Battlecruiser – Reuel's Command Room
Reuel stood tall before a large holographic projection displaying Kraven's activity from the perspective of a recon servo-skull. Its glowing red mechanical eyes captured every movement with clinical precision, streaming the footage live into the main command room.
Just as he was observing something—whether a strategy or merely waiting for Kraven to step into a trap—a voice came through the internal comms system.
"Lord Emperor, we've received a call from Alexander Corvinus. Should we connect it now?"
The comms officer's voice was formal and swift.
"Yes. Patch it through immediately," Reuel answered, not shifting his gaze from the screen.
"Understood, Lord Emperor. Connection established."
The room fell silent for a moment before a soft hum filled the air. A pale blue hologram slowly lit up in the center of the chamber, projecting the figure of a man—aged, yet standing tall, an aura of immortality radiating powerfully from him. Alexander Corvinus.
"Lord Reuel. I am Alexander Corvinus," he said flatly, his voice filled with authority.
"My respects, Lord Corvinus," Reuel replied, his tone calm and controlled. "I doubt there's anything I can offer you today... but I assume this isn't just a courtesy call, is it?"
Alexander stared at him with a piercing gaze.
"Lord Reuel, I've fulfilled my part of the agreement. Three times I have given you my blood. Now, I'm here to collect on your end."
Reuel folded his arms across his chest—unshaken, but intrigued.
"Go on," he said.
"My son, Marcus, is currently being held in a military facility run by the Hungarian government. I cannot intervene directly without triggering an open war. But you... you can breach them. I'm asking you to handle the obstacles—the troops, the defense systems, and everything else. My Cleaners will take care of Marcus' extraction. As for the rest... I expect you to handle it."
Reuel paused for a moment, then gave a small nod as he replied.
"Very well. I'll fulfill my part of the bargain," he said, flat but firm. "But since this will involve direct contact with human military forces, I want one more blood sample. This time... send it ahead of the original schedule."
Alexander didn't flinch.
"That can be arranged," he responded quickly. "The priority is Marcus' safety. The target's location is within your operational range. You can begin tonight."
Reuel nodded again.
"The Hungarian military will be my concern. So, when will you deploy your team?"
Alexander raised his chin slightly, his expression unmoved.
"We move tonight."
"Then... I'll see you on the battlefield," Reuel concluded.
A few seconds later, the connection cut off. Alexander's hologram vanished with a soft static hiss, leaving the room in dim silence, broken only by the hum of cooling systems and the glow of control panels.
Reuel turned to his command crew.
"Major Hellsker, prepare Chris Redfield's Battalion. We move tonight. Contact Mira Han—tell her the time has come. Earth will be ours… sooner than they ever imagined."
Reuel's order rang out with a force that shook the entire command room.
"Yes, Lord Emperor. I will contact the carrier bridge immediately and summon Commander Mira Han. The fleet is on full alert,"
Major Hellsker replied, snapping a crisp salute.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the room. Another figure emerged from the doorway—Amalia. Her gaze was sharp, calculating, yet beneath the chill of her calm expression, a trace of worry lingered.
"You're going to wage war tonight? Are you sure this isn't reckless, Reuel?"
Her voice was soft, but it cut like a blade.
"Of course we'll win,"
Reuel answered calmly, pulling Amalia into his arms.
Amalia now belonged to Reuel. On a quiet night, Reuel had slipped into her quarters—uniting with her without any real resistance. That night, they slept together. And ever since, something inside her had changed.
Though Reuel now often felt a persistent ache in his waist, his heart was content. Amalia had proven to be stronger than Selene. Her combat energy, the wild spirit buried for thousands of years, ignited his body every night, making it difficult for him to rest peacefully.
Selene knew.
She knew what had happened between Reuel and Amalia, but she said nothing. She bore it all in silence.
Relentless training became her only escape—combat simulations, physical duels, anything to numb her thoughts.
She had to be stronger.
More prepared.
For whatever was coming.
---
Night fell.
Alexander Corvinus boarded Reuel's Behemoth-class Battlecruiser—a towering monolith of high technology floating in low Earth orbit. As he stepped onto the main hangar floor, his eyes were met with a sight that defied reason.
