The concept of time zones, a mundane consequence of the Earth's perfect rotation, was, to Zhou Yi, a miraculous tactical advantage.
While the sun was beginning to break the horizon over the English Channel, painting the massive, floating wreckage of the Airbus in hues of gold and rose, the eastern seaboard of the United States—New York City—remained submerged in the cold, pre-dawn gloom.
That lingering darkness was exactly what Zhou Yi craved. Allowing a creature of such profound wickedness as Damaginos to greet the light of a new day, unpunished, would be an unbearable moral irony.
His exhaustion was a dull, systemic agony—a profound depletion of his psychic reserves coupled with the bone-deep trauma of arresting a multi-hundred-ton aircraft with his bare hands. His once-pristine Dawn Armor Type II was a functional wreck, its main load-bearing components pulverized, leaving his skin exposed to the freezing slipstream.
Yet, the memory of the sheer, panicked relief on the passengers' faces, and the sheer intellectual competence of the woman he had saved, were enough to stoke the dying embers of his fighting will.
He drove himself across the vast Atlantic expanse. His speed was terrifying, bordering on the theoretical maximum his power could sustain without completely disintegrating the surrounding air molecules.
The distance that would take a conventional jet several hours to traverse, he would cover in little more than ten minutes. He was a comet of retribution, his focus fixed entirely on the coordinates of the hidden vampiric base buried deep beneath the metropolis.
Damaginos. Your reprieve is measured in seconds.
Zhou Yi mentally calculated the remaining minutes until sunrise in New York. The margin was dangerously thin. He was racing not just against distance, but against the light itself, knowing that the final showdown had to occur under the cloak of night.
Inside the labyrinthine depths of the castle, Yukio—the master swordsman known as the Snowman—was executing his master's final order. He was the anchor, the unbreakable dam holding back a flood of genetic horror.
He desperately guarded the access elevator leading down to the hidden subterranean jet platform. Despite his mastery of the blade, his weakened, stamina-depleted body was being overwhelmed by the sheer, relentless volume of alien mutant creatures swarming him.
His situation was the classic, grim metaphor: the strongest lion cannot indefinitely withstand a relentless pack of hyenas, especially when the hyenas are a regenerating plague.
Yukio's long katana flashed, an impossible streak of light in the dim, blood-streaked corridor. The gleaming blade slammed into the throat of an encroaching mutant, the speed of the blow so immense that the creature's dense bone-larynx shattered before it could even fully extend its hideous, venomous tongue.
Simultaneously, Yukio spun into the body of a second mutant, leveraging the kinetic force of his entire shoulder and back to slam the creature against the thick stone wall with bone-jarring force.
The pinned mutant instinctively clawed at the Snowman, its razor-sharp talons scraping across Yukio's protective gear.
Yukio ignored the assault. In a movement of surgical precision, he drew the short sword from his waist, plunging the dagger-like blade through the narrow, vulnerable slit beneath the mutant's armpit and directly into the heart cavity. The creature collapsed, vaporizing in the standard blue flame, its passing barely noticed by the swarm.
A swordsman of Yukio's caliber, unburdened and fresh, could have effortlessly dispatched dozens of these creatures, exploiting the few, known weaknesses in their bone structure and nervous system. But this was not single combat; it was a vicious, protracted pack hunt.
A mutant behind him was already consumed by its own self-ignited, pyrrhic blue torches—the automatic immune response to deep tissue damage. But before the flames could even fully consume the corpse, the other mutants rushed past, their elongated arms outstretched.
For these creatures, as long as vital areas were untouched, they could sustain horrific damage. For the Snowman, however, every drop of blood lost, every ounce of stamina burned, brought him closer to the ignoble, viral death he feared most.
There are only masters who betray their master, not masters who abandon them. This code, etched into his soul, was the only thing driving his collapsing body.
His long katana swung again, piercing the chest of a lunging creature. But the thrust was marginally off-center, missing the heart and instead lodging uselessly in the dense pectoralis bone-plate. It was a debilitating mistake caused by fatigue.
Yukio swiftly retracted the blade, using the motion to simultaneously sever the arm of another mutant.
The short sword, a specialized tanto, flashed, sinking into the creature's jawline, the sharp edge penetrating the skull and severing the lower brain stem. Though not instantly lethal, the blow stunned the creature, leaving it an unconscious, useless burden on the swarm.
He kicked the stunned mutant aside, preparing for his next engagement, but the fight had been too long, too continuous. His awareness, once a perfect sphere encompassing the entire battlefield, was now a fractured, blurring haze. The small, agile mutant, a runt of the litter, used his distraction to leap onto his back.
