Diluc left the scene, and about ten minutes later, several NYPD patrol cars arrived. Dazzling police lights flashed, and shrill sirens pierced the night sky.
Patrolman Jefferson, who arrived first, caught a sharp, acrid odor in the air as soon as he stepped out of his vehicle. He immediately keyed his shoulder mic and called out:
"Dispatch, we've got heavy smoke and signs of intense burning at the scene. Requesting FDNY fire response and EMS. Also, notify the Fire Department's Hazmat Unit—possible hazardous materials involvement."
Not long after, fire engines and a Hazmat team (hazardous materials response unit) arrived. More than a dozen 97,000-lumen searchlights bathed the entire factory complex in stark, daylight-like brightness.
As officers began a preliminary sweep, they froze at the horrifying sight before them.
Scattered across the scorched ground were several severely carbonized humanoid remains. Their skeletal structures were grotesquely distorted, limbs unnaturally contorted, and tissue appeared desiccated—as if bodily fluids had been flash-vaporized by extreme heat.
"Oh my God… this is…" one firefighter murmured.
Another firefighter knelt and swept the area with a radiation detector. After a tense moment, he exhaled sharply and said,
"Clear on radiation—no residual readings. But these burn patterns… they don't match any conventional fire or explosion I've seen."
Hearing this, the on-scene commander—a senior NYPD detective—pulled out his phone, made a brief call, then turned to his team and said in a low voice:
"Headquarters, this is the abandoned factory on Baltic Avenue in Brooklyn. We need the FBI's Evidence Response Team—and possibly their WMD Coordination Unit. This goes way beyond ordinary arson."
Meanwhile, NYPD officers quickly erected fluorescent perimeter tape and used bullhorns to disperse onlookers:
"Step back! This area is unsafe! Do not approach!"
But curiosity often trumps caution. Despite the warnings, nearby residents clustered just beyond the cordon, phones raised, snapping photos and speculating aloud.
"I heard they found human bones in there—maybe the gangs dumped bodies?"
"Nah, man, what the firefighters pulled out didn't look human at all…"
"You're crazy—it was all wrapped in tarps! How'd you even see it?"
A technician in a full Hazmat suit strode past, his face obscured by the mask. A patch on his chest read "NYS DEC HAZMAT" (New York State Department of Environmental Conservation)—not "NRC-7. The National Response Center (NRC) is a federal reporting hub, not a field response team, and does not deploy personnel with chest badges.
The numbers flashing on his handheld radiation spectrometer made him pause. He frowned, then radioed his team lead.
At that moment, six members of the FDNY Hazmat Unit, clad in Level A fully encapsulating suits, entered the core area under the command of Team Leader Mark Redfield.
The moment they crossed the threshold of the charred factory, static crackled over their comms—followed by stunned silence, then a hushed whisper:
"Jesus Christ…"
At the epicenter of the blast zone, the concrete floor was fractured in a radial pattern. The central area had been vitrified—melted into a glassy crust by temperatures exceeding 1,600°C. Around it lay seven or eight carbonized remains.
Most disturbing of all: though the skeletons were broadly human in form, their proportions were deeply abnormal. The tibias were elongated, finger bones ended in hooked protrusions, and several mandibles were split into four symmetrical segments—like petals.
All of these characteristics indicate that they are not human beings at all—nor even any known species of creature.
"Sampling team, prioritize collecting biological tissue. Remember to record the radiation level of each sample."
Redfield squatted down and carefully picked up a piece of charred bone with titanium tweezers.
"God!"
Suddenly, team member Aisha screamed from beneath the iron wall twenty meters away, her voice trembling with excitement:
"Sir! Here's a relatively intact specimen!"
At the sound of her voice, everyone immediately gathered around. Following Aisha's gaze, they saw a blue-black body lying on its back in the ruins—its head and feet missing.
Its chest had been pierced by a sharp weapon; the edges of the wound were crystallized, and its skin was covered in fish-scale-like stratum corneum.
But the strangest detail? Its abdomen was still moving—faintly.
"It's still alive?!" Aisha took a half-step back, repulsed.
"No," Redfield said. "Probably just residual nerve reflexes."
He pressed his communicator.
"Command, this is Redfield. Requesting Bio-Containment Team Alpha-9. We need a vacuum-sealed stretcher and a liquid nitrogen cryochamber."
Three hours later, inside a makeshift testing tent, Redfield removed his mask and handed the tablet to the NYPD's on-site commander.
Test Results:
1. No traditional explosive residue detected (TNT/RDX negative)
2. No signs of hazardous chemical leakage (VOC < 0.1 ppm)
3. Unknown energy radiation detected (wavelength: 0.3 nm; resembles beta particles but lacks a decay curve)
4. Radiation intensity: 450 μSv/h at 15 m from epicenter (equivalent to a single CT scan dose)
"This isn't an ordinary accident," Redfield said, pointing to the concentric ripples on the thermal image. "The energy release was directionally controlled. Temperatures at the center exceeded 1,000°C—but dropped to ambient levels just five meters out. Damn it! That violates the laws of thermodynamics."
The commander paled. "So… what's your recommendation?"
"Maintain a 200-meter radius lockdown for at least 48 hours. Once the CDC and the Department of Homeland Security's Special Biohazard Team—SBHT—take over…"
As he spoke, Redfield glanced toward the containment chamber, where the specimen still twitched faintly.
Meanwhile, fifty meters beyond the cordon, at the mouth of a shadowed alley, a tall black figure stood motionless.
Moonlight glinted off the silver hilt of his sword. Behind dark sunglasses, his eyes swept over the bustling police officers—or, more precisely, the bodies they were extracting.
When the containment team rolled the sealed chamber past, his nostrils flared. Even through the lead shielding, he could smell it: the familiar stench of decay.
"Besides me…" Blade—Eric Brooks—murmured, "is there anyone else hunting vampires?"
After a moment's thought, he pulled out a specialized mobile phone, dialed an encrypted line, and said:
"Whistler, check if any new vampire hunters have surfaced in New York."
With that, he turned and vanished into the alley, his black leather jacket rippling in the night wind.
Not far away, atop a high-rise building, Diluc's red windbreaker fluttered in the breeze. Leaning against the steel guardrail, his golden-red eyes scanned the flashing police lights and the chaotic crowd below.
The Hazmat team's white suits stood out starkly under the searchlights. The Reaper's remains—sealed inside a reinforced transport chamber—were being loaded onto a specialized vehicle.
His gaze shifted, locking onto the tall figure at the distant alley entrance: sunglasses, black leather jacket, silver sword strapped across his back.
"Blade Warrior…" Diluc whispered.
The man below seemed to sense something. He paused, tilted his head slightly—and for a heartbeat, his eyes behind the sunglasses pierced through the darkness, as if locking onto the rooftop.
But Diluc was already gone—dissolved into the night, leaving only a wisp of sparks spiraling in the wind.
The Blade Warrior stood still a moment longer, then turned and walked away, his footsteps swallowed by the city's endless hum.
The rooftop lay empty. Only the night wind remained, lifting a charred scrap of paper and carrying it toward the neon glow of the New York skyline.