Rows of futuristic warplanes stood in perfect formation. Aerodynamic designs and exotic shapes blended seamlessly with softly glowing energy panels along their hulls—as though art and machine had fused into one.
The hangar buzzed with activity. Pilots readied their aircraft, and troops clad in green uniforms bearing the double-headed eagle emblem moved with precision. Among them were Terran Marines, Firebats, Marauders, as well as Goliaths and even the massive war engine, Thor.
All of them bore the mark of a galactic empire—an army poised to rewrite the balance of power on Earth.
A Cleaners officer approached to deliver a report, but Alexander didn't respond immediately.
He was frozen—his knees nearly buckling under the weight of technology that dwarfed human civilization. None of the military hardware looked familiar.
Everything was... alien, cold, and overwhelming.
The air squadrons were preparing for launch—Banshee, Viking, Wraith, Thunderbolt, Lightning, Avenger, Valkyrie, and Vulture Gunships—lined up beneath the hangar lights reflecting off their gleaming metal surfaces.
Alexander narrowed his eyes.
This was no longer the world he knew.
---
Alexander Corvinus and his Cleaners were escorted by an Astra Militarum officer toward the central command hub, where Reuel was waiting.
They were still in shock.
What they had seen in the hangar was only the beginning.
"Welcome, Lord Alexander,"
Reuel said as the group arrived.
"Thank you for the reception, Lord Reuel. I... must admit, your ship is overwhelming. It feels like... a farmer from the countryside hurled into the far future,"
Alexander replied with a tone of honest courtesy.
"You'll get used to it, Lord Alexander. Now, let's begin. Show me where Marcus is being held,"
Reuel said, gesturing to the large central holographic display.
"Thank you again, Lord Reuel."
A blue hologram flickered to life, casting a cold glow across the room.
A three-dimensional map of the Hungarian military complex appeared—sharp, detailed, and precise down to every layer of the facility.
"Lord Reuel, this is the facility where Marcus is being held,"
Alexander said, pointing at one of the red-marked zones.
"I only ask one thing: do not attack this area."
His voice was calm but firm.
"As for the rest... do as you please. Though I suspect that warning may be wasted, given the force you command."
"Understood," Reuel replied with respectful firmness.
"That zone will remain untouched."
Reuel took the map module from the holographic console and handed it to Major Hellsker. His gaze was cold, focused, completely in control. This operation had to be executed with absolute precision—there was no room for error.
"Then, Lord Reuel... it's time to act," said Alexander Corvinus, eyes locked on the screen displaying the Hungarian military base.
"Major Hellsker," Reuel called without turning, his voice calm yet commanding.
"Launch the fighter squadrons. Secure air superiority first."
"Then, deploy the Astra Militarum to annihilate all remaining ground forces."
"Orders received, Lord Emperor," Hellsker replied with unwavering resolve, delivering a formal Imperial salute.
Major Hellsker immediately turned and strode toward the operations control panel. His fingers danced across the interface, initiating full-scale assault protocols.
Seconds later, the internal comms system of the Battlecruiser blared across the decks, accompanied by flashing red lights and the pulse of war sirens.
"All starfighter units: launch immediately from the Battlecruiser. Target: Hungarian military base. This is a high-priority mission. Repeat—launch immediately. Execute."
"All ground units: Astra Militarum, Terran Marines, Firebats, Marauders, and Medics—board your assigned transports now. Repeat: all ground personnel, load into transport starfighters immediately."
"After the initial bombing run by starfighter units, all ground forces will deploy into the mission zone and neutralize all resistance. Repeat: land after the bombing run and eliminate all targets."
The atmosphere aboard the ship shifted instantly.
The combat sirens didn't signal a warning—they heralded war.
Pilots sprinted across the hangar, climbing into their respective fighters. Banshees, Vikings, Wraiths, Thunderbolts, Lightnings, Avengers, Valkyries, and Vulture Gunships launched one after another from the gaping hangar bay like a swarm of predators from hell—piercing Earth's atmosphere in tight formations, streaking across the sky with surgical precision.
