Demonic Kitsune

Blood sprayed into the chilly air, staining Blanche’s tattered robes and pooling on the ground in deep crimson. She doubled over as blood dripped down her lips, her body marred by cuts, bruises, and burns.

She looked down, horrified. Her lower half had been sliced clean off. Her upper body, without momentum, began to tilt backward. It was a moment where cursing her fate would have been understandable, but she didn’t. The shock barely had time to settle before the pain hit—so intense it left her speechless, her mind drifting apart. Frost exuded from her severed torso, freezing the wound and slowing the bleeding. If she were still a saintess, she could have healed this wound slowly but surely with her Divine Being. 

Alas, she wasn’t anymore.

Only the familiar, agonizing pain raged in her mind, intensified by the bitter thought that she had fallen for the same illusion that had once taken her life.

“Argggggggghhhhh!”

The searing pain surged through her, even in her frozen state. The Frost-yin Holy mana sizzled around the burning wound, sending up clouds of vapor. It was a crude, blistering pain—impossible to describe any other way.

Desperate to fight back, Blanche tried to create an ice-golem-like lower body for herself. The frozen part of her body slowly expanded, responding to her hand sign, forming into legs. But suddenly, all reactions of her Frost-yin Holy mana were cut off. Shocked and confused, Blanche gritted her teeth. How could this be? She realized that the Essence she had absorbed minutes ago from a Warrior, converted into Frost-yin Holy mana, was already exhausted. She remembered the split second before she was sliced in half.

In that moment of confusion, her subconscious and soul—once honed as an ex-Song-Saintess through years of training and battle—had reacted instinctively. She had combusted all her Frost-yin Holy Mana in a rhythmic pattern, forming a light but dense Frost barrier to absorb her opponent's attack.

But there were limits. Her energy circuit was originally meant for Rythmic Holy Mana, not Frost-yin Holy Mana, so the synchronization was poor, and its efficiency was limited.

Regaining her memories, Blanche bit her lower lip, blood seeping from it in disappointment. The lower half of her body, slowly regenerating, shattered as her Frost-yin Holy Mana proved insufficient. If only she were stronger… If only. All she could do was scream, writhing in pain as she rolled in the icy pool of her own blood. 

Clare’s demonic side took over as she watched, laughing with white-fanged teeth exposed. Her cold, chilling smile could send shivers down anyone’s spine. Her bushy tails swelled and wriggled with bloodlust. but her empty eyes showed that she felt no pleasure in this act—only a void.

“Damn you, brat! How dare you do this to me!” Blanche screamed, her once-beautiful face twisted with despair, incomprehensible terror, agony, and desperation. Clare, however, remained indifferent, casually swinging the clotted, dripping blood off her scythe. “What do you mean? Could you elaborate?” she asked, slowly approaching, the scythe firm in her grip.

Blanche’s heart pounded with each step Clare took towards her, each thump louder than the last, making her breathing shallow. Trembling, she realized she was afraid—afraid of this demonic kitsune, a fear that cut deep to her bones. At this moment, she was like a fish at the mercy of a whale. Just like that damned day at the hands of the Heavenly Saintess…

“Damn you!” Blanche blurted out, her temperature rising yet slowly decreasing—a fluctuating magical bead. She didn’t want to die again. Dying was excruciating, even for her. This time, she knew it would be for good since she was no longer a Song-Saintess, unlike last time.  In that case, she would rather cling to any thread of hope. Desperately, Blanche tried to crawl away, but Clare was quicker. If only she had a way to heal herself… Regret pierced her heart. If only they had allowed the Heavenly Saintess to share the knowledge of the Ancient Text. But…

Her frantic thoughts were cut off by an agonizing scream as Clare stepped on her back, pinning her down with brutal force.

“In this Crusade, do you think I’d let you out of my sight and just laugh it off because you’re nothing but a bug beneath my feet…?” Clare’s voice was low and menacing.

A dark purplish-yellow hue of Asura energy radiated from Clare. Blanche’s anger and frustration melted into dread—.

“…At least, not when it’s a loser like you, betrayer. You might’ve won the first round, but now that I’m the victor, it’s my right to make you feel pain before you kick the bucket.”

Clare flipped Blanche over, her tattered robes drenched in blood. Now, Clare’s foot was planted on her chest. “Like someone who respawns after dealing damage compared to someone who had to claw their way back up, there’s no way I could just laugh it off because you’ve become a bug on its deathbed.”

