Chapter 740: [Final Event] [Blood Moon Festival] [22] Central Vedelia Under The Blood Moon Spell

Chaos had swallowed Central Vedelia like never before in living memory.

Not even during the Blood Moon War, nor in the time of Deborah Dolphis’s attack in the Third Great Holy War, had the heart of the continent been struck with such madness.

Back then, the city’s towering gates had been battered countless times by invading armies—yet none had ever broken through far enough to touch the Holy Tree of Eden, the sacred heart of Vedelia. The last time Central Vedelia had truly been breached was eight hundred years ago, during the Racial War, when every nation fought for dominion over the Tree. Since then, Central Vedelia had stood untouched until now.

But this time, the weapon that struck it wasn’t forged from steel or mana.

It was betrayal.

Cyril had turned against them, using a Forbidden Blood Art—one fueled by the original blood of the Vampire Witch herself. Using Selene, still the Vessel of that Witch though empty, he had cast the Blood Moon Spell.

It wasn’t as vast or terrible as the legendary version that once blanketed all of Sancta Vedelia for ten long years, but it was enough.

Enough to drown Central Vedelia in crimson light.

The moment the scarlet moon appeared overhead, the unlucky ones gazed upon it and that was all it took.

Their eyes glazed over, their minds snapped, and their hearts fell under the spell’s control.

They turned on one another, friends attacking friends, children striking parents, lovers clawing at each other’s throats.

The city descended into madness.

Knights scrambled through the streets, but even they were overwhelmed. They couldn’t bring themselves to harm their own citizens especially when some of their own comrades fell under the spell as well.

Mana flared and exploded in every direction; glowing circles and shattered sigils painted the night sky above the burning rooftops.

"What... what’s happening here?"

Christina’s voice trembled as she lifted a hand to cover her mouth, staring at the city before her. Screams and magical detonations echoed through the streets, the holy capital of Sancta Vedelia now a battlefield of chaos.

Beside her, Alea stood frozen, her sharp eyes wide in disbelief.

She had hesitated to attend this wedding in the first place—her strained relationship with the other High Families made the trip to Central Vedelia feel more like punishment than duty. But she’d come anyway, out of obligation... and now, this?

This wasn’t a ceremony. It was carnage.

A desperate scream tore through the air.

"No! Help!"

Christina’s head whipped toward the sound. A man had fallen on his back, scrambling away in terror as a woman staggered toward him—her movements jerky, unnatural, like a puppet whose strings were being pulled by invisible hands.

Without hesitation, Christina rushed forward, summoning mana to her arms and shoving the woman back with a powerful strike.

"What’s going on here?!" She asked, glancing between them.

"I–I don’t know! She just started attacking me out of nowhere!" The man stammered, fear written all over his face.

"They’re being controlled," Alea said coldly, stepping beside Christina. Her eyes flicked over the woman, analyzing her.

"Controlled?" Christina repeated, blinking.

Alea nodded, her tone grave. "It feels like some kind of Blood Art... maybe even a curse."

Christina’s eyes darted to the blood-red moon glowing overhead, and her heart sank. "Who would do something like this...?"

"I don’t know," Alea murmured, her gaze sharp as steel. "But we can’t kill them—they’re still people. Restrain them if you can."

Christina nodded, her expression hardening.

Alea turned her eyes briefly toward the distant Holy Tree. Then another explosion rocked the streets, followed by more screams—desperate, human, terrified.

She clenched her fists. "Damn it..."

***

Around the Holy Tree’s protected circle, the fighting was continuing. Inside the barrier and Tree, the spellbound ones were being hauled away and subdued by the knights; outside, the battle had a different face.

Rodolf tasted blood as another werewolf’s fist missed his jaw by inches. The creature’s bestial form loomed over him—broad shoulders, matted fur, lips peeled back over jagged fangs—only to swing again, this strike catching Rodolf in the ribs.

"Argh!" He grunted, pain exploding across his side as the impact sent him skidding. Before he could fully recover, another snarling beast was already closing in, claws raised like sickles.