Ground units moved in perfect sync. Astra Militarum troops boarded Chimeras, Goliaths, and a variety of heavy transports. Terran Marines, Firebats, and Marauders loaded into fully armed carriers. Every one of them armed to the teeth—ready to obliterate any defenses left standing.
Thanks to the Battlecruiser's infiltration of Earth's satellite systems, the entire fleet entered the airspace undetected.
No radar alerts.
No alarms.
Not until it was far too late.
Then, the precision strike began.
The Banshee units led the first wave.
Guided missiles tore into command centers and ammunition depots. Explosions lit up the night like an artificial dawn. A few Hungarian jets attempted to scramble—but not a single one made it off the runway. They were destroyed before reaching takeoff speed.
The night sky became a field of fire.
Explosions rocked the military complex.
Concrete shattered, guard posts were obliterated, and anti-air defenses were vaporized before they could fire a single shot.
Below, Hungarian soldiers ran in chaos—screams mingling with the roar of engines, the thunder of detonations, and the hail of energy fire raining from above.
Total chaos.
This wasn't a battle—
It was a massacre with divine precision.
---
Hungarian Military Command Center – Ground
Explosions rocked the military complex one after another. Flames licked the night sky, dust and debris flying everywhere. The base had turned into hell within minutes—and chaos broke out instantly.
A colonel came sprinting toward General Ferenc Veér, who had just emerged from the underground bunker.
"General Ferenc Veér! We're under attack! Unidentified aircraft—extremely fast! We don't recognize the models! We need immediate air support!" shouted the Chief of Staff, gasping for air.
"Many of our fighter jets were destroyed before they could even take off, General! The main hangar took a direct hit!"
General Veér stormed into the main observation room. His face was pale, eyes darting wildly for information that wouldn't come—radar systems now crippled by electromagnetic interference.
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?! Under attack?! By WHO?!" he roared, his voice nearly drowned by a distant explosion.
He rushed to the observation window—just in time to see a sleek black jet flash past the control tower, mere meters above ground level. A trail of fire, blasts, and destruction followed like its shadow.
His eyes widened. That wasn't one of theirs. Not an F-16. Not a MiG. Not even a NATO experimental model.
Boom! Boom! BOOM!
Three precision missiles struck the logistics post, the communications tower, and the fuel depot simultaneously. One strike—total shutdown.
"That's… not our aircraft. What kind of model is that even…?" he whispered, half in disbelief. "Is this… Russian tech? American? No... this isn't even from this planet…"
He turned with a panicked expression—something almost never seen on the face of a general like Ferenc Veér.
"ORDER the nearest military base to deploy every last air asset! RIGHT NOW!" he bellowed.
But it was already too late.
---
After the first wave—Banshee and Avenger Strike Fighters—completed their bombing run, the second wave swiftly took over the skies.
Wraiths, Vikings, Thunderbolts, and Lightnings launched in spiraling formations. Each unit swept the air with energy weapons and precision-guided missiles. They weren't just attacking—they were exterminating.
Now, hundreds of starfighters from the Imperial fleet ruled the Hungarian airspace. Their formations were synchronized, their attack patterns methodical. No pauses. No mercy.
---
Hungarian Air Force jets finally managed to take off.
F-16 Raptors, MiG-21s, MiG-23s, and MiG-29s were deployed in an emergency wave. The country's top pilots flew under a single, brutal directive: Retake the skies. Or die.
But the outcome was inevitable—they were outclassed.
Even though the F-16 pilots were NATO-trained veterans, their skills couldn't compete with the battle-hardened instincts of StarCraft and Warhammer pilots—aces used to zero-gravity dogfights with advanced targeting locks and evasion systems far beyond Earth standards.
Raptor missiles fired—but none hit their mark.
Reuel's starfighters dodged with extreme maneuvers that defied conventional aircraft capabilities. They twisted sharply, dove vertically, even spun along their central axis—like machines that violated the laws of physics.
Hungarian radar couldn't lock onto a single enemy.
