19: Chapter 19 A cornered beast fights on.

"Don't move, little cutie."

Count Morta leaned close to Cecilia's face, his other hand gently brushing aside her soaked blonde hair to reveal the fair skin of her neck.

He lowered his head, his nose gently brushing against the spot where her carotid artery lay.

Then, he took a deep breath, an expression of extreme intoxication appearing on his face, his dark red pupils even trembling slightly.

"Ah... what pure maiden's blood!"

"How sweet, how pure, it brings such pleasure to both body and soul!"

"Do you know how tempting a girl like you is? It has been a long... long time since I last smelled such a scent."

"Your blood... is worth savoring in the most elegant way."

He opened his mouth, four sharp canines flipping out from under his lips, gleaming with a ghastly white light in the reflection of the lightning.

The next second, he bit down.

Cecilia's body tensed violently.

She clenched her teeth tightly, not letting out a sound, but a muffled groan of extreme suppression still escaped her throat.

Her complexion turned from pale to ashen within seconds, her lips lost their color, and her eye sockets began to sink inward.

Count Morta sucked seven or eight times before reluctantly lifting his lips, his tongue curling around the last drop of blood, slowly delivering it into his mouth to swallow.

He closed his eyes, savoring the taste for a long while like a sommelier who had just finished tasting a top-tier red wine.

Count Morta opened his eyes and said in a tone as if announcing a major decision:

"You—shall become my blood-kin, the nineteenth one I have personally turned; you should feel honored."

"Richard... run..."

Cecilia's voice was so faint it was almost inaudible, her unfocused blue eyes turning toward Richard's direction.

But Richard had no intention of running; he struggled to climb up from the ground.

He had been knocked flying by Count Morta just moments ago, his back slamming against the trunk of an old pine tree.

The leather armor on his back had cracked from the impact, and his mouth was filled with the taste of blood.

His left arm could no longer be lifted; it had been slashed open by the Vampire's fingers, a wound extending from his forearm to his shoulder, the flesh turned outward, with the white bone vaguely visible inside.

But he still had his right hand and could still grip his weapon.

He propped himself up and walked toward Count Morta step by step, dragging his halberd through the muddy water behind him, carving a straight line in the mud.

The rain was still falling, hitting his face and washing away the blood foam at the corners of his mouth, blood and water mingling together.

Count Morta turned his head to look at the young warrior walking toward him, a look of amusement appearing on his face.

He released his grip on Cecilia's neck, letting the female warrior collapse to the ground, then turned around, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Look who this is?"

Count Morta examined Richard with great interest, his gaze sweeping over him and finally landing on those overly bright black eyes of his.

"Do you think your mortal iron can cause me harm? You don't even have a single silver weapon. Tell me, young man, what do you intend to use to kill me?"

Richard did not answer, constantly forcing himself to concentrate, pinning all his hopes on the skill he had just learned—Mortal Strike.

At this moment, amidst the torrential rain and pools of blood, under the Vampire's intrigued gaze, he was praying frantically in his heart.

Regardless of whether it was a god or a devil, as long as it could trigger the Mortal Strike effect and take down this damned bastard, he was willing to trade anything for it.

He took a step forward.

The halberd swept up from below, the blade slicing through the curtain of rain, hacking toward Count Morta's chest.

—Mortal Strike! Die!

Count Morta didn't even dodge.

He raised his right hand and flicked the side of the halberd blade with one finger. The entire halberd was deflected, and Richard's body spun half a circle with the momentum of the halberd, nearly falling over.

He steadied his center of gravity and swung the halberd again, sweeping horizontally toward the Vampire's neck.

—Mortal Strike!! Go to hell!!

Count Morta caught the halberd blade between two fingers, as if catching a falling leaf.

He looked down at the sharp iron blade between his fingers, then raised his head and gave Richard a gentle smile:

"Your willpower pleases me, so I have changed my mind."

"Just stand there and watch as I turn her into my blood-kin, and then we can play slowly, little fighter."

"I will save your blood to savor last."

With a casual wave, Richard, along with his halberd, was flung three or four meters away, crashing heavily into the muddy water.

The crack in the leather armor on his back widened, emitting a crisp snapping sound.

He lay on the ground, coughing up a mouthful of blood foam; the webbing between his right thumb and index finger had completely split open, and blood was dripping down the halberd shaft.

But Richard's fingers were still gripping the halberd shaft tightly, his knuckles white, his nails digging into the flesh of his palms.

He climbed up again, using the halberd as a crutch, and charged toward Count Morta once more.

"How many more times can you stand up?" Count Morta raised an eyebrow, his tone light, and he couldn't help but whistle.

Then he turned around, bent down to lift Cecilia up again, and used his fingers to brush her hair to one side, revealing the two bleeding tooth marks on her neck.

His lips neared the wound, four canines flipping out past his lips again.

This time he did not suck blood, but instead injected his own blood into Cecilia's body.

Richard exhausted all his strength to launch a Charge, his entire body turning into a straight black line, carving a trail of water through the curtain of rain.

—Mortal Strike!!! Die, damn you, die!!!

In a trance, he suddenly heard a strange whisper.

A voice that did not belong to anyone present, low and twisted, carrying a certain slimy, wet texture, as if a tongue were licking back and forth against his brain.

The sound was not loud, yet it drowned out the torrential rain, the thunder, and his own frantic heartbeat; every syllable was as clear as if it had been branded onto his brain matter with a hot iron.

"As you wish, child." Richard's pupils constricted violently upon hearing this.

Accompanying this abruptly appearing and disappearing whisper, the halberd in his hand thrust out right at that moment.

The spear tip thrust crookedly toward Count Morta's body; it lacked power, speed, and angle.

It was a strike that any qualified warrior could easily block or dodge.

Count Morta didn't even turn his head, simply swatting backward with his left hand in a nonchalant manner, intending to brush away this annoying stick as he had done several times before.

But he swiped at empty air; Count Morta's left hand froze in mid-air.

For the first time, an expression that did not belong to elegance appeared on that exquisitely handsome face—unmasked shock.

He looked down and saw that ordinary halberd piercing in from his lower back, the spear tip having already penetrated his chest cavity at some point, emerging from the left side of his chest.

The spear tip was stained with his thick blood, dripping down.

Richard had a feeling in the depths of his soul that his Mortal Strike had taken effect!