A sickening, wet sound announced the attack. The creature's blood-sucking tongue—a thick, barbed proboscis—shot out and dug itself firmly into the most vulnerable soft tissue remaining: Yukio's neck.
The pain was incandescent, but the realization was worse. The viral cocktail that defined the R-variant was now directly entering his bloodstream.
With a primal, wounded roar that shook the corridor, Yukio brought his short sword up to his own neck, slicing savagely. He tore away a large segment of his own ear and flesh, simultaneously ripping out the embedded parasitic tongue.
The mutant shrieked in agony, its head snapping back, finally releasing its grip. Yukio plunged his now-broken long sword into the mutant's lower chest, just under the ribs. The hard bone-armor resisted, but Yukio put his entire, failing weight into the hilt, thrusting with a force that defied his strength.
A high-pitched screech echoed as fine, deep cracks spiderwebbed across the blade of the long sword.
The hardened bone armor finally failed. The cold steel pierced through the defenses, sinking deep into the creature's heart. The alien instantly burst into the final, cleansing blue flames. The long sword in the Snowman's hand gave one final, resonant hum before snapping cleanly in two.
Yukio touched his neck. The wound was gushing hot, sticky blood, but he felt no pain. The alien virus had already saturated his nervous system, eliminating the sensation of injury. This single, terrifying fact sealed his decision.
He looked around the crumbling corridor. Countless, eager aliens still swarmed, their eagerness a palpable, psychic wave. And amidst them, Chadnorma stood, watching his plight with an expression of cold, disdainful victory.
"How does it feel to be Father's loyal little dog, Yukio?" Chadnorma's voice was a guttural sneer. "Soon you will be nothing—a mindless drone, perhaps even my grandson, if the virus mutates correctly! Then we will see where your famed loyalty stands!"
Chadnorma contemptuously waved a mangled hand. The mass of mutants obeyed, rushing past the crippled swordsman toward the elevator. The doors, warped and twisted by the preceding fight, gave way, revealing the deep, dark elevator shaft—the route to Damaschinos.
Yukio leaned heavily against the wall. The weakness gripping his body was total; he could not even raise his broken sword fragment to swing. His path had ended. He looked at the shattered blade in his hand—the final remnant of his identity—and in a final, profound act of dignity, plunged the fragment directly into his heart.
The blue flames rose silently, enveloping him in a funeral pyre of loyalty. His eyes, fixed on the enraged, confused face of Chadnorma, held only contempt as he spoke his final, unwavering words:
"I will only die as a warrior. I will not live as a slave."
Chadnorma recoiled, the psychic shock of the samurai's defiant self-immolation a brief, searing pain. He roared in frustrated fury as the last vestige of the Snowman turned to ash, the sound vibrating through the cracked stone. He turned his attention to the rushing mutants, driving them toward the shaft.
The last of the mutants piled into the narrow elevator shaft, a horde of monstrosities following the path of their escaping master. But just as the first one started its upward climb, a light burst from the passage.
It was not a gentle light. It was a dazzling, incandescent plasma burst—a wave of concentrated, focused optical energy burning with the fury of a sudden stellar flare.
Vilian's optic bombs, detonated before his death, had finally traveled along the confined space, reaching their true, devastating target.
Crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the narrow shaft, the light hurtled up the passage like a galloping stampede of solar energy, bathing everything in its radiance.
The mutants had no time to react. They stared blankly at the impossible, all-consuming brightness. The light penetrated the dense bone-armor, targeting the moisture in their tissues, vaporizing them from the inside out.
Chadnorma, caught outside the shaft, instinctively shielded his own body, but the blinding light still seared into his eyes and the exposed tissue of his face. He felt as if his very consciousness was blazing.
When the light finally faded, Chadnorma rushed to the shaft, heedless of the lingering, sickening heat. What he saw infuriated him past the point of sanity: not a single mutant remained.
All of them had been transformed into swirling, rapidly cooling clouds of blue plasma and ash in the wake of the devastating light.
"This is impossible! Absolutely not!" he screamed, slamming his fist into the wall. His hardened punch shattered the bricks of the ancient castle, leaving a horrific, visible trail of his immense rage. But his overriding instinct—revenge—pulled him back from the negative despair.
Staring into the silent, smoking elevator shaft, he gritted his teeth and hissed a vow of pure hatred: "Do you think killing your pawns will stop me, Father? Even alone, I will find you. Just wait."
He plunged into the elevator shaft, abandoning all semblance of human movement, racing upward on all fours, a desperate, mutated animal driven by a single, burning need. Death held no fear for him; the only true terror was the failure of his revenge.
