Zhou Yi executed a perfectly controlled flight deceleration, gliding through the expansive, open French windows of his penthouse living room.
The room was already awash in the soft, diffused light of the newly risen sun, yet the critical areas remained shielded. He gently deposited the girl, Serana, onto an oversized, Italian leather sofa.
The architectural design of the high-rise villa was deliberate, a fortress tailored for comfort and security. Even during the day's peak, the angular positioning of the tower and the specific depth of the living room's recession ensured that direct sunlight never penetrated beyond the one-third mark of the expansive space.
This sophisticated layout had originally been conceived to protect priceless antique artworks and historical manuscripts from ultraviolet degradation. Now, this passive defensive architecture served a far more urgent purpose: safeguarding the vampire girl from incineration.
Serana sat bolt upright, small and delicate against the plush cushions, her senses reeling from the sudden, jarring change in environment. She was a creature of the underbelly of organized crime, of forgotten shadows and abandoned ruins.
The sheer, effortless luxury surrounding her—the hushed silence, the meticulous cleanliness, the scent of fresh air instead of dust and decay—was profoundly unsettling. She looked around like a startled fawn, her eyes wide, processing a wealth that defied her every frame of reference.
The impoverished reality of most vampires was brutally far removed from the lavish tales of ancient, castle-dwelling nobility.
Most were merely struggling social outcasts, confined by their nocturnal existence and unable to access the basic social services, documentation, or employment that stabilize human life.
For a young, unattached female vampire, the struggle was often a brutal, desperate fight for survival. This penthouse, with its sweeping views of Manhattan, was a different planet.
"You… you live in a place like this?" Serana stammered, her voice edged with genuine awe and a trace of intimidated disbelief. "It must cost a small fortune. I mean, it's beyond anything I could imagine."
"It's simply a comfortable place where I can find peace and security, nothing more," Zhou Yi replied, stripping off the black armor plating and exposing the form-fitting, thermal-regulated suit beneath. He chose his words carefully, avoiding any mention of the villa's multi-million-dollar valuation, sensing it would only heighten her panic.
He walked over to a wet bar, returning with two glasses. One contained a thick, ruby-red liquid—not milk, but a pre-sought, highly regulated blood substitute kept for emergency medical use. The other held clear water.
"Let's try this instead of milk, shall we?" he offered, placing the blood substitute before her. "And we can start over properly. I am Yi Zhou. In the Chinese tradition, you may call me Zhou Yi, or simply Yi."
Serana knew nothing of the corporate empires or the technological breakthroughs associated with the name. She could only deduce that the dual-identity Chinese man was wealthy beyond comprehension.
She took the glass, her movements awkward and inhibited, unable to reconcile the magnificent crystal palace with her own deeply ingrained sense of unworthiness. Every movement felt clumsy, every breath too loud.
Zhou Yi sat beside her, sensing her internal friction. He gently took her fidgeting hands in his larger one and, with a fatherly tenderness that reminded him acutely of comforting his own younger sister, Sharice, he stroked the fine braids of her hair.
"Don't be so guarded, Serana. You are safe here. This is a sanctuary, and you are its only guest," he murmured, his voice a low, steady anchor in her turbulent world. "It's only you and me. You don't need to worry about decorum or danger. Just breathe."
Serana leaned into his chest, her tension finally cracking. She pressed her face against his suit, the gesture one of pure, unrestrained reliance. "I'm sorry, Yi. I'm just so unaccustomed to… to anything like this. I'm scared, and I feel so out of place."
"Of course you are. You've had a shock, and you're dealing with a sudden, total environmental change," Zhou Yi reassured her, smoothing her hair once more. "I think the best thing for you now is a long, warm bath and then some rest. You'll feel much stronger soon."
He had already accepted the immense responsibility. Now that he had provided the physical safety, he had to address the underlying needs. The blood substitute was a stopgap.
A creature of her age and species needed regular, ethically sourced sustenance to maintain stability and prevent the very bloodlust that drove the R-variants.