"FUCK OFF!" Rodolf shouted, and the world narrowed. He poured Prana into his legs and launched a brutal kick that connected with the charging werewolf’s flank. The impact echoed and Rodolf rolled away, breath ripping in his chest. He pushed himself up and launched himself toward Percy with a shout. "Percy!!!"

Three more bestial figures materialized between him and his target. Rodolf didn’t falter. But then, something in the corner of his vision made him turn his head—a Prana Breath gathering in the maw of another werewolf.

"Shit!" He slammed his hand up and called a reserve of Prana into his palm, shaping it like a shield.

-BOOOM!

The Prana detonated in a concussion that threw dust and pebbles into the air, a shockwave pulsing outward. The blast reverberated through the place, but where it mattered most—the Holy Tree’s inner sanctum—nothing was touched. A shimmering divine barrier, the Tree’s own protection and the unconscious seal of Freyja trapped inside it, held firm.

Rodolf skidded back on the flagstones, blood running down from a cut over his brow. He spat and wiped his hand across his face, anger burning brighter than the pain. "You coward! Fight me!" He screamed.

Percy didn’t answer. He stood with a calm expression. Around Rodolf, the dozen werewolves advanced, pressing the circle inward. Their bestial forms were brittle and strange—the pill had given them power, yes, but it had also cracked them. Some of their sinew was already failing, joints buckling when they tried to sprint, fur clumping with dried blood. They should have known better than to take that thing. They should have felt the cost.

Still, they surged. More Prana poured from their chests and nostrils as they lunged.

Rodolf answered by shifting into his own Bestial Form—not the lumbering, heavy variant, but the fast one. His limbs lengthened unnaturally, muscles tightening like coiled springs. He blurred, an animal ghost between the howls, darting through strikes easily. A spinning kick sent one of the attackers slamming into a fountain; another’s clawed hand snatched at his shoulder but found air as Rodolf twisted, grabbed, and flung the arm-wielder into a second opponent. Both toppled like rag dolls.

Using a fallen body as a springboard, he sprinted toward Percy. A yellow light flickered across Rodolf’s skin—the Prana in him humming hot and ready.

Percy remained still, impassive as marble. Two werewolves dropped in at his sides, mouths open, ready to unleash their own Prana Breath.

"Fuck this!" Rodolf cursed, vaulting sideways to avoid a jagged column of Prana that lanced through the ground and tore the paving apart. Dust and splinters shot into his face.

"Stop struggling and surrender, Rodolf," Percy said at last. "I don’t want to kill you."

"You think you can kill me?" Rodolf shot back, narrowing his eyes until they were slits of yellow in the dim light.

"I don’t want to kill you." Percy repeated the words, but there was no heat to them—only distance.

"You wanted Jefer dead. You wanted Roda dead!" Rodolf spatt. "You—"

"Jefer was necessary," Percy said. "Roda... I didn’t want that."

Rodolf’s hands were trembling now in pure anger. Prana flared outward from his body, bright and violent, forming a towering pillar of yellow that painted the chaos in brutal light. He roared and charged, every muscle a weapon.

Around him the twelve werewolves were stirring back to their feet, feeds of Prana running through them like fever.

Percy’s expression never changed. He watched Rodolf fighting and muttered.

"It’s useless."

***

On the northern side of the Holy Tree, the air was thick with frost and blood.

Evan Indi Zestella fought like a man possessed, his sword a blur of glacial light as he clashed with Cyril.

Cyril’s entire body radiated a dreadful glow, as though his veins had been replaced by rivers of molten blood. Every breath he exhaled steamed red, and the ground beneath his feet steamed where his aura touched it.

Evan swung his blade, unleashing a wave of ice that rippled outward like a frozen tide. It shattered instantly–Cyril’s single counter-swing cleaved through it like thin glass.

"I don’t have time to play with you, Evan," Cyril saidw with a dark chuckle. Then he vanished.

"...!"

Blood spattered the air before Evan could even react. A blade tore across his back, and agony bloomed white-hot through his body. He twisted away instinctively, avoiding what would have been a killing blow, but blood still ran freely down his spine, soaking his shirt.

"Brother!!"

