"The hunger awakens. The battlefield shatters. The Red Feast begins."
The echoes of Nikolai's roar faded, swallowed by the ongoing cacophony of the breach – gunfire, shouts, the distant groan of stressed metal. But within him, a new, thrumming energy sang. Every fractured limit he'd ever known dissolved into ash. The lingering taste on his tongue – rich, burning, primal – was a promise. He needed more. His head snapped up, eyes blazing with crimson light, scanning the smoke-choked chaos.
They weren't soldiers anymore. They weren't even enemies.
They were food. On legs. Nervous, twitchy, bleeding food. And he was starving.
He could see them with a terrifying new clarity, almost superimposed over their physical forms – the incandescent tracery of veins beneath their grimy armor, the frantic, pulsing heat of the blood within, the pounding thrum of their hearts. He could smell their fear, a sharp, acrid tang mingling with the cordite and blood already saturating the air. A slow, predatory grin stretched his lips, unfamiliar muscles pulling his face into a mask of hunger. The thought of sinking his teeth into that heat again, of that explosive release coursing through him, sent a shiver of pure, dark anticipation down his spine.
One of the Black Skull soldiers, his face pale beneath his helmet, stumbled back a step, rifle half-lowered. "What in the godless…?" The words died in his throat as Nikolai moved. It wasn't running; it was an unmaking of distance, a blur that seemed to tear the intervening air. Faster than a human eye could track, faster even than the shadow he no longer distinctly cast in the flickering light. Before the soldier could complete his horrified thought, Nikolai was upon him.
There was no struggle, merely impact. Fangs, already slick, plunged into yielding flesh. The scream was cut short, gurgling into the torrent Nikolai drew. Again, that exquisite detonation of sensation – warmth, power, a blinding ecstasy that wiped away the battlefield, the noise, everything but the intoxicating flood. He drank, deeper this time, faster, the soldier a mere vessel, his dying convulsions a distant tremor against the roaring inferno within Nikolai.
Around them, the immediate sounds of combat stuttered and died. The other Black Skull soldiers, caught mid-movement, froze. Weapons sagged. Jaws hung slack. The sudden, localized silence was profound, a pocket of stunned horror carved into the heart of the battle. Their eyes, wide and reflecting the carnage, were fixed on the monstrous tableau.
"FIRE!" The shout, raw and desperate – from whom, no one could register – shattered the unnatural stillness. It was a spark to tinder. Fear, momentarily paralyzing, gave way to a different, unified terror. Rifles snapped up, no longer aimed at city defenders or unseen threats, but converging on the blood-drenched figure detaching itself from its latest kill.
Bang! The first gunshot was a sharp crack in the sudden din. To Nikolai, lifting his head, the world warped. Sound stretched, became viscous. The muzzle flash blossomed like a slow, malevolent flower. He saw the bullet leave the barrel—a spinning speck of death crawling through the air, its trajectory a visible line of intent. With a contemptuous ease that horrified him even as he acted, he seized the now limp form of the drained soldier. The body, moments ago a struggling adult, felt like a weightless sack in his grip. He jerked it upwards.
The bullet slammed into the dead flesh with a wet thud.
For a heartbeat, Nikolai stood there, framed by the grotesque shield, crimson eyes burning through the smoke. Then, as more shots rang out, he was simply… gone. Not a blur this time, but an instant erasure from sight, leaving only the falling corpse and the stunned, now doubly terrified, soldiers firing at empty space.
Commander Victor stood frozen, his jaw tight, the metallic scent of spent cartridges acrid in his nostrils. The fanatical devotion of Blood Hound's soldiers—throwing themselves into the line of fire—had left his own men in a state of shocked disbelief. The air crackled with a stunned silence, broken only by the whimpers of the wounded and the distant, unending sounds of the larger battle at the breach. Blood Hound himself remained an impassive silhouette against the swirling smoke, his skull mask a beacon of cold dread.
Then, another sound ripped through the tense atmosphere, far more guttural and chilling than any human battle cry they'd yet heard. A monstrous, primal roar that seemed to vibrate the very rubble under their boots. Victor's head snapped up, every combat instinct screaming. His men flinched, their eyes wide, darting nervously towards the direction of the sound – deeper within the breached section.
A beat of silence, then a fresh wave of chaotic noise erupted from that same direction: a ragged volley of panicked gunfire, not disciplined or controlled, followed by a series of high-pitched, terrified screams that were abruptly cut short. It wasn't the sound of a firefight; it was the sound of a slaughter.
