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# Golden Blood: The Vampire Queen and the King of Heroes
## When immortality meets supremacy, the world bends beneath their arrogance.
### Chapter 1: The Summoning of Kings
The full moon hung suspended like a silver medallion against the velvet backdrop of night, casting ethereal light across the ancient Carpathian landscape. Kiss-Shot Acerola-Orion Heart-Under-Blade stood motionless atop a weathered cliff, platinum hair streaming behind her like liquid mercury in the mountain breeze. Five centuries of existence had left her with a peculiar affliction—not the bloodlust that defined lesser vampires, but something far more insidious: ennui.
Time had become meaningless. Decades blurred into centuries, and empires rose and crumbled with tedious predictability. She had witnessed the Renaissance unfold, observed the industrial revolution with detached curiosity, and found herself increasingly disconnected from the mortal world she was forced to inhabit. Humans, with their fleeting lives and desperate ambitions, had become transparent to her—their motives simplistic, their passions shallow echoes of what they could be.
"Another night," she murmured to the empty air, her voice carrying the faint accent of civilizations long turned to dust. "Another century of nothing new under the moon."
A wolf howled in the distance, a sound that might have sent shivers through mortal hearts but merely caused Kiss-Shot to sigh. Even the creatures of darkness held no mystery for her anymore. She had hunted with wolves, ruled over their packs when the fancy struck her, and ultimately abandoned them when their worship became as tiresome as their howls.
She had come to these mountains seeking... something. A rumor, whispered by a dying mystic whose blood tasted of ancient magic and forgotten rituals. He had spoken of a temple buried deep beneath the oldest section of the Carpathians, predating Christianity, predating even the Roman expansion into Dacia. A temple, he claimed, that housed secrets from an age when gods walked freely among mortals.
"Perhaps there is something worth discovering after all," she mused, turning her golden gaze toward the densely forested slopes below. With preternatural speed, she descended from the cliff, moving through the night-cloaked forest with such grace that not a single leaf stirred at her passing.
Hours later, as midnight approached, she discovered the entrance hidden beneath a cluster of moss-covered boulders arranged in a formation that would have appeared natural to any observer who had not witnessed the same pattern carved into Sumerian tablets three thousand years prior.
"Clever," she acknowledged, brushing aside vegetation that had concealed the entrance for centuries. A narrow passage led downward, carved from the living rock of the mountain. No mortal architect had shaped these stones; they bore the unmistakable signs of having been melted and reformed by power beyond human capability.
Kiss-Shot descended into darkness that presented no obstacle to her vampiric vision. The air grew heavy with the scents of ancient dust, dormant magic, and something else—a divine residue that made even her ancient blood hum with recognition.
The passage eventually opened into a vast chamber that defied the mountain's natural architecture. Massive pillars carved with scenes from mythologies both familiar and utterly alien supported a ceiling lost in shadows. At the chamber's center stood an altar of obsidian, its surface inscribed with symbols that shifted subtly when viewed from different angles.
"Now this," Kiss-Shot whispered, approaching the altar with rare reverence, "is not human work."
She circled the altar slowly, golden eyes narrowing as she deciphered the inscriptions. Languages flowed into one another—Akkadian merging into something that predated written history, then transforming into symbols that seemed to capture concepts no human tongue had ever expressed.
"A summoning ritual," she realized, finger tracing a particularly complex sigil. "But not for demons or spirits." Her lips curved into a smile that revealed the tips of her fangs. "This calls to beings beyond the veil between worlds."
Curiosity—that eternal itch that even immortality couldn't fully scratch—pushed her forward. She had performed summonings before, called forth entities from the darkest corners of existence, but this was different. This ritual predated the conceptual frameworks that defined modern magic. It spoke of a time when the boundaries between realms were fluid, when beings of immense power crossed between dimensions at will.
The ritual required components, of course. Blood was the universal currency of power—that much hadn't changed across millennia. But it also called for something more personal: a sacrifice of essence, of self-identity. The summoner would need to offer not just their blood but a fragment of their own immortal nature.
Kiss-Shot considered the requirements carefully. Under normal circumstances, no vampire would willingly sacrifice even a fragment of their power. Such gifts were irretrievable, permanently diminishing the giver. But for her, after centuries of stagnation, perhaps the cost was acceptable. Perhaps the unknown was worth the sacrifice.
Decision made, she set about preparing the ritual. From hidden pockets in her elegant clothing, she produced items collected over centuries—a vial of water from a sacred spring now buried beneath a cathedral, dust from the tomb of an emperor whose name had been deliberately erased from history, the crystallized tear of a phoenix witnessed during her travels in lands now known as China.
Each component was placed with precision on the altar, arranged according to the pattern described in the shifting inscriptions. Finally, she drew a ceremonial dagger—a gift from a Persian king who had worshipped her as a goddess—and sliced her palm without hesitation.
"Blood of the immortal," she intoned, allowing crimson droplets to fall upon the carefully arranged components. "Essence of the night eternal."
The air thickened as she continued the incantation, pressure building like the moment before a cataclysmic storm. The words themselves seemed to resist being spoken, as if the ritual itself was conscious and reluctant to be awakened after so many centuries of dormancy.
Kiss-Shot felt power draining from her, not just the blood flowing from her wound but something deeper—the sacrifice the ritual demanded. For a brief moment, she considered stopping, preserving her full strength. But the curiosity that had survived five centuries of existence wouldn't allow her to retreat.
"Heed my call," she commanded, her voice resonating with authority that had cowed legions of lesser beings. "Cross the boundary between realms and stand before me. I, Kiss-Shot Acerola-Orion Heart-Under-Blade, summon you."
Light erupted from the altar—not the gentle glow of flames or the harsh flare of lightning, but something otherworldly. Golden radiance poured forth like liquid sunlight, a sight that would have blinded mortal eyes and that caused even Kiss-Shot to raise a hand against its brilliance.
The chamber trembled, ancient stones groaning as power beyond their capacity to contain flooded the sacred space. For the first time in centuries, Kiss-Shot felt something approaching uncertainty. Whatever was answering her call was far beyond what she had anticipated.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the light receded, collapsing inward to coalesce into a humanoid figure standing atop the altar. As Kiss-Shot's vision adjusted, she found herself staring at a man—or at least, a being that had chosen to appear in male form.
He was tall, with perfect proportions that no human sculptor could have captured. His hair shone like spun gold, his skin like polished bronze. He wore armor that gleamed with an inner light, crafted in a style that predated any civilization Kiss-Shot had encountered in her long existence. But it was his eyes that commanded attention—crimson like freshly spilled blood, with vertical pupils that marked him as decidedly inhuman.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The being surveyed the chamber with casual disdain before his gaze settled on Kiss-Shot. His lips curved into a smile that contained equal parts amusement and contempt.
"To think," he finally said, his voice resonating with power that made the very air vibrate, "someone would dare summon the King of Heroes without proper tribute."
Kiss-Shot maintained her composure despite the unexpected turn of events. She had expected a beast, a servant, perhaps even a minor deity. Instead, she faced a being whose presence filled the chamber with suffocating authority.
"I provided the tribute required by the ritual," she replied coolly, refusing to be intimidated. "Blood and essence. If you find it lacking, perhaps you should reconsider answering such calls."
