"Let's get one thing straight," Darren said before they moved. "All the kills are mine."
"No problem."
With that simple agreement, the two walked toward the nightclub without another word, each step steady, deliberate, and utterly fearless.
The vampires guarding the entrance tensed the moment they saw them. One of them hissed, "Stop! Who the hell are you?"
"Your exterminators," Darren replied flatly.
Before the words even left his lips, his figure blurred—like a ghost breaking loose from its chains.
Shing! Shing! Shing!
Steel flashed thrice in the dark. The guards didn't even have time to scream before their bodies crumbled into clouds of gray dust.
Blade, standing just behind, raised an eyebrow. "That's… quite a knife."
Darren froze mid-step, glaring at him. "It's a Sun Blade."
Still looks like one, though, Blade thought, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. But he wisely kept silent.
They didn't slow down as they stepped through the nightclub doors, walking in like they owned the place.
Two patrolling vampires turned at the sound, but before either could react—shing, shing!—Darren's blade danced twice through the air. Both vampires dissolved into ash without even realizing they'd been hit.
On the other side, Blade moved like a shadow given form. His unique half-vampire physiology allowed him to melt seamlessly into the darkness. Without a sound, he appeared behind another vampire, landing two bone-crushing punches that sent the creature sprawling unconscious.
He glanced toward Darren and, keeping his word, gestured for him to take the kill.
Both men were natural fighters—no unnecessary chatter, no drawn-out planning. One look was all it took for them to move in perfect sync.
Together, they slipped deeper into the nightclub, their kills piling up, the mission counter on Darren's interface climbing rapidly.
Yes—one could say their stealth was very effective.
...
When they finally reached the main floor, a stench of blood hit them like a physical blow.
Above them, the sprinkler system sprayed not water but thick, crimson blood, pouring in sheets over the crowd below.
On the dance floor, dozens of bodies twisted and writhed to the pounding bass, faces contorted in ecstasy, letting the blood rain drench their skin.
It wasn't hard to tell—they were all vampires.
Darren grimaced. "Do vampires always have to be this disgusting?"
Sure, blood was their food, but this? This was like humans showering in soda. Just… wrong.
Well, except for those hyperactive club junkies, he thought. They'd probably love it.
Then one of the vampires—young, slick, with dyed hair and too much attitude—spotted them. His eyes widened in horror.
"It's Blade! The Daywalker!"
The music seemed to die for a second. Every vampire froze. Their faces went pale, eyes filled with raw fear.
The name Blade was infamous in vampire circles—whispered like a curse, a bedtime story told to frighten newborn fledglings.
Even the freshest of them had heard of the Daywalker—the boogeyman who hunted his own kind.
Blade bared his teeth in a grin that gleamed sharp and white in the dim red light. He was clearly enjoying this.
"I heard there's a party," he drawled. "Funny—I didn't get an invite."
"Die, Daywalker!"
One vampire, braver—or stupider—than the rest, screamed and lunged.
Blade moved faster than sight. His silver sword flashed once, slicing cleanly through the vampire's arms. Before the creature's scream could leave his throat, the blade reversed, shearing off his legs at the knees.
Blade didn't finish him. He just stood there, watching coldly as the vampire writhed and screamed on the ground.
That expression—calm, clinical, and almost amused—was far more terrifying than any roar.
The other vampires immediately faltered.
They'd always feared Blade, but seeing him in person—seeing that casual cruelty—shattered what little courage they had left.
Panic erupted.
They turned to flee, only to find the exit blocked—by Darren.
"Out of my way, human!" snarled one at the front, his fangs bared.
Shing!
Darren didn't bother to reply. His blade came down in a perfect, clean arc, splitting the vampire in half. The body disintegrated before it hit the ground.
He stepped forward, locked the nightclub's doors with a sharp twist, and turned back toward the trembling horde. The knife gleamed wickedly under the blood rain.
"Sorry," he said with a pleasant smile. "This exit's closed."
"It's him! The Vampire Slayer! The lunatic who's wiped out hundreds of us!"
A voice shrieked from the back, and the realization spread like wildfire.
Between Blade and Darren, the vampires were trapped—wolves cornered by two predators more fearsome than themselves.
"Don't panic! There's only two of them!" someone yelled. "We outnumber them!"
"Kill them!"
The surviving vampires surged forward, desperation twisting their faces into monstrous masks.
Blade scoffed, raising his sword. "Amateurs."
He spun the weapon once, then dove into the swarm.
Blade wasn't human. Not fully. He was half vampire—blessed with their strength, speed, and healing, but cursed with none of their weaknesses.
No sunlight sensitivity. No silver allergy. No blood addiction.
If he wanted to, he could sunbathe at noon and come away with a tan.
His existence alone was a cheat code.
And when you added decades of combat training on top of that? The result was a walking massacre.
In seconds, a dozen vampires lay broken on the ground—limbs severed, weapons clattering uselessly beside them.
Blade glanced toward Darren and almost paused mid-fight.
The man had gone berserk. His "watermelon" Sun Blade blurred into afterimages, slicing through one vampire after another, each swing leaving behind nothing but dust and silence.
No technique. No form. Just raw power and absurd stats.
It wasn't a fight—it was a massacre.
Then the door to a private booth at the far end of the club burst open.
A group of vampires in sleek black leather stormed out, led by a rugged, scar-faced man with rage written all over his face.
He froze when he saw the scene—his subordinates reduced to ash, the two men standing amidst the carnage.
And when his gaze landed on Blade, recognition turned to fury.
"Blade! You filthy half-breed!" he roared.
Blade kicked a vampire into a wall and smirked. "Quinn. Long time no see. Miss me?"
"F** you!*" Quinn snarled, flipping him off. "Kill them both!"
At once, his underlings drew firearms from inside their jackets—sleek pistols and automatic rifles glinting under the club lights.
Modern vampires, after all, were nothing if not practical. Guns were freedom's favorite accessory.
The air erupted in gunfire.
Ratatatatata!
Bullets tore through the room, shattering glass and furniture. Blade and Darren each dove for cover.
Blade rolled behind a bar counter and pulled out his favorite weapon—a brutal, custom shotgun with reinforced plating.
He popped up, aimed, and fired.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The silver-loaded shells hit like small bombs, shredding the nearest vampires to ash.
Then, to Darren's surprise, Blade stopped shooting.
"What's wrong?" he called out over the chaos. "Gun jammed?"
Blade grimaced. "No. Bullets are too expensive."
Darren blinked. "…Seriously?"
Blade just sighed, patting the shotgun like a beloved pet.
Hey, silver wasn't cheap.