Demonic Kitsune

“Please… don’t do this!” The young man, a figure of considerable handsomeness, pleaded with a trembling voice. Fear had overtaken the confidence he once had. 

But what could make such a man’s expression so distorted, despite the fluster on his face?

It was none other than Blanche, the former Song Saintess and now the leader of the FrostAvalanche Clan, who was on top of the naked man. She looked down at him with a cruel, coquettish smile of pleasure, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous mix of lust and malice.

“Don’t worry, Great Warrior,” she purred, her voice dripping with twisted affection, “it will all be over soon.”

Her hips began to move up and down against his lap. A wave of otherworldly euphoria surged through him, from the point of contact to every fiber of his being, making his head veer backward as his eyes rolled back like an omen. 

It was unbelievably unendurable, even for him. 

The center of the room was a large bed draped in crimson and white sheets, big enough to fit eight or nine people without feeling cramped. What had once been sacred was now creaking vigorously by her enticing presence. The room lay in the basement of an abandoned sanctuary, long forgotten and left to slowly decay. 

Dim light flickered from scattered fluorescent beads, casting long, eerie shadows across the ominous chamber. The air was thick with incense, barely masking an underlying sense of dread.

Blanche's beauty was otherworldly, an entrancing allure that had drawn countless young masters, grifted knights, aspiring saints, and innocent men with untapped potential. They came, bewitched by the promise of intimacy with the stunning High Elf who had once been revered as a Song Saintess. But beneath her ethereal beauty lay a darkness none of them could have foreseen—a hunger that went far beyond mere desire.

The young man, a talented combatant with dreams of greatness, had been drawn in by tales of her beauty and the faint hope of winning the heart of such a powerful being. Now, he lay helpless beneath her. The euphoria that once brightened his face twisted into sheer despair as he realized Blanche’s true intentions. She moved her hips faster against his lips, denying him any chance to breathe.

Blanche’s eyes shimmered with anticipation as she leaned in closer. Her fingers traced the lines of his muscular chest, their touch deceptively tender. Her tongue danced in his mouth, curling and twisting. Sweat and saliva mingled as their lips finally parted.

“Great warrior, you have such strong potential,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his flushed ear. “It’s almost a shame to waste it... almost.”

There was no mercy in her voice—only a consuming obsession. The young man’s heart raced, but he was powerless to resist. He was trapped not only by the tight grip of her inner walls and her relentless movements but also by the pull of her frost-yin energy. His pleas for mercy grew weaker as Blanche began a unique technique, extracting his bodily essences and auras with precise, fluid motions above his body.

The room that had been within the habitable frigidness with tendrils of warmth wafting in the air, now grew colder as the extraction of extreme yin-cold energy from every nook of the young man’s body and soul started in full swing. His potential, the essence of not only his untapped power but also his present strength, was drawn out of him, bit by bit, as Blanche reveled in the process, moaning cruelly—extreme euphoria ran rampant in her head. Her moans mixed with screams of unfamiliar yet familiar yin energy rushed into her body with a full force that filled the room, echoing off the underground stone walls, but they only seemed to fuel her further. 

For Blanche, the act was intoxicating. 

As she absorbed the cold yin energy, she felt the rush of power surging through her veins, a twisting ecstasy that made her shudder with pleasure. Every ounce of his life force that she consumed brought her closer to the heights of strength she craved ever since that humiliating day. It was about the dominance, the absolute control she held over her. 

“Yes,” She murmured, her voice heavy with satisfaction as she felt the last of her essence draining away. “Great Warrior, you’re mine now… every last part of you.” 

The young combatant's struggles weakened until they ceased altogether. His body grew limp and cold, his once-promising future snuffed out as Blanche drained him completely. She released him, letting his lifeless form slump against the crimson-white sheets. The room fell into an eerie silence, broken only by her steady, satisfied breathing.

