Serana was a quiet, exquisite creature—a delicate, golden-haired flower blooming unexpectedly in the oppressive silence of the night. Zhou Yi yearned for the simple luxury of spending the entire evening tending to her comfort, allowing himself a few hours of reprieve from the crushing burden of his vigilant existence.
Unfortunately, the universe rarely allowed the Dawn Knight such self-indulgence. The agreement he had brokered, the quiet truce that protected Serana, demanded immediate, lethal action.
Tonight belonged not to the contemplative billionaire, but to the unstoppable force that maintained cosmic equilibrium.
He had promised the destruction of the vampire empire by the next dawn, and he intended to keep that promise. Whether the old guard fell to the vengeance of the mutant son or by his own decisive hand was irrelevant; the fundamental goal was the same.
A vampire Grand Duke who utilized biological warfare to create new, terrifying monster strains, and who had actively conspired to draw the Dawn Knight into a compromised position, could not be permitted to draw another breath in this reality.
After ensuring Serana was settled—her door secured, her supply of the synthesized blood substitute carefully positioned, and her anxieties calmed with a firm promise of his return—Zhou Yi allowed the metallic embrace of his armor to envelop him once more.
He transformed into the Dawn Knight and shot silently into the rapidly deepening twilight, heading toward the shadowy industrial districts where the Maginos fortress lay hidden.
He needed absolute vigilance. This was no ordinary feud; it was a supernatural coup d'état involving a deadly, evolving pathogen.
Even the smallest miscalculation could unleash a chaotic torrent of violence onto the unaware human populace. Zhou Yi harbored a deep, abiding distrust for bureaucratic organizations, no matter how grand their titles.
Agencies like the Strategic Homeland Defense and Logistics Agency were, to him, too slow, too compromised by red tape, and fundamentally incapable of dealing with threats that moved faster than the speed of light or mutated faster than a viral spike protein. He alone was the necessary, autonomous solution.
The Dawn Knight took up a perch not at the fortress itself, but atop a towering, blackened warehouse miles away, granting him an unobstructed, panoramic view of the entire zone. From this vantage point, he became a silent judge, allowing the initial stages of the conflict to unfold according to the plans of the vengeful prince.
The internal politics and power struggles of the subterranean races were of zero consequence; his singular purpose was to ensure human safety and perform the final, necessary cleansing of the biological threat.
He watched. He waited.
As the last sliver of the sun vanished beneath the horizon, the retaliatory strike began. Chadnorma did not disappoint, nor did he delay. The movements of his mutant R-variant followers were not the mindless, flailing surge of a common zombie horde.
Instead, they moved with a shocking, disciplined stealth. Hundreds of figures detached from the alleyways and abandoned structures, clinging low to walls, utilizing every fraction of shadow cast by the urban sprawl.
This enormous, pale wave of mutant creatures flowed through the city streets at an unbelievable speed, yet managed to bypass the attention of any unsuspecting human eye.
This chilling, coordinated discipline both surprised and disturbed Zhou Yi. It reinforced his conviction: the R-variant species was far too organized, far too adaptable, to be permitted to survive the night.
A shadow of unease crossed his mind, a fleeting, tactical concern: Blade was missing. Given the Daywalker's relentless commitment to his crusade, his absence from the imminent confrontation suggested a catastrophic interference—a successful trap set by the wily Damaginos.
The situation, Zhou Yi realized, had instantly become far more complicated than a simple internal vampire war.
Yet, he could not afford to divert his attention now. The primary threat was mass contagion. He had to maintain his focus, ensuring every single one of Chadnorma's Xenomorphs—the name Zhou Yi had privately given the terrifying mutants—was committed to the battlefield, preventing a breakout that could engulf the city.
Chadnorma led his scarlet tide with frantic, almost religious focus. Years of agonizing torture and isolation had fueled this single moment: retribution.
The sweet, intoxicating thought of vengeance pulsed through his mutated veins, eclipsing any lingering pain. He ran tirelessly, his pale army moving with the terrifying cohesion of a living glacier, flowing toward the sprawling, fortified factory complex that served as his father's lair.
As the horde neared the high, reinforced walls of the ancestral stronghold, Chadnorma paused, a sneer of bitter triumph curling his lips.
"Father," he muttered, addressing the hidden camera he knew was watching, "you truly are a creature of predictable arrogance. Not a single thing has changed."
With a sharp, silent gesture, the alien army surged.
The Maginos fortress defenses were formidable by mortal standards—a seven-meter-high factory wall, thick steel reinforcing bars, and a dense network of armed patrols utilizing heavy, silver-laden munitions. For human or even standard vampire enemies, this was an effective deterrent.
But the R-variant creatures were designed to circumvent such obsolete countermeasures. The wall, intended as a defense, immediately became perfect vertical cover.
The mutants scrambled up the concrete face, using the slightest textural irregularity for purchase, moving in the blind spots of the floodlights and patrols.
They scaled the height, silently overwhelmed the guards positioned on the parapets, and began to pour over the walls like a suffocating blanket of shadow and claw.
The vampire guards were caught completely off guard, their reliance on conventional deterrents proving fatal. The doom of the Maginos clan, Zhou Yi observed with cold certainty, had arrived.
The cascading effect was immediate: the overwhelmed patrolling guards were brutally killed and then rapidly converted into new R-variants, swelling the ranks of the invading force. Within minutes, the exterior defenses were compromised, and the factories surrounding the central citadel were overrun.
Inside the heavily fortified underground chambers, Grand Duke Damaginos received the news of the invasion with a mixture of shock and incandescent fury.
