The city of Mistglen was a contradiction carved into the frozen north. Encircled by endless, snow-choked forest, it stood as the last fortress of the Human Federation—half arcane citadel, half technological marvel. Fiber-optic cables ran beneath cobbled streets where glowing runes pulsed like veins. Towers of white steel clawed upward, crowned with wards that shimmered faintly against the eternal frost.

Above them all loomed a monolith of black stone: North Head Command. Its obsidian spire split the night sky, and at its peak, cold neon letters burned in electric blue.

On the 47th floor, the Strategic Overwatch Room simmered in the quiet monotony of the graveyard shift. A dozen screens cycled surveillance feeds from northern garrisons. The air reeked of stale coffee, the hum of cooling fans masking the fatigue of the few souls on duty. Their movements were slow, almost mechanical, keeping the rhythm of uneventful hours.

That rhythm shattered.

From a console in the far corner came a sound no one wanted to hear—sharp, jarring, and alien in the midnight calm. A heavy, black telephone rang. Above it, a blood-red cable disappeared into the ceiling. Stenciled across the wall in stark letters:

DANGER LINE – PRIORITY ONE.

The youngest recruit shot upright, nearly tripping over his chair. His heartbeat thrashed in his ears as he stumbled forward, grabbed the receiver, and pressed it to his ear before the second ring ended.

The room froze. No one dared breathe.

The boy's face drained white. His pupils widened as if staring into an abyss only he could hear. His hand trembled violently, the motion rattling down his arm until his coffee mug slipped and shattered on the mat without a sound.

"Kid?" Marcus, the shift supervisor, growled, voice rough from years of cigarettes and too many bad nights. "What's on the line? Speak!" His grizzled jaw clenched. Everyone in the room knew what that phone meant. A call there wasn't news—it was catastrophe.

The recruit swallowed hard. When he finally spoke, it was little more than a strangled whisper, yet it carved through the silence.

"B-Blood Fort… it's under attack."

The words detonated.

Chairs screeched against the floor. Voices rose in disbelief and dread. Blood Fort—the bastion on the Federation's northern edge, the wall against the abyss—under attack? It was unthinkable.

Then, a voice like breaking glass silenced them all.

"Enough."

Senior Officer Freddie, a veteran who had outlasted five northern campaigns, slammed his palm against the central console. His eyes, cold as iron, pinned the crew in place.

"Link all priority channels to Blood Fort's satellite. I want real-time feed. No rumors. No delays. If the frontier is burning, we'll see it with our own eyes."

The workers scrambled, fingers flying over keys, exhaustion burned away by raw fear.

One by one, the monitors flickered. Status reports bled into red warnings. Then came the satellite feed.

And the quiet night of Mistglen ended.

___________________

Four figures sat at the command table—men whose words could redirect armies and burn cities. Their faces, usually stone, reflected a rare fracture: disbelief.

Senior Officer Freddie leaned forward, his voice a blade drawn in silence.

"Is it connected?"

One of the operators, pale with strain, swallowed and nodded. "Yes, sir… Blood Fort command is online."

The officers straightened, bracing for the sight of their frontier marshals, expecting some grim but orderly report. Instead, the monitors bled with carnage.

The warp gate—a steel-and-sigil giant—lay in ruin, smoking pillars jutting into the night like broken bones. The snow-blackened ground was littered with twisted armor and corpses of Federation soldiers, their blood stark against the frost. The feed caught the sky, where rank 6 vampires hovered in dark formation, wings slicing the frozen air. Beyond them, the frontline boiled: tanks and fighter jets detonating one after another, their fire swallowed by endless swarms of vampires advancing like a tidal wave.

One officer spat out the only word that fit.

"Fuck."

The connection flickered, then steadied. A blood-smeared face came into focus—Marshal Chu Kuangren, commander of Blood Fort, his uniform torn, his aura still burning like a pyre. Behind him, chaos raged.

Freddie's knuckles whitened on the table. "Marshal Chu. Report."

Chu Kuangren's voice was hoarse but unyielding.

"As you can see," he gestured at the ruin behind him, "we are under attack. Blood Fort is compromised."