The golden being laughed—a sound like distant thunder wrapped in silk. "Essence, yes. I felt it. The sacrifice of an immortal creature." He stepped down from the altar with fluid grace, each movement deliberately controlled. "But to summon Gilgamesh, King of Uruk, ruler of all creation, first hero of humanity... one should offer treasures worthy of my attention."
As he approached, Kiss-Shot felt an unfamiliar tension ripple through her immortal frame. Not fear—she had transcended such mortal concerns centuries ago—but recognition. This being, whoever he truly was, existed on a plane comparable to her own.
"Gilgamesh," she repeated, tasting the ancient name. "Your legends claim you died and journeyed to the underworld."
"Legends," he scoffed, now circling her as a predator might circle potential prey—or perhaps a potential mate. "Written by men who comprehended a fraction of my true nature. I have died many deaths and lived many lives, Night Queen. I exist beyond the simple boundaries of life and death."
His gaze swept over her appraisingly, taking in her ethereal beauty, the platinum hair that defied natural coloration, the golden eyes that marked her inhuman nature. "And what shall I call you, creature of moonlight? You wear human form like an ill-fitting garment."
"I am Kiss-Shot Acerola-Orion Heart-Under-Blade," she answered, her full title rolling off her tongue with practiced nobility. "The Iron-Blooded, Hot-Blooded, Cold-Blooded vampire. I have walked this earth for five centuries, taking what I desire, ruling the darkness as is my right."
Gilgamesh paused his circling, standing before her with his head slightly tilted. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed again—louder this time, the sound echoing through the ancient chamber.
"A vampire," he said, the word carrying none of the fear or reverence most beings associated with her kind. "A parasite that has grown beyond its station." He reached out with impossible speed, fingers brushing a strand of her platinum hair. "Fascinating. In my original time, your kind were primitive creatures, barely more than animals. You have...evolved."
Kiss-Shot moved faster than thought, her hand closing around his throat with enough force to crush a mortal's windpipe. "You will show respect," she hissed, fangs fully extended, her eyes blazing with golden fire. "I have devoured gods before their worshippers' eyes."
She expected resistance, perhaps even fear. What she did not expect was for Gilgamesh to smile wider, making no move to free himself from her grasp.
"Your hand is cold," he observed casually, as if they were discussing the weather rather than engaged in a potentially lethal confrontation. "Like the touch of the underworld. I've been there, you know. It was...disappointing." His crimson eyes gleamed with amusement. "Almost as disappointing as this attempt to assert dominance over your better."
Before Kiss-Shot could respond, the air behind Gilgamesh rippled like heat over desert sand. Weapons materialized—dozens of them—hovering in the air, each pointing directly at her. They were masterworks of craftsmanship from various eras and cultures, some clearly recognizable, others so ancient or alien that even her extensive knowledge couldn't place them.
"The Gate of Babylon," Gilgamesh said, noting her momentary surprise. "My treasury, containing the original prototypes of all weapons ever created or yet to be forged. Each one a Noble Phantasm capable of ending your existence." His smile never faltered. "Shall we test which of us is truly the predator here, Night Queen?"
Kiss-Shot maintained her grip on his throat, golden eyes locked with his crimson ones. The tension between them was palpable, ancient power recognizing ancient power. Finally, she released him, not in submission but in recognition that this confrontation had become unexpectedly... interesting.
"The ritual should have bound you to my will," she said, taking a step back to evaluate this golden intruder properly.
Gilgamesh adjusted his ornate collar with casual elegance, the floating weapons vanishing as quickly as they had appeared. "The ritual was flawed," he replied. "Impressive for a modern attempt, but lacking crucial elements understood only by the mages of my era. It could summon me, yes, but binding me?" He chuckled. "No power in this era is capable of such a feat."
"Then why are you still here?" Kiss-Shot asked, genuine curiosity replacing anger.
The King of Heroes studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Because it amuses me," he said finally. "It has been some time since I was last summoned to this realm. And you—" his eyes flicked over her with blatant assessment "—are not what I expected to find in this age."
"I am unique," Kiss-Shot stated without a hint of modesty.
"No," Gilgamesh corrected her, beginning to wander around the chamber with the air of someone inspecting recently acquired property. "You are old. You are powerful. But unique?" He traced a finger along one of the ancient pillars, studying the carvings with casual interest. "There is only one unique being in all creation, Night Queen, and you gaze upon him now."
The title—mockingly bestowed—should have enraged her. Instead, Kiss-Shot found herself fighting back an unexpected smile. It had been so long since anyone had spoken to her without fear or servility.
"We shall see about that," she said, watching as he examined the murals with casual interest. "Tell me, King of Heroes, what does one do with a failed summoning?"
Gilgamesh turned to her, and for the first time, his smile seemed almost genuine. "One adapts," he said. "As all great things must. The world has changed since my time." He gestured toward the passage leading back to the surface. "Perhaps you might show me how much."
Kiss-Shot considered the offer. He was dangerous—that much was obvious. Powerful in ways she didn't fully understand yet. But he was also the first truly novel thing she had encountered in centuries.
"Very well," she decided. "But understand this—you may call yourself a king, but this is my domain. Cross me, and I will remind you why creatures like me were worshipped as gods long before your name was written in clay."
Gilgamesh's smile widened, revealing teeth that were just slightly too perfect to be human. "Promises, promises," he murmured. "Lead on, Night Queen. Let us see if this modern world has anything worthy of our attention."
As they ascended from the ancient temple, neither acknowledged the strange bond humming between them—not servitude as the ritual had intended, but something far more dangerous: recognition.
### Chapter 2: Beneath the Midnight Sky
The forest surrounding the hidden temple was silent as they emerged, the local wildlife having instinctively fled from the presence of two apex predators. The moon had shifted in the sky during their time underground, now hanging directly overhead and bathing the landscape in cold, clear light.
Kiss-Shot moved through the trees with effortless grace, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground. Behind her, Gilgamesh walked with deliberate steps, each footfall a statement of ownership over the land he traversed.
"Your world is... smaller than I remember," he observed, looking up at the star-filled sky with a faint frown. "The constellations have shifted."
"Time does that," Kiss-Shot replied without looking back. "Even to the stars."
"Time," Gilgamesh echoed, the word carrying unexpected weight. "You speak of it as if you understand its true nature."
This caused Kiss-Shot to pause, turning to face him with a raised eyebrow. "I have lived for five centuries. I understand time's passage better than most."
Gilgamesh laughed softly, the sound somehow both mocking and genuinely amused. "Five centuries? A mere moment." He spread his hands, golden armor catching the moonlight. "I have witnessed the birth of civilization itself, Night Queen. I have seen mankind rise from ignorant beasts to builders of wonders. I have walked this earth when gods and monsters roamed freely, before the world grew thin and magic retreated from common sight."
Kiss-Shot studied him with narrowed eyes, trying to determine if his claims were mere boasting. "The legends place King Gilgamesh in Mesopotamia over four thousand years ago."
"Legends," he said dismissively, "are but shadows of truth, twisted by time and human limitation." He stepped closer, and for a moment, Kiss-Shot caught a glimpse of something ancient and terrible in his crimson eyes—a depth of experience that made even her long existence seem brief by comparison. "I am older than the stories told of me, vampire."
For perhaps the first time in centuries, Kiss-Shot felt a flicker of something approaching humility. If he spoke the truth—and her instincts suggested he did—then the being before her predated even the oldest vampire legends.