Blanche stepped away from the bed, pulling on her double-layered titanium robes adorned with matching white embellishments. She carefully arranged her long, raven-dark hair, securing it with a hairpin while leaving some bangs to frame her face. Once finished, Blanche stood over the corpse, observing how a once-vibrant man had been reduced to shrunken, putrid flesh, his eyes rolled back. She clicked her tongue in disgust at how foolish he had been just minutes before.

But it was worth it. Her body hummed with newfound power. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment—the rush of strength, the feeling of another’s potential merging with her own. It was a sensation she never tired of. She had long abandoned the ideals of her past, ever since that someone she wanted to forget… The memory made her grit her teeth, the pleasure-giving way to bitterness… a day not only was she humiliated, but her connection with her goddess was severed, driving her to embrace the cold path that granted her this intoxicating power.

“How long do I have to keep doing this?” she muttered, her voice a mix of frustration and satisfaction. The abandoned sanctuary, once a place with a dark history of demons, had become her Clan’s lair—a twisted reflection of her own fall from grace.

Finished with her latest victim, Blanche ascended the stairs into a dimly lit, whitish hall—a large space resembling an ice fortress, adorned with enticing decor and rugs. The hall was a cruel mockery of her former glory—a seat of power now steeped in Frost-Yin Holy power.

She sank into her throne with a sigh, letting the cold surface soothe the churning energy within her. Closing her eyes, she savored the sensation, feeling the surge of strength coursing through her veins as she delved into deep thoughts.

Nine years had passed since she had awakened in the cathedral of the Central Holy Church. She had been in a coma after her connection to the goddess was severed when the Heavenly Saintess' blade pierced her heart. Upon waking, she was overwhelmed by the shock of the despair she had faced and the realization that she had been unconscious for nine long years.

But despite everything, she was a little bit grateful that her body had vanished and reappeared in the cathedral, dissipating along with the remnants of the "Divine Rhythm Holy Mana" in her heart from that demon of a Heavenly Saintess.

At least for a moment before the shock of powerlessness and the regret of her involvement in the crusade had left her unable to function as a Song-Saintess. Without a Divine Being, she couldn’t repel the monstrous attacks that besieged the Central Holy Church during the Holy Grail War. In the aftermath, Archbishop Wenceslas banished her to the "Great Edge" of Salamander under the false charge of defiance and ambition.

The excuse was pitiful, and it made her grit her teeth in anger. Despite all she had done for the Holy Church, the moment she became weak, she was cast aside. Meanwhile, Wenceslas grew stronger, as if the cascade and calamity had only benefited her. Stripped of her title and power, Blanche was exiled to live among peasants and riffraff, given only vague instructions. The Archbishop's commands were twofold: find the Hidden Saint, Dimitristsim Von Spaze, and become his successor, and train his clan in the ways of the Church, molding them into a formidable force.

But the "Great Edge" was a remote, desolate place—a cold expanse and unpredictable weather with few nearby settlements. For nine years, Blanche had lived here under the direction of her master, the High Elf and Hidden Saint, Dimitristsim Von Spaze. His name was well-known among both the Salamander and Ice Elf Clans.

For nine years, she had lived like a discarded High Elf on the outskirts of the world, playing and eating in that remote place. Now, she felt insulted and humiliated by the Central Holy Church. It was all Clare Ederson’s fault. If only Clare had died when her time was up, Blanche’s life wouldn’t have been reduced to this—weak, godless, and insignificant.

When her master left, he also gave her two orders as well: stay in the "Great Edge" until called upon and keep training the Frost Avalanche Clan. She had wanted to protest, but what could an ex-Song-Saintess without her Divine Being do? So, she chose to remain silent and kept on with her tasks, knowing they wouldn't order her death as long as she was useful.

Blanche believed that within a few years, her master would call for her, freeing her from this burden. But he never did. Still, she followed his commands, raising and training the Frost Avalanche Clan, believing that someday he would summon her. But now, after nine years, her patience was running thin.