This meant reaching out to his medical and logistical network, securing a reliable supply from blood banks or specialty medical institutions—a complex, sensitive operation that demanded immediate attention.
He carried her to the pristine guest suite, which had been maintained in flawless readiness by his discreet house management service. He sealed the motorized blinds, turning the room into a safe, absolute twilight, then set her down.
"Rest well, Serana. I will manage everything else for you," he promised.
The facade of the seductive, survivalist vampire was completely gone. Serana, in this secure environment, was revealed as the timid, delicate girl she truly was, her thanks shyly delivered, her eyes like lotuses slowly opening.
Zhou Yi smiled, a rare, small gesture of satisfaction, and turned to commence his own preparations. He had a blood supply to source, and a master manipulator named Asa to anticipate.
Meanwhile, miles away in the deteriorating industrial zone, Blade had reached the same conclusion as the Dawn Knight: his utility in this conflict was over, and the time for retreat had come.
Yet, as he turned to leave the skirmish zone, the Grand Duke's seemingly grateful hospitality dissolved into a meticulously planned ambush.
Blocking his path was not a chaotic rabble of vampires, but a highly coordinated force: two tactical teams of six, uniformed in non-descript combat gear, armed with standard-issue assault rifles and, more chillingly, sophisticated anti-metahuman weaponry.
Blade, despite his superhuman strength and speed, recognized the brutal odds. Twelve focused, disciplined opponents meant he could, at best, delay the inevitable capture and risk a crippling injury that would destroy his ability to hunt.
The true nature of the trap became terrifyingly clear as they parted, forcing two figures forward.
"No," Blade muttered, his usual stoicism giving way to a raw spike of internal fury and dread.
Standing before the tactical formation were his two trusted associates: Whistler and Josh.
Whistler, his mentor, father figure, and the brilliant mind behind all of his specialized weaponry, stood with his chin tucked, giving Blade a subtle, silent shake of the head—a clear sign of disapproval for what he knew Blade had to do.
Josh, the younger assistant, managed a weak, strange smile. "Didn't see this one coming, man. Got arrested before I could finish my coffee. Not my best planning day."
Blade would have easily sacrificed a dozen unrelated hostages. But Whistler was the man who had pulled him from the wreckage of his childhood, the one who had given his existence purpose.
For three years, Blade had moved heaven and earth to recover Whistler after he was captured and turned, succeeding only because Maginos himself had orchestrated the initial capture, intending to use him as a long-term leash.
Now, the leash was being brutally yanked. The Grand Duke was finished with games; he wanted the Daywalker contained.
Faced with this absolute leverage, Blade had no choice. Slowly, deliberately, he reached behind his back, retrieved his signature silver-plated sword, and drove the tip into the crumbling concrete ground. He then tossed his remaining stakes and hidden throwing blades onto the asphalt.
The tactical squads snapped into action. They rushed forward, but instead of subduing him, two men immediately tore off his iconic leather trench coat.
This was more than just a disarmament; it was a psychological and physical crippling. Blade used the lining of that coat to conceal an arsenal of custom weapons—a final, fatal layer of security. Without it, he was dangerously exposed.
Following the disarmament, the lead scientist, Kylo, approached, a sickeningly self-satisfied grin stretching his face.
"A pleasure to meet you again, Mr. Blade," Kylo purred, adjusting his clean, white lab coat.
"Last time, my introduction was incomplete. Allow me to elaborate: I am still the principal investigator for the European Health Foundation, and trust me, Mr. Blade, we are going to have an incredibly enjoyable research experience."
He waved his hand. Two tactical soldiers moved in, striking Blade with the reinforced butts of their rifles. Blade only stiffened, spitting blood and challenging them. "Hey, have you two not eaten yet? Put some muscle into it!"
They exchanged a quick, professional look, then produced two modified stun batons. These were not civilian-grade devices; they were engineered to deliver focused, high-amperage electrical currents capable of temporarily overriding the super-fast nervous systems and dense musculature of enhanced beings.