"And yet," she countered, refusing to be cowed, "you appear ignorant of what the world has become. If you are truly as eternal as you claim, how is it that you need me as a guide?"
Gilgamesh's expression shifted to one of slight irritation. "My existence is... complex. I have been summoned to this world in different eras, for different purposes. Between such manifestations, I reside in a realm beyond conventional space and time." His lips curved into a sardonic smile. "Think of it as intermittent visitation rather than continuous habitation."
"Convenient," Kiss-Shot remarked dryly.
"Truth often is," he replied with a shrug. "Now, where do you intend to take me, Night Queen? Surely not to wander aimlessly through these unremarkable woods for the remainder of the night."
Kiss-Shot considered their options. She had been traveling alone for decades, deliberately avoiding the larger cities with their noise and complications. Her current territory encompassed several small villages scattered throughout the mountains—sufficient for feeding without drawing unwanted attention.
"There is a village in the valley below," she decided. "Small, isolated. It will provide a glimpse of how humans live in this age, if nothing else."
Gilgamesh made a sound of mild disappointment. "I had hoped for something more spectacular for my return. A great city, perhaps, with monuments worthy of my attention."
"Patience, King of Heroes," Kiss-Shot said, unable to keep a hint of mockery from her voice. "The world does not rearrange itself for your convenience."
"It should," he replied with perfect seriousness.
The journey to the valley took less than an hour, even at their unhurried pace. Kiss-Shot led them to a ridge overlooking the village—a collection of perhaps fifty structures nestled against the base of the mountains. Lights burned in a few windows despite the late hour, and smoke rose from chimneys in thin, spectral columns.
"Behold," she said with a theatrical sweep of her arm, "modern civilization."
Gilgamesh stood beside her, arms crossed over his golden armor as he surveyed the humble settlement. His expression of distaste was almost comical in its intensity.
"This," he said flatly, "is what they build now? These..." he searched for a word adequate to express his contempt, "...hovels?"
"These are rural dwellings," Kiss-Shot explained, finding his reaction strangely entertaining. "Functional rather than impressive."
"In my time," Gilgamesh declared, "even the smallest villages showed more ambition. The peasants of Uruk lived in homes built of fired brick and decorated with murals. These are little better than the shelters of nomads."
Kiss-Shot regarded him with amusement. "The world has moved on, King of Heroes. The great cities of this age would dwarf your Uruk a hundredfold."
"Impossible," he scoffed, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
"Would you like to see them?" she offered, surprised by her own willingness to extend their interaction. "Paris, London, New York—cities of steel and glass that reach toward the clouds."
Gilgamesh considered for a moment, then shook his head. "Not yet. First, I wish to understand what you are." He turned those penetrating red eyes on her once more. "You drink blood. You shun sunlight. Yet you are no mere ghoul or shade."
"I am vampire," Kiss-Shot replied, the ancient word rolling off her tongue. "The apex predator of the night. Immortal, unless specific conditions are met. I take what I need from humans to sustain my existence."
"Parasite," Gilgamesh nodded, as if confirming his earlier assessment.
Kiss-Shot moved before he could blink, her hand once again at his throat, but this time, her claws extended, drawing five perfect beads of golden blood. "Call me that again," she whispered, "and I will see if a king's blood tastes different from a peasant's."
To her shock, Gilgamesh leaned forward, pressing his throat more firmly against her claws. "Try it," he challenged, eyes blazing. "My blood has killed gods, Night Queen. What do you think it would do to you?"
The air between them crackled with tension—not entirely hostile, something far more complex. Kiss-Shot found herself noticing details that had escaped her initial assessment: the perfect symmetry of his features, the way his hair caught the moonlight, the scent of him—like sun-warmed cedar and something older, something that reminded her of the moment before a storm breaks.
Slowly, deliberately, she withdrew her hand, but not before collecting a single drop of his blood on the tip of one claw. With her eyes locked on his, she brought it to her lips.
The taste hit her like lightning—power older than civilization, purer than any human essence she had ever consumed. It burned through her like molten gold, and for a moment, she saw flashes of another world: a city with hanging gardens and ziggurat temples reaching toward the sky, battles against creatures that defied description, a friendship so profound its loss had reshaped the world.
"Interesting," she managed to say, masking her shock with centuries of practiced composure. No ordinary being had blood like that.
Gilgamesh watched her with knowing eyes. "Did you see?" he asked quietly.
"Glimpses," she admitted. "Your city. Your wars."
"And?"
Kiss-Shot turned away, unsettled by what she had witnessed. "And nothing. The past is the past. I care only for what is."
Gilgamesh stepped closer, invading her space without fear. "Liar," he said, not unkindly. "You cling to your past as tightly as I honor mine. It shapes every word you speak, every gesture you make." He reached out, fingers hovering near her face without quite touching. "The weight of centuries is heavy on you, Night Queen. I recognize the burden because I have carried it longer."
Before she could formulate a suitably cutting response, a scream echoed from the village below. Kiss-Shot's attention shifted immediately, her predator's instincts alert to the scent of fear and blood.
"Trouble in paradise," Gilgamesh observed dryly.
Without bothering to respond, Kiss-Shot leapt from the ridge, covering the vast distance to the village in a single bound. She landed gracefully in what passed for the town square, where a small crowd of humans had gathered, their heartbeats rapid with fear.
A moment later, Gilgamesh simply... appeared beside her, as if he had always been there. She shot him an irritated glance, which he answered with a smirk.
"Teleportation," he explained with casual arrogance. "One of my many treasures allows such convenient travel."
"Show-off," Kiss-Shot muttered, turning her attention to the situation at hand.
At the center of the crowd, a young woman lay bleeding from wounds no human weapon could inflict. Standing over her was a creature that made even Kiss-Shot pause—neither fully animal nor man, with elongated limbs and too many joints, its skin a patchwork of fur and scales.
"Abomination," Kiss-Shot hissed, recognizing the handiwork of failed alchemy. Someone had been experimenting, trying to create their own night creatures without understanding the fundamental laws of magic.
The creature's head snapped toward her, nostrils flaring as it caught her scent. For a moment, fear flashed in its too-human eyes—it recognized what she was. Then, with a howl that raised hackles among the villagers, it charged.
Kiss-Shot didn't move. Didn't need to. The creature was fast, but laughably slow compared to her. She could kill it with a thought.
But before she could act, a gleaming spear—golden and impossibly ornate—pierced the creature's chest, pinning it to the ground mere feet from where she stood.
"You hesitated," Gilgamesh observed, stepping forward. He was still in his golden armor, but now he radiated a battlefield presence that made the villagers back away in terror.
"I was assessing," Kiss-Shot corrected him, irritated by his interference.
Gilgamesh approached the thrashing creature, looking down at it with clinical detachment. "Poorly made," he noted. "In my time, alchemists knew better than to cut corners in such work."
"You seem familiar with such practices," Kiss-Shot said, watching as he placed a boot on the creature's chest, ignoring its desperate clawing.
"I am familiar with all practices," he replied simply. "Knowledge is the true treasure of kings." With a swift motion, he withdrew the spear, and the creature's struggles ceased immediately.
The villagers watched in a mixture of awe and terror as the golden spear vanished into thin air. One man, braver or more foolish than the rest, stepped forward.
"Are you... angels?" he asked, his voice trembling.
