sealed essence. His task was simple: wait. Heal. And when the time came... find me a suitable host to awaken through."

Dirga’s breath caught.

The realization hit like a falling blade.

They hadn’t just slain a beast.

They had unraveled centuries of preparation.

Dracula’s smile thinned.

"And now, one of you must carry the burden. A price must be paid."

Then his gaze shifted—to Kaela.

"That includes you, girl with the cursed eyes. Don’t let this form fool you. I may not be fully present... but I can still hurt you."

He raised a hand.

The ground quivered.

And then—

Blood erupted from the cracks, slithering like sentient vines. In an instant, they were all bound—limbs locked, mouths stilled, hearts pounding.

Dracula began to walk between them, his eyes glowing faintly as if reading the threads of their souls.

First—Dirga.

"Hm... Concept user. And drenched in the stench of Sasa. A patron’s scent, is it? That trickster still gambles in Hell? Hah... how long has it been?"

His eyes narrowed.

"Interesting... but no. You’d reject me the moment I entered. Rejected."

Dirga couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

He was wrapped like a corpse waiting for burial.

Next—Kaela.

"Those eyes... unique indeed. Rare. Divine. But you? You reek of order. Of clarity. Your skills are incompatible with my existence. I despise your kind."

He smiled thinly.

"Rejected."

Then—Saelari.

"A Niphari... and a scholar of runes? Advanced for your race. Creative. Hmm. Your body isn’t ideal, but your mind... has potential. I’ll keep you in mind for another time."

He waved her off.

"On hold."

And finally—Theryn.

He stopped.

Stared.

Then smiled.

"A Duskborn Elf... ah, but more than that. A High Duskborn with control over shadows."

He leaned in slightly.

"Did you not wonder why our appearances are so alike? The skin. The eyes. The blood."

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"I was once like you. Before I embraced my Concept... and became this."

Theryn’s breath shuddered.

The stories whispered by the Elders—the legends buried in Duskborn lore—they were true.

"Perfect," Dracula murmured.

"I choose you."

"No," Theryn thought, as the stories of her ancestors flashed behind her eyes. "Not like this"

His body dissolved.

Blood burst into vapor, swirling like smoke—and then shot toward Theryn.

It struck her like a wave. Her mouth opened, gasping, as the crimson mist poured into every pore, every breath, every nerve.

It wasn’t possession.

It was merging.

Her body trembled violently.

Veins lit up like burning threads under her skin.

Her golden eyes flared—

Then bled into red.

A sigil bloomed on her back, etched in molten crimson—a crest ancient and unmistakable.

The mark of Dracula.

The blood binding them unraveled.

Dirga, Kaela, and Saelari stumbled backward, instinctively forming a triangle of defense.

But what they saw wasn’t a monster.

Not yet.

Theryn still stood in place—breathing heavily, dazed but whole.

Her skin now shimmered like glass-polished marble.

Her features—already striking—now looked inhumanly refined.

Eyes glowing red like dying embers.

And across her back, the Dracula sigil pulsed with dormant power.

Not a full transformation.

But something irreversible had begun.

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