The resulting electrical surge lasted less than ten seconds, but it was enough. Blade's massive frame locked up, his muscles spasming uncontrollably, his vision swimming with white light.
Before he could recover, a second lab technician, wearing surgical gloves, jammed a needle into his neck, injecting a powerful, fast-acting sedative specifically designed to paralyze high-metabolism individuals. It wouldn't put him to sleep, but it rendered him physically incapable of fighting or escaping.
Kylo chuckled, a low, guttural sound of triumph. To watch a creature more lethal than any apex predator rendered as docile as a pet was a perverse, satisfying pleasure. He knew the testing table would provide even greater enjoyment.
Kylo waved again. Blade and his two assistants, now secured with heavy restraints, were efficiently loaded into the back of a large, customized transport truck.
The truck was dark, suffocating, and reeked of blood and fear. The space was already occupied by a group of captured Vampire Guards—the unfortunate survivors of the initial R-variant skirmishes—who were now enduring a psychological and biological nightmare.
Their defeat by Chadnorma's forces was a devastating humiliation. But far worse was the spectacle unfolding before them: the slow, horrifying transformation of their comrade, The Priest, who was now strapped to a portable medical trolley.
Chubba, a bulky vampire soldier, was desperately trying to hold the Priest down, straining against the violent, convulsive spasms of the strapped victim.
Two uniformed medical personnel were frantically attempting to administer counter-agents, but all efforts were futile. The third-generation R-variant virus, the very one Chadnorma had described, was running its catastrophic course.
The Priest's body was a warzone of biological violence. His hair began to fall out in thick, horrifying clumps; in one desperate struggle, a piece of his scalp, still attached to a mat of greasy hair, was torn clean away by Chubba's clumsy grip.
His skin, already pale from his vampiric state, rapidly changed to a ghastly, wet deathly pale, the color of flesh submerged too long in formaldehyde.
Beneath this paper-thin layer, a terrifying web of bluish-black, engorged veins pulsed and twisted, evidence of the virus violently restructuring his circulatory and skeletal systems.
His eyes were the next casualty. Where the Priest's irises had once been a clear, human blue, they now began to flood with blood. The vivid blue rapidly bled away, overwhelmed by a sickly bloodshot crimson that mixed sickeningly with a pooling, dull gray.
Within two terrifying minutes, the distinct color of his pupils vanished, replaced entirely by an opaque, churning mixture of gray and crimson—the eyes of a brainless, ravenous beast.
But the climax of the transformation was the jaw.
A thin, crimson line suddenly appeared on the skin of his lower cheek, just below the ear. It looked, at first, like a scratch.
But the line instantly deepened and lengthened with a sickening ripping sound, extending down his jawline toward his throat. It was not a tear in the skin, but a planned, biological cleavage. The line deepened through skin, muscle, and finally—with a sickening, audible grinding noise—reached the mandibular bone.
The jawbone itself split violently in two, the separate halves retracting and shriveling the surrounding flesh.
The original teeth dissolved and were replaced by a chaotic, writhing maw of needle-sharp, overlapping enamel spikes. His lower face was no longer a mouth but a monstrous, gaping aperture that writhed wildly as the Priest screamed, his final cries now muffled, inhuman.
Chubba, terrified, recoiled from the trolley. The other guards retreated in horror. The horrifying scene was too much for even veteran vampires to endure. The only sounds left in the dark truck were the Priest's faint, gurgling cries, now half-mangled by his new anatomy.
"Kill me!" the tortured voice rasped, the words barely intelligible through the new fangs. "Give me a quick death! Kill me now!"
The Grand Duke's pawns were already becoming the R-variant's short-lived cannon fodder. Maginos had lured his own guards into the perfect breeding ground, sacrificing them to his son's disease—a horrific, necessary cost in his mad plan to capture the two greatest threats to his rule.