On the far side of the ruined city, Vampire Shaw stood atop a shattered cathedral tower.
His crimson cape billowed behind him.
Before him knelt hundreds of thousands of blood descendants—loyal, fanatical, eyes burning with hunger.
He raised his greatsword high.
"Tonight," he declared, voice echoing across the ruins, "we feast."
A roar answered him.
With a sharp swing of his blade, the army scattered like flowing water, melting into the broken streets and collapsed buildings. They would fight as hunters—using the terrain, striking from shadows, draining their enemies dry.
Then—
The sky darkened.
At first, they thought it was cloud cover.
But the "cloud" moved too fast.
And it roared.
Vampire Shaw narrowed his eyes.
Then his face went pale.
It wasn't a cloud.
It was an army.
An endless tide of figures flying through the sky.
Humans. Beasts. Machines. Things that defied simple classification.
Some soared on wings of their own.
Some rode strange artifacts that glowed with runic light.
Some walked on air as though stepping across solid ground.
Among them were Daoists in flowing robes, horsetail whisks in hand.
Monks seated upon lotus platforms.
Beast-mounted warriors.
Mechanical priests gleaming in steel and chrome.
Vampire Shaw swallowed.
"A cultivation world…?"
He had prepared for pirates. For superhumans.
Not this.
The first to arrive was an elderly Daoist.
He stood calmly in midair, robes fluttering.
"Demon," he said softly, flicking his whisk, "today, you shall not return."
With a wave of his sleeve—
Thousands of willow-leaf flying swords materialized.
Sleek. Metallic. Gleaming with killing intent.
"Go."
The swords fell like reversed starlight.
A silver rain.
They pierced buildings as if slicing tofu.
Concrete shattered.
Steel beams split.
Vampires were impaled mid-sprint, nailed to walls, pinned to the earth. Bodies riddled with holes writhed and screamed.
Yet they did not die immediately.
Bloodkin vitality was monstrous. Even decapitated torsos clawed forward.
But that only prolonged their suffering.
More swords fell.
Heads burst.
Limbs were shredded.
Blood soaked the streets like spilled wine.
A few high-level vampires transformed into swarms of bats or crows, attempting to flee skyward.
The swords hunted them down regardless.
Shrunken forms hiding behind rubble were skewered through both stone and flesh alike.
The Daoist stroked his beard lightly.
"My Thousand-Leaf Sword Array improves by the day."
A booming laugh followed.
"Leave some for this humble monk!"
A fat, kind-faced monk descended from above.
He opened his eyes.
Golden light erupted.
In a breath, he transformed into a four-armed, three-eyed Vajra.
He crashed into the earth like a meteor.
The ground split.
With one stomp, dozens of wounded vampires were crushed into pulp.
Four enormous Buddhist treasures manifested in his hands—vajra pestles and wheels of radiant force.
He swung them casually.
Buildings collapsed.
Bloodlines snapped like dry twigs.
The third eye on his forehead opened fully—
A beam of golden light lanced outward, vaporizing fleeing figures across entire streets.
Behind them, cultivators surged forward.
Five-element spells intertwined—firestorms, earthen spears, torrents of ice, metallic blades.
They fought fiercely, each hoping to draw the Dao Ancestor's notice and earn deeper inheritance.
And then came the chants.
"Praise the Omnissiah."
"Glory to the Machine God."
The Mechanicus advanced.
Their bodies were almost entirely mechanical.
Cold.
Precise.
Merciless.
Laser arrays sliced across rooftops.
Heavy artillery thundered.
Shells screamed through the air before detonating in pillars of flame.
Biochemical gases spread through underground tunnels.
Chainswords roared, carving through limbs and torsos alike.
Silver-plated bolters spat miniature rockets that turned bloodkin into ash on impact.
The vampires didn't even understand what hit them.
They hid in basements.
They concealed themselves in shadows.
They clung to ceilings.
It didn't matter.
Thermal imaging.
Radar mapping.
Target acquisition algorithms.
Every hiding place was exposed.
To the Mechanicus, their stealth was childlike.
Cold weapons met orbital-level firepower.
Medieval instincts faced post-industrial annihilation.
The disparity wasn't just strength.
It was civilization itself.
And from the sky above, Sebastian watched lazily from his seat.
The battle wasn't a war.
It was a correction.
A one-sided crushing.
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