The vampire soldier didn't spare Raphael a second glance. He bolted forward, his right hand curling into a piston-tight fist as arcs of thundering blood magic snaked across his knuckles.
Raphael, sensing the sheer, atmospheric pressure of the clash that was about to ensue, didn't wait to see the impact. He hoisted Darion and Jay onto his shoulders, their dead weight a grueling anchor, and lunged toward the gates. He hadn't made it halfway across the gravel when the world behind him detonated.
The soldier collided with the invisible stalker in the center of the compound. Blood lightning hissed through the air, snaking across the ground and carving jagged trenches into the stone as the soldier threw his weight against the unseen force. Without yielding an inch, the soldier geared his second fist back, coating it in a thick, pulsating aura of crimson ether before driving it into what appeared to be empty air—the creature's head.
The blow thundered through the estate. A high-pitched, metallic screech tore through the courtyard, followed by the sharp whistle of displaced air. The soldier moved with a predator's grace, twisting his body in a fluid arc to evade a frantic, invisible counter-swipe before delivering a punishing follow-up.
The impact was cataclysmic. The invisible creature was sent hurtling backward, its momentum so great that it punched a massive hole through the estate's reinforced stone wall, disappearing into a cloud of masonry dust.
Raphael groaned, pushing himself up from the dirt. The shockwave of the collision had tossed him like a ragdoll. He had burned through his replenished blood magic to throw up a desperate shield, catching the stray sparks of lightning that would have otherwise charred him and his brothers to ash. Even through the shield, his arms vibrated with a numbing ache.
How can stray sparks carry that much power? he thought, his lungs burning.
His chest tightened—a warning sign of overexertion. He glanced back at the manor, the siren song of the bioluminescent blood calling to him, but the sounds of the beast thrashing inside the ruins silenced the thought. There was no going back. He hauled his brothers up once more, his muscles screaming in protest, and forced his legs into a dead sprint. He didn't stop until the Abyssal Gang's base was nothing but a dark silhouette against the horizon.
Back inside the shattered estate, the vampire soldier stepped through the debris, his eyes narrowed and fixated on the wreckage. With a flare of his irises, the crimson glow intensified into a blinding light. He reached into the air, and a jagged blade of solidified blood materialized in his hand.
He swung.
The edge collided with a black, curved appendage that dripped with the viscid, half-digested remains of previous victims. Under the weight of the soldier's intent, the creature's camouflage flickered and died, revealing the nightmare that had dismantled the gang.
It was a monstrosity of rigid, obsidian plates. Six spindly, insectoid legs supported a torso dominated by two scythe-like arms. Where a face should have been, there was only a long, ribbed sucker and eyes that looked like twin pools of stagnant ink. Through its feeding tube, it let out a violent, vibrating screech, struggling against the soldier's blood-sword.
The soldier didn't blink. He conjured a second blade in his free hand, driving it toward the creature's thorax. The beast scurried backward with unnatural speed, but it had underestimated its opponent. As it retreated, the soldier was already there—a blur of red and steel.
The first blade came down in a whistling arc, slicing clean through one of the creature's dark eyes before burying itself deep into the skull. Black ichor sprayed across the floor as the creature collapsed, its body convulsing in a rhythmic, pathetic thud.
The soldier looked down at the carcass with a curl of his lip. With two clinical strokes, he severed the creature's legs and cleaved its torso in half, ensuring the twitching finally stopped. He dissipated his blades, the blood misting back into the air.
"Stupid things," he muttered, shaking his head.
These Shadow-Stalkers are popping up across the Kingdom with alarming frequency. Not even the high spires of Dragon City are immune to their infestations. His shoulders slumped as he let out a sigh. The specimen that had invaded this backwater was pathetic compared to the titans I'd hunted in the capital. A flash of resentment suddenly crossed his face. Why did Sylvia waste my time sending me here?
He walked back out to the center of the compound, surveying the carnage. The yard was a graveyard of husks—vampires he presumed to be members of the local gang, now nothing more than shriveled leather after the creature had drained their essence.
"Weak," he spat. "All of them. To think they let a single drone wipe them out."
He paused, remembering the one who had escaped—the boy clutching his comrades with that pathetic look of terror and hope. A dark chuckle escaped his throat. To the vampires of a gutter-town like Fluxton, survival was probably considered a grand victory.
He turned toward the gates, adjusting his collar as he strolled out of the ruins. My work here is done. Though the scouts had reported a similar disturbance in Repdin, as well.
With a predatory stride, the soldier set his sights on the Western horizon, leaving the ghosts of Fluxton behind.
The distance between Fluxton and Rapdin was a blur of shifting shadows and displaced air. To the vampire soldier, the terrain was a mere set of obstacles to be overcome by the sheer, violent grace of his superior speed. He moved like a predatory gale, his boots barely kissing the cracked earth before he was yards ahead, leaving only a wake of disturbed dust.