Blanche once again questioned how she knew this demon-fox girl. From the first moment, Clare had spoken as if they had known each other for a long time. A strange feeling of déjà vu nagged at her. Clare patiently waited for the other to recognize her, knowing she had already thrown the bait.

As if struck by lightning, the image of the Nin before her overlapped with one from her memories. A memory sparking recognition. Blanche blurted out in disbelief, “You… are you the Heavenly Saintess—Saintess without a divine being, Clare Ederson?!”

Overwhelming panic seized her as Clare responded, “It took you long enough to remember those you betrayed,” she chuckled darkly.

“That’s impossible! The Heavenly Saintess died, and even her body was buried in a grand ceremony where all of Salamander mourned.”

At least, that was what Blanche had heard when she awoke from her coma in the Cathedral. Denying the reality before her now seemed futile.

Clare laughed at her outburst. “If that’s what you think or what you heard and believe, so be it. But as I said before, I intend to exercise my rights as the victor. Comply and die a painless death, or resist and face a pain worse than death.”

Blanche trembled at the cold steel of the scythe pressed against her neck. She swallowed hard, tasting blood. She couldn’t think clearly, her life slowly ebbing away, the overwhelming bloodlust of the latter distorting the atmosphere into seas of crimson—the reflection of the blood-red sky of that fateful day. Death loomed closer. In her mind, there was only fear, terror, and despair, both from the past and the present. Thanks to that, the agonizing pain was dulled—funny how true fear, terror, and despair numb all the senses, even as her blood soaked the frozen ground beneath her.

“Let me ask you, why did you betray me and plan that bloody crusade against me with the others?”

“What are you talking about?” Blood spurted from Blanche’s mouth as she responded in confusion. Everyone knew the answer to that question, yet Blanche struggled to comprehend Clare’s words. “The secret of the Ancient Text was never meant to be given away freely to the world. There are far more insidious and sinister people in this world than you can imagine. Those pursuing evil would gain power without the necessary discipline. That’s why my Goddess and I at the time couldn't ignore the potential chaos your actions would have caused.”

Clare gritted her teeth secretly, clearly unsatisfied with Blanche's response. For such a repetitive answer, Clare swung her scythe, severing one of Blanche’s arms.

The severed limb was thrown into the air, tumbling several times before landing on the piled-up snow, staining it crimson.

Clare stood above with a sinister smile. “Such an outrageous lie. I know that was the petty excuse you all concocted. As Isolde said, I was far too powerful in the Holy Church and this world. That was one of the reasons no one wanted me around. So, tell me what Wenceslas told you Saints and Saintess before the cascade.”

Overwhelming fear twisted and distorted the surroundings, gripping Blanche's very soul. Even without thinking, anyone in her position could be compelled to reveal the truth. With her will o’ wisp eyes glaring like the moon, Clare faced her again. “Like I said before, if you tell me nothing but the truth, I’ll at least kill you painlessly,” Clare promised.

Blanche, already half-sliced and now lacking an arm, feared the pain Clare inflicted more than the rumors she had heard about Isolde’s fate on that bloody day. The suffering drained her emotionally and psychologically, making her struggle to stay conscious. The rumors were true, and now it was happening to her. So, she had no choice but to spit out everything she knew.

“Wenceslas didn't do anything beyond the already known reasons. However, there’s a rumor that it had to do with the Holy Grail War that ended nine years ago,” she shouted as if warding off evil spirits in the cold. “I… I don’t know anything beyond that. I swear. I just followed what I believed in at the time.”

Clare's eyes widened in shock. Two things bothered her the most. First, the Holy Grail War she had started began long before she possessed this Half-breed Nin body in the Institute of Arrancars had ended. This created flaws and loopholes in her current plan. Second, the leaders of the Great Families, ten guilds, and four continental royal clans, including that bitch Wenceslas, had intended to start the Holy Grail War from the beginning.

It was as if her actions that day had played into their well-laid plans. But not only that.

“Tsk!”

Clare clicked her tongue loudly, realizing how her plans to exploit the Holy Grail War had become insignificant, making the Asura energy stir in the air alongside the bloodlust she emitted. If anyone else were around, they would have suffocated or fainted instantly.

