Inside the abandoned hangar, a thumb-sized device embedded flush against the ceiling flickered red for a split second before dimming again. The color matched the rust-stained steel so perfectly it was invisible to the naked eye. On Locke's tactical tablet, however, the feed was crystal clear.
Boom.
Blade was sent flying again, his body smashing into the hangar wall hard enough to rattle loose dust from the rafters. He slid down and hit the ground, breathing heavy.
After Locke left, the fight had shifted completely. With Dickon stepping in personally, Blade was now facing two opponents. On the surface, it looked like a one-sided execution.
Locke wasn't worried.
Frost's plan relied on killing with a borrowed knife. If the knife broke, there would be nothing left to use. Blade couldn't die—not yet.
Disabled?
That was possible.
On screen, Blade coughed and spat blood onto the concrete. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and stood again, a grin tugging at his lips despite the bruises spreading across his face.
"Dickon," Blade said, voice rough but steady, "wasn't easy tracking you down."
Frost's expression was faintly amused, almost delicate. He regarded Blade the way someone might look at an insect.
"You killed so many of my people just to find me," Frost said softly. "And now I'm here. Unfortunately for you, this ends badly."
Blade twirled one sword and settled into stance. "Won't know until we try."
"Master, let me handle him," Quinn interjected quickly. His hands were scorched nearly to the bone, faint smoke still rising from the silver burns. "Don't dirty yourself."
Frost's eyes shifted downward.
"Get out," he said flatly. "Useless trash."
Quinn's body trembled under the weight of that look. He lowered his head at once. "Yes."
Frost stepped forward alone.
"Come."
Steel rang.
Blade lunged.
Outside, Brown watched the tablet screen with growing unease. "Locke," he said carefully, "if we don't go in, he's going to get beaten to death."
On screen, Blade looked like a punching bag.
Locke didn't lift his eyes. "He won't die."
Ordinary people had their ways of fighting.
Extraordinary creatures had theirs.
Watching a high-level vampire fight at full force was a rare opportunity. Locke's mind absorbed every movement, every shift in weight, every burst of speed. The first rule of his family: strike first or suffer later. The second: learn for as long as you live.
His memory had always been sharp. After transmigration—and enhancements—it bordered on photographic.
Blade's safety was secondary.
Blade was a hybrid. Unless his head was destroyed outright, he wouldn't die. Severe injury would only make suppressing the vampire half harder afterward. He might inch closer to losing control completely.
That wasn't Locke's concern.
On screen, Frost was now fighting without restraint. Every strike carried lethal precision, yet he subtly avoided killing blows. He was beating Blade savagely, but not finishing him.
Because Blade needed to escape.
That was the script.
But what if Blade refused to run?
Blade knew the script too.
Look at him.
He was battered, bleeding, clothes shredded into rags. His glasses had been crushed under Frost's boot earlier. Yet he didn't retreat. If anything, he was getting sharper, adapting mid-fight.
"Sizzle!"
"Bang!"
Blade found an opening. His right sword drove forward, silver edge slicing into Frost's abdomen before Frost reacted. The blade sank in, and smoke curled from the wound.
Frost's expression turned instantly cold.
With a violent backhand, he shattered Blade's sword and slammed him away again.
Frost glanced down at the smoking puncture in his abdomen. The flesh knit slowly, but the pain was obvious. Silver didn't kill him.
It hurt.
Badly.
But beneath the anger was confusion.
Why aren't you running?
Blade dragged himself upright again, breathing hard. His uniform hung in tatters, chest rising and falling unevenly. Yet he grinned.
Frost's eyes narrowed.
"It seems," Frost said slowly, voice dropping, "you really aren't afraid of death."
Blade spat blood at his feet. "Can you kill me?"
Frost laughed.
It wasn't amused laughter.
It was fury.
"I can't kill you?" Frost repeated.
His eyes turned scarlet.
"Then let's see."
Outside, Locke's eyebrows lifted slightly.
He looked at the tablet one last time, then tossed it to one of Brown's men.
"Time to move," he said calmly.
If they waited any longer, Frost might actually lose control and ruin everything.
The script didn't matter.
But Blade did.
Blade was the protagonist of both versions.
He couldn't die here.
Locke grabbed the assault rifle from Brown's hands. It was already loaded with ultraviolet rounds. He checked the chamber smoothly, slipped on protective tactical goggles, and gave Brown a short nod.
Brown responded instantly.
His hand sliced downward.
"Move!"
Five modified Ford SUVs roared to life from the darkness. Engines howled as they surged forward toward the hangar half a kilometer away. Mounted atop each vehicle were large ultraviolet searchlights, industrial-grade and specially tuned.
In seconds, they reached position.
"Boom!"
The searchlights ignited.
Blinding violet-white beams blasted across the abandoned hangar from five angles, overlapping into a near-total enclosure. There were almost no blind spots. The radiation intensity spiked instantly, saturating the structure.
Inside, Quinn heard the engines first.
He turned toward the entrance.
Then the light hit.
His pupils shrank violently as ultraviolet beams flooded the hangar. The air itself seemed to burn.
Quinn's scream tore through the structure as his exposed skin began to blister under the radiation.
...
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