Hell's Consort

Newest Chapter for the Highest Tier (March 2022)

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Vampire King Apollyon

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Apollyon swore he was in a fever dream.

He knew he wasn't physically there, but he did exist.

He couldn't bring his hands in front of his face, and he couldn't see his limbs, too.

It felt like he had no form, to begin with.

Even lost souls had this ghastly appearance, which resembled something, but at least his mind was conscious.

He was only aware of his vicinity in his mind's eye.

It seemed like the sun was about to set from the white, gold, and orange hues from the far horizon. It was a stunning work of art—so beautifully painted by the Hand of God.

He usually didn't dwell on sunsets that much since he had witnessed more than thousands of them since he was born.

Yet, there was something in this particular dusk.

He didn't know it yet.

Hands-on his hips, he decided to wait some more until things began to show themselves.

Apollyon didn't have to suffer for long.

Indeed, a phantom boat with hulls curved like crescent moons emerged after the bright sunset had faded into this pale bluish-grey.

Night had fallen, and pitch-black had quickly spilled through the natural canvas.

He saw that the phantom boat had taken shape, and he also acquired his appearance back at that moment.

His hands became visible first, followed by the rest of his body covered in a dark brown tunic.

This time, he found himself standing at the riverbank, his large bare feet digging unto smooth, cold pebbles and sand.

He immensely enjoyed how it felt like velvet underneath his soles, and he forgot the phantom boat for a while.

A strong gust of wind blew in his direction, and the tie around his clothes almost came undone around his waist.

Apollyon's amusement vanished.

A scowl replaced his slight smile as he glanced down at the little waves touching his toes at the riverbank.

A few seconds later, the fine-grained sand sticking unto his skin turned alarmingly red.

Was the river water poisonous?

He immediately withdrew and stepped away from the murky waters.

But then, something in the phantom boat caught his eye.

Raising his head, his eyes narrowed at the large, thirty feet long wooden boat and its contents.

Three golden coffins were arranged neatly in the middle.

One was longer than the rest as if it was meant to accommodate a dead adult, while the two remaining coffins could fit the size of infants.

Now, Apollyon could feel and see the thousands of lost souls wandering the shores around him.

It felt like most of them also wanted to cross the river and get on the other side, but they couldn't.

His brows furrowed in confusion, wondering if he was as dead as these creatures.

Now, this scene seemed familiar.

Was he standing at the bank of River Styx along with these ghosts?

To quench his thirst for knowledge, he pushed one lost soul to the waters on purpose.

His victim's loud, piercing scream rang through the quiet night until he dissolved into nothingness.

Despite knowing that he was the culprit, the lost souls who remained on the riverside glanced at Apollyon in indifference as if they expected it to happen.

They couldn't care less about his sin.

At least Apollyon figured out that if he swam into these waters, he would vanish as well.

Everything except the magic boat.

Having one less soul to worry about, these souls were more concerned about meeting the mysterious ferryman and getting on his boat instead of being trapped in the riverbank.

Then, his vision blurred and focused on the ferryman slowly rowing the boat which carried the mysterious coffins.

It was Sloth who had a reddish-brown cloak over his shoulders.

Apollyon could see his face as he rowed on the water with his right hand.

Why was he acting as if he was the ferryman of the dead when it should have been Charon's responsibility?

A dragon was perched at the bow as if it had appointed itself as its guardian, helping the deceased transport their soul from life to the afterlife.

He got a closer look at the monster and realized it was his mate's pet dragon.

Chills ran down his spine when he speculated who was inside those coffins.

One adult.

Two infants.

Apollyon tried using teleportation to get to the boat and prayed this skill would work in the Underworld. Fortunately, it did.

He didn't even glance at the ferryman and find whether or not Charon was pretending to be the Archdemon of Sloth when he stood at the hull.

He bent over and quickly lifted the lid of the most giant coffin and pushed it aside.

He braced himself just in case he discovered it was Luna's soul inside but… nothing.

His eyes widened in shock.

Unnerved, his trembling hand opened the two coffins which Apollyon assumed were for Luna's twin babies.

No newborn souls weren't trapped in there.

Apollyon exhaled a sigh, not knowing whether he should be relieved or furious for being treated like a fool.

He was about to wrangle the shape-shifting ferryman's neck without a word but angel feathers began to fall from the night sky, turning the black waters of River Styx into the red as if it was wine.

Before he could even think about something significant about this particular wine, he saw his wife standing beside the rumpled bed.

Her eyes were sunken from the dark circles underneath them.

What was left of her white gown from the Wine Tasting Ceremony was all bloody.

Apollyon could see that her face was battered and bruised.

The long deep gash that hadn't cured itself on her neck became more evident when she pulled her bodice down below one breast.

He couldn't accept that Luna had breastfed one silver-haired child in another man's presence.

The Archdemon of Sloth rocked the other silver-haired infant in his arms to shush her, keeping her occupied while she couldn't get her turn yet.