Government jets were destroyed before they even made visual contact.
One by one, they fell—engulfed in flames as they crashed to the ground. Some exploded midair without ever knowing what hit them.
The night sky became a killing field of machines—a symphony of annihilation, conducted by a force not of this Earth.
---
Tactical War Room – Battlecruiser
Inside the battlecruiser's command center, the holographic screens glowed red, status indicators blinking rapidly like the frantic pulse of a body in crisis. Internal sirens droned softly, a grim soundtrack to the thickening tension in the air.
"Report! Government fighter squadrons from the nearest base will arrive in five minutes! They're en route for air support!" the Tactical Officer shouted over the main comms channel.
"Order all Wraith and Lightning units to full alert. Intercept their approach. Do not allow a single aircraft near the flagship."
Reuel's voice was cold, unnervingly calm—the kind of calm that left no space for error.
The Flight Control Officer immediately bowed over the console, his fingers dancing rapidly across the tactical surface. Airspace lock coordinates were set, launch protocols engaged. Within seconds, a new wave of fighters surged from the lower hangar, forming a high-precision aerial blockade with military exactitude.
Reuel turned to Alexander Corvinus, who stood beside him, his sharp eyes fixed on the three-dimensional digital map. The battlefield below shimmered red—fire, smoke, and debris spreading like open wounds across the surface display.
"Mr. Corvinus, just a little longer. Once all air defenses are neutralized, you may deploy ground forces. Have them on standby."
Corvinus turned to him and nodded—calm, authoritative. Like an old noble smiling as he welcomed the coming storm.
"Don't worry, Mr. Reuel. They've been ready since the moment you decided to strike."
---
On Earth's Surface
The Hungarian military base no longer resembled anything livable. Once home to tens of thousands of personnel and hundreds of vehicles, it was now a field of wreckage, fire, and melting concrete. Smoke choked the sky, and the heavens glowed red—like Hell yawning wide open.
Many soldiers never even touched their weapons. The air defense systems? Destroyed before they could be powered on. Anti-air missiles? Not a single one reached the sky—dodged, sabotaged, or obliterated outright by low-flying jets screaming past at supersonic speeds.
Aboard the battlecruiser, Reuel watched the tactical screen, observing the devastation with the clarity of a commander awaiting the next phase. Enemy armored convoys began to emerge from underground hangars.
"Major Hellsker. Redeploy Banshee units once they've reloaded. Prioritize targeting anti-heavy vehicle positions. Once the zone is cleared, have Medivac teams land and begin sample extraction—DNA, biological data, anything we can use. Viking units to provide full air cover."
"Understood, Lord Emperor. Executing now," replied Major Jacob Hellsker.
---
The tactical map updated rapidly. New signals appeared—infantry and vehicle icons lighting up at designated drop zones. The aerial assault was successful. The ground invasion phase had begun.
The sky roared with engines. Banshee-class fighters tore through the gray clouds in tight formation. Their anti-grav drives thrummed like low thunder—harbingers of the apocalypse.
From above, they released Hellfire Missile Pods—guided napalm warheads that split midair, locking onto multiple targets simultaneously. In a flash, Hungarian tank columns and heavy transports were engulfed in fire, the heat melting both asphalt and soil into bubbling ruin.
The Avenger Bolt Cannon, custom-modified by Adeptus Mechanicus.998, spun to life—unleashing high-velocity Godwyn-pattern heavy bolts. The explosive rounds slammed into enemy infantry and war machines, carving through formations like an enraged god of war.
Each blast echoed like the drums of celestial battle,
shaking the earth with divine fury.
---
The enemy's defenses were now fully paralyzed.
Medivac Dropships touched down with surgical precision in secure zones, escorted by Viking Interceptors in ground assault configuration. Without waiting for confirmation, blue-armored Terran Marines leapt from the ships, forming a tight defensive perimeter and sweeping the surroundings with veteran accuracy.
In the skies above, Banshee units continued their sweep.
Their Bolt Cannons lit up again and again—hot, rapid, and unforgiving.
Every shot was a sentence. Swift. Absolute.
