Novel Full Chapter 1876: Vessels
Chapter 1876: Vessels
Villain Ch 1876. Vessels
The air cracked again as the scream folded back into silence, and then—laughter.
Not a child’s laugh. Too thin. Too sharp. Like broken glass brushing down the spine. The faceless figure twitched, joints jerking out of sync with the body, head lolling like it was strung by invisible wires. It tilted side to side, too fast, too eager, whispering words that didn’t exist.
And then it split.
The fog twisted and peeled, birthing shapes that fell out of her shadow. One by one, eight of them stood. Eight faceless daughters. Each one jerking like a puppet, giggling in that same wet-bone whisper. They matched the number of Allen’s group perfectly.
Vivian’s grin spread like fire. “Oh, I like this game.”
Shea flexed her wings, feathers catching what little light bled through the fog. “Clone magic. Cute. I’ll cut them in half.”
Jane’s tone was ice. “Not clones. Vessels.”
Allen didn’t reply. His smirk stayed sharp, but his eyes were already moving—tracking every twitch, every unnatural lurch. Their steps didn’t hit the stone the way they should. Too light. Too uneven. Broken doll limbs, always a half-second off the rhythm of real movement.
He whispered to himself, almost like a lover’s murmur. “Not real. Not alive. But not nothing, either.”
The eight faceless ones moved. No scream this time—just a slow, jerking lurch forward, then faster, then impossibly fast. Their arms swung wide, nails long enough to scrape sparks off stone.
Allen didn’t wait. He stepped forward into the middle of the street, cloak dragging behind him, sword sliding down from his shoulder.
The first clone lunged at him—arms flailing, head tilting, whispering his name. Not loudly. Not screaming. Just a breath against his ear where it shouldn’t have been.
“Azazel…”
Allen’s blade met its throat in a single, smooth cut. Blood didn’t spray. Smoke did. Black, thick, like burning cloth. The thing’s body twitched, falling apart like wet paper.
He smirked wider. “Not bad.”
Another rushed him—jerking low, spider-fast on all fours. He didn’t slash. He twisted his body, cloak whipping, then slammed the flat of his blade against its faceless skull. The sound was wrong. Not bone cracking—wood splintering. The head caved inward, smoke hissing out as it collapsed.
“Not flesh,” Allen muttered, eyes narrowing. “Dolls.”
His aura rippled, thick with iron and heat. The whispers grew louder. The rest of the clones were circling now, twitching, heads jerking too fast to track. They whispered over each other, overlapping, all wrong.
“Help me.”
“Play with me.”
“Father said—”
“You can’t leave.”
“Stay.”
Their voices bled into his skull, a static hum pressing against his teeth.
He grinned. “Cute.”
Three of them came at once. Allen pivoted. His blade moved in arcs, precise, clinical. The first fell to a neck cut, smoke spilling.
The second ducked under his swing, jerking like a marionette cut free. Its nails scraped his gauntlet, sparks spitting.
Allen didn’t flinch. He shifted weight, turned his wrist, drove his blade backward into its chest. Black smoke burst out, stinking of mildew and burnt paper.
The third didn’t lunge—it appeared behind him. A breath, a whisper. “Mine.”
Allen spun, faster than it could vanish again, his sword slicing through the air with a sharp, metallic shriek. The clone’s head dropped, rolling across the cobblestones before dissolving into smoke.
His smirk stretched cruel. “Not yours. Never yours.”
The others were fighting too. Zoe’s tentacles slammed one into the wall, cracking the brick.
Vivian’s whip wrapped another’s neck, dragging it close for her fangs.
Shea’s feathers shredded a copy in a storm of blades. But Allen wasn’t watching them. He was watching his.
Because every strike told him something. Every movement was a puzzle piece.
They weren’t strong. Not compared to him. But they didn’t die like monsters either. They died like paper burning—hollow, false, always leaving smoke instead of blood. And they whispered with every death, like voices leaking out of a radio.
“It hurts.”
“Don’t leave me.”
Allen cut another one down, watching the way the smoke curled, how it clung to his blade before fading. He spoke under his breath. “Not the girl I guess. The town’s puppets.”
The faceless daughter at the back—maybe the first one, maybe all of them—tilted her head. Jerky, broken-doll fast. Then she laughed. High. Thin. Cracking glass.
Allen’s eyes locked on her. The smirk stayed, but his grip tightened. “You’re not hiding her. You’re feeding us.”
The clone in front of him lunged. Allen let it. He didn’t step back. He leaned in, face inches from its faceless head.
The whisper pressed against his ear. “Stay with me.”
Allen chuckled, low, hungry. “Wrong devil.”
He drove his sword up through its chest, twisting until the smoke burst like a lung collapsing. He let the black fog roll over his face, breathing it in. It stung. Burned. Sweet and rotted all at once.
The last one came for him from the side. He didn’t even look. His free hand shot out, gauntlet catching its throat mid-lunge. He slammed it down into the cobblestones hard enough to crack the stone, then drove his blade through its skull.
The street went still.
The last faceless daughter—if it was the last—staggered. It twitched, head snapping side to side too fast, arms flailing. Then it laughed again, whispered something Allen almost caught.
“Not her. Never her.”
The body convulsed. Smoke poured out of its skin until it collapsed into nothing.
The system pinged.
[Quest Updated.]
[Faceless Daughter slain.]
[Target not authentic. Vessel destroyed.]
[Continue searching for Greg’s adopted daughter.]
[Uncover the source of the curse.]
Allen wiped the smoke off his blade with his gauntlet. The steel was still slick with heat, smelling of mildew and ash. He smirked, slow, deliberate. “As expected.”
Vivian sauntered closer, whip curling like a snake at her side. Her grin was hungry. “Mmm. You’re having fun.”
Allen’s eyes stayed on the empty street, the lingering fog curling in the shapes of dolls. “I always do.”
Jane stepped up, shadows still twisting around her. “That wasn’t the girl. Just another lie.”
Allen’s smirk didn’t fade. He tilted his head back, listening to the silence, the whispers curling faint at the edges. “Lies make better truths. They tell you who built them. And whoever built this town wants us walking deeper.”
Shea’s feathers dripped with black smoke, her jaw tight. “And if we keep going?”
Allen’s smirk sharpened. He stepped forward, cloak dragging over damp stone. The fog shifted with him, parting just enough to reveal more of the town—crooked buildings leaning like graves, windows staring hollow.
“Then we’ll see what else they’re hiding.”
The bell tolled again.
This time, closer.