Two years ago, she began to suspect that her master had abandoned her, just as her Divine Being and the Church had. She started wandering, seeking strength on her own. The hidden, dark desire that had once been a speck in her heart had grown uncontrollable, fueled by the practice of Frost-Yin energy with its dangerous allure. With no one to judge her, the chains around her desires shattered, leading her to seduce young masters, knights, and fighters to her bed—extracting their essence and killing them in the process.

How much longer must she stay among these impure Elves?

Suddenly, her contemplation was cut short. Her moment of rest was fleeting. As she settled into her throne, her sharp senses detected something amiss. A faint scent—unmistakable—drifted through the air, followed by a distant rumble. It was the scent of blood, mingled with the sounds of battle.

Blanche’s eyes snapped open, her senses now fully alert. The distant tremble of a fight, the clash of steel and stone, and muffled cries of battle reached her sharp ears and carried through the thick, cold walls of the sanctuary. Her senses, heightened by the energy she had just consumed, ran amok, picking up every detail, every vibration.

Something was definitely wrong.

The scent of fresh blood, the chaotic noise—it was too planned to be ignored. It was her clan combatants fighting among themselves. Anxiety flickered through her, quickly turning to anger. Whatever was happening outside, it was different—an intruder.

If Blanche grabbed the scabbard at the side of her throne. Her rest was shattered. She rose from her throne, her expression darkening. Without hesitation, she moved toward the exit, her long robes swirling around her as she left the hall. The sanctuary’s once-sacred corridors echoed with her footsteps, the air thick with foreboding energy that now marked her presence. The scent of blood was unmistakable now, mingling with the sounds of battle.

What has happened?

She had spent years molding these elves into her personal army, trained in the ways of the Central Holy Church—a dirty and thankless task. They were her only proof of success, the only thing she could show if those who once held her in esteem ever called for her. But now, something has gone terribly wrong. Blanche quickened her pace, a mix of anger and anxiety churning within her.

“What the hell is going on?!” she demanded, her voice filled with disgust and irritation.

“It’s been a long time, Big Sister Che.”

A half-breed, Nin, smiled with cold familiarity. She stood among her underlings, who had been reduced to pieces of rock, shattered ancient statues, and piles of corpses, all frozen in a state of petrification. Some were still clinging to life, their bodies partially turned to stone.

The scene was unbelievably chaotic and devastating.

The Nin, Clare, flashed her pearly whites, straightened her body, and flexed her scythe. She seemed liberated from something, simmering with life as she stared intently at the other. The chilly winds mixed with the unique Mana emanating from Clare, spreading everywhere. She had become an "Arrancar Viking" and was cherished once again—a rare occurrence. This was their first meeting after so many years.

This wasn’t how Clare had ever imagined it, so she didn’t immediately leap forward to slice the other's neck. Even though her enemy—Blanche, the ex-Song Saintess, of all people—stood before her, Clare's mind remained clear.

This was the effect of her Half-breed blood, a mix of demon and Nine-tailed fox, alongside her past experiences, knowledge, and recent training. Her soul and body had been strengthened, helping her maintain calm judgment even in the presence of a sworn enemy who had somehow respawned.

A small smile played on Clare’s cherry-red lips.

Blanche stared at her reflection in Clare’s empty green eyes. She was actually embarrassed and found the situation ridiculous.

After nine years of extreme training and teaching from the Central Holy Church, the FrostAvalanche Clan had been reduced by just one Nin. Absolute trashy Elves. It was like seeing her former self, the one who had fallen at the hands of the Heavenly Saintess.

Pathetic. So tragic.

Clare had greeted her as if they were familiar, but Blanche had never met her before. The Nin before her appeared to be about twenty-two or so. She might be wrong, but one thing was certain: Clare’s body was sharper than a blade and smoother than snow as if she were made from jade. Her skin epitomized perfection, elegance, and loftiness even when she stood still. By contrast, her empty, calm green eyes symbolized authority and superiority. She was nothing short of a Demonic Kitsune. But not quite.

“...Who are you?” Blanche finally asked.