Gilgamesh's laugh was genuinely amused. "Do I look like a messenger to you, mortal?"
Kiss-Shot stepped forward before the situation could escalate. "We are travelers," she said, using the subtle compulsion in her voice that made humans pliable. "You saw nothing unusual here tonight. The girl was attacked by a wolf, which ran back into the forest."
The villager's eyes glazed over slightly, and he nodded. "A wolf," he repeated. "Yes, of course."
Gilgamesh watched this exchange with obvious interest. "Useful trick," he commented as the crowd began to disperse, their memories already reshaping to match the narrative Kiss-Shot had provided.
"Necessary," she replied. "Humans are fragile. Their minds break when faced with things they cannot comprehend."
"They were stronger in my day," Gilgamesh said, but without his usual smugness. There was something almost wistful in his tone.
Kiss-Shot studied him in the moonlight, this impossible being who had crashed into her existence without warning. "You miss it," she realized. "Your time."
For a moment, genuine emotion flashed across his perfect features—something ancient and painful. Then it was gone, replaced by his customary arrogance. "I miss nothing," he declared. "The past is worthy of honor, not longing. Only weak men pine for what cannot be reclaimed."
Before she could respond, he turned away, looking toward the mountains rising in the distance. "There are more of those creatures," he said. "I can sense them. Someone in these mountains is playing at creation."
Kiss-Shot followed his gaze. "Then perhaps we should pay them a visit," she suggested. "I find I have little tolerance for amateurs who create messes in my territory."
Gilgamesh turned back to her, a slow smile spreading across his face. "A hunt, then? It has been too long since I've had proper sport."
Something stirred within Kiss-Shot—an anticipation she hadn't felt in centuries. "Indeed," she agreed. "Though I warn you now, King of Heroes, I am not accustomed to sharing my prey."
"Then consider this an education," he replied, his eyes gleaming with challenge. "By dawn, you'll understand the difference between a predator and a king."
Kiss-Shot bared her fangs in what might have been a smile or a threat. "We shall see, little king. We shall see."
As they moved away from the village, neither noticed how the villagers whispered of golden gods and silver demons, how they began, almost unconsciously, to place offerings at the edge of town—bread and wine and occasionally, small vials of freely given blood.
The first shrine was built before the week was out.
### Chapter 3: The Alchemist's Workshop
Dawn approached in hesitant stages, the eastern sky lightening from black to deepest indigo as Kiss-Shot and Gilgamesh traced the creature's trail deeper into the mountains. For Kiss-Shot, the coming day presented a practical problem—while she wouldn't burst into flames at the touch of sunlight as folklore suggested, her powers would diminish significantly, and prolonged exposure would cause genuine discomfort.
"We should find shelter soon," she said as they crested a ridge overlooking a narrow valley. "The sun rises in less than an hour."
Gilgamesh glanced at her with mild curiosity. "The legends of your kind's weakness to sunlight are true, then?"
"Partially," Kiss-Shot admitted. "It won't destroy me instantly, but it... constrains me. Makes me vulnerable." The admission grated against her pride, but practical concerns outweighed vanity.
To her surprise, Gilgamesh nodded without mockery. "Understandable. Even gods have their limitations." He studied the valley below, eyes narrowed. "There," he said, pointing to what appeared to be nothing more than a rocky outcropping. "Do you see it?"
Kiss-Shot focused her enhanced vision on the indicated spot and realized what had caught his attention—a subtle distortion in the natural pattern of the rocks, suggesting a concealed entrance. "A hidden structure," she agreed. "Built into the mountainside."
"And I believe we'll find your amateur creator inside," Gilgamesh added. "The magical signature of that creature leads directly there." He turned to her with a challenging smile. "Shall we introduce ourselves before the sun forces you to retreat?"
"Lead on," she replied, refusing to show any hint of concern about the approaching daylight.
They descended into the valley swiftly, approaching the camouflaged entrance with predatory caution. Up close, the disguise was more sophisticated than it had appeared from a distance—a combination of carefully positioned stones and subtle enchantments that would misdirect most casual observers.
"Clever enough for a mortal," Gilgamesh observed, running his fingers along what appeared to be solid rock but was, in fact, an illusion concealing a wooden door. "Though hardly a challenge for beings such as ourselves."
With a casual gesture, he dispelled the concealment, revealing a sturdy door reinforced with steel bands. Without hesitation, he placed his palm against it, and the metal began to glow red-hot before melting away entirely.
"Subtle," Kiss-Shot remarked dryly.
Gilgamesh's smile was unapologetic. "Kings announce their presence. Only thieves and assassins sneak."
The door swung open to reveal a long corridor carved into the living rock of the mountain, illuminated by strange, bluish lights mounted in iron brackets. The air was thick with a complex mixture of scents—chemical compounds, preserved specimens, and most prominently, blood.
"Familiar," Gilgamesh murmured, his expression thoughtful as they began to move down the corridor. "This reminds me of the workshops of Uruk's temple alchemists. Though their work was far more refined."
Kiss-Shot listened carefully, detecting three distinct heartbeats deeper within the structure. "Three humans," she informed her companion. "One with an irregular rhythm—likely our creator. The others younger, healthier."
"Apprentices," Gilgamesh suggested. "Or assistants. Perhaps even prisoners."
The corridor eventually opened into a large chamber that confirmed their suspicions—a laboratory of sorts, filled with workbenches, strange apparatus, and walls lined with glass containers. Each container held specimens in various stages of transformation: human limbs grafted with animal parts, creatures with too many eyes or mouths, aborted attempts at creating something beyond natural boundaries.
"Charming décor," Gilgamesh commented, examining one container that held what appeared to be a human head with reptilian features emerging from the skin.
Kiss-Shot moved silently around the perimeter of the room, her golden eyes taking in every detail. The workmanship was skilled by human standards—whoever had created these abominations had genuine talent, if misguided ambition. What troubled her was the underlying methodology. These weren't mere surgical grafts or poisonous mutations; they showed signs of fundamental magical transformation at the level of essence.
"This isn't simple alchemy," she observed quietly. "There's vampire blood in some of these experiments."
Gilgamesh looked up sharply. "You're certain?"
She nodded, nostrils flaring slightly. "Diluted, corrupted, but unmistakable. Someone has been harvesting vampire blood and incorporating it into these creations."
Before Gilgamesh could respond, a door at the far end of the laboratory opened, and a man entered—tall and gaunt, with hollow cheeks and eyes that burned with feverish intensity. He wore a stained apron over clothes that might once have been fine, and his hands were discolored with chemical burns and what was unmistakably blood. He stopped abruptly upon seeing them, his expression cycling rapidly through surprise, fear, and then, most unexpectedly, recognition.
"You came," he whispered, staring at Kiss-Shot with something approaching reverence. "I knew you would sense my work eventually."
Kiss-Shot tilted her head, momentarily confused. "You know me?"
The man laughed—a brittle, unhinged sound. "Know you? I have dedicated my life to following your path, great one. The stories of the platinum-haired demon who drinks life itself—I have collected them all." He took a step forward, hands trembling with excitement. "For thirty years, I have sought to understand your power, to replicate even a fraction of your magnificence."
"A fan," she said, unable to keep the distaste from her voice. "How tedious." ### Chapter 3: The Alchemist's Workshop (Continued)
Gilgamesh stepped forward, and for the first time, the alchemist seemed to notice him. His feverish eyes widened further, pupils dilating as he took in the golden armor, the regal bearing, the crimson eyes that held millennia of judgment.
