Blade's fame was hard to measure. Maybe those hybrid vampires didn't know much, but for the purebloods—those born as vampires—his name was nearly universally known. Even if not absolutely everyone recognized him, he was still a household legend.
In an age where digital information spread faster and faster, practically every pureblood had once been shown a photo of Blade by an elder in their family, accompanied by the warning: cherish your life, stay far away from Blade. His infamy among vampires was no less than that of the most wanted criminals plastered across streets by a dozen nations.
The vampire girl in Zhou Yi's arms clearly recognized Blade, and clearly knew his fearsome reputation. Like a frightened little animal, she clutched Zhou Yi timidly and hid behind his tall, solid frame.
Blade shot her a deliberately wicked glare, baring his icy fangs. The overt threat in his posture terrified her so completely that Zhou Yi could feel every muscle in her body go rigid—she might have gone half stiff on the spot.
Even though Zhou Yi knew Blade was just trying to scare her, seeing how effective his intimidation was made him half amused, half helpless. The girl's reaction was way too dramatic.
He turned around and wrapped an arm around her stiffened body, slowly soothing her back while saying to Blade, displeased, "Hey, man. You find it fun to bully a girl?"
Blade curled his lips in a mocking grin.
"The girl behind you isn't some harmless little creature. She might bite you to death."
Zhou Yi, who already knew the truth—and was frankly enjoying the situation—rolled his eyes immediately. Brother, you're supposed to be a dark hero; violence is your problem-solving method. Could you stop with the trash talk? He didn't want Blade ruining his fun.
"Buddy, this has nothing to do with you. If I were you, I'd go find another dance partner instead of bothering others."
With that, Zhou Yi guided the vampire girl behind him, pushing past the stunned vampires who didn't dare move after Blade's scare, heading straight away.
Blade watched his retreating back, shrugged, and turned away as well, tossing in a middle finger for free. He'd actually tried to be nice for once, planning to save an unlucky human. Who knew the guy wouldn't appreciate it? Touching his own face in mild confusion, Blade wondered—did he really look that untrustworthy?
Led by Zhou Yi, the vampire girl gradually moved away from the other vampires and from Blade. Looking back at Blade's retreating figure and the crowd that had given up trying to block them, she felt an indescribable thrill.
Brushing past death, breaking through all obstacles—this feeling, especially for a rebellious young girl, was unimaginably exhilarating. The surge of adrenaline gave her a sensation close to ecstasy.
Looking at Zhou Yi, who was pulling her along, she felt something new arise in her heart: the admiration the weak instinctively feel toward the strong—and the most dangerous, universal emotion of all: possessiveness. The vampire girl suddenly wanted to turn this man holding her hand into a vampire as well—only then could she own him forever.
Once the idea surfaced, her desire to turn it into reality only grew stronger—and strangely urgent. She tugged back on Zhou Yi's hand, took the initiative, and pulled him along at a run toward the empty second-floor rooms.
Watching her strange behavior, Zhou Yi only found things getting more and more interesting.
Meanwhile, the blood guardian squad roaming the dance floor made a new discovery.
The first to notice something was Lightaxe, who had recently suffered a humiliating defeat. He had lost in the area he took the most pride in, and the blow left the muscle-brained warrior unusually dejected.
Though his physical wounds had healed completely thanks to blood's regenerative power, the wound to his pride was unexpectedly deep. He even refused the company of his beloved Verlaine, carrying the heavy hammer that replaced his battle-axe as he wandered alone into the kitchen behind the dance hall.
The kitchen was empty—not surprising. This was a vampire nest, and besides blood, vampires needed no other food.
Lightaxe, hammer in hand, wandered aimlessly, his mind elsewhere. Just then, a sudden clatter of pots and pans sounded behind him. He spun around, discovering a strange creature perched atop a stove—shirtless, hairless, its appearance bizarre. Clouded eyes stared at him with a twisted, mocking look, as if it were watching prey.
That mocking look tore open Lightaxe's inner wounds instantly. In that moment of dazed rage, he overlapped the monster before him with the shadow haunting his heart. Fury rose from within, and with a roar he swung his hammer and charged.
Elsewhere, Reinhardt also came under attack.