While Chadnorma raced toward his target, Elder Maginos (Damaginos) was desperately fleeing.
He had reached the rear cabin of the massive transport plane, the aircraft—his final, grand means of escape—parked deep within the subterranean hangar. He was checking the final systems, his aged hands trembling with a mixture of excitement and fear.
"Nisha! Nisha! Hurry! We have to initiate launch procedures immediately!" he screamed into the empty cabin. His drone operator, R-variant and now destroyed, had been his last loyal protector.
The closure of the large, metal canopy overhead—a massive, reinforced defensive structure located on the takeoff platform—had begun. If that canopy closed, the aircraft could not achieve vertical take-off, sealing him within the Earth.
"How can this be? Who dares to close my way out?" Damaginos roared, his visage contorted with the fury of a tyrant whose final path to power was being barred.
"It is I, Father."
Nisha slowly emerged from the shadows of the cabin. She stood before him, calm and composed, her expression utterly impassive, her beautiful features betraying no hint of filial love or connection. She looked at him as if he were a complete stranger—an antique, dangerous object.
"Nisha?" Damaginos cried, his voice laced with disbelief and a rising panic. "Do you understand what you are doing? Are you mad? You are killing us both! We will both be sealed in and destroyed here!"
"Father, will you still refuse to acknowledge it?" Nisha ignored his frantic plea. Her lake-blue eyes darted around the cavernous platform, listening to the grinding metallic sound of the closing canopy. "Will you finally admit the totality of your crimes? The monstrous price of your obsession?"
"It is my divine right!" Damaginos spat, his voice regaining its venom, clinging to the only truth he knew.
"I am the master of this bloodline, the architect of my destiny. I have the right to claim what is mine, and you, my daughter, have no right to question my actions. I am the Supreme Ruler of the Vampires, the true inheritor of this Earth!"
"Perhaps," Nisha replied softly, taking a deliberate step to the side. She heard a rapid, scuttling sound echoing down the shaft—a sound of primal, desperate movement. "Then allow your son, my brother, to be the one to hear your explanation."
The moment she stepped aside, a figure launched from the high shadows of the elevator shaft, landing directly in front of Damaginos. The tremendous, ungraceful force of the landing shattered the hangar floor, sending up a massive cloud of dust and debris that instantly obscured everything.
As the dust slowly, agonizingly began to clear, Chadnorma's ecstatic, horrifying face became visible before the Elder. His eyes were wide, blurred white discs, and his features were permanently twisted by the viral trauma (zhengning—fierce and hideous). But beneath the grotesque distortion, there was an unmistakable joy.
"Father," Chadnorma whispered, his voice a dry, rasping sound, "I finally… finally found you."
Damaginos did not look upon his long-lost son with paternal affection. He recoiled, his aged body suddenly trembling, his frantic movements nearly causing him to stumble and fall. He stammered, frantically trying to weave a net of words to soothe the primal, burning rage in his son's heart.
"C-Chad? My son…" Damaginos began, his voice a painful whisper of feigned distress. "You must understand that what happened to you was a tragedy of the deepest order. It was an error—an unforgivable, momentary mistake that has caused me constant, agonizing sorrow ever since that day."
"Is that so, Father?" Chadnorma's wide, terrifying eyes fixed on him, a look of simple, heartbreaking need clouding his monstrous features.
Damaginos saw the flicker of vulnerability. He trembled, not with regret, but with the desperate will to survive. He reached out his hand, his fingers barely grazing his son's horrifyingly scarred face.
Chadnorma flinched away from the touch.
Damaginos did not relent. He pressed the verbal attack, offering the only currency his son still valued: belonging.
"Everything can still be salvaged, Chad. We are close to the precipice of success. Come back to my side, my son. You are still my blood, my heir, and I will restore your rightful place."
He finally managed to embrace his son, pulling the monstrous figure into his trembling arms. It was not the hug of a father, but the desperate, chilling embrace of a cornered snake.
"You will be the Prince of my Empire, the sole successor to my great dominion. Let us conquer this world together, as one," Damaginos whispered into his son's ear, the ancient words of manipulation laced with supreme, convincing sincerity.
At that, Chadnorma stopped trembling, his desperate yearning overriding the deep, viral rage. He returned the embrace, wrapping his powerful, mutated arms around his father.
The moment of confrontation had been neutralized, replaced by a temporary, treacherous alliance built on lies and a shared vision of world conquest.
But the massive metal canopy overhead had nearly completed its descent. The final click of the seal was seconds away. Zhou Yi was still minutes away, racing against the dawn.