My Three Beautiful Vampire Wives can hear my Inner Thoughts-Chapter 133: Bloody Finale
The next clash did not explode all at once.
It built.
Like two storms pressing against each other before finally colliding.
The Leprechaun shot forward with a roar, green mana pouring from his body in thick waves that distorted the air around him. Every step cracked the ground. Every blink tore open a ripple of space that snapped shut behind him like a wound refusing to stay open.
The clones moved at the same instant.
Dozens of identical pale figures lunged in unison, their blood tentacles stretching outward like the limbs of a monstrous forest. The sky darkened under the weight of crimson blades crossing and weaving, forming layers upon layers of killing arcs that overlapped without leaving a single safe path.
The Leprechaun laughed as he plunged straight into it.
"Come on!" he shouted, voice raw with excitement. "Don’t hold back now!"
A tentacle sliced down toward his head. He twisted sideways, the blade grazing his cheek and drawing a thin line of blood. Before he could land, three more thrust upward from below. He blinked between them, reappearing behind a clone and driving his dagger through its spine.
The blade met resistance again.
He gritted his teeth and forced it deeper, green mana flaring violently until the clone burst apart in a splash of dark red.
Another clone was already there.
And another.
They did not hesitate.
They did not retreat.
Tentacles lashed at him from every direction. Some aimed to pierce. Others aimed to bind. A few curved unnaturally, cutting off his escape routes as if they could read the very pattern of his movement.
He spun, ducked, blinked, phased, all in one flowing motion that felt less like movement and more like instinct.
"Too slow!" he shouted again, though his breathing had begun to roughen.
A blade skimmed across his ribs.
Another cut through his thigh.
Blood spattered the cracked earth.
The clones pressed harder.
They did not shout.
They did not speak.
They simply attacked with perfect coordination, their crimson limbs moving in a rhythm that left no wasted motion.
The Leprechaun leapt high, then vanished midair, reappearing at ground level and sprinting straight toward the original core of mana he had sensed earlier.
"I’ll end you!" he yelled.
But as he ran, the ground beneath him split open.
A massive tentacle erupted upward, thicker than the rest, its edge gleaming like polished steel.
He blinked to the side—
Too late.
The blade swept across him in a wide arc.
For a split second, he felt nothing.
Then he saw it.
His left arm spinning through the air.
Severed cleanly at the shoulder.
He landed hard, skidding across the ground, green mana flickering violently as pain exploded through his nerves.
He stared at the space where his arm had been.
Blood poured out in a heavy stream.
He did not scream.
He simply stared.
"Oh," he said faintly.
The clones did not pause.
Tentacles surged toward him again.
He blinked backward on instinct, barely avoiding a follow up strike that would have split his skull.
He stood there, swaying slightly.
His body felt lighter.
Unbalanced.
His missing arm left a hollow space not just in flesh but in his sense of self.
Why am I fighting?
The thought came without warning.
He blinked again to dodge another strike, but his movements were not as smooth as before.
Why do I love this?
Another tentacle sliced toward his legs.
He leapt, twisting midair.
I lost my arm.
Blood dripped from the stump, splashing onto the ground with each heartbeat.
Is this still fun?
A clone lunged directly at him, both hands extended, tentacles forming a cage.
He forced himself to move.
Blink.
Slash.
The clone fell.
But his chest felt tight.
The excitement that had filled him moments ago now wavered.
He looked down at his bleeding shoulder.
Is this what I wanted?
Another blade swept low.
He tried to jump—
Too slow.
The tentacle cut clean through his right foot.
His body collapsed forward as his balance disappeared.
He hit the ground hard, dirt and blood mixing beneath him.
For a brief moment, the battlefield seemed distant.
Muted.
He propped himself up with one hand, breathing hard.
He looked at the countless tentacles rising around him like a sea of crimson thorns.
They swayed, ready to strike again.
He felt small.
Why am I doing this?
He searched inside himself for the answer.
The joy of battle.
The thrill of danger.
The pride of being unmatched.
But now, lying there with one arm gone and one foot severed, those reasons felt thin.
Empty.
He laughed weakly.
"Am I still enjoying this?" he whispered.
The tentacles began to descend.
And then—
A memory rose up from deep within him.
A different sky.
Not red.
Blue.
Clear.
A small hand gripping his finger.
A child’s laughter.
He saw himself standing in front of a tiny house at the edge of the Assassin Plane’s outskirts. He had not always been feared. There had been a time when he had stayed in one place. A time when someone had waited for him to come home.
The child had been small. Fragile. Not strong in mana. Not gifted with killing talent.
Just a child.
He remembered kneeling down and placing a hand on that child’s head.
"Stay behind me," he had said then, smiling softly. "No matter what happens."
Enemies had come.
Assassins who thought him weak because he cared for someone.
They had targeted the child first.
He remembered the rage that had filled him.
Not joy.
Not thrill.
Rage.
He had cut them down not because it was fun, but because he refused to let harm reach that small figure hiding behind him.
He remembered holding the child afterward, feeling their trembling body.
"I’m here," he had whispered. "I’ll always be here."
The memory burned bright inside his chest.
That was why he fought.
Not for excitement.
Not for pride.
He fought because if he did not, someone weaker would suffer.
He fought because he refused to kneel.
He fought because he had once promised.
The battlefield snapped back into focus.
Tentacles inches from piercing his body.
His eyes sharpened.
"I remember now," he breathed.
Mana flared violently from him, bright green light pushing back the descending blades for a brief moment.
"I don’t fight because it’s fun."
His voice grew stronger.
"I fight because I chose to stand in front."
The tentacles crashed down.
The world went white.
He felt pain again.
Felt his body torn apart.
Darkness swallowed him.
Then—
He opened his eyes.
He was standing.
Whole.
Both arms intact.
Both feet firmly planted on the ground.
The battlefield looked different.
Blurry at the edges.
His limbs felt heavy.
He tried to move.
Nothing happened.
His body would not respond.
"What..." he whispered.
His mana was gone.
Completely drained.
He felt empty.
Like a dried well.
A cold sensation brushed his neck.
A presence behind him.
Before he could turn, something sharp pierced his skin.
Teeth.
Sinking into his throat.
His eyes widened.
He felt strength leaving him rapidly, flowing out through that bite.
"Don’t tell me..." he thought desperately.
He tried to blink.
He tried to phase.
Nothing worked.
His body hung in the air, lifted effortlessly by the one behind him.
He could not see the face clearly, but he felt the calm.
The control.
The hunger.
Blood flowed from his neck into the mouth that held him.
His thoughts raced, but his body remained still.
"So this is how it ends?" he thought, panic rising only inside his mind.
He wanted to move.
To fight back.
To shout.
But the energy drained too quickly.
His vision darkened at the edges.
The world grew distant.
His last clear thought echoed softly.
I fought because I chose to stand.
Then everything went black.
And he lost consciousness.
