The world beyond the village walls was a graveyard of color. The Ash Lands stretched endlessly, a desolate expanse of grey dust and jagged rock that seemed to swallow sound. Under the pale, indifferent gaze of Velunn hanging high in the eternal sky, the landscape looked like a sketch drawn in charcoal. The air here was thin, and the ground of ancient sand. It was a place where life didn't exactly thrive; it merely survived.
Across this monochromatic wasteland, a streak of black motion cut through the silence.
The Ironkong squad ran in a V-formation, tearing across the desolate wasteland at speeds that kicked up roostertails of dust and pebbles. Military transport in the Vampire Village was simple: you moved under your own power. If you couldn't run to the battlefield, you weren't fit to fight on it.
Commander Zorr took point, his charcoal skin seemingly absorbing the pale, cold light overhead. His scarred face was set in a grim mask. He ran with a heavy, piston-like rhythm, efficient and unstoppable.
Behind him, the squad kept pace.
Barek ran near the flank, grinning into the wind. He felt... different. Lighter. Since waking up from the tank and the brutal training under commander Zorr, his body felt like a coiled spring that had been tightened to its limit. He wore his new armor with pride, heavy plating forged from the Night-Marrow obsidian core they harvested for him after his test, painted matte black. On his shoulder, the double claw marks of a Vampire Knight were freshly painted in crimson, marking his accelerated status.
But the real prize was strapped to his back. A massive, 5-foot iron rod, smooth and polished. It had been forged directly from the core of the Landmauler he had slain. It was incredibly heavy, dense enough to crack the floor if he hit it hard enough, and Barek loved having it.
Bronx ran beside him, glancing over. "Yo, Lil' Man. You cheesin' hard for this mission."
Barek laughed, the sound snatched away by the wind. "Just happy to be out in the wild, bro. Feels more like home to me."
Tag and Skarrin brought up the rear, their movements fluid. But there was a new presence in the line—a silent shadow running just behind Barek.
Krog.
He was a wall of muscle just like the rest of the Ironkongs, with skin the color of deep mahogany. He didn't speak. He hadn't said a word since they left the castle. He just ran, his eyes fixed on the horizon with a disturbing intensity. Strapped across his broad back was a weapon that looked more like a torture device than a tool for battle, it was a massive Chain-Scythe. The blade was curved and serrated, connected to a heavy iron chain wrapped around his torso.
"Yo, Krog," Skarrin called out. "You good back there?"
Krog didn't blink. He just touched the handle of his scythe, a small, terrifying smile touching his lips. "Soon."
The landscape began to change. The grey ash gave way to soil the color of dried blood. The vegetation here was sparse, twisted into agonizing shapes, black thorns bleeding red sap.
The Crimson Border.
"Slow down," Zorr ordered, his voice rough.
The squad decelerated, their boots skidding on the red dirt, coming to a halt in a cloud of dust.
Ahead of them, a ridge overlooked the vast, swirling anomaly of the Red Zone, buried deep within a forest ahead of them. And standing on that ridge, perfectly still, was the Virefang's Team of Knights.
They were a stark contrast to the rugged, dusty Ironkongs. The Virefang knights stood in an organised line, their armor sleek and segmented, colored deep crimson and black with silver trim. The crest of the Coiled Serpent on the Moon gleamed on their chest plates. They didn't look like brawlers; they looked noble and full of class.
Standing at their head was Captain Valera Virefang.
She was striking, tall, slender, but radiating a sharpness that made looking at her too long seem like an invitation for a beating. She bore a resemblance to Charly Virefang who faced off against Barek in the past tournament, the same dark red hair but where Charly might be eager and hot-headed, Valera was ice. Her eyes were fierce, honorable, and devoid of humor. At her hip hung a master-crafted Obsidian Rapier, its basket-hilt woven into a complex web of silver.
Zorr walked forward, his heavy boots crunching the red gravel. Valera stepped down to meet him.