Clare struggled to stay indifferent and continue the interrogation. Her foxy side whispered that her transmigration had been a bit too late, but Clare insisted she should have taken the initiative to learn more when she awakened, rather than relying on the memories of the body she had taken over. Pushing aside her doubts for now, she refocused on the trembling figure beneath her.

But her pause caused a misunderstanding in Blanche’s mind. She shouted in panic again, fearing her answer didn’t satisfy Clare.

“Our only order that day you returned after subjugating the seven fearsome generals of the demon army was to slay you sneakily. Of course, we hesitated—how dear you were to us, especially Isolde, your best friend, was disheartened. But when you announced the free exposure of the Ancient Text, the order became more palatable. However, we still wanted to reject the offer of betrayal, but it was as if Wenceslas had planned that too. The plan began when the important powerhouses, even the gods and goddesses, sent emissaries, begging you to reconsider your position. But since you ignored them, we had no choice but to follow through.” A harsh cough splattered blood from Blanche’s lips as she cried desperately, “It wasn’t my fault.”

Clare stared into Blanche’s eyes and judged her sincerity. There were no lies in her eyes, nor in her overall expression. This was once an ex-Song Saintess, now hanging by a thin thread between life and death, terrified of suffering, as tears welled in her eyes.

Those eyes couldn’t lie. Clare judged her words as the truth and continued to the next question. “Then, let me ask something else. Why are you here?”

Although a speck of pity stirred in Clare’s heart, seeing the Song Saintess she once knew as kind and knowledgeable reduced to a pawn in someone’s plan, her demon side quickly suppressed it. She increased the pressure of her foot on Blanche’s chest, making her choke for air. Her vision was already blurring. “Why are you, the Song Saintess of all people, in the ‘Great Edge,’ leading the FrostAvalanche Clan, the creation of some scumbag?”

“Look who’s talking… You’re no different from me. Why are you one of the rare, extinct races of Nin—no, a Half-breed Nin?”

Clare shrugged her response. 

Even in her final moments, Blanche couldn’t help but snap. After all, she was the Second Saintess in all of Salamander, at least in the past. She shook her remaining limbs in exasperation, her only intact right arm and her crimson-dyed frozen upper half slowly stiffening. It was a pitiful sight, but Clare wasn’t amused.

“I just did as Wenceslas ordered after I was banished and stripped of my title and honor. I was told to find Dimitristsim Von Spaze. After I inherited this Clan, Dimitristsim Von Spaze—my master—told me to wait for orders and keep leading the Clan.”

Clare’s expression grew colder. 

What was Wenceslas planning? What were all the powerhouses and her enemies scheming in such a remote place? Why did they need the Holy Grail War that Clare had initiated? Of course, it wasn’t the territorial wars she had anticipated, where the Great Families and Continental Clans would seize the opportunity to fight each other. Nor did they seek revenge for their lost comrades, taken by the Central Holy Church, which had masterminded the crusade to eradicate the First Saintess over a mere Ancient Text—a plan that had backfired.

Could it be that everything that backfired was also part of their plan?

Then what was the purpose of their scheme? What were they cooking up? Could it be they were planning something more disastrous than the Demon Clan? Confusion stirred in Clare’s heart as everything she had thought previously seemed wrong. Everything… she thought it was just an illusion. The use of this advantageous chance was gone, leaving her mind empty.

Clare felt like pulling her hair off their roots, struggling to understand what was going on.

What should she do now?

What should she do now? Clare felt a brief moment of confusion as she realized she had obtained no useful information. She had only managed to get revenge on one of her enemies. Was she allowed to be satisfied with this, considering she had once been part of someone else’s grand plan?

She glanced at the beautifully crafted emerald jade necklace around her neck, hoping the small crystal embedded at its center would at least shine and provide some answers.

As she did, Blanche desperately clutched at her leg. "Please, dear old friend, if the questioning is over, kill me painlessly as you promised."

"Why should I?" Clare asked, her eyes narrowing as they gleamed with intensity.

"What? You promised! Miss Clare! The First Saintess without a Divine being, you promised a merciful and painless death!"

Clare nodded. She certainly had promised that. However, she replied, "I'm no longer a Saintess, nor the glimmer of hope who has been merciful thus far. Besides, you’re not a woman worthy of such a death."

Clare increased the pressure of her foot on Blanche's chest, leaning closer. She then drove the scythe-shaped blade into Blanche’s chest, just near her neck.