Another officer slammed his fist on the polished steel. "How the hell did this happen? What went wrong out there?"

The Marshal's eyes darkened, and when he spoke, the words struck like iron hammers.

"Yun Hao betrayed us."

A ripple of shock cracked across the room.

"He was with the vampires from the start," Chu continued, spitting blood to the side. "And he wasn't alone. Nearly a thousand men followed him—men we trusted. Four of them were Rank 6s. Together they tore open our defenses. One Rank 6 traitor fell, the others escaped. Yun Hao himself slipped through the chaos. But…" His voice hardened, iron under fire. "…the warp gate has been secured. It will activate soon. Reinforcements can still arrive."

Another officer's voice cracked. "What forces are we facing?"

Chu's jaw clenched. The next words dropped like stones into the silence.

"One Rank 8. Two Rank 7s. A legion of Rank 5s. And countless more below."

The officers exchanged a glance heavy enough to bend steel. This was no raid. It was an invasion.

Chu's face drew closer to the screen, his eyes burning despite the blood on his brow.

"We need reinforcements now. Hold nothing back. If Blood Fort falls, the North is open. The Federation will bleed before dawn."

The table went silent. Then Freddie, his voice steady, gave the only answer possible.

"You'll have them, Marshal. Every available division. Hold on until then."

The feed crackled, static cutting across Chu's battered silhouette, but his final words carried through, ragged and thunderous.

"We'll hold, or we'll die standing. Blood Fort will not fall quietly."

The screen blurred into chaos once more—screams, explosions, and the shadow of something vast blotting out the northern stars.

——————————

Chu Kuangren's video call cut, leaving only the faint static hum before the screen went black.

Ezra leaned back in his chair, watching the empty display with a small, flat smile that never reached his eyes. "Why so sentimental?" he asked, voice low, almost amused.

Chu's expression before the call ended still lingered in his mind—hard, carved out of iron and frost. The man's reply had been simple, but heavy. "Desperation speeds ghosts." His tone carried no warmth, only the kind of cold that came from marching through too many battlefields.

Then Chu's voice returned through the comm line, firm, cutting through the silence. "You're coming with me."

Ezra rubbed the bridge of his nose once, as if trying to ease away the weight pressing in. "Hmm," he murmured.

Chu continued without pause. "The vampires want to kill as many humans as they can. But if we cut their command fast, their formation will collapse. We have at most two hours before their vanguard breaks through our defenses." His words were sharp, each one precise, like orders carved into stone. "I will take my fifty elite soldiers—each peak Rank 6, and one a half-step Rank 7."

Ezra didn't flinch, but his eyes narrowed slightly.

Chu's voice turned colder, surgical. "Our mission is simple. Kill, or at least cripple, their command. Marcell. Alaric. Yun Hao. Take one of them down and the rest will scramble."

Ezra's gaze shifted, flicking over the list like a man reading names already signed to death warrants. "Will Professor Sergei accompany us?" he asked, his tone even.

Chu gave a small nod. "Yes. Our air and armor will suppress the front for two hours. Fighter sorties and tanks will keep their troops occupied. But the clock is short—the enemy has a Rank 8, two Rank 7s, and countless Rank 5s. No matter how strong our lines, they will break through sooner."

Ezra let out a breath, his mouth twisting into a faint smile of disbelief. "Then why bring me? I'm not that elite."

Chu's eyes didn't waver. He didn't bother with comfort. "You repelled a mid-Rank 6 without injury. By every measure, your fighting is peak Rank 6. I'm bringing you because you can be that edge. Don't argue."

From his coat, Chu pulled out a bracelet—iron-banded, etched with a faint sigil that glowed softly as it caught the light. He stepped closer and, with the efficiency of a man used to outfitting soldiers for war, fastened it around Ezra's wrist.

"If you get into danger," Chu said in a lower voice, almost private, "push a little mana into it. It will drag you to a safe point. This is my personal device. If the fight turns bad, it will pull you out of the field."

Ezra flexed his wrist, the iron cool against his skin. The sigil pulsed faintly, in rhythm with his heartbeat. He studied it for a moment before lifting his eyes to Chu. His voice was calm, steady. "Okay."

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