Celeste cried out, tears filling in her eyes, her entire body trembling as she tried to keep her focus. She wanted—desperately—to help him. But she couldn’t move.

Her gaze dropped to the ground before her.

Her father lay there, chest torn open, breath shallow and labored. The wound Cyril had left was deep—a gaping hole where his heart had nearly been pierced. Only her Fate was keeping him alive.

She was channeling Fate, pouring it continuously into him, forcing the threads of life to remain tethered. If she stopped, even for a moment, he would die.

If only Namys were here... she thought bitterly. Namys could have healed him and kept him alive. But the healer had gone to aid the civilians at the center of the city—and now, Celeste was alone, trapped.

"Leave, Celeste!!" Evan’ shouted out.

She looked up in shock. "B–Brother..."

"It’s dangerous here!" Evan shouted, his tone rough from pain.

Cyril appeared again and their swords met in a clash that made the ground tremble. The sheer weight behind Cyril’s strike sent a jolt up Evan’s arm, numbing it to the shoulder. He staggered back and, with a growl, thrust his hand forward, summoning a thick ice wall between them. The barrier formed instantly, freezing the very air, but Cyril struck through it without hesitation.

"Agh!"

The pained groan came not from Evan, but from nearby. Celeste turned toward the sound, her heart twisting.

Victor, was locked in combat with Selene. His every movement was heavy, hesitant. He wasn’t fighting to kill—he couldn’t. His eyes were full of heartbreak as his blade met hers.

Selene, though, wasn’t Selene anymore. Her gaze was wild, unfocused—a hollow shell filled with bloodlust and longing. She swung her weapon mechanically, her obsessed gaze only on Victor.

It wasn’t her fault.

None of this was.

Cyril had made her that way.

To cast the Blood Moon Spell, he had needed more than just knowledge—he had needed the Witch’s blood and a vessel. Selene had been that vessel, while the blood had come from the original Vampire Witch herself. And to complete the ritual, he had desecrated Elizabeth’s corpse, infusing it with that same cursed blood.

The result was a blasphemous fusion of the three: the Witch’s essence, Selene’s body, and Elizabeth’s lingering power.

It had been Lazarus’s plan all along.

But forbidden arts never came without a price.

The resurrection had been incomplete–unstable. The Witch’s hunger for blood merged with Selene’s own repressed desires, warping her into something inhuman. Her soul burned with the Witch’s thirst, her love for Victor twisted into obsession.

And Elizabeth...

Her body had become nothing more than a vessel for hate and agony. She was no longer a person—just a weapon of malice, animated by the blood of the Witch and driven by rage.

"V–Victor..."

Selene’s voice broke once more for the briefest of moments. A single tear slipped down her cheek, glistening in the red haze of the Blood Moon.

Victor froze. His sword wavered for a fraction of a second.

"...!"

That hesitation was all it took. Selene’s leg swung up, her heel slamming into his stomach.

"Arghhh!"

The force of the kick cracked his ribs, he felt it, the sharp pain blooming deep inside his chest and sent him crashing into the ground. He rolled through debris, coughing up blood, struggling to breathe.

But Selene wasn’t done. Her movements were fast as she raised her rapier and launched herself at him again, her eyes cold, feral.

Victor barely had time to lift his sword.

-BOOM!

Their blades collided in a flare of mana. The impact split the air like thunder. Victor parried the strike but not fast enough. The tip of Selene’s rapier punched through his shoulder.

"Arghhh—!" He bit down hard, teeth grinding as blood poured down his arm. His crimson eyes met hers—trembling, pleading. "Selene... I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. Please... fight it. Come back to me."

For an instant, something flickered in her gaze. A faint shimmer of light. Recognition. Clarity.

But then it was gone.

Her expression twisted, the Witch’s hunger reasserting itself. She drove the rapier deeper, forcing Victor to stumble back, pain surging through every nerve. He barely kept his footing.

Selene raised her other hand, fingers curling like claws ready to tear through his chest.

Then, out of nowhere —

-BAM!

A blur of shadow slammed into her side, sending her flying back. She hit a stone wall hard enough to crack it, dust rising from the impact.

Victor’s eyes widened as the figure landed between them.

