Kennan clutched his briefcase—the last tangible anchor of his ambition—his face a mask of primal, unsophisticated terror. Trailing him was Josh, Blade's erstwhile assistant, equally frantic but driven by a different kind of desperation.
They had morphed, in the space of a single, catastrophic night, from cogs in an ascendant empire into stray, hunted dogs. The destruction of Damaschinos's millennium-spanning operation—an event no one in the lower echelons had dared imagine—had shattered the very foundation of their world.
They were in a battered minivan, which Josh now piloted with the reckless abandon of a seasoned street racer, turning the cumbersome vehicle into a screaming, metal projectile aimed at the dark horizon.
Yet, even as the vehicle rocketed away from the smoking ruins of the subterranean base, their panic showed no signs of abating. The scent of failure and the inevitability of retribution were thick in the air, a spiritual stench far more oppressive than the burning ozone of the destroyed infrastructure.
Josh, the consummate undercover agent, was unraveling. He was a spy planted directly into Blade's inner sanctum by the Maginos line. His role—the relentless, convincing façade of a simple man, perpetually hunted by the wrong kind of vampires—had been meticulously crafted.
It was a maneuver so brilliant and brutal that it had even fooled Blade, the ultimate judge of treachery. Josh's primary, agonizing objective had been to lead the vampires to Whistler, exploiting their captive's unique knowledge and trust to finally corner the Daywalker.
Whistler, without Josh's subtle guidance, would have been an untouchable ghost. The execution of this final plan was meant to herald the Maginos's absolute victory.
Instead, Damaschinos was dust. The vast, secretive empire was a pile of smoldering wreckage. And Josh's identity, his meticulously constructed double life, was now fully exposed, rendered worthless. He had failed the Elder and, worse, had made a lifelong, implacable enemy of the one person capable of ending him.
The terrifying realization that someone as intelligent and ruthlessly discerning as Blade might have been playing him all along, simply waiting for the moment of maximum strategic exposure, drove him to the brink of a complete breakdown.
He had initially pursued Kennan out of pure, desperate opportunism. The head researcher was a valuable asset, and Josh's original, ill-conceived plan was to use him as a bargaining chip—a final, desperate attempt to reclaim relevance. Now, as the speedometer needle quivered near its limit, Josh's motivation had devolved into simple survival and terror.
Kennan, however, was in a process of rapid mental triage. He urged Josh to accelerate, watching the factory approach and then vanish behind them. He touched the briefcase resting on his lap—a secure, hardened container that represented not just data, but his entire future. Kennan was a true top-tier geneticist, a brilliant mind for hire.
The loss of his vampire master, though inconvenient, was merely a change in clientele. It would not, Kennan was certain, derail the comfortable, ethically compromised life he had established.
But Kennan's service to Damaginos was never about mere comfort or wealth, both of which he possessed in excess. What he truly desired was immortality. Like the vampires he served, he yearned for centuries of perpetual youth and vitality.
The vampire's inherent flaws—the lethal vulnerabilities to sun and silver—were, to him, merely engineering problems. He was convinced that, armed with the right biological information, he could synthesize a non-fatal, human-compatible version of the vampire template.
The briefcase contained the sum total of all the genetic data he had collected during his years as Damaschinos's chief researcher, including the full sequence and adaptation metrics of the deadly R-variant virus.
This data was his ticket to rebirth. With it, he could swiftly re-establish his research under the patronage of another, more discreet European vampire family, finally realizing his dreams of eternal life.
A sinister glance fell upon the oblivious Josh. Kennan did not tolerate being threatened, especially by a vulgar, low-grade scoundrel he considered intellectually inferior to the lowest test subject. Josh was a liability, a magnet for the true hunter.
Josh, oblivious to the calculating malice emanating from his passenger, was a man of the lowest social stratum, ruthless in small ways but utterly lacking in the cold, cunning complexity of intrigue. He was trembling, pulling ragged smoke from a cigarette, obediently pressing the accelerator.
"Hey man, where exactly are we going?" Josh asked, violating the cardinal rule of panic: silence. "There's no place in New York City that Blade can't eventually find, especially if that Dawn Knight is involved now."
"Shut up and focus on the road," Kennan snapped, his voice sharp and dismissive. He was already calculating trajectories, connections, and the best way to leverage the chaos to his maximal gain.
"I can be quiet, sure," Josh muttered, his desperation overriding his obedience. "But man, you gotta tell me the destination first. My life is kind of riding on this."
"The airport!" Kennan announced, simultaneously reaching out. A hand, encased in a pitch-black, leather glove, descended over Josh's shoulder.
"Dude, I think you should pull over. Your ride is officially canceled."
Josh's eyes shot to the rearview mirror. He saw Blade sitting in the backseat—silent, immaculate, and utterly terrifying . The two panicked men had been so blinded by their own fear that they hadn't noticed the Daywalker lying prone and waiting on the back seat when they first entered the vehicle.
