[Medbay – Battlecruiser Bahemot]
Marcus Corvinus stared at his father as if trying to pierce through the very depths of his soul. Hatred burned in his eyes—cold, sharp, and almost inhuman. His voice was low, controlled, but dripping with venom long buried.
"Why aren't you dead yet, Father?"
Alexander Corvinus responded without flinching. His face remained calm, almost serene, though his gaze hinted at a storm buried deep beneath the surface.
"Is that how you greet your own father, Marcus?"
Marcus scoffed—bitterly, almost in despair.
"Don't pretend to be righteous. You stood by while William was cast aside like an animal. And me... I was nothing but a pawn in a war you should've stopped before it began!"
Alexander exhaled slowly.
"You and your brother were born of something I never truly understood. If I had known... if I had seen how far our blood would mutate... perhaps I would've ended my life a long time ago."
Marcus tensed. His eyes glowed—not with hope, but with fury that could no longer be contained.
"Too late, Father. Far too late. I will have my revenge. I will free William. And you… you will watch a new world rise from the ashes of your failure. I will wipe out humanity."
Alexander didn't answer. He simply reached into his cloak and pulled out an old pendant shaped like a key—cold iron, worn by age, the last remnant of something long buried.
"This... is the key to William's prison. Take it, if that's what you want. Unleash destruction, if that's what satisfies you. But remember one thing—you won't just be freeing your brother. You'll be unleashing a curse."
"If your body has recovered... go. Find him. But be ready to pay the price."
Marcus snatched the key from his father's hand, as if ripping a soul from the past. There was no gratitude in his eyes—only darkness. A darkness that threatened to swallow the world.
Alexander looked at his son one last time. Not with anger. But with the pain only a father could feel—the pain of knowing his child was truly lost.
From across the room, the sound of footsteps echoed—calm, deliberate.
Reuel stepped in, standing like a shadow from some ancient victory. His gaze pierced into Marcus, who was now slowly rising from the medical bed.
Marcus froze. His muscles tensed. His face hardened. His eyes narrowed.
He remembered. He hadn't forgotten the humiliation.
He's the one who disgraced me. Who shattered my pride. Who reduced me to a powerless wretch.
For the first time since awakening, a flicker of fear—small, but real—crept through him.
Reuel stood tall before Marcus.
"This is my ship. And here, I demand only one thing: the truth."
His gaze shifted to where Michael lay unconscious, his body weak within a medical capsule. Then back to Marcus.
"I can give you something. But only if you swear one thing. I understand your suffering, Marcus. I know what they did to you. But what I will never accept is... that rotten belief that you, mutated creatures like you, are superior to mankind. That you deserve to prey on us because you think you're above us."
Marcus laughed—bitter, scornful.
"You call yourself human? Is that a joke? Just because you once defeated me doesn't mean you're better than me."
"You're not human, Reuel. You're just a machine polished with a fake sense of justice."
Without warning, Reuel's fist flew.
The punch landed hard. Square. It sent Marcus crashing back onto the medbed, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.
"Silence."
Reuel's voice cut through the air like a hammer blow.
"I'm not finished."
Marcus didn't respond. Not a word escaped his lips. Only silence—louder than any scream. The silence of a man slowly realizing how narrow the path before him had become.
Reuel stared at him without sympathy.
"I can save William from his madness. Our technology can repair his mind—reconstruct the shattered fragments of consciousness that have long been lost. You know this isn't your world, Marcus. You're standing aboard a warship in space. Our civilization goes far beyond anything you could ever imagine."
His tone was flat, direct—lethal, like a bullet with purpose.
"If you agree, I'll relocate all of you—William, your kind, all of it—to a new planet already designated as a colony under my jurisdiction. If that's what you want, I can even restore your humanity."
He turned slowly, gesturing with one hand.
The automatic door hissed open. An Inquisitor stepped in. Towering—well over two meters tall. He wore pitch-black adamantium armor, the insignia of the Ordo Xenos glowing faintly on his shoulder, and a spread-winged Aquila carved into his chestplate. His face was cold, like a tombstone that had forgotten what mercy meant.
"Among my forces, there are soldiers like him," Reuel said, not taking his eyes off Marcus. "They don't need silver bullets to kill things like you. Even if a daemon from the Warp crawled out of hell itself, they would meet it with steady steps. If you still want to test your strength… be my guest."
Marcus stared at the Inquisitor. His gaze shifted. No longer just anger or hatred. Now, something deeper—calculation. And beneath it, fear… creeping in slowly.
This creature… is not like ordinary men. He was forged not to forgive, but to destroy.
"And if I refuse?" Marcus finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "I can free William myself. I don't need help from your kind… humans."
Reuel gave a thin smile—a cold one, more mockery than peace offering.
"In that case, I'll sit back… and watch you tear each other apart. As always."
He stepped closer. His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible, yet every word cut like a blade.
"Oh… and the man on the bed beside you—Michael… he's your brother too. Born of the same experiments. In the same facility. With the same torture. They created you like they forge weapons… then discarded you like toxic waste."
Silence. The crushing kind.
Then, with a voice cold enough to chill bone:
"Think carefully, Marcus Corvinus. I'll give you time. If you refuse… that's fine. I have a hundred other ways to end this."
His gaze narrowed—a look that carried insult, perhaps even pity. Then he turned and walked out of the room without another glance.
Marcus remained where he was.
Saying nothing.
Doing nothing.
Trapped in his own mind—a labyrinth of rage, pain, and conflicting possibilities.
For the first time since those long, dark centuries…
Marcus Corvinus felt powerless.
And for the first time, he began to wonder…
Had every road truly come to an end?
---
[Hungarian Government Military Base]
The great battle was over.