The bald vampire leader, after pacing around several times, soon exhausted what little patience he had. He glanced around, then leapt directly onto the stage.
Although many vampires were dancing wildly around the hall, Reinhardt shoved aside these nuisances and secured a spot at the stage's edge.
From here, he had a clear view of most of the dance floor. Even the small movements in the secluded corners didn't escape him. And when he noticed Blade darting around the dance floor like a headless fly before diving into a hallway, he felt a wave of satisfaction.
Nothing felt better than watching a man you hated suffer misfortune. But focused as he was on Blade, he didn't notice the anomaly creeping up behind him.
Behind him, a hooded figure slowly approached. The figure was hunched, its clothes hanging off rather than worn properly. Through the gaping front, its ribcage was completely exposed—a ribcage utterly unlike humans or vampires, fused together and bulging unnaturally. It was grotesque and sickening.
The hooded creature extended a hand toward Reinhardt, moving very carefully, even controlling the tiny sounds of its movements. Bit by bit, it closed in on its target without alerting him.
But just because Reinhardt didn't notice didn't mean others couldn't. Especially his teammates.
Standing below the stage, Chupa quickly spotted the suspicious figure. From his angle, he could clearly see the creature's abnormal physiology. This had to be the mutant they were hunting.
He didn't bother warning Reinhardt. Instead, he raised his rifle and opened fire toward Reinhardt's back. The rifle was loaded with .45-caliber silver-plated rounds, each tipped with a built-in micro-capsule filled with silver nitrate and garlic extract—any one of which was lethal to vampires.
Naturally, Chupa didn't care about the other vampires on stage. Saving Reinhardt was the extent of his concern.
To the blood guardian squad, except for a very few purebloods, the rest of the vampires here weren't worth worrying about. Most were hybrids anyway, so Chupa saw no reason to hold back.
The barrage of bullets flew much faster than anyone onstage could react. In a single breath, half a magazine tore into the mutant. The other half flew everywhere—except into Reinhardt, luckily.
Instantly, the stage burst into dazzling waves of flame—vampires turning to ash. But the mutant, their primary target, proved shockingly resilient.
Silver-plated bullets did nothing to him—no flames, not even a sizeable wound. As for the silver nitrate and garlic extract, they only made his wounds ooze a bit of pus. Nothing more.
If he hadn't seen the surrounding vampires turning to ash, Chupa would have suspected Whistler gave them fake ammunition to send them to their deaths.
The chaos Chupa created was enormous; vampires all around began fleeing in panic. Reinhardt, of course, reacted. Years of partnership with Chupa meant he immediately made the correct decision: the instant Chupa's rifle stopped firing, Reinhardt spun around and pulled the trigger.
And Reinhardt's weapon was far nastier than Chupa's rifle. It was a high-velocity bolt launcher built by old Whistler from an XM1014 shotgun. Instead of relying on bullets, which were impractical against purebloods, it used reinforced compressed-air propulsion to fire one-foot-long pure-silver spikes with devastating force. Thanks to Whistler's mad-genius modifications, the weapon could fire at six thousand feet per second. If your aim was good, even vampires had no chance to dodge.
It was Whistler's trump card against vampires—ironically now in a vampire's hands.
Racking the slide, pulling the trigger—Reinhardt fired four silver bolts in rapid succession. Because of their blunt-tip design, the bolts didn't pierce the mutant but blasted him across the room with sheer momentum. The bolt heads stayed lodged inside.
Against vampires, even purebloods, this was instant death. Such raw power embodied the brutality of firearms—violence Reinhardt found intoxicating. He lifted the gun, pressed a kiss to it, revealing his affection for his weapon.
But even this devastating firepower couldn't kill the mutant.
Heavily wounded, the mutant scrambled up from where he'd been hurled and began fleeing on all fours. His speed was astounding—so fast that even the battle-hardened vampire duo could barely keep up. Most of their follow-up shots missed entirely.
Soon, the mutant vanished from sight. But that was no longer their only problem.
Because not only they—every blood guardian in the nest had encountered their targets. The mutants had launched a full-scale attack, and the squad's weapons had lost all lethal effect.
A hunt they thought was under control had spiraled completely beyond the hunters' expectations.
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