They stopped three paces apart.
"Commander Zorr," Valera said, her voice crisp and authoritative. She offered a sharp, military salute fist over heart.
Zorr returned it, though his motion was looser. "Captain Valera. You early."
"We are punctual," she corrected. Her gaze slid past him, sweeping over the Ironkong squad. She took in the rugged armor, the massive weapons, the relaxed postures. Her lip curled slightly microscopically in distaste. "Your team seems... spirited."
"We ready to work," Tag said from behind.
Valera's eyes locked onto Barek. She paused. Recognition flashed in her eyes.
"You," she said, her tone sharpening. "I saw you at the Grand Tournament. You are the Noble who fought my brother."
She looked at the double claw marks on his shoulder, then back at his face. Her brow furrowed in genuine confusion and offense.
"Why is a fresh Noble wearing the rank of a Knight?" she demanded, looking at Zorr. "This is a Class-X Reconnaissance mission, Commander. Not a field trip for promoted rookies."
Behind her, the Virefang knights exchanged glances. Subtly, they shifted their weight, a silent language of judgment. Disrespectful. Reckless. Typical Ironkongs.
Barek stepped forward, resting his arm on his massive iron rod. "Don't worry 'bout me, sweetheart. I pull my weight."
The Virefang knights stiffened. Hands drifted to hilts. To address a Captain so casually was a grave insult in their clan.
Valera didn't flinch. She stared at Barek. But she didn't look at his insolent grin or his rank. She looked at his space.
To the others, he was just a large, cocky boy. But Valera, possessing high perception, saw something else. The air around him was... heavy. Dense. Like gravity curled around his skin. It was the residue of something ancient, something that shouldn't exist in a novice.
'What is that?' she thought, her grip tightening on her rapier hilt. 'That isn't normal energy. It feels... raw?'.
"Discipline your soldier, Commander," Valera said coldly, tearing her eyes away. "Or I will."
"He's fine," Zorr said, stepping between them. "Let's focus on the job. What's the read?"
Valera turned back to the ridge, pointing toward the swirling vortex. Her demeanor shifted back to pure business.
"For the past thirty minutes, we have tracked mass movement," she reported. "BloodWroughts. Hundreds of them. They are moving away from the Red Zone direction in a hurry. They aren't hunting; they are fleeing."
She looked at Zorr. "The king led me to believe you have experience with this situation, Commander. What does that migration signify?"
Zorr stared at the swirling red mist. His single eye widened slightly. The memory of the stampede from fifty years ago, the terror in the beasts' eyes flooded back.
"It means, it woke up," Zorr rasped, his voice tight. "Something intimidating enough to scare the strong blood-wroughts from their habitat."
Valera nodded slowly. "My thoughts exactly. The sensors can't penetrate the mist. I suggest we move closer to the perimeter to investigate the source of the displacement."
Zorr hesitated. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to turn around. But he was a Commander. He had orders.
"We keep our guard up," Zorr warned, his heavy hand drifting to the hilt of his greatsword. "If them beasts are runnin', we walkin' straight into the nightmare they fleein' from. And trust me, it ain't pretty. I should know." He tapped the gnarled scar tissue over his missing eye. "If there's even a whisper of that entity from fifty years ago... we done. We ain't pushin' our luck. We radio back to the village and wait for orders. Am I clear?"
Valera drew her rapier, the obsidian blade humming in the thin air. "Agreed. Formation Alpha. You should take point, Commander, since you possess the relevant field experience. My squad will provide flank support."
"Barek, Bronx, stay glued to me," Zorr ordered, his voice dropping to a growl as he turned to his team. "Krog... keep that obsession in check. You go berserk at the wrong time, and you die. Don't do anything stupid."
Krog smiled, his fingers tightening around his chain until the metal links groaned.
"Let's move," Zorr commanded.
Together, the two squads descended into the forest of red mist.