The border of Rapdin was a stark departure from the familiar, jagged lines of the Wilson frontier. It felt heavier, the air thick with a cloying, metallic tang that clung to the back of the throat. As he crossed the threshold into the town proper, the soldier slowed, his eyes narrowing at the vista of ruin.
Rapdin had not just been attacked; it had been colonised by decay. It was a mirror image of Fluxton's misery, perhaps even amplified. Poorly-constructed hovels leaned against one another like drunken skeletons, their timber rotting in real-time. Piles of filth—a mixture of household refuse and shredded clothing—littered the thoroughfares. But it was the bodies that drew his focus: the remains of half-eaten vampires, their pale flesh torn asunder by something with ravenous, imprecise teeth. The stench was a physical blow, making his nostrils twitch in a reflex of pure disgust.
Deep in the heart of this urban graveyard, life flickered—frail, pathetic, and desperate. He saw them in the shadows: vampires so gaunt their skin stretched translucent over bone, trembling in the wake of his presence. But as he drew closer, the reality of the situation shifted.
A man and a woman erupted from a nearby alleyway, their faces masks of primal terror. They weren't running from him; they were running from the void behind them. Suddenly, the man was hoisted upward, his feet dangling three feet off the ground as if gripped by a giant's hand. An invisible force crushed his ribcage with a sickening crunch. A scream started to escape his lips, only to be stifled by a sudden geyser of blood that clogged his throat.
The soldier didn't wait for the invisible predator to finish its meal. With a thought, he summoned his **blood sword**, the crimson blade coiling into existence with a low, hum of power. He charged, a streak of midnight and steel, aiming for the space where the air shimmered with the heat of a hidden killer.
Back in the abandoned reaches of Wilson—the scorched earth that once belonged to the Devil's Flames—Raphael finally reached his limit. The adrenaline that had fueled his flight evaporated, leaving only the crushing weight of exhaustion. He let the unconscious bodies of Darion and Jay slide from his shoulders, their dead weight hitting the dirt with a dull thud.
Raphael fell to his knees, his chest heaving as he fought for oxygen that didn't seem to satisfy his lungs. He clenched his chest, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Every vein burned; he was spiritually and physically hollowed out.
"Damn it," he hissed, his voice a ragged shadow of itself.
He looked around, and the realization hit him like a physical blow. He had run past the safety of Fluxton. He was in Wilson—enemy territory, a place of ghosts and bitter memories. As his vision began to sway, he thought of the Moonlight Army soldier who had stood between them and certain death. He wondered if he should go back, or if there was even a home left to return to. Before the thought could form, the world tilted, and Raphael collapsed into the dark.
When Raphael's eyes finally flickered open, he expected pain. Instead, he felt a strange, cooling vitality rushing through his limbs. The ache in his chest was gone, replaced by a hum of energy as if he had just partaken in a feast of bioluminescent blood.
He sat up, confused. He was still in Wilson, and his brothers were still beside him, but the math didn't add up. *When had he fed?* The memory was a blank space, yet the physical evidence of his recovery was undeniable.
A groan from his left broke his reverie. Darion was tossing and turning, his eyes fluttering open to meet Raphael's shocked gaze.
"What... what happened?" Darion croaked, his voice thick with the haze of unconsciousness.
"Easy," Raphael said, reaching out to steady him. He took a long, shaky breath. "We're in Wilson. I got us out after that... that *thing* hit the base. One of the Moonlight Army soldiers stepped in. If he hadn't, we'd be like the others."
Darion's expression softened into a grim sort of nostalgia. He remembered the last time the Moonlight Army had appeared—back when the Shadow Fiends had turned their world into a slaughterhouse. He let out a long sigh, looking toward Jay, who remained stubbornly unconscious.
"We need to go back to Fluxton," Raphael said, running a hand through his matted hair. "The threat should be gone by now. But I don't know what's left, Darion. The Abyssal Gang... everyone is dead. Killed by an enemy they couldn't even see."
The weight of leadership, of being the last one standing, seemed to bow Raphael's shoulders. But then, he felt a firm hand on his arm. He looked up, surprised by the resolve in Darion's eyes.
"Don't do this to yourself, Raph," Darion said quietly. "We couldn't handle that thing. No one could. But look—we're still alive. The Abyssal Gang might be gone, but the Night brothers aren't. We'll find a way. With or without a throne."
Raphael stared at his brother for a long moment, the tension slowly draining out of him. He let out one last sigh—not of defeat, but of acceptance.
"You're right," Raphael said, finding his feet. "Pick up Jay. Let's get home."
As they turned their backs on the hollow ruins of Wilson and began the long trek toward the horizon, Raphael felt a sliver of grim hope. Fluxton might be a graveyard, but it was their graveyard, and any shadow of home was better than the emptiness of Wilson.