"Professor..." He breathed, seeing Priscilla Tepes.

"I knew something was wrong," she said, gaze locked on her niece as Selene struggled to rise again. "But not this wrong."

She turned to Victor gently. "I know you don’t want to hurt her—neither do I. But think, Victor. When she regains her senses... do you want her to wake up and realize she almost killed you?"

Victor’s breath caught.

Right... she would hate herself for it.

Priscilla took a slow breath, her expression softening. "I know a way to bring her back to her senses," she said.

Victor blinked. "Y–You do?"

She nodded. "It’s similar to how I used to calm Elizabeth... when she’d lose control of her emotions and her power would spiral out of hand."

At the mention of Elizabeth, a shadow crossed Priscilla’s face. Her voice faltered for a heartbeat before she steadied herself.

"I can use a Blood Art to bring Selene back," she continued. "It’ll hurt her a little, but it’ll clear the Witch’s influence if I can reach her mind. But to do that... you’ll need to weaken her first, Victor. Hold her down. Make her stop moving long enough for me to perform the seal. Understand?"

Victor looked back at Selene, her body trembling with rage and sorrow as she staggered to her feet again. He clenched his teeth but nodded.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I understand. Just... bring her back. Please."

...

...

Meanwhile, across the field, near the roots of the Holy Tree Celeste didn’t even have time to feel relief at seeing Priscilla’s arrival.

A heavy impact shook the ground before her —

-BAM!

Evan crashed down, his body rolling across the cracked stone, trails of blood streaking behind him. His breathing was ragged, every inch of him covered in cuts and bruises.

"Brother!" Celeste screamed, extending her hand instinctively toward Cyril.

Ice spears burst into existence, dozens of them, and shot forward at terrifying speed.

Cyril blinked, surprised by her sudden attack but dodged with fluid precision, his sword cutting through the remaining projectiles. Shards of ice exploded into mist around him.

He chuckled, eyes gleaming crimson. "You look so desperate, Celeste. It’s almost... cute."

Her expression twisted in rage.

Cyril’s gaze drifted to Evan, still struggling to rise, blood dripping from his fingertips onto the sacred ground. "Look," he said with a cold smile, "I’ll send your brother to join your father. At least they won’t be alone."

Evan forced himself to his knees, trembling, his breath shallow. His sword arm shook, but he lifted it anyway. The sheer malice radiating from Cyril made him only more furious and worse, he could see that the man was still growing stronger.

Every second, the Blood Moon’s Spell flowed into him, healing his wounds, thickening his aura. His regeneration had already gone far beyond what any vampire should be capable of.

Then Evan noticed it—the faint streams of blood drifting upward from all across the city, vanishing into the red dome that hung over them like a ceiling. It wasn’t just light. It was feeding something.

Cyril, Selene, Elizabeth—they were all connected to it.

The Blood Moon Spell wasn’t just a curse. It was a siphon.

"Any last words, Evan?" Cyril asked, raising his sword.

"Stop this!" Celeste shouted once more.

Cyril didn’t even glance at her. He smirked. "Look at her, Evan. Crying for you. Begging. Pathetic."

He lifted his blade higher.

"I said stop."

That single word froze him.

Cyril’s body locked up mid-swing. His gaze snapped toward Celeste and what he saw made his blood run cold.

Her entire body was glowing white, a divine radiance piercing even the crimson haze. Her eyes burned pure white, tears streaking down her cheeks but as they fell, they turned into drops of ice, scattering across the ground like diamonds.

The temperature plummeted. The very air trembled as ice slowly spread on the ground.

Cyril took an involuntary step back. He had many things but never had he felt pressure like this.

Then something else cut through the tension.

He sensed movement behind him.

Cyril swung his sword instinctively.

-BOOOOM!

The blow he met sent him flying back through the air, skidding across the ground before he caught himself.

When he looked up, his smirk vanished.

"That is enough, Cyril."

Celeste blinked the white glow fading from her eyes. The divine frost melted into tears again as she turned toward the voice.

"G–Grandma..." She whispered, her lips trembling.

Standing before her was Melfina and beside here with a stern expression was James Raven.