"Argggghhhhh!" Blanche screamed, her body twisting grotesquely. She thought how Clare was the kindest to those she loved, yet crueler than the Demon Lords to her enemies. At this point, 

Blanche had become the latter.

Clare then pressed certain points on Blanche’s body, silencing her. Blanche convulsed on the snow-covered ground, her mouth open in a silent scream. Clare had used a technique known as "Ancient Art of Suffocate Muscles, Shatter Bones, and Strangle Veins: Aspyktía Myón, Sýnthlipsi Ostón, kai Strangalismós Flevón" It was a bizarre and awful combination of various torture techniques and a minor torment method from the Ancient Text. 

Once used, the victim would experience extreme pain until death, wishing for death yet unable to escape it. Clare's version of the technique was even more brutal, infused with Asura energy. Blanche would feel excruciating pain and be unable to faint for several hours before dying—a fitting end for an enemy.

"You should have refused when the order was given. Instead, you hesitated and went along with it," Clare said coldly, watching as Blanche pitifully twitched. Blood began to seep from her body, cracking through the frozen state as dark-purplish yellow energy twisted and tore at her already damaged insides.

"In other words, you and all your Divine beings make up petty reasons to kill. In the end, you simply don’t want to cede that sliver of authority you have over people's lives. Nothing more, nothing less," Clare added, removing her foot. She wrapped her scythe and strapped it to her back. "This… is the only merciful death I could give you as the Heavenly Saintess that’s no more. For I’m but a Demonic Kitsune now." As her bushy tails returned to their original state, Clare turned and slowly descended the snowy hill.

Later, deep inside a dark cave that echoed with the sound of the chilly wind, Clare sat before a bonfire, the flames crackling and flickering toward the ceiling. She pulled out a small, blank book the size of an infant’s fist, along with a brush and two different dark and red ink. Though her revenge had just begun, everything was already so frustrating.

Of course, it could have been worse.

With a little less determination as the Heavenly Saintess, Clare could have died in the Institute of Arrancars. Even worse, her grudge could have melted away over the years. Clare looked up at the dimly illuminated, rigid ceiling. Tears rolled down her face like rain falling even in the cave.

Blanche had been her comrade, her sister from another mother, her dear friend. Memories of their time together—how they met as cadets at the Holy Academy, graduated as Saintesses, and shared high privilege, prestige, and honor—flooded Clare’s mind. The last day they celebrated together was fresh in her memory, surging like a turbulent wave.

Silence pervaded the air, broken only by the crackling of the bonfire.

Could things have been better? Could she have exacted her revenge more reasonably, like the Heavenly Saintess she once was? Speechless, Clare’s heart grew cold as bitterness and hatred for killing her dear friend stirred within her. 

She never wanted this.

She only wanted to help everyone she could and give them a better life. But Clare clenched her fist, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. That chance was taken from her by the Central Holy Church and their mysterious grand plan. 

They didn’t just kill Clare for trivial reasons; they used her as a pawn in their grand plans and then banished Blanche when she was no longer useful while using the citizens of Salamander as a pathetic sacrifices. 

Bitterness, regret, and hatred turned to anger, and bloodlust swept through the cave like a wave. Clare would never forgive those who used her, her friends and innocent citizens as mere tools and sacrifices. She also wondered what had happened to Isolde and where she might be.

Clare closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. As the turbulent memories faded from her mind and settled in her soul as precious memories, her burdened heart grew lighter. Despite failing to gain any information about the others from Blanche, Clare felt a renewed sense of purpose.

Her revenge might have been unrewarding so far, but it was far from over.

Clare wrote the names of all her enemies one by one in the small book in her hand. No, it was no longer just a book—it was a promise. She vowed to never forget these names and to ensure none of them escaped her wrath. Even if her plans had been scattered, she would make new ones and move forward with determination. If anything stood between her and her revenge, it would be obliterated.

Her demon side grinned as her bushy tails wriggled in stress, sending a calming sensation over her body and soothing her mind. With her pledge written in the book, Clare lifted the brush and drew a crimson line across a name.

Blanche FrostAvalanche, Ex-Song Saintess.

That one was already dead. Clare was no longer just an original Demon-fox. She was now an official Demonic Kitsune.

In time, she would draw a line over every single name in her book.

That much was certain.

After all, her revenge was just beginning.