Are vampires strong? Definitely.
They're ranked by blood purity, but even low-tier vampires possess genes far beyond human limits. A bottom-rank vamp can hit harder than Tyson at his peak, and speed is their greater edge. Ordinary bullets rarely put them down, and their infectious bite makes them a nightmare.
But compared to them, Ben Shaw was stronger.
His life level simply crushed theirs. With a silver-coated cruciform sword built to counter vampires, there was only one outcome inside the bar: massacre.
Ben's speed and strength overwhelmed the low-rank vamps. The silver blade drew gleaming arcs, reaping lives. Their savagery shattered against his colder ruthlessness. In under a minute, hundreds were down—about twenty remained.
They started feral, eager to tear him apart. Then they watched their kin lose heads, take blades through the heart, and burst into ash.
Despair and fear swallowed them.
"Run—he's a monster!"
One finally broke and turned to flee. His vision blurred—Death stood before him. A hand seized his skull and lifted; the cruciform sword punched through his heart.
Ben turned to the twenty who hadn't moved. He flicked his wrist and threw the screaming, sparkling vampire to the floor.
Thud.
The vamp writhed, reaching toward the others, silently begging.
All he got were fearful eyes and a step back.
Before everyone's eyes, he crumbled to ash.
"Who are you? A Daywalker?"
"No—you're not Blood. Daywalkers are Blood. You don't smell like us. You're human. A mutant?"
"Let us go—we can give you anything. We'll be your most loyal slaves."
Terror broke them. They knew resistance was pointless.
This wasn't a man—it was a butcher. Gender, beauty, ugliness—it didn't matter. He killed.
They lay prone, groveling and begging for mercy, hoping their only bargaining chip would soften him.
Ben's face stayed cold. He walked toward them, step by step.
His footsteps smothered even their sobs. They pressed their foreheads to the floor and waited.
Each step tolled like a bell in their chests.
He reached them, looked down at the trembling cluster, raised the silvered sword, and executed the prey in cold blood.
At the end, they didn't even try to fight. In true despair, you either go mad or wait for the end.
They chose the latter.
Hundreds of vampires died. A flood of life essence crashed into him—stronger and clearer than ever.
His physique surged across the board—and the mana within him spiked tenfold.
What had been a stream was now a river.
He could feel it pressing to break free. If he unleashed it here, the bar—and half the block—would go up.
"As expected—vampires and other extraordinary races like werewolves yield far more life essence than ordinary humans."
Ben tipped his round hat back, walked to the bar with the sword, and sheathed it. He left the cocktail untouched; even aside from whatever might be in it, he hated the alcohol stink.
He took the case, headed to the second-floor control room, pulled the surveillance tape, and cut the power. The interior and exterior went dark. Then he strolled out.
The slaughter sent patrons fleeing. A few bold onlookers lingered, peering in.
The lights were dead—only a few streetlamps cast any glow.
As Ben stepped out, he snapped a few pebbles with a flick of his fingers. They shot like bullets and shattered the bulbs—pop, pop, pop.
Screams rose as the block plunged into darkness.
In the chaos, he slipped into a shadowed alley and disappeared.
Silence returned. Minutes passed. When the bar stayed dark and still, a few brave souls crept inside. The hush felt like a living thing, swallowing courage whole.
They couldn't stand it. They staggered out.
Then sirens split the night.
NYPD officers in vests, with shields and pistols, pushed in and restored power. The lights snapped on—and the scene stopped them cold.
"What the hell happened in here?" one officer murmured.