Vampires perched like gargoyles atop rooftops and crouched in the shadows of the ground floor, their crimson eyes trained on the military base that sat like a beast awaiting its awakening. On the highest tower of a crumbling hotel, one stood apart — tall, immaculately dressed in a midnight-black suit, his silver hair combed back with aristocratic precision.
"The pawns stir," he said in a voice laced with centuries of disdain. "The armies of flesh and steel have begun their crude march."
Below, armored tankers groaned under their own weight, their metal treads clawing at the cracked roads of Verusa Island. Soldiers flanked them, rifles poised. Among them, Hunters — their uniforms mismatched but their eyes sharp — moved with a tension only experience could grant. It was still night. The moon, pale and bruised, hung low.
>><<
In the shadows of a broken intersection, Ethan stood before the earring-laced vampire. The man's chains clinked softly, his tongue forked with delight.
"You speak as though you've forgotten your place," the vampire mused, eyes narrowing. "You reek of our kind, yet... there's something divergent about you."
Ethan's voice was cold steel. "Spare me the riddles. I'm not here for parlor games. Give me what I need."
The vampire grinned. "You seek her? Many crave her death. Yet to me, she is divinity. She gave me purpose, a gift."
Ethan stepped past him without a word.
The vampire stiffened. "Hey! I offered civility, and you dismiss me like dust?"
The air cracked. The vampire spun, launching a kick aimed at Ethan's neck —
—but Ethan was gone.
The man froze. Something icy pressed against his throat.
A blade.
Without turning, Ethan had evaded the strike and drawn one of his twin daggers — the fangs of the red and blue hound.
>><<
Ren stood atop the lead tank, his coat flaring in the night wind. He listened in silence. When his eyes opened, they shimmered silver, glowing like polished crystal.
Ren had divided his elite into five groups, including himself, each — each an elite leader in their own right, handpicked by Ren for both power and loyalty. The spacing between them wasn't far for S-Ranks — but to normal men, it would feel like miles. This strategy ensured every front was covered, and any call for reinforcement could be answered in seconds.
Are your units in position? his voice echoed telepathically.
Across the city, five figures responded. Each was a nightmare sculpted for war.
Kaia, a graceful woman, stood atop a temple ruin. Her Wakizashi glinted in the moonlight.
Riven, clad in gauntlets that pulsed with kinetic energy, stood among the ruins of a supermarket.
The men were no less deadly. Damon Crest gripped an axe taller than himself. Zane Lior stood unarmed, his hands resting idly in his pockets — but his aura crackled. The last, Arlen Voque, sat cross-legged on a car hood, humming.
Back on the rooftop, the suited vampire spoke again. "Our queen forbade intervention. Yet the Blood-Drunk — their urges have shattered her command. Their thirst is now their master."
Ethan moved through an alleyway, vampires lunging from the shadows. He was a blur of red and blue, daggers slicing through flesh. Blood spilled, but he didn't slow.
Far off, Ren raised his hand. The ground responded, erupting into silver crystal shards. He sprinted upward, leaping between the jagged spires like stairs.
A ghoul emerged from the fog, tall and skeletal, its fingers dragging like razors against stone. It charged, blind and frenzied.
The crystals struck — knees, chest, throat — but the beast didn't falter.
Ren waited. Just as it reached him, he placed his palm on its stomach. Time slowed.
The ghoul's belly glowed silver, then dried, crumbling into dust.
Behind him, another vampire pounced — only to be met by a storm of bullets. The soldiers, stunned, realized their weapons were finally working.
Among the chaos, Arlen Voque, walked forward, calm. Ghouls and vampires hovered mid-air.
BOOM.
They exploded into mist and gore. Blood floated in orbit around him, drawn by his will. He raised his hand, the blood swirling into a vortex around his wrist.
Behind a ruined counter, vampires watched, stunned.
"He possesses her gift?" one whispered.
"No. That is not her mastery — it's telepathy. I can do that… but not like that."
"Then he's an S-Rank Hunter," another added solemnly.
The others turned toward him, the weight of the name sinking in.
"I've heard of that story," one muttered. "He walked out of the Bloodspire with a single wound while everything else burned."
"Then we're not just dealing with an S-Rank," the third said. "We're dealing with the one who defines the rank."
Ren and his team were the elite — S-Ranks. But not just any. They were Warden-Class Hunters: recognized across borders, sanctioned by global treaties, and given full jurisdiction to act as enforcers of humanity. They could enter any nation without delay, hunt targets without red tape. When they arrived, no questions were asked — only results.
In a hotel wrapped in silence, hundreds of men in black suits and dark glasses stood at attention, despite the night.
The Queen reclined on her throne, draped in velvet. Her voice was honey dipped in venom.
A man kneeled. "Your Majesty. The mortals have allied. Five squads have been formed. Their commanders are Ren Hoshin, Kaia Valen, Riven Arlo, Damon Crest, and Zane Lior."
She raised a single hand. Another man poured crimson liquid into a crystal goblet. It wasn't wine.
"Then send fifty of our own," she said with a dark smile. "And bring me their heads… on silver platters."
The men in black moved at once, no words needed. Like a hive. Five groups. Five targets.
And far from it all, Ethan kept walking — eyes forward, blades ready.
As Ethan pressed forward through the broken alleyway, his steps silent but deliberate, he suddenly found himself surrounded.
Arlen Voque's team — a mix of seasoned Hunters and hardened soldiers — turned to face him with cold precision. Rifles shifted. Magic circles glowed faintly beneath boot soles. The silence between them cracked when one of the younger soldiers, nervous and twitchy, pulled the trigger.
The bullet snapped through the air like lightning.
Ethan's daggers flashed. One clean slice — the round split mid-air and clattered harmlessly to the ground.
He didn't have time to move again.
A blur, a gust, and then pain.
Arlen Voque was in front of him.
"You're skilled with a blade," he said, voice cool as frost.
Then came the blow. A fist that crashed into Ethan's chest with the force of a warhammer. The ground beneath him cratered from the impact. Blood erupted from his lips.
[System Message: HP 50 → 25]
Before Ethan could steady himself, Arlen gripped him by the collar like a ragdoll. With a single, brutal motion, he hurled him against the crumbling wall behind them. The stone buckled. Dust plumed. Ethan slid to the ground, wheezing.
[System Message: HP 25 → 5]
[Blood Bank Activated]
[50% of stored blood has been consumed]
[Regeneration in progress...]
Red energy laced across his skin, tendrils crawling like veins over open wounds. Bone cracked, then knit. Flesh sealed. His breaths steadied, albeit heavy.
Arlen's eyes narrowed. "You're healing… from that?"
Chains slithered from the ground. Metal pipes and debris twitched unnaturally, twisting like serpents. They coiled around Ethan, locking his limbs, binding his body to the shattered wall behind him.
"This one's no ordinary hybrid," Arlen muttered, his tone darkening. "We can use this as a subject... to understand what the hell is going on."