William stepped into the administrative office, his sharp gaze swiftly scanning the assembled heads of the City's high offices. Josef, the lean and hardened Head of Security, stood rigidly at the table, flanked by prominent leaders from the City's Houses: Lady Selene Vireya, austere and formidable in violet lace and black leather; Lady Thalia Crowhurst, sharp-featured and calculating in emerald silk; and Lord Kael Tenebran, impassive and regal in crimson and gold.
"Josef," William addressed calmly, his voice carrying authority, "what's our current situation?"
Josef nodded, signaling Ben forward. Ben, a seasoned officer in his early thirties with weary lines around his eyes and an immaculate uniform, stepped up crisply, offering a respectful nod. "Your Excellency, there was a breach at Section 9—the area under renovation. The perimeter walls were destroyed. Our forces are actively engaging as we speak."
William's brow creased slightly. "Identify the perpetrators."
Ben straightened. "From intelligence gathered, we strongly believe it's the Black Skull."
The room instantly fell silent, the air thickening palpably. Each official's expression tightened, unease spreading among them. William's voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl, "Black Skull," he murmured, before erupting with barely contained fury, "the private forces of that madman! Any sightings of him?"
Josef stepped forward, shaking his head grimly. "No confirmed sightings yet, Excellency. Instead, they are led by the one called Blood Hound, one of Black Skull's infamous Four Captains."
An oppressive silence settled momentarily, broken when Lady Selene Vireya's voice, sharp and anxious, asked, "What could possibly be their motive for attacking our city?"
Lord Kael Tenebran answered, voice grave and lined with disdain, "We're dealing with the Overlord. Does that brute ever need a reason? He's a demon, hungry only for bloodshed and chaos."
William turned sharply to Josef. "Who's commanding our response?"
"Sir Victor is currently leading our forces," Josef responded.
William's posture eased fractionally. "Good. Ensure regular updates reach me promptly. And the civilians—what evacuation measures have been implemented?"
Josef quickly outlined, "Civilians have been directed through established emergency evacuation routes. Shelters have been activated, with relief teams on standby. Medical units and emergency responders are deployed at critical junctures."
William nodded firmly, eyes glinting with cold resolve. "Ensure their safety above all else."
Chaos ruled the battlefield, smoke curling heavily through shattered streets, gunshots cracking sharply amidst screams of the wounded and fallen. Commander Victor stood tall, issuing swift orders to his troops, his seasoned voice steady against the backdrop of violence.
Amid the turmoil, Blood Hound appeared—a terrifying figure clad in black, a skull mask obscuring his features, his presence radiating lethal intent. Without hesitation, he surged forward, blade flashing with ruthless precision. In mere moments, four soldiers fell lifeless at his feet, each precise strike carried out with chilling efficiency, entirely unfazed by the bullets whizzing perilously close.
Victor's jaw clenched, his eyes burning with fury. He raised his gun, aimed squarely at the enemy captain, and fired. Astonishingly, Blood Hound stood unmoved, watching impassively as one of his loyal men leaped to intercept the bullet, crumpling dead at his feet. Another shot, another body fell, willingly sacrificing itself. Victor's disbelief turned swiftly to rage.
"Die, you bastard!" Victor roared, firing relentlessly. His men joined in, pouring bullets toward Blood Hound, but the Black Skull soldiers threw themselves fearlessly in front of their leader, a wall of fanatic devotion soaking the deadly rain.
The gunfire ceased abruptly, a stunned silence descending over Victor's men. One soldier's voice trembled, eyes wide in horror, "What in the hell...?"
Fear rippled visibly through the troops. Victor stood frozen, fists clenched, eyes darkened by the grim reality before him—a foe who commanded absolute, terrifying loyalty.
Grit scraped against Nikolai's cheek as consciousness clawed back, dragged from the void by the percussive crack-thump of nearby gunfire and the high whine of ricochets. His head swam in a fog of pain from the wound in his side, each throb a dull echo against the cacophony. Then, another sensation cut through the haze, sharp and demanding – a deep, aching emptiness coiling low in his gut, a pressure building behind his eyes. It wasn't the familiar gnaw of starvation; it was a raw, physical pull. The air, thick with smoke and cordite, carried another scent beneath it all – iron-sweet, impossibly rich. Blood. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding, a low growl vibrating in his chest as the scent hijacked his senses, promising relief, promising more. He tried to recoil, to push it away, but the need was a hook sunk deep in his marrow.
Movement flickered at the edge of his blurred vision. A figure in dark tactical gear—Black Skull—pivoted, rifle snapping up. Time seemed to stretch, the barrel impossibly large. Thought dissolved. Instinct ignited. Nikolai moved, surging from the ground not like a wounded man, but like uncoiling wire. His hand intercepted the rifle's barrel, the crack of its discharge deafeningly close but wrenching wide. Metal groaned under his grip. His other hand found flesh and cloth—the soldier's neck. Bone grated slightly beneath the crushing pressure. He saw the whites of the soldier's eyes, stark terror blooming there. Beneath his fingers, a frantic pulse hammered, a drumbeat calling to the void inside him. Life. Warm. Flowing.
A tremor ran through him, violent and transformative. He felt the skin over his cheekbones stretch taut, a cold fire flaring behind his retinas, bleeding the world red. A sharp pressure, an extension, pushed against his upper lip. He saw his reflection warp in the soldier's terrified gaze—paler, sharper, the eyes inhumanly bright. The pulse beneath his hand became the only thing in the universe. The growl in his chest ripped free as a guttural snarl. He lunged. Fangs, needle-sharp, punched through skin and muscle. Warmth exploded against his tongue—thick, vital, overwhelming. The world dissolved into pure sensation. The gnawing emptiness vanished, replaced by a consuming heat that radiated outwards, silencing the throbbing wound, drowning the battlefield's noise in a roaring tide within his own skull. The frantic thrumming beneath his hand weakened, the struggles against his grip becoming distant, irrelevant tremors. He drank, lost in the visceral flood, the frantic rhythm of the dying heart fueling the firestorm inside him.
Above, unnoticed in the red haze, the Eye watched, its geometry pulsing with rapt attention.
When the flow finally slowed to a trickle, a shudder wracked Nikolai's frame. He pulled back, lips stained dark, breath coming in ragged gasps. The raw energy thrumming through him was intoxicating, agonizingly potent. He threw his head back, the motion involuntary, and a roar tore from his throat—not just satisfaction, but a declaration. A primal assertion of being, raw and monstrous, echoing over the dying sounds of the nearby skirmish.