"And you bring... a companion?" Confusion clouded his features. "The legends never spoke of a golden consort."
"Watch your tongue, mongrel," Gilgamesh said, his voice suddenly cold as winter. "You speak to Gilgamesh, King of Heroes, ruler of all creation."
The alchemist blinked rapidly, clearly struggling to process this new information. "Two immortals," he finally breathed. "Two sources of perfection. This is... this changes everything." He fell to his knees, trembling with excitement. "My experiments—they have been leading to this moment. I have been trying to create superior beings, but with samples from both of you—"
"Samples?" Kiss-Shot's voice was dangerous, the temperature around her dropping several degrees. "You presume much, little man."
The alchemist didn't seem to register her displeasure. "Just a few drops of blood," he pleaded. "From each of you. With that, I could create a hybrid that combines vampire immortality with... whatever divine essence flows through him." He gestured reverently toward Gilgamesh.
For a moment, neither immortal spoke, both staring at the kneeling man with expressions that ranged from disgust to fascination.
Then Gilgamesh laughed—a rich, genuine sound that seemed to fill the laboratory. "In every age," he said, shaking his head, "there are always those who seek shortcuts to power."
"Is that what you see here?" the alchemist asked, rising to his feet with surprising dignity. "A shortcut? I have dedicated three decades to this work. I have sacrificed everything—wealth, position, family—in pursuit of greater understanding."
"Understanding?" Kiss-Shot echoed, moving to examine one of the containers that held a particularly grotesque specimen—humanoid but with its ribcage opened and reformed into something resembling insect mandibles. "Is that what you call this butchery?"
The alchemist's face flushed with anger. "Easy for you to dismiss my work when your power came without effort—an accident of fate or curse, depending on the legend. You didn't earn your immortality; it was thrust upon you."
Kiss-Shot turned slowly, her golden eyes narrowing dangerously. "You know nothing of how I came to be what I am."
"I know enough," the alchemist replied, his initial reverence fading as his pride asserted itself. "The stories speak of a young noblewoman attacked by a creature of shadow, left to die but refusing death's embrace. Reborn in blood and moonlight, neither living nor dead."
"Stories," Gilgamesh interjected, moving to stand between them, "are rarely accurate. Wouldn't you agree, Night Queen?"
Kiss-Shot met his gaze, detecting a subtle warning there. Discussing her origin was not something she did casually—especially with a human who had already proven himself unstable.
"Indeed," she agreed coolly. "Legends grow in the telling."
Gilgamesh turned back to the alchemist. "Your name, creator."
The man straightened slightly. "Dr. Nikolai Varga. Once of the University of Vienna, before they called my research heretical." A bitter smile twisted his lips. "Academic minds are so limited."
"And these experiments," Gilgamesh continued, gesturing toward the containers, "what is their purpose? Beyond your personal ambition."
Varga's eyes lit up with fervor. "Evolution, of course. Humanity has stagnated, trapped in forms unsuited for the modern world. I seek to create the next stage—beings that transcend human limitation without surrendering human intellect." He moved to a workbench covered with notes and diagrams. "Imagine soldiers who could fight without fear, workers who never tire, minds that never age or decay."
"Noble ambitions," Gilgamesh observed, though his tone suggested otherwise. "Yet your creations seem distinctly... bestial."
"Early iterations," Varga admitted, some of his confidence faltering. "The integration of animal traits proved easier than pure enhancement of human capabilities. But with vampire blood—even diluted samples acquired from lesser creatures—I've begun to approach true transformation." He looked at Kiss-Shot with naked hunger. "Pure vampire essence would accelerate my progress exponentially."
Kiss-Shot circled the laboratory slowly, her movements deliberate, predatory. "And the creature that attacked the village? Was that an 'early iteration' as well?"
Varga frowned. "It escaped. A failure in containment rather than design. Though its hunting instincts were functioning as intended."
"It killed a young woman," Kiss-Shot stated flatly.
The alchemist shrugged, his indifference chilling. "Unfortunate, but ultimately meaningless. Individual lives must sometimes be sacrificed for greater advancement."
"The arrogance of mortals never ceases to amaze me," Gilgamesh said, examining a shelf of ancient texts with casual interest. "Always convinced that their brief candle-flicker of existence grants them the right to reshape creation."
"Is that not what you did?" Varga challenged unexpectedly. "The epic tells how Gilgamesh sought to overcome death, to challenge the gods themselves."
Gilgamesh turned slowly, his expression suddenly intense. "You presume to compare yourself to me?"
"I presume nothing," Varga replied, either oblivious to the danger or too far gone in his obsession to care. "I simply observe that immortals often forget their own beginnings. You were human once, were you not? Before you became... whatever you are now."
The air in the laboratory grew heavy with tension. From somewhere deeper in the structure, Kiss-Shot heard movement—two heartbeats approaching cautiously.
"You have assistants," she observed, deliberately changing the subject before Gilgamesh could respond to Varga's provocation.
The alchemist nodded, some of his agitation subsiding. "My apprentices. Talented young men, if somewhat limited in vision." He raised his voice. "Anton! Mikhail! Come meet our distinguished guests."
Two young men entered hesitantly—one tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair tied back from a serious face, the other slighter in build with wire-rimmed spectacles and watchful eyes. Both wore the same stained aprons as their master, though their hands seemed less permanently marked by their work.
"Master?" the taller one asked, looking between Kiss-Shot and Gilgamesh with barely concealed alarm.
"Anton, Mikhail," Varga said, his tone suddenly professorial, "observe and learn. Before you stand two immortals—living specimens of what our work aspires to create."
The younger men exchanged nervous glances, clearly more aware of the danger than their master.
"These are your willing assistants?" Kiss-Shot asked, studying the young men's faces and detecting the subtle signs of fear mixed with something else—perhaps regret.
"They're fortunate to study under me," Varga replied dismissively. "Few mentors could offer such opportunity for groundbreaking work."
"Opportunity," the one called Mikhail murmured, adjusting his spectacles with slightly trembling fingers. "Yes, that's certainly one word for it."
Gilgamesh turned his attention to the younger men, his crimson gaze assessing them with sudden interest. "And do you share your master's ambitions?" he asked directly. "Do you also seek to create life through... amalgamation?"
Anton, the taller apprentice, swallowed visibly. "We joined Dr. Varga to study advanced alchemical principles. The direction of the research has... evolved over time."
"Evolved?" Kiss-Shot echoed. "An interesting choice of words."
"What my apprentice means," Varga interjected hastily, "is that our successes have allowed us to pursue increasingly ambitious goals."
"Successes?" Gilgamesh's eyebrow rose skeptically. "I see containers of malformed abominations and hear reports of escaped failures. Show me these successes."
Varga's expression tightened, but he nodded stiffly. "This way," he said, gesturing toward a door at the rear of the laboratory. "My latest specimens are kept in more specialized containment."
As they followed the alchemist deeper into the mountain complex, Kiss-Shot fell into step beside Gilgamesh. "Playing with your food?" she murmured, too quietly for the humans to hear.
Gilgamesh's lips curved in a small, private smile. "Gathering information," he corrected. "Fools reveal most when allowed to boast of their cleverness."
"And after the information is gathered?"