The roar of cannons that once shook the sky was now just an echo. The howls of fighter jets had vanished, leaving only the sporadic bursts of gunfire as the last pockets of resistance were swiftly and efficiently eliminated.
Now, the entire military complex was under the absolute control of the Astra Militarum.
Buildings lay in ruin, some still smoldering. Black smoke danced in the sky, mingling with the scent of scorched metal and the blood that soaked the ground. The fields surrounding the base had become open graves, littered with the wreckage of war machines and soldiers who never had the chance to run.
Amidst the rubble and devastation, Selene stood—her battle coat billowing in the wind that carried the ash.
Surrounded by fully armed Ghost operators, she was the center of the heavy silence hanging in the air.
An Astra Militarum officer dragged in an old man, shackled, knees trembling, face pale as a corpse.
The Chief of Operations of the Hungarian Government. Once a figure of immense power. Now just a prisoner—a brittle twig before the storm.
Selene stared at him with no emotion. Her gaze was cold—cold as a bullet before it's fired. Her voice was calm, yet sharp as a dagger held to the throat.
"Who ordered the vampire massacre?"
There was no anger. Only a demand for truth. And the certainty that judgment was near.
The chief swallowed hard, his body shaking. Terror gleamed in his eyes.
"I... I... it was all under General Ferenc Veér's orders, we only... only followed orders from General Ferenc Veér..."
His words tumbled out like a panicked incantation—empty phrases from someone who knew there was nowhere left to hide. But Selene didn't flinch.
Her eyes narrowed, full of contempt. She pierced through the facade like a bullet through brittle glass.
"You think I'm stupid enough to believe a general acted alone? Tens of thousands dead. Systematic extermination. And you expect me to believe this was the brainchild of one man?"
All color drained from Veér's face. Cold sweat ran down his temples.
The lie had failed. And now, only the truth remained—bare, shameful, and impossible to deny.
"M-Minister of Defense János Szabó... he started it all. General Veér and Szabó... they planned everything. The vampire and Lycan hunt, the species purge... I just... I was only following orders!"
His final words were nearly a whimper.
But Selene showed no mercy.
She stood silent for a moment. Then gave a slight nod to the Ghost operator beside her.
"Take him. Detain with the others."
"Order received, Commander."
Without another word, the Ghost operator dragged the chief away. No ceremony. No dignity. Just heavy, cold steps toward prison—or a final bullet.
Selene didn't look back. She had what she came for—and she left no space for sympathy.
The battle was over.
But the reckoning... had just begun.
---
Command Room – Battlecruiser
The tactical screens displayed satellite imagery of the now-secured base.
The final explosions had faded. Amalia stood before the flickering holographic map, inhaling slowly and steadily.
She hadn't expected the operation to go this smoothly or efficiently. The results had far exceeded expectations.
"Major, intel confirms Hungarian government reinforcements will arrive in two hours. Should we intercept their route?" asked the communications officer.
Major Hellsker made a swift decision, his gaze locked onto the strategy map.
"Deploy the nearest starfighter units. Begin preliminary bombardment. Destroy their supply lines and rally points before they have a chance to form up."
"Understood, Major," the officer replied.
The order was relayed through the tactical channels without delay. Within minutes, a starfighter squadron launched from the hangars, streaking through the stars in flawless formation—bringing death with every pulse of their engines.
---
[Eastern Skies of Hungary – Active Conflict Zone]
After receiving direct orders from Central Command, the Banshee-class Starfighter Squadron was deployed without delay. Ten sleek-winged units shot down from low orbit, piercing the Earth's atmosphere in a tight and precise V-formation.
The roar of plasma engines thundered across the sky, leaving trails of ion fire as they dove toward their target: enemy reinforcements advancing rapidly toward the front line.
Once within optimal firing range, the Banshee units unleashed their Hellfire Missile Pods—guided warheads that screamed like vengeful spirits. The missiles sliced through the air, detonating with divine precision in the midst of armored vehicle columns and advancing heavy infantry.
Several missiles split mid-flight into submunitions, locking onto multiple targets simultaneously—thanks to the tactical coordinate programming of servitors from the Adeptus Mechanicus.998. Each blast carved a new crater into the earth, obliterating convoys within seconds.
Moments later, the Banshees' main weapons came alive—Avenger-pattern Rotary Bolt Cannons, modified on the forgeworld of Mars. Spewing high-velocity bursts of Godwyn Heavy Bolts, they shredded their targets with maximum destructive force. Every projectile was engineered to detonate post-penetration, ensuring catastrophic internal damage to enemy vehicles.
Above the battlefield, Hungarian Air Force F-16s and MiGs scrambled to respond—but were swiftly intercepted by a coordinated force of Wraith, Viking, and Lightning-class Starfighters. The conventional jets stood no chance against the superior maneuverability and spaceborne combat tactics honed over dozens of campaigns across star sectors.
The dogfight was fierce. But to the pilots of the expeditionary fleet, this wasn't combat—it was execution. One by one, enemy aircraft were eliminated with surgical precision, without a single casualty among the Starfighters.
On the ground, government forces tried to hold their position, but stood no chance against an air assault this precise and brutal. The Banshees danced through the sky, evading anti-air missiles and heavy gunfire with near-impossible agility—a product of enhanced reflexes, advanced navcom systems, and brutal training under the militum doctrine.
Chaos exploded across the enemy defense lines. The commanding general—giving orders from inside a heavily armored APC—was killed in a direct Hellfire strike to his coordinates. Without leadership, the enemy formation began to collapse.
Communications failed. Morale shattered. Some units surrendered, others fled.
In desperation, a remaining field officer issued the command for a full retreat—a last-ditch effort to salvage what little remained.
But the battlefield offers no mercy