The last anti-air missiles launched by government forces failed to lock on. Their tracking systems had already been compromised by Dominion satellite-spoofing viruses. Signals were scattered, coordination collapsed. No guidance. No central control.
Navigation scrambled. Comms obliterated. Command structure disintegrated.
What remained was pure chaos.
---
Government Military Command Center – Hungary
"General! Our troops' morale is shattered... What do we do?!" the Chief of Staff reported, his voice panicked, nearly desperate.
General Ferenc Veér took a deep breath, straightened himself, and replied with a voice as calm as he could manage—though it nearly cracked:
"Hold your position. Ground reinforcements are on their way."
A lie. And he knew it better than anyone. There were no reinforcements fast enough to salvage this situation. Not this time.
---
In the steel-colored sky, the Marauder Colossus pierced through thick clouds, releasing Astra Militarum units en masse across the outer perimeter of Hungary's military base.
Moments later, Bulk Landers began landing one after another, their hulls opening wide to deploy monstrous war machines—Leman Russ tanks, Baneblades, and Chimeras—battlefield vehicles that looked like nightmares born of a world war fever dream, but with power far beyond the limits of conventional technology.

Alongside the heavy Astra Militarum infantry, the vehicles rolled forward, forming an unstoppable battle line, advancing slowly but inexorably toward the central base.
The surviving Hungarian soldiers from the initial airstrike could only stare, stunned, as the steel giants approached—tanks that looked like relics of history, but crushed everything before them with brutal force. They tried to fight back. They fired bullets, threw grenades, launched portable rockets.
But it wasn't enough.
Their weapons couldn't penetrate the thick adamantium plating of the Astra Militarum vehicles. And when the return fire came, there was no mercy. Heavy shells, pinpoint mortars, and plasma cannons struck back—scorching the defense lines with terrifying ease.
The Hungarian military base wasn't just attacked. It was annihilated.
---
Detention Sector – Military Base
Alexander Corvinus's elite rescue team breached the main detention sector through a collapsed service corridor. Controlled explosives and silenced gunfire paved the way until they reached the primary isolation wing. Two priority targets were successfully extracted:
Marcus Corvinus—covered in blood, barely conscious, breath shallow. Two special agents carried him toward the waiting stealth Medivac.
And Michael…
But Michael was no longer the same. His body had been modified, mutilated, and corrupted by inhuman experiments. No longer man. No longer vampire. No longer lycan. He was something else entirely now. An unknown hybrid, an unfinished living weapon.
Wasting no time, both were airlifted to Reuel's battlecruiser. High-grade Terran medical facilities had been prepared.
Upon arrival, the med team immediately took over. Marcus and Michael were scanned, stabilized, and treated as fast as Terran science allowed. Alexander Corvinus followed silently—his face cold, his eyes sharp and resolute. He said nothing.
Reuel's voice followed through the ship's internal comm system, calm but commanding:
"Amalia, meet me in the medbay. We have important guests."
---
Elsewhere – Base Ruins
Selene moved through the shadows of scorched steel and crumbled concrete. Her body merged with the darkness, her eyes glowing like a predator's in the night. She led a Ghost Operative squad, hunting down the remaining scientists and government soldiers involved in the experiments on Marcus and Michael.
They were not captured.
They were judged on the spot. Without mercy.
---
Medbay – Reuel's Battlecruiser
Marcus slowly opened his eyes. The blinding light above forced him to squint. Strange noises hummed around him. Unfamiliar figures stood encircling the high-tech medical bed where he lay.
But one figure drew his focus.
An old man, standing tall like a shadow from the past. His hair silver, his eyes deep and sharp, bearing the weight of history and sins too heavy to share. Alexander Corvinus.
Marcus blinked. His breath trembled. The wounds still pulsed across his body, but that wasn't what made him shiver.
"...Father?" Marcus croaked.
But there was no warmth in that gaze. Only hatred buried too long, rage frozen into betrayal.
Alexander Corvinus stared back. No embrace. No tears. Only silence... and the burden of a long, bloodied history between father and son, now awakened again atop the iron altar of war.