The evening refuses to darken as the war begins to lighten.
Claws scraped against each other, fangs sought victims, and the battle for life or death raged on. Flags, ripped and burned, hung sadly from broken sticks. The ground shook under the fighting feet, turning soft grass into trampled mud. On one side stood The Feral Bloodline, vampires who eat animal blood and seek peace, but must fight for it. On the other hand, The Blackthorn Dominion, a ruthless faction aiming to control both vampires and humans, dressed in tattered cloaks and rusted armor. Their eyes burned with madness, their mouths smeared crimson, and their ambition knew no mercy—dominance over vampires and humans alike.
Then—chaos.
Vampires moved faster than mortal eyes could follow, blurring into the night with inhuman grace. Claws raked across flesh that instantly tried to heal, only to be torn again. Screams echoed like music through the scorched forest surrounding them.
Moment of pause.
The roar of engines cut through the night like thunder, announcing a new force tearing into the battlefield. Vampire slayers, a rebel group dressed in leather and silver, sped in on motorcycles like fast war horses. Armed with guns, silver arrows, bombs, and bottles of holy water, they were ready to wipe out vampires, not themselves.
Shouts echoed through the noise as holy water grenades flew through the air, bursting with bright flashes. Bullets zipped by like streaks of light, and arrows cut through the sky with sharp accuracy. But the vampires moved too fast to follow, their shapes flickering in and out of view like shadows. Most attacks missed—hitting one was more luck than skill.
The slayers brought chaos with them, and now a three-sided war raged beneath the torn banners and blackened skies.
"Retreat!" shouted King Armand Feral, leader of the Feral Bloodline. At his command, his clan darted away, vanishing into the smoke with inhuman speed as they fled the growing chaos. But the Blackthorn Dominion held their ground, turning toward the human attackers with bloodlust in their eyes, ready to fight to the last breath.
"My first battle will be my last... This isn't the life I wanted," Drake muttered, his voice shaking as fear rooted him in place, unable to think or move.
Drake was a new vampire slayer, and he was often bullied by the others because of how weak and inexperienced he was. He lacked the size, the strength, and the confidence the others carried, and it didn't take long for them to single him out. The older slayers made fun of him, pushed him around in training, and called him a liability. No matter how hard he tried, he was always one step behind, always the last to be picked, and always reminded that he didn't belong. But now, out here on the battlefield, none of that mattered. There was no one to protect him—only blood, fear, and the will to survive.
Drake, clumsy with the gun, fired wildly, desperate to live through the war. His shaky hands somehow managed to kill three vampires. Then, out of the chaos, one vampire caught his attention. It moved toward him, claws extended, ready to strike. Panicking, Drake turned and ran as fast as he could, but the vampire was faster. He didn't realize he'd reached the edge. A cliff. The vampire was closing in, and his only choices were to be killed by it or to jump and die quickly. There was no escape. Death was the only certainty at that moment.
He fought back, firing his gun, throwing punches, and kicking, but the vampire moved like lightning. Every move he made felt like it was turned against him. He was getting badly hurt. Just one bullet remained. He fired, hitting the vampire in the shoulder. Then, darkness pulled him down as he fell. A woman suddenly appeared, and the vampire vanished. She knelt beside him, but he had lost too much blood and passed out.