10x God-Tier Stealing System: Pumping S-Rank SuperHeroines Daily!-Chapter 152- Queen of Slaughter

He rasped out.

His dry throat choked on a bitter cocktail of grief and raw terror. His words were strangled, cut off by an invisible, crushing pressure coiling tightly around his failing lungs.

The vampire took a slow step forward. His movements were fluid, graceful, and terrifyingly unhurried.

"He was a loyal dog," the creature mused, his velvety voice dropping low, sounding almost melancholy. "But loyalty means absolutely nothing if a dog forgets its proper place."

The elder trembled uncontrollably.

"W-Why...? Why this... senseless slaughter...?" he gasped. A messy trail of spit and dark blood slipped past his trembling lips to stain his chin. "W-We never... we never wronged the Lord..."

The vampire lazily raised a single, blood-soaked finger to silence the man.

"You ignored His formal invitation."

The grand room went dead still.

Even the howling wind outside seemed to pause in reverence.

"The Lord of Crimson Vale graciously extended a personal invitation to your heir," the vampire continued. His tone shifted, growing colder, more distant, as if he were simply reciting a royal decree. "A rare chance to join the Flagbearer Battle. It is an honor. A divine privilege. And yet... your insignificant house dared to decline."

He took another deliberate step closer. The invisible, crushing pressure around the patriarch’s throat tightened like a physical noose.

"Now, I will ask you only one final time," the vampire hissed.

He bent his knees slightly, bringing his glowing, predatory eyes level with the old man’s wide, terror-soaked gaze.

"Will you send your son?"

The patriarch clenched his bloody teeth. He tried to summon a final shred of fatherly courage, puffing his chest out weakly. "He... he won’t go to fight for a bunch of monsters..."

The invisible pressure snapped tight.

The old man’s body collapsed forward like a puppet with cut strings. He hit the crimson-streaked tiles, gagging and coughing violently as he desperately sucked in air.

The vampire straightened up at a leisurely pace, his glowing gaze narrowing in disgust. His voice dropped into a soft whisper, a sound colder than the grave.

"Then next time, it won’t just be your favorite butler."

He turned his back on the pathetic display.

His heavy leather boots left wet, red footprints as he casually strolled through the sheer destruction. The hem of his long cape dragged the broken bodies aside as easily as scattered autumn leaves.

"Next time, I will burn this entire house to the ground, just like that old traitor’s."

He paused right at the splintered threshold of the double doors.

"Send your son. And if you ever show such blatant disrespect to the Lord again..."

He didn’t bother looking over his shoulder.

"...I won’t stop with slaughtering these small, pitiful human guards. I will slowly peel the flesh from your bones myself."

-----

The silken sheet clung to her warm skin like breath to cold glass.

A gentle, rhythmic rise. A slow, tantalizing fall.

The whisper-thin, blood-red fabric curled intimately around the lush slope of her hips. The pale, soft swell of her upper thighs peeked shamelessly from beneath the short hem.

Her long legs, bare and as pale as moonlight on snow, lay crossed with a careless sort of elegance. It was a cruel grace, the kind only a predator so breathtaking could afford to display while resting.

One slender arm was sprawled lazily above her head, exposing the delicate line of her underarm and the side of her breast. The other draped loosely across her midriff, her manicured fingers twitching idly against the smooth, flat plane of her bare stomach.

The crimson nightdress barely reached mid-thigh.

It was satin. Dangerously translucent. The sheer material shifted with every drawn breath, riding the shallow, steady heave of her chest and clinging to her soft curves.

Her nipples—rosy, tight, and painfully erect—pressed visibly through the thin silk, coaxed to hard peaks by the lingering chill of the stone chamber.

Her skin, a canvas of flawless porcelain and quiet danger, seemed to glow in the half-light like the freshly polished blade of a ceremonial dagger.

The vast room remained still. Save for her.

Her breathing was soft and slow, carrying an almost theatrical rhythm—as if she were merely letting the world believe she was deep in slumber.

Until her sharp nails curled into the mattress.

And her eyes fluttered open.

Twin rubies set in a sea of ivory, they shimmered with a dark, unnatural gleam. They were slow to adjust but terrifyingly sharp with ancient intelligence. She didn’t bother to blink. She just stared—first at the arched ceiling, then slowly shifting her gaze to her hand, where a trail of dark blood leaked lazily from a clenched palm.

She lifted the delicate hand. Watched the red drip. Studied the mess.

The jagged wound simply knit closed before the first crimson drop could even fall from her pale knuckle. Her immortal skin stitched itself back together in utter silence, leaving behind only a slick, wet sheen on her flesh, as if no violence had occurred at all.

Except, it had.

The heavy metal locket resting snugly in the soft cleavage between her breasts—the very piece trapping her weaker half—began to vibrate. It buzzed frantically against her warm sternum, its inner veins of crimson light pulsing against her bare skin like a living, frantic heartbeat. Her delicate brow furrowed, dark lashes twitching.

A deep knot of frustration settled low in her stomach, the kind of irritation a god might feel when disturbed by the buzzing of a pathetic mosquito.

She sat up, the sheer fabric slipping lower on her chest.

A river of untamed silver hair spilled over her bare shoulders and cascaded down her back, catching the pale moonlight like a shimmering net.

One slender hand rose, her fingers sliding back through the thick mess of it with a soft sigh. It wasn’t a sound of weariness. It was pure, unadulterated irritation.

She ruffled her roots, her sharp nails grazing her sensitive scalp. A small, hot breath escaped her parted lips. A soundless hiss of displeasure.

She wasn’t genuinely angry. Not quite. It was an emotion far colder.

She was thoroughly annoyed.

She had just tried to take a peaceful nap after gorging on a fresh meal, only to be abruptly woken by this psychic feedback.

Her ruby eyes narrowed, the glow dimming as she focused her senses inward.

The disposable newborn she had dispatched to slaughter that man from her vision had been killed.

She stood from the bed without a single wasted effort. The clingy nightdress slipped sensuously down her frame like a second layer of skin, the short hem swaying gently against her bare, plush thighs.

Her taut nipples stiffened even further as the cool draft kissed her exposed body, though she paid the aching sensitivity no mind. Her lethal focus had already begun to shift.

A dark mist began to pool around her bare feet—red, thick, and deeply seductive. The edges of her pale body shimmered, slowly bleeding into the swirling smoke as she prepared to travel.

"It appears..." she whispered, her voice a chilled sigh slipping through velvet lips, "...I will have to kill him myself."

The bloody mist roiled faster, rising past her shapely calves and licking at the soft skin of her thighs.

Then—without warning—she paused.

Her silver-crowned head tilted to the side. Her ruby eyes blinked once, then twice.