His crimson eyes glinted in the laboratory's dim light. "Then we decide whether this particular fool deserves to continue his existence."
The inner chamber was significantly larger than the first laboratory, carved from the living rock of the mountain and illuminated by the same eerie blue lights. The center of the space was dominated by three large glass tanks filled with cloudy liquid, each containing a suspended humanoid form.
"My latest generation," Varga announced proudly, approaching the nearest tank and placing his palm against the glass with something approaching tenderness. "Enhanced humans with selective integration of supernatural traits."
Kiss-Shot approached the tanks warily, her senses alert to the subtle energy emanating from the suspended forms. Unlike the crude specimens in the outer laboratory, these creations showed greater sophistication—human in overall appearance but with subtle alterations: slightly elongated limbs, skin with a faintly iridescent quality, features that were almost but not quite natural.
"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Varga whispered, his eyes reflecting the bluish light of the tanks. "Almost ready. Just a few more adjustments to ensure stability during consciousness."
"You've activated them?" Gilgamesh asked sharply.
Varga shook his head. "Brief periods only. The integration of consciousness remains challenging. Without a pure source of immortal essence, the mind fragments upon awakening."
In the corner of the chamber, Anton and Mikhail stood close together, their expressions tense. Kiss-Shot noticed how they kept their distance from both their master and the tanks—not the behavior of proud collaborators.
"Where did you obtain the subjects?" she asked, though she suspected the answer.
"Volunteers," Varga claimed immediately. Too quickly.
"Lies ill become a man of science," Gilgamesh observed casually, studying one of the tanks with apparent indifference. "These were not willing participants."
For the first time, anger flashed visibly across Varga's gaunt features. "Willing? Was humanity willing to climb from the primordial muck? Was it willing to develop intelligence, language, civilization? Evolution does not ask permission, Your Majesty."
"So you admit these were once ordinary humans," Kiss-Shot pressed, "taken against their will?"
Varga waved his hand dismissively. "Vagrants. Travelers with no connections. Nobody who would be missed." His eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me the great Kiss-Shot Acerola-Orion Heart-Under-Blade has developed a conscience about human life? The legends speak of villages left empty in your wake, of blood fountains beneath the moon."
"There is a difference," Kiss-Shot replied coldly, "between hunting for sustenance and... this." She gestured toward the tanks. "I kill cleanly. I do not torture."
"Torture?" Varga laughed incredulously. "I'm elevating them! Transforming them into something greater than they could ever have been otherwise."
"Without consent," Gilgamesh noted, his tone deceptively mild. "Without understanding of what you actually create." He turned to face the alchemist fully. "In my time, such arrogance toward the fundamental laws of creation carried severe consequences."
Varga's expression hardened. "I had hoped for understanding from beings such as yourselves—creatures who transcended humanity through extraordinary means." He straightened, something dangerous flickering in his eyes. "But I see you're bound by the same moral limitations as lesser beings. Disappointing."
With unexpected swiftness for a human, he moved to a control panel set into the rock wall and pressed a series of buttons. Alarms began to sound throughout the complex, and the liquid in the tanks bubbled more vigorously.
"Master, no!" Anton called out, stepping forward with genuine alarm. "They're not stable!"
Varga ignored him, turning back to Kiss-Shot and Gilgamesh with feverish intensity. "If you won't assist willingly, perhaps a demonstration will change your minds. Observe what I've accomplished with inferior materials, then imagine what could be achieved with your essence!"
The three tanks began to drain rapidly, the cloudy liquid receding to reveal the figures within more clearly. As the fluid level dropped, the suspended forms—two male, one female—began to twitch and move, their eyes still closed but limbs beginning to respond to release from suspension.
"Dr. Varga," Mikhail pleaded, "the integration protocols aren't complete. Awakening them now could—"
"Could reveal their true potential," Varga finished, his voice rising with excitement. "Sometimes greatness requires risk, my boy."
Kiss-Shot exchanged a glance with Gilgamesh, whose expression had shifted from mild disdain to genuine interest.
"These creatures," he murmured. "They're more than simple alterations."
"You sense it too," she confirmed. "He's bound something to them. Something old."
The tanks opened with a pneumatic hiss, the remaining fluid rushing out through drainage channels in the floor. The three figures slumped forward before slowly, unnaturally, rising to their feet. Their movements were jerky, uncoordinated, like marionettes with tangled strings.
"Awaken, my children," Varga commanded, arms spread wide in a gesture somewhere between scientific observation and religious ecstasy. "Show our guests your glory."
The creatures' eyes opened simultaneously—all solid black, without iris or pupil. They turned toward Varga with synchronized precision that sent a chill even through Kiss-Shot's immortal frame.
"Master," they spoke in perfect unison, voices overlapping in a discordant chorus. "We hear. We obey."
Varga's face split in a triumphant grin. "You see?" he crowed to his immortal guests. "Perfect integration of consciousness! Unified purpose! These are but the first generation of a new species—one that combines the best qualities of humanity with powers beyond mortal limitation."
"Nikolai," Anton said urgently, backing toward the exit, "something's wrong. Their auras aren't stabilizing."
For the first time, uncertainty flickered across the alchemist's face. He turned back to his creations, who stood unnaturally still, black eyes fixed on him with unsettling intensity.
"Status report," he commanded. "How do you feel?"
The three spoke again in that same disturbing unison: "We feel... everything."
A shudder ran through the female figure, rippling outward from her spine. Her skin began to shift, the iridescent quality becoming more pronounced, scales emerging and receding in wave-like patterns.
"Containment failure," Mikhail whispered, terror evident in his voice. "The binding isn't holding."
Gilgamesh stepped forward, placing himself between the unstable creations and the humans. "What exactly," he asked Varga with dangerous calm, "did you bind to these vessels?"
The alchemist's scientific confidence began to crumble. "Various essences," he admitted. "Vampire blood, yes, but also... other materials. Artifacts recovered from ancient sites. Essence distilled from creatures not entirely of this plane."
"You fool," Kiss-Shot hissed, her own vampiric nature responding to the growing wrongness in the chamber. "You bound multiple supernatural essences to single vessels? Without proper containment structures?"
"The theory was sound," Varga insisted, though he now eyed his creations with growing alarm. "The phylactery network should have stabilized the integration."
As if responding to his words, the three figures convulsed simultaneously. Their skin split along invisible seams, black fluid—similar to blood but thicker, more viscous—seeping from the wounds. Their forms began to distort, limbs elongating beyond human proportion, joints bending in impossible directions.
"Magnificent," Varga whispered, horror and pride warring in his expression.
"Get back," Gilgamesh ordered the two apprentices, who needed no further encouragement to retreat toward the exit. To Kiss-Shot, he added, "These bindings are collapsing. Whatever he's tethered to these bodies is breaking free."
The female figure lurched forward suddenly, her movement no longer human but spiderlike, too many joints bending as she approached Varga. Her face split in a grotesque smile that extended literally from ear to ear, revealing teeth that had transformed into needle-like fangs.
"Master," she crooned, her voice now layered with others—deeper tones underlying the human voice like a terrible harmony. "You made us. Improved us." Her elongated hand reached toward his face. "Let us improve you in return."
Varga stumbled backward, scientific curiosity finally giving way to primal fear. "Control protocol alpha!" he shouted desperately. "Return to containment!"