Clare grabbed her scythe tightly, refusing to answer. She had no intention of telling Blanche who she was. It wasn’t as if Blanche would believe her anyway, so it was better not to say anything at all.

Instead, Clare only needed information from her. Of course, the story related to her identity might come out during the interrogation. "Mana of Fossilization" blended with "Bloodlust" began to rise from Clare’s body. The deep bluish hue of perfectly tempered Mana spread around like fog, surrounding Blanche. It purified everything in its path, unable to fully penetrate the unique air around Blanche, seemingly a result of the Frost-yin Holy Mana trailing around her. Along with the outstretched Mana of Fossilization, Bloodlust blended in, stimulating the human instinct of fear, causing the whole body to shudder, violently and fearfully.

Subconsciously, Blanche aroused her Frost-yin Holy Mana, pushing it outward to clash with Clare’s energy. She also drew her sword. The blade reflected the fallen, scattered, stiffened bodies of her underlings. Confused at first, she quickly realized she had to fight against this deep blue stream of energy. As the Frost-yin Mana crashed against Clare’s strange energy, the two forces were at a standstill.

Clare relaxed and released more of her power, crackling with freezing frost, a symphony of sharp snaps and brittle pops echoing through the cold atmosphere.

Who could have known? The deep blue, purifying Mana of Fossilization, which no obstacle—whether dust or snow—could stop, collided with tiny shards of ice, creating a piercing chorus that filled every corner. The unique energies clashed like turbid waves—notes like hard stone and ice resonated with bone-chilling intensity, vividly manifesting the condensing cold and solidifying fossilization of decay and stiffened particles. Each snap and collision carried an icy, purifying bite, permeating every breath and sending shivers down the spine of anyone who might have witnessed this odd phenomenon.

Seeing this, Clare ridiculed her inwardly. “Ice Elves Clan’s Holy Mana? Being an Elf doesn’t suit you.”

Despite becoming a strong combatant on par with her previous self as a Song Saintess, albeit without a Divine Being, Blanche hadn’t taken a major step beyond that. Of course, decades could pass without much development. Surpassing one’s previous self isn’t an easy feat.

Still, this wouldn’t be a difficult fight.

Clare was confident. She didn’t even need to remove her silver-alloy bracers. Even with them on, the difference in ability between her and Blanche wasn’t much.

“What are you muttering?” Blanche asked. At that moment, she glitched with tiny shards of frost and appeared in front of Clare, wielding her sword. The blade, steeped in history, fell in an arc, scattering Clare’s unique Mana and splitting the chilly air. Its appearance was like a frost waterfall.

This was the "Frost-Yin Magic Swordsmanship" of the FrostAvalanche Clan.

The move corresponded with Clare’s. High-density swirls of rotating energy generated a loop of sparks that exploded from her scythe’s blade. Her tails tensed, their tips curving in rhythm with her swift movements. Clare advanced toward Blanche, her hands and feet working with elegant precision.

This was the “First Explosion of Six Binds of Grim—”

Διαπεραστικοί Μετεωρίτες του Σβήνοντος Αστέρα: Εκρηκτικός Χορός Λεπίδων: Piercing Meteorites of Fading Star: Explosive Blade Dance.

Clare swung heavy blows, and the curved blade sliced through the air, triggering explosions. Simultaneously, she unleashed more ‘Mana of Fossilization.’ Even the most instinctive apex predator could only evade these attacks as best as possible.

Blanche, wrapped in Frost-yin Holy Mana that crackled around her body, flinched for a moment. But it was only a brief pause. Her Frost-yin Holy Mana disrupted the ‘Mana of Fossilization’ further as she nimbly dodged Clare’s blows and blocked the explosions. Clare noted this with a bitter smile, resolving to review the flaw after the fight.

The battle continued. Clare tightened her grip on the scythe, wielding it to the right and left in a curved crescent arc that generated more sparks. Miniature arcs of energy sliced through the air, powerful enough to cleave anything in their path. The air vibrated with the impact, and the aftershock was intense.