A rush of cold, white fear flooded Kennan. He had no personal vendetta against Blade; his true nemesis was the Knight who cared nothing for worldly law. Josh, the traitor, was the lightning rod for Blade's personal hatred. Kennan tried to open his door and roll out, but he was too late.
Before Josh could even articulate a startled word, an irresistible, non-physical force slammed into the passenger side of the minivan.
Josh saw a dark shadow flash past the window, and then, inexplicably, Kennan was gone. The passenger door remained, but it was now torn, violently crumpled, and deformed beyond any recognition, its hinges weeping metal shards.
Josh instinctively swallowed, his mind reeling. He started to stammer a question at the rearview mirror, but Blade's voice—low, gravelly, and saturated with personal contempt—cut him short.
"Don't worry about the scientist, Josh. He just went to settle his scores with the cosmos. What you should be worrying about now is exactly how I intend to settle mine with you."
Kennan screamed, a pathetic, high-pitched sound instantly swallowed by the city's roar and the sheer distance. A powerful, unseen force—the psychic grip of the Knight—pulled him upward with breathtaking velocity.
The intense, terrifying feeling of weightlessness and acceleration sent him into a profound, stomach-churning panic. He watched the highway lights of New York City recede into glittering pinpricks, his eyes squeezed shut, his body flailing wildly.
Yet, even in his terror, he clung to the briefcase in his arms—the document of his dream—with steady, absolute resolve.
The immediate sense of freefall vanished, replaced by the chilling suspension of great height. He was floating, held aloft by sheer will. Cautiously, Kennan cracked open his eyes.
He saw the figure that was holding him: the black-armored, psychically shielded Dawn Knight , his immense frame silhouetted against the pre-dawn glow of the stratosphere.
The Dawn Knight! A rush of relief, astonishingly misplaced, washed over Kennan. Unlike the ruthless, unpredictable Blade, the Dawn Knight was a virtuous hero to the public, a champion of moral values and strict adherence to the law.
He had fought crime for years, yet had never personally executed a single human being. Faced with a known upholder of the rules, a man of assumed moral constraint, Kennan felt he could reason, bargain, and litigate his way out of this predicament.
"It seems you are not afraid of me," Zhou Yi's voice cut through the whistling wind—cold, synthesized, and utterly devoid of emotion.
The shrewd man began his impressive, lawyerly defense. "Why should I fear you, sir? You are the messenger of justice, the protector of the innocent, the very upholder of the law," Kennan argued, leaning into his only defense.
"I am merely an employee. My former employer may have been a criminal, but that is his affair, not mine. Legally speaking, I haven't even committed a crime that carries a death penalty, nor have I stood trial. What justifiable reason could you possibly have for harming a law-abiding human being?"
Zhou Yi inclined his head slightly, his black helmet reflecting a cold, indifferent glint of the distant sunrise. The question hanging in the air was a challenge to Kennan's entire worldview: Do you truly believe the laws of man can shield you from the consequences of abetting genocide?
"No, no, no!" Kennan rapidly shook his head, sensing the philosophical shift. "I never doubted your courage, Knight. But I rely on your adherence to the code. I am still a human being, a man who has never even evaded his taxes. Someone like me would never assume that you, the noble hero, could possibly have any moral justification to harm me."
"You do enjoy your persuasive talking points," Zhou Yi observed after a chilling moment of silence.
"I possess no personal stake in your life or death; your fate remains entirely in your own hands. I only require honest answers to a few questions. Answer truthfully, and I will not hesitate to let you go."
"It is a lawyer's professional ethic to be articulate," Kennan gasped, his relief almost palpable. His life, he felt, had been saved by the Knight's reputation. "Ask me anything you like, and I will tell the absolute truth, in the name of the law."
Zhou Yi felt a profound, weary contempt for the man's final, desperate attempt to weaponize social contracts against universal justice. He focused his mind, his cold voice cutting through the atmosphere.
"How valuable is the law in the eyes of men who enable the end of humanity?" Zhou Yi paused, dismissing the thought.
"Let us discuss the experiments. Your records show that your work on the R-variant was stalled for years, then suddenly achieved a massive breakthrough. Do not insult my intelligence by claiming a solitary, brilliant idea. I have researched your credentials. You are not an innovator. Such results, achieved in such a timeframe, demand outside intervention."
Kennan's face flushed beneath the Knight's cold, irrefutable analysis. To have his most prized professional achievement dismissed as derivative ignited a brief flicker of rage, but he quickly suppressed it. Between life and professional pride, he chose life.
A faint, bitter expression of despair crossed his face. Zhou Yi's conclusion was not wrong. His breakthrough was indeed bought, not earned.
"That is… true," Kennan admitted, his voice barely a tremor in the wind.