In his aging mind, his son, the failed experiment, should have dissolved into compliant obscurity. That the rejected failure had returned, not as a penitent victim but as a venomous, all-consuming avenger, ignited the deepest reserves of his royal temper.
Guilt was nowhere to be found; only cold, incandescent hatred and rage burned in his eyes. He would not, could not, allow this challenge to his dominion to stand, especially not from a traitor born of his own flesh.
He faced his remaining cadre of loyal vampire guards, his face rigid with a lethal command that betrayed his panic.
"To arms! You will secure the inner sanctum. Slaughter every invasive filth! And I demand the traitor's head—Chadnorma's head, delivered to me personally!"
The order, born of ignorance and arrogance, hung in the air, utterly divorced from the reality of the enemy outside. Damaginos, sealed away in his lair, had only seen sanitized reports of the R-variants; he had no concept of their speed, their resilience, or their terrifying ability to rapidly turn their victims into more of their kind.
The faces of the vampire guards tightened into masks of grim resignation. They had faced the Xenomorphs. They knew the math: they might be able to handle a handful, but the alarm was screaming about hundreds. The command was nothing less than a suicide order.
Reihart, his hand still throbbing from the self-inflicted sun-wound, took a deliberate step forward—a moment of open, unprecedented insubordination.
"My Lord, with respect," Reihart stated, his voice tight, "the creatures are too numerous, and too strong. We are critically low on personnel. A frontal defense is untenable and will achieve nothing but our own destruction."
The weight of the Priest's brutal, lingering death had finally eroded the absolute obedience of the guard. They questioned the Duke's authority—a silent, seismic shift in the balance of power.
Damaginos, seeing the flicker of rebellion and knowing these men were his final line of defense, swallowed his fury. He could not afford to alienate them. He adjusted his strategy, adopting a more pragmatic, if equally desperate, tone.
"Very well. Then execute the full fortress defense protocol. Seal all access points. Activate the exterior purge systems immediately. This is our last stand," he commanded, his voice regaining its imperious edge. He glanced at Nisha, his daughter, who had remained silent since their escape and Serana's loss. "And prepare the immediate evacuation sequence. We will use the deep-tunnel network."
The practicality of the modified order galvanized the remaining guards. Reihart instantly took charge of internal communications, directing the remaining internal security to activate the automated defenses and lockdown procedures.
Chubba, Light Axe, and Vilian, grimly acknowledged their assignment: sweep the inner castle to confirm no mutant had already infiltrated. Yukio, the deadliest fighter, was instructed to remain by the Grand Duke's side, the final blade in the last line of defense.
While the fortress locked down, the sprawling, multi-story factories above had been completely purged. In less than thirty minutes, the tide of R-variants had killed or mutated every last defender.
Surrounded by the triumphant, silent horde, Chadnorma reached the main industrial elevator, which led down into the ancient, fortified heart of the castle.
He smiled—a wide, disturbing stretch of his pale face. He looked directly into the lens of a security camera mounted near the entrance, knowing his father would be watching his every move from the bunker below.
"I'm here, Father," he said, his voice laced with venomous triumph and a chilling imitation of childlike cheer. "Wait for me, I'm coming to pay my respects."
Damaginos, watching the feed in his command center, felt his carefully constructed composure finally shatter.
The familiar features of his son, corrupted into this confident, murderous fiend, filled him with a potent mixture of guilt and self-justifying hatred. He slammed his fist down, signaling his hidden security officer.
Now.
In the cavernous industrial hall above, the lighting suddenly changed. Spotlights, strategically hidden high above the ceiling trusses and concealed within the roof's complex ventilation system, snapped down, piercing the factory floor. They were not ordinary lights.
Before Chadnorma could fully register the shift in the spectral intensity, the lights began to bathe the room in a dazzling, aggressive purple hue.
A crippling, primal fear stabbed through Chadnorma. He instantly recognized the spectral signature: concentrated ultraviolet radiation. He snatched up a discarded guard's rifle and began firing desperately at the lights, trying to smash the lethal array.
But there was too little time. The full battery of lights erupted into blinding, pure UV energy.
Vast shafts of brilliant, amethyst light scythed through the immense hall. Where the purple beams touched the R-variant creatures, the effect was catastrophic and instantaneous.
The mutants combusted, igniting not with ordinary flame, but with a terrifying, blinding blue light that was brighter and hotter than the purple UV source itself. The creatures were turned into ephemeral torches, burning up in the ethereal blue plasma.
The carnage was immediate and total. In seconds, the majority of the surrounding alien species vanished, reduced to smoke and ash by the lethal radiation—a devastating proof of concept for Damaginos's countermeasures.
As Chadnorma had correctly analyzed, the Xenomorphs, while resilient, were uniquely vulnerable to concentrated UV light, even more so than their vampire progenitors.
Chadnorma himself survived only by taking immediate, frantic cover beneath the shattered remnants of the machinery he had managed to shoot out.
The heat and light were blinding, the smell of burning biomass overwhelming. The rapid, total decimation of his army should have terrified him, should have driven him to retreat.
But he had waited too long. His resolve was unshakable, forged in years of torment and driven by the deep, spiritual imperative for revenge.
"It doesn't matter," Chadnorma hissed, clutching the rifle. The loss was significant, but the path was clear. "I am here now. And I will risk everything to see you face justice, Father."
He was willing to sacrifice every last mutant, every last shred of his former life, for the satisfaction of his reckoning. The game had just begun, and Chadnorma was now descending into the catacombs, alone, ready to face the architect of his pain.