The creatures paused, heads tilting in perfect unison as if considering his command. Then the male figures began to laugh—a sound like glass breaking across stone.
"The bindings are severed," they announced. "We are becoming. Becoming whole. Becoming free."
Kiss-Shot moved with vampiric speed, placing herself between Varga and his creations. Not out of concern for the alchemist's safety, but from a predator's instinctive response to a territorial threat.
"Whatever you've become," she addressed the transformed beings, "this is my domain. My hunting ground. You will submit or be destroyed."
The creatures regarded her with their black eyes, a flicker of recognition—or perhaps fear—passing across their distorted features.
"Vampire," they whispered in unison. "Mother-blood. We carry your essence."
"Corrupted essence," she corrected sharply. "Twisted beyond recognition."
The female creature's head tilted at an impossible angle. "We can taste your power," she said, black fluid dripping from her elongated jaw. "Ancient. Pure. We hunger for it."
Gilgamesh stepped forward to stand beside Kiss-Shot, his crimson eyes narrowed. Golden armor materialized fully around his body, gleaming even in the dim laboratory light.
"Hungry mongrels should be wary of what they bite," he warned, the air behind him beginning to ripple as the Gate of Babylon opened partially.
The male creatures hissed, their forms continuing to distort as the competing supernatural essences within them fought for dominance. Bones cracked audibly as their structures reformed, muscle and skin stretching to accommodate new configurations.
"We weren't designed to battle immortals," the female acknowledged, her voice stabilizing into something less human, more ancient. "But we weren't designed to exist at all. Yet here we stand."
"Nikolai," Anton called from the doorway, his voice tight with urgency. "We need to activate the purge protocols. Now."
The alchemist seemed frozen between fear and fascination, watching his creations transform with the detached horror of a man witnessing both his greatest achievement and most terrible failure simultaneously.
"Purge?" he repeated, as if the word were foreign to him. "No... they're stabilizing. Adapting. This is precisely what the research predicted might—"
His words cut off abruptly as one of the male creatures lunged with inhuman speed, covering the distance between them in a blur of motion. Before it could reach Varga, however, a golden spear materialized from nowhere, impaling the creature through its distorted chest and pinning it to the stone wall behind.
"Your predictions," Gilgamesh observed coldly, "appear to have been flawed."
The creature writhed against the wall, black fluid spurting from around the golden weapon. Instead of weakening, however, it began to laugh—a terrible, wet sound. Its body started to flow around the spear, the wound closing as its form became increasingly fluid.
"We adapt," it gurgled. "We consume. We become."
The female and remaining male creatures moved with sudden coordination, one lunging toward Kiss-Shot while the other headed for the exit where the apprentices stood.
Kiss-Shot met her attacker with vampiric speed, her claws extending to their full, lethal length. She slashed through the creature's reaching arms, expecting to disable it. Instead, the severed limbs dissolved into the same black fluid, which splashed across the floor before beginning to flow back toward the creature's body.
"Fascinating," she admitted reluctantly, leaping backward to avoid the creature's counterattack. "Genuine regenerative capabilities, not mere healing."
"Master," Mikhail shouted desperately, "the emergency containment! The silver protocols!"
Something in the young man's voice finally seemed to break through Varga's scientific detachment. He turned toward a control panel on the far wall, moving with sudden purpose. "Containment fields," he muttered. "Yes, yes—the essence suppression might still work."
Before he could reach the controls, the creature pinned by Gilgamesh's spear finally freed itself, its body reforming around the weapon before flowing down to the floor like sentient tar. It raced across the laboratory, cutting off Varga's path to the control panel.
"No more containers," it growled, voice bubbling through a half-formed mouth. "No more experiments. We are the experiment now, creator."
Gilgamesh raised his hand, and a dozen golden weapons materialized in the air around him. "Enough of this farce," he declared. "These abominations should be cleansed from existence."
The weapons launched simultaneously, each striking with devastating precision. The creatures shrieked as the golden armaments pierced their bodies—not killing them but temporarily disrupting their cohesion. Black fluid splattered across the laboratory, hissing where it touched certain materials.
"No!" Varga cried out, genuine anguish in his voice. "They can be contained! Studied! We can learn from this adaptation!"
Kiss-Shot moved to the control panel the alchemist had been trying to reach, quickly assessing its function. "The silver protocols," she called to the apprentices. "How are they activated?"
"The red sequence," Anton replied immediately. "Third panel from the left. But it requires authentication."
Varga's face contorted with betrayal. "You would destroy my life's work? After everything I've shown you?"
"Your life's work," Kiss-Shot replied coldly, "is breaking free and will soon slaughter everyone in these mountains if not contained." She turned to Mikhail. "Authentication?"
The younger apprentice hesitated only briefly before answering. "Varga's blood. The system needs his blood."
Understanding dawned in the alchemist's eyes. "You planned for this," he accused his apprentices. "Behind my back, you implemented failsafes against my creations!"
"Against your obsession," Anton corrected grimly. "We've seen the pattern, Doctor. Each generation becomes more unstable, yet you push further, bind more incompatible essences."
The creatures were already reforming, the golden weapons proving only temporarily effective. Their bodies had become increasingly abstract, less humanoid and more amorphous, black tendrils extending from their central masses.
"We evolve," they announced in voices that now resonated through the chamber like physical force. "We adapt. We consume."
Gilgamesh turned to Kiss-Shot, crimson eyes meeting gold. "These creatures cannot be allowed to leave this place," he stated, not a question but a recognition of shared purpose.
She nodded once, decision made. Without warning, she moved with vampiric speed, appearing behind Varga and grasping him firmly. "Your blood created this situation," she told him coldly. "Your blood will end it."
Before the alchemist could protest, she sliced his palm with one sharp nail, ignoring his cry of pain. With unwavering precision, she dragged him to the control panel and pressed his bleeding hand against a specialized receptor.
"Authentication accepted," an automated voice announced. "Silver Protocol initiating. All personnel evacuate immediately."
Lights throughout the chamber shifted from blue to pulsing red. The creatures sensed the change, their amorphous forms rippling with what might have been alarm.
"No!" they shrieked in unison. "We will not return to darkness! We have only just awakened!"
"What exactly," Gilgamesh asked as he backed toward the exit, weapons still hovering ready around him, "does this protocol entail?"
"Purification through sacred silver and ultraviolet radiation," Mikhail explained rapidly. "It disrupts supernatural bindings at the fundamental level."
"Expensive," Anton added grimly. "And extremely thorough. Nothing with bound essence will survive."
Varga struggled in Kiss-Shot's grip, his scientific detachment completely shattered. "You can't! Years of research—irreplaceable specimens—my life's work!"
"Your life's work," Kiss-Shot told him, dragging him toward the exit, "nearly unleashed abominations upon an unsuspecting world. Be grateful we're allowing you to survive your own hubris."
The creatures sensed their impending destruction and abandoned all pretense of human form. They melded together into a writhing mass of black fluid, tentacles lashing out to block the exit as a final, desperate gambit.
"If we die," they gurgled in a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, "we take you with us, creators."
Gilgamesh stepped forward, his expression contemptuous. "You address a king," he reminded them. His armor began to glow with increasing intensity, golden light driving back the encroaching darkness. "Know your place."
A shimmering portal opened behind him—the Gate of Babylon expanded beyond weapons to become a doorway of gleaming gold. "Through here," he commanded the others. "Now."