Before Victor could process this new horror, figures burst from the smoke-choked ruins further down the street, sprinting towards them with desperate, flailing abandon. He squinted, disbelieving. City defenders in their drab green and grey, yes—but intermingled with them, running shoulder to terrified shoulder, were soldiers in the stark black of the Black Skull. Old enmities were forgotten, replaced by a singular, unifying terror.
"MONSTER! RUN!!" The cry was a ragged chorus, choked with panic. "RUN! IT'S A MONSTER!"
As the tide of fleeing soldiers swept past, one—a city defender, his face a mask of chalky fear—stumbled close. Victor's arm shot out, his hand clamping onto the private's shoulder like a vice, yanking him from the panicked stream. "Soldier! What in the blazes is going on?!" Victor demanded, his voice a harsh bark.
The private's eyes were wild, unfocused, pupils dilated. He thrashed in Victor's grip, his words a torrent of panicked gibberish. "Run… run, sir! Monster… teeth… so fast… gods, the blood… RUN!" He was shaking violently, his gaze fixed on some unseen horror behind them.
Victor tightened his grip, trying to shake some sense into him, but the soldier was lost to terror. The cacophony of screams and sporadic, panicked gunfire was drawing undeniably closer, punctuated now by wet, tearing sounds that made Victor's stomach clench. He shoved the babbling private towards his own lines. "Get him out of here!"
Then, through the acrid haze and flickering firelight, it emerged.
Victor's breath hitched. The figure was tall, almost gaunt, yet moved with a predatory grace that belied any hint of weakness. Its skin was a ghastly, pale canvas against which dark, engorged veins pulsed like writhing worms beneath the surface, especially prominent around the sharp cheekbones and under the eyes. And those eyes—they were not human. Their sclera were a stark, unnatural white, starkly contrasting with pupils that blazed like crimson orbs, radiating a malevolent light. Four sharp fangs, impossibly long, descended from its upper jaw, glistening wetly with fresh blood that dripped onto its chin and stained the tattered remnants of its clothing.
Even Blood Hound, the feared captain of the Black Skull, took an involuntary step back, his impassive skull mask for once failing to conceal the flicker of primal terror in his stance. He scrambled slightly, his posture losing its rigid discipline. "W-what abomination is this?!" he stammered, then, finding some vestige of command, roared at his remaining men, "ATTACK IT! KILL THAT THING!"
The Black Skull soldiers, already shaken, hesitated for a fatal second before their ingrained obedience overrode their fear. They raised their weapons, a ragged volley of gunfire erupting.
Nikolai barely registered the bullets. They struck him like angry hornets, brief, stinging impacts that were instantly consumed by the raging fire of his new vitality. More food. Rushing towards him. A dark, ecstatic smile twisted his lips.
He moved.
To the Black Skull soldiers, he was a flicker, a distortion in the smoke-filled air, there one moment and then suddenly among them. Three men in the front rank, weapons still firing, suddenly stopped. A bewildered expression crossed their faces. They looked down. Dark, gaping holes had appeared in their chests, perfectly round, as if something had punched clean through armor, ribcage, and flesh. One mumbled, "My… heart…" before his eyes rolled back and he crumpled, a fountain of crimson erupting from the cavity. The other two followed, collapsing like puppets with their strings cut. The soldiers charging behind them didn't even seem to register their comrades' fall, their momentum carrying them forward into the killing zone. Nikolai, unseen by them, let three still-beating hearts drop from his bloodied hands to the corpse-strewn ground with wet, obscene plops.
Then, the world shifted for Nikolai. The frantic, chaotic movements of his prey slowed to a crawl. Each muzzle flash was a lingering bloom of light, each terrified face a perfectly rendered portrait of impending doom. He moved through this gallery of frozen moments, a phantom of vengeance and hunger. A soldier turned, rifle swinging, his shout a drawn-out vowel in the stretched silence. Nikolai's hand, a pale blur, shot out, fingers like steel talons, and closed around the man's throat. A sharp twist, a wet, snapping sound, and the head lolled at an impossible angle. He was already moving to the next, a whirlwind of focused brutality. Another soldier found his vision filled with crimson eyes before a hand, impossibly strong, tore through his chest plate and ripped out the frantic muscle within. Screams became gurgles. Gunfire was a distant, irrelevant popping. He tasted blood again, a quick, savage drain from a falling enemy, the brief, hot rush a delightful punctuation to the slaughter. With a contemptuous backhand, he sent another man's head spinning from his shoulders, the body collapsing in a heap.
Blood Hound, witnessing the utter annihilation of his elite guard, the impossible speed and savagery of this… thing, finally broke. The skull mask couldn't hide the sheer terror that contorted his features as he turned to flee, abandoning all pretense of command.
