"Th-this is…"
The blonde bartender felt a sting and a sickening burn from the man's sword. She instantly understood what had been added to its edge. Horror and despair twisted her face.
Ben Shaw raised the cruciform sword and traced a cold arc through the air as patrons on either side stared in confusion.
The blade fell. The blonde's head toppled from her neck.
A heartbeat later, heads rolled, blood sprayed, and bodies flared with sparks—their clothes catching fire.
"I'm out!"
"He's killing people!"
"Run! He's insane!"
The nearby drinkers, shocked by Ben's sudden, ruthless strike, screamed and bolted. New Yorkers might be used to gunshots—but watching a bartender beheaded at arm's length was something else entirely.
Worse, her headless body ignited, burning from within as if set off by a spark. The sight shattered their nerves.
Screams and chaos erupted in that corner of the bar, though the pounding music kept much of the crowd oblivious.
Ben ignored the stampede. When he killed the bartender, a thick, blood-red orb of life essence shot into his chest.
Every cell, bone, and organ sang.
His thoughts sharpened. His senses tightened.
A low-tier vampire yielded more essence than a dozen ordinary men—by more than tenfold. The multiplier made Ben's eyes brighten. Experience—so much experience—was calling.
He glanced around. A dozen vampires had already closed in—faces twisted, weapons drawn: blades, pistols, rifles.
"You—"
A handsome vampire leveled a pistol at Ben and started to speak. In the same instant, Ben's figure blurred from ten meters away to right under his muzzle.
The vampire tried to pull the trigger.
A silver flash drew a flawless line.
His awareness vanished. His head fell. His body kindled and crumbled to ash.
Amid the sparks and drifting cinders, Ben moved like a hunting cat—ghost-fast—cutting down one vampire and flowing straight to the next.
Vampires were fast, strong, and reactive—well beyond human.
The moment Ben dropped the first one, the others opened fire. Muzzles flared toward him in a ragged volley.
He was faster. His combat sense was razor-edged.
Finishing the first, he slipped to the second—just as the storm of bullets tore through where he'd been. He seized a tall vampire's rifle with his left hand and shoved the barrel skyward, then drove the silvered blade into the heart with his right. He ripped the sword free and was already moving.
His path was strange, almost impossible to track. His speed sent a pulse of fear through the group.
He weaved and swayed, slipping past muzzle lines, using angles and bodies to shield himself and split their fire.
The cruciform sword matched his steps—a silver waltz.
Heavy music thundered. Ash and sparks filled the air. Silver arcs rippled through the colored lights, swallowing vampire lives in waves.
It looked furious, but it only took a handful of seconds from start to finish for that cluster.
Those seconds of gunfire finally ripped the rest of the crowd out of their trance.
Dancers froze, confused.
Some turned in time to see Ben take the head of the last vampire in that knot—bloodless, clean—and watch the body flare and collapse.
Panic spread like fire. People who had seen it bolted for the exits. The rest, sensing terror, followed.
In moments, half the bar was emptying out. Those who stayed stared at Ben with cold, hungry eyes.
Vampires.
The music cut off. Lights kept strobing, painting faces in shifting colors. Blood-red pupils and gleaming fangs turned beauty into horror.
The air grew heavy and tight.
Ben swept the room. In an instant, his brain built a virtual map—tables, chairs, sightlines, distances, bodies.
The silver sword twitched in his hand.
When the pressure peaked, he moved.
The floor cracked beneath his feet. Power surged through him. He became a drawn blade, launching into the vampire pack.
The roar that answered was feral. The Bloods showed their true faces.
They rushed the "lowly human" who dared butcher their kind.
Ben didn't blink. He plunged into hundreds of them—cold, clinical, and utterly calm.
Time stretched.
Hands with taloned fingers slashed in from every angle.
He pivoted, spine coiling. The sword painted a bright curve in the air.
He spun once—lightning-fast—and every reaching hand, every lunging body at the edge of his circle, split cleanly in two.
The hunt had begun.
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