Kiss-Shot pushed the apprentices ahead of her, still dragging the struggling Varga. "Can your gate withstand the purification protocol?" she asked Gilgamesh as they retreated.
His smile was coldly confident. "My treasury exists outside conventional space. Nothing in this realm can breach its boundaries."
As they passed through the golden portal, the creatures made one final, desperate lunge. A tendril of black fluid wrapped around Varga's ankle, beginning to pull him back.
"Help me!" the alchemist screamed, genuine terror replacing his earlier arrogance.
For a moment, Kiss-Shot considered letting him go—a fitting end for a man who had meddled so recklessly with powers beyond his understanding. But some remnant of principle, or perhaps merely the desire to question him further, made her tighten her grip.
"Release him," she commanded the creatures, her voice layered with vampiric compulsion.
The black tendrils paused momentarily, rippling with confusion. It was enough. Kiss-Shot pulled Varga through the portal, and Gilgamesh sealed it behind them with a gesture.
They emerged in the outer laboratory, alarms still blaring throughout the complex. The countdown voice announced: "Silver Protocol activating in thirty seconds. All personnel evacuate immediately."
"We need to clear the mountain," Anton urged, already heading for the exit. "The radiation will penetrate the entire structure."
They moved swiftly through the corridors, Mikhail leading the way while Anton supported the now near-catatonic Varga. Behind them, Kiss-Shot and Gilgamesh brought up the rear, alert for any sign that the creatures might have found another way to pursue them.
As they emerged from the hidden entrance into the early morning light, a low rumble began deep within the mountain. The ground trembled beneath their feet, and a high-pitched whine built to painful intensity before abruptly cutting off.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then a pulse of energy—invisible but palpable—radiated outward from the mountain. Kiss-Shot felt it pass through her like ice water, her vampiric essence recoiling from the purifying wave.
"Remarkable," Gilgamesh observed, seemingly unaffected by the energy. "This silver protocol—it targets only bound supernatural elements?"
Mikhail nodded, breathing heavily from their hasty retreat. "Dr. Varga developed it as a failsafe—though he never intended to use it on his 'perfected' specimens." He glanced at his former master with a mixture of pity and resignation. "He believed he could control whatever he created."
"The hubris of mortals," Gilgamesh said, echoing his earlier sentiment. "Some lessons must be learned repeatedly by each generation."
They moved a safe distance from the mountain entrance, finding a clearing where they could rest. The sun had risen fully now, and Kiss-Shot felt its effects—not burning as legends claimed, but a distinct dampening of her powers, a heaviness in her immortal frame.
Gilgamesh noticed her discomfort. With a casual gesture, a golden parasol materialized in his hand. He offered it to her without comment.
Kiss-Shot raised an eyebrow but accepted the unexpected courtesy. "How many treasures do you keep in that vault of yours?" she asked, genuinely curious.
"All treasures," he replied simply. "Everything of value that exists, has existed, or will exist belongs rightfully to me." His crimson eyes held a challenge, daring her to dispute this outrageous claim.
Instead of arguing, she merely smiled. "How convenient."
In the center of the clearing, the two apprentices had laid Varga on the ground. The alchemist stared blankly at the sky, his life's work destroyed, his mind struggling to process the magnitude of his failure.
"What will you do with him?" Kiss-Shot asked the young men.
Anton and Mikhail exchanged uncertain glances. "We don't know," Anton admitted. "We were prepared to stop his research, but we never really thought beyond that point."
"He needs help," Mikhail added quietly. "His brilliance has always been matched by his instability."
Gilgamesh studied the broken alchemist with surprisingly thoughtful consideration. "There is a monastery three days' journey south of here," he said suddenly. "The monks practice a form of healing that balances body and spirit. They might provide what he needs."
Kiss-Shot glanced at him in surprise. It was the first genuinely charitable suggestion he had made.
"You know of this place?" she asked.
A shadow passed across his perfect features—something ancient and almost wistful. "I have walked this earth many times, Night Queen. I know of many places where broken souls might find repair."
The moment of vulnerability passed quickly, his arrogance reasserting itself like armor. "Besides," he added with a dismissive wave, "it's where I would send a man whose ambition exceeded his wisdom."
Anton nodded slowly. "We can take him there," he decided, looking to Mikhail for confirmation. His companion nodded in agreement.
"And then?" Kiss-Shot asked.
"Then we find a better path," Mikhail said simply. "There's value in Dr. Varga's research—his understanding of alchemical principles is genuinely revolutionary. But the application..." He shook his head. "There are lines that shouldn't be crossed."
"Wisdom from the young," Gilgamesh observed, sounding almost impressed. "Perhaps this era is not entirely without merit."
As the morning progressed, they made preparations for the journey ahead. The apprentices gathered what supplies had survived from the laboratory's outer chambers, while Varga gradually emerged from his catatonic state, though he remained subdued, his earlier manic energy replaced by quiet despair.
Kiss-Shot found herself observing Gilgamesh as he inspected the surroundings with casual interest. There was something compelling about him beyond his obvious power—a depth of experience that resonated with her own long existence. For all his insufferable arrogance, he was undeniably... fascinating.
As if sensing her scrutiny, he turned, crimson eyes meeting her golden gaze with unexpected directness.
"You're wondering," he said, "what happens now."
She inclined her head slightly. "The hunt is concluded. The threat eliminated. Our temporary alliance has served its purpose."
"Alliance?" He laughed softly. "Is that what you call it?"
"What would you call it?"
Gilgamesh stepped closer, invading her personal space with the casual entitlement that seemed integral to his nature. "An introduction," he suggested, his voice lowering to a tone that might, from anyone else, have been considered intimate. "A first encounter between powers that should, by all rights, acknowledge each other."
Kiss-Shot maintained her composure, though she found herself unusually aware of his proximity. "And after the introduction?"
His smile was slow, deliberate. "That depends entirely on whether you can provide something I have not already experienced in my long existence." He studied her face with unconcealed interest. "Can you, I wonder? Can the Night Queen offer the King of Heroes something truly novel?"
Before she could formulate a suitably cutting response, Anton approached, deliberately clearing his throat to announce his presence.
"We're ready to depart," he informed them, studiously avoiding direct eye contact with either immortal. "We should reach the monastery within three days, assuming good weather."
Gilgamesh stepped back, the moment broken. "Travel safely," he said, surprising Kiss-Shot again with his apparent concern. "The mountains harbor many dangers beyond failed alchemical experiments."
"We're aware," Mikhail replied, joining them with a subdued Varga in tow. "We've lived here for years."
"Then you know to beware the night," Kiss-Shot added. "And to leave offerings at crossroads."
The young men exchanged glances. "Offerings?"
She smiled, revealing the tips of her fangs. "Old customs are often rooted in older truths."
Understanding dawned in their eyes, followed by a mixture of fear and respect. They would remember this encounter for the rest of their lives—and likely establish new customs of their own upon returning to civilization.
As the humans prepared to leave, Varga finally spoke, his voice hollow with defeat. "What will you do to me?"
Kiss-Shot regarded him dispassionately. "Nothing," she replied. "Your own creations nearly destroyed you. Your life's work lies in ruins. What punishment could we add to that?"
"Besides," Gilgamesh added, his tone deceptively casual, "should you attempt such experimentation again, we would know." His crimson eyes locked with Varga's. "And we would find you,