But Nikolai was a whisper of motion behind him. Blood Hound felt a cold presence, then a hand clamped onto the back of his head, fingers digging into his scalp like vices. He was slammed face-first into the jagged edge of a broken wall with bone-shattering force. Stars exploded behind his eyes. He felt his nose break, teeth shatter. Before he could even scream, Nikolai's other hand shot around, fangs bared in a rictus of pure hunger.
There was no finesse to this kill. No savoring. Only a brutal, final assertion of dominance. Nikolai tore into Blood Hound's throat with a guttural snarl, ripping and rending, the captain's muffled, agonized screams lost in the spray of his own lifeblood. Nikolai held him there, draining the last vestiges of the feared captain's strength, until Blood Hound's struggles ceased and he hung limp, a grotesque effigy in the monster's grasp. With a final, contemptuous wrench, Nikolai tossed the corpse aside.
Victor watched, paralyzed by a horror so profound it stole the air from his lungs. His men, those who hadn't fled, were similarly transfixed, their faces ashen. The small pocket of the battlefield around them had fallen into a dreadful, blood-soaked silence, broken only by Nikolai's ragged, sated breathing.
The soft, artificial light of Wanda's apartment – a meticulously curated space high within the Citadel's secure heart – did little to soothe the disquiet that had settled over her since the news of the breach at Section Nine. She stood before the tall window, heavy velvet curtains swept aside, her gaze fixed not on the opulent, manicured grounds of the Consul's district below, but further, towards the distant pall of smoke beginning to stain the night sky near the city's edge.
Even from this height, shielded by layers of steel and protocol, the city's unrest was palpable. Faintly, carried on the chill night air, came the distant cacophony: the hurried clang of shop shutters slamming down, the rising murmur of panicked voices too indistinct to be words but clear in their terror, the rhythmic, urgent beat of soldiers' boots on the wide avenues as reinforcements marched towards the breach, their formations also peeling off to reinforce checkpoints, a grim counter-rhythm to the city's sudden fear. Opportunistic chaos, she knew, would simmer in the dark corners if not ruthlessly quelled. The city, for all its proclaimed Hope, was a fragile ecosystem.
Then, it came.
Not a sound she heard with her ears alone, but a ripple through the very fabric of the unseen, a psychic shockwave that resonated deep in her ancient core, followed by a monstrous, primal roar that, even muted by distance, clawed its way into her awareness.
Wanda flinched, a rare, almost imperceptible tremor running through her usually composed frame. Her knuckles, resting on the cool windowpane, whitened. Her face, moments before a mask of detached observation, lost a fraction of its color, becoming marble-pale in the dim light.
"So," she breathed, the word a mere exhalation, "the ritual… is complete."
The world flickered. For an instant, the view from her window was consumed by another, far more terrible sight: Nikolai, blood dripping from his fingers, his eyes inhuman. Herself, falling, throat torn, life gushing onto cold stone. The world itself fracturing around his ascendant, calamitous form. The vision, always lurking at the edge of her foresight, pulsed with renewed, sickening clarity.
She drew a slow, deliberate breath, pushing the images away. The finality of the ritual's completion was not, in itself, the source of the cold knot tightening in her chest. She had seen this moment, in myriad variations, countless times. Her attempts to delay it, to perhaps intercept and neutralize the boy before this culmination, had always been… contingencies. Desirable, yes, but she had never truly banked her survival on such a slim possibility. That was why she was here, within the high walls of Hope, nestled in the seat of power. The city's formidable security, its layers of defense, were meant to be her fortress while she orchestrated the creature's true demise.
A bitter, almost silent huff escaped her lips. Fate, if such a banal concept even applied to the grand, cruel games orchestrated by the Eye, possessed a truly perverse sense of irony. A breach in those very walls, now. And the catalyst, Nikolai, no longer a desperate boy but a newly minted thing, already inside.
She felt it then, an almost physical pressure at the edge of her consciousness – the Eye. Its presence was stronger than it had been in the Consul's office, closer, imbued with an almost tangible… satisfaction. She glanced towards the empty space in the room where its attention seemed to coalesce, and for a fleeting moment, she could almost perceive a flicker within its non-form, the psychic equivalent of a smug, knowing leer.
Wanda straightened, her expression hardening into resolve. She would not be a puppet to its amusement.
I need to find William, she thought, the inner voice calm, meticulously devoid of the cold dread gripping her. The Consul must be made to understand the nature of the threat that has just awakened within his city.
He knows nothing of this... this specific horror.
She would have to choose her words with utmost care, to convey the appalling danger without revealing the full, damning extent of her own involvement in its creation, or the true depth of the calamity she herself had foreseen.