"It involves an ancient, never-before-discovered virus. Maginos obtained this pathogen from his allies in Europe and introduced it into the project. It possesses an incredible potency. While it proved incompatible with the pure vampire genome, our research quickly utilized its properties to accelerate the R-variant project."
"Who are the allies who provided this virus?" Zhou Yi interrupted, his voice sharpening, having found the final thread of the conspiracy.
Kennan's eyes darted frantically between the black armor and the briefcase. This is my leverage. The name is my currency.
"All I know is that they are a powerful, old family of vampires residing in England," Kennan stammered, consciously omitting the family's specific name. "That is the absolute limit of my knowledge, I swear to you. I have no other details."
Zhou Yi ran a swift, deep physiological scan. The slight increase in brainwave amplitude confirmed the lie—Kennan knew the name—but the core data about the English origin was verifiably true. The origin of the plague was identified. The full truth was not necessary.
Zhou Yi simply nodded, accepting the answer as sufficient for his purpose. He turned silently, his psychic field retracting.
Only Kennan remained floating in the terrifying, black void. The moment Zhou Yi's telekinetic support vanished, Kennan's body was seized by the cold, overwhelming force of Earth's gravity, plunging him into freefall at tremendous, accelerating speed .
At an altitude of over 14,000 feet, with the concrete ribbons of the open highway below, Kennan had no chance of survival by any metric.
He screamed—a mixture of curses, desperate pleas, and threats against the Knight's reputation—but none of it mattered to the figure who had just departed. Kennan's life was measured in a few, final seconds, during which all his earthly anxieties, ambitions, and pretensions about the law became utterly meaningless.
Kennan's body struck the highway with the sickening, explosive force of a dropped tomato, his blood and fluids splattering across the asphalt. Even in his final, gruesome death, the man was clutching the precious, dented briefcase—a symbol of his pitiful, failed ambition for immortality.
Zhou Yi descended swiftly, creating a small, localized burst of flame over the impact site to incinerate the remains and any lingering biological contamination, ensuring a clean, final end.
He then flew toward the designated rendezvous. He and Blade had executed their plan perfectly, and now, Zhou Yi, utterly drained of energy, desperately needed to recharge and repair.
Blade has been absorbing a good amount of blood and got finally healed. Days later, he returned to the secure safehouse —his face grim, his focus absolute. The events of the last few nights, while victorious, had been logistically brutal. Josh's treachery, though exposed, still complicated matters.
With Whistler aging and needing more specialized medical attention, the constant maintenance of their critical infrastructure, particularly their customized transportation, had become a significant, time-consuming burden.
Blade's equipment was formidable, but Whistler's unique genius was required for the constant retrofitting and upgrades necessary to keep pace with the supernatural threats. It was an ongoing, consuming project.
But today, the routine was broken. Blade found Whistler outside, sitting on a weathered crate, a rare cigarette dangling from his lip, bathed in the afternoon sun. He looked relaxed, almost smug.
When he saw Blade approach, Whistler winked, a dry, knowing gesture.
"Looks like you got a gift, big shot," Whistler drawled, tapping the ash from his smoke. "A friend sent it. I think you might actually like this one."
Blade paused, his dark glasses obscuring a flicker of surprise. "A… friend?" he repeated, the word tasting alien on his tongue.
"Yeah, don't worry, I checked the serial numbers and the molecular composition," Whistler assured him, waving his hand dismissively.
"No nanotech explosives, no psychic resonance, and no hidden cameras. I think the guy's legitimately alright, by whatever strange metric he uses." Whistler jerked his thumb toward a cleared area adjacent to the warehouse.
Blade, momentarily startled by Whistler's unusually playful tone, followed the instruction. He stopped before a massive, unmarked shipping container, the size of a small building.
Whistler was the only person he trusted absolutely, so Blade didn't hesitate. He pulled the heavy locking bar and slid the massive door open.
Inside, bathed in the sudden light, were six military-grade Humvees. They were brand-new, customized with heavily armored plating, reinforced suspensions, and multiple non-lethal deterrent systems—the perfect, durable, and utterly reliable transport vehicles that Whistler had been trying to procure for years.
Their hard, muscular lines looked particularly imposing and clean in the sunlight. It was a gift of immense, practical value.
Blade shrugged, the gesture oddly complex. He didn't close the door immediately. He looked past the expensive machinery and up into the sky.
Far above, a black figure slowly rose higher, a dark speck performing a vast, silent circle before vanishing into the upper atmosphere, undoubtedly re-energizing his exhausted armor with the full power of the sun. The Knight was recharging, preparing for the next inevitable confrontation.
A strange, slight smile—a subtle shift in the tightly controlled muscles of his jaw—appeared on Blade's face.
"Well done, buddy," he murmured, the word echoing softly in the metallic cavern of the container. The unspoken alliance, forged in blood, smoke, and psychic fire, had been sealed with a gift of war.