The arcs appeared near Blanche, lifting her feet off the ground with their explosive force. But Blanche countered with slashes from her frozen sword, creating frostflowers that collided with the arcs, nullifying their power. Her senses tingled as a wave of Mana of Fossilization crept toward her, hidden in the air.

Clare’s versatility in combat was clear. Not only were her blows interchangeable, but she also employed tricks. Pathetic. Blanche thought bitterly, remembering how the Heavenly Saintess had deceived her with an ancient illusion. She would not let her guard down again. With renewed focus, Blanche intensified her Frost-yin Holy Mana, repelling Clare’s sneaky attack.

They continued to clash, anticipating each other’s moves as if reading each other’s minds. Different energies dispersed into the chaotic atmosphere, and sparks flew as weapons collided. The sanctuary’s walls cracked under the strain of the shockwaves and began to collapse.

The Blue Elves who endured the shockwaves were petrified by the repelled ‘Mana of Fossilization,’ frozen solid by the Frost-yin Holy Mana, or, in some cases, both. Those who survived were either critically injured, weakened, or lacked the mana to move. Despite their struggle to survive, they were buried under the sanctuary’s falling pillars, screaming in despair.

Blanche’s anger burst forth, her Frost-yin Holy Mana surging. Clare deflected her last attack and backflipped into the air, landing nimbly on falling debris. She snorted coldly, flexing her grip on the scythe and shifting her momentum.

Clare changed her scythe-manship, recognizing that her current techniques were ineffective against Blanche’s Frost-Yin Magic Swordsmanship and Frost-Yin Holy Mana. Continuing with the “First Explosion of the Six Binds of Grim” would only lead to more blocked or predicted attacks. In that case—

The Crescent of the Starless Night Sky: Η Ημισέληνος του Ουρανού Χωρίς Αστέρια: הסהר של שמי הלילה חסרי הכוכבים: פיצוי קוצר מוחלט!

Clearing her mind, Clare focused on her movements. Her opponent might recognize this move, so Clare decided to contrast it with the flow from the ‘Six Binds of Grim’ and also “Παρέμβαση της Γραφής,” a mysterious ancient skill from the “Ancient Text” that creates illusions visible only to the caster’s target. She had used this skill before against Blanche and Isolde during the crusade.

Clare gripped her scythe tightly and began to unleash the technique. She moved like a gentle breeze amid the chilly air, fluttering through the air like serene petals scattering and emerging upon touching the earth. Her long emerald hair fluttered in correspondence, and her nine tails stood on end. Inhaling and exhaling deeply in the realm of indefiniteness, she released all the tension pent up in her body as the breeze tickled her skin in the timeless zone. At that moment, she felt like a free bird—an albatross amid the world of empty twilight, intertwining with the current of the starless sky that traps the opponent in endless crescent moon shapes.

With tension relieved, her feet became light as she let her imagination run wild, her movements flowing like waves under the moonlight.

Blanche saw only a figure running away. “Where are you running, demon-fox?” she shouted, chasing after it into the air. Frustration and annoyance lanced her tone as her sword unleashed arcs that trembled the already cold atmosphere, swallowing any attack they collided with.

But the figure vanished, and the illusion shattered. Blanche had been deceived again.

But the figure vaporized, and the realm of indefiniteness shattered. Blanche had been deceived once again. Before she could succumb to confusion—hell, before she could even regain her drifting mind and process whether what she just saw was real or an illusion—foggy tendrils of Mana of Fossilization curled around her legs and arms, trapping her on the dark paths illuminated by the bright night.

It seemed Clare had successfully slowed and entrapped her opponent. Clare’s lips curled into a faint smile. She moved her scythe, parting from the immobilized Blanche. The air trembled as Clare’s scythe traced circular motions, highlighting the Crescent of the Starless Night Sky, drowning Blanche in a sea of confusion amid an endless barrage of sharp, curved strikes. 

Blanche could do nothing as she faced the onslaught of the moonlight goddess.