The shotgun roared, muzzle flash illuminating Old John's weathered face in harsh strobe-light intervals. Metal pellets spread in a cone of destruction, each tiny projectile carrying enough kinetic energy to shred flesh on contact.
The Thrall at the front of the engagement simply came apart. Emaciated bodies, already weakened by corruption and malnutrition, offered no meaningful resistance to the buckshot. Limbs separated. Torsos opened. They collapsed like puppets with cut strings, falling in boneless heaps.
Several pellets punched through the initial targets and continued traveling, their momentum only partially spent. They embedded themselves in the body of a Blood Coven priest standing behind the first rank of corrupted, the impacts creating small dark holes that leaked blood in lazy rivulets.
The priest's face contorted, pain registering through whatever remained of his human nervous system. His mouth opened, perhaps to scream or to begin a chant.
Old John didn't give him the opportunity.
The veteran surged forward with speed that belied his age and the weight of his carapace armor. His robotic arm moved in a blur, drawing the silver-plated saber from its sheath in one fluid motion. The blade gleamed in the firelight, reflecting flames until it looked like he wielded concentrated light itself.
He resembled an ancient lion, gray-maned but still possessing all the predatory ferocity that had allowed him to survive countless battles. Age had stolen nothing that truly mattered.
The saber descended.
One strike. Clean. Efficient. No wasted motion.
The priest's head separated from his shoulders, tumbling through the air before hitting the ground with a wet sound. Blood fountained from the stump of the neck, spraying in arterial pulses that quickly lost pressure as the body collapsed.
But Old John had seen enough priests regenerate to know the battle wasn't finished. He moved before the corpse finished falling, his hand already reaching for his belt harness.
A freezing grenade came free, the ring-pull already removed, indicator light blazing red to signal active detonation sequence. Old John's throw sent it spinning through the air, landing precisely where the priest's blood was beginning to pool and gather with unnatural purpose.
The explosion was sharp, crystalline, nothing like the dull thump of conventional explosives. The sound carried an almost musical quality, like breaking glass amplified a thousand times.
Bloody icicles erupted from the impact point, each one gleaming with that characteristic faint blue luminescence. They burst upward at angles, creating a forest of frozen spikes that covered several meters in every direction. The temperature plummeted instantly, cold radiating outward in waves that made breath visible and turned moisture in the air into fine frost.
The blood pooling across the ground froze solid. Whatever special properties allowed the priests to reform their bodies from spilled vitae, those properties couldn't withstand temperatures that would make liquid nitrogen seem warm by comparison. The magical activity within the blood simply stopped, crystallized, rendered permanently inert.
The Blood Coven priest was truly, finally dead.
And with his death came an immediate cascading effect.
The Thrall who'd been attacking under his direct control simply... stopped. Their mindless aggression evaporated as whatever connection bound them to the priest's will severed all at once. Some remained standing, swaying slightly, expressions gone completely blank. Tears of blood began leaking from their eyes, tracking down hollow cheeks in crimson lines.
Others collapsed where they stood, falling like marionettes when the puppeteer drops the strings. They hit the ground and didn't move again, life departing without ceremony or drama.
Old John's single eye swept across the scene, taking in the tragedy of what these people had become. His jaw tightened. The hand not holding his shotgun clenched into a fist at his side.
"Damn it all." His voice emerged rough, thickened by emotion he couldn't quite suppress. "Even after seeing this countless times, I still can't bear watching these civilians cry blood tears." He drew a breath of the filthy air, tasting smoke and death and the peculiar chemical stink of the freezing grenade's aftermath. "Boys! Give them mercy! End it quickly!"
The Gang Dogs who'd accompanied him on the charge spread throughout the immediate area, weapons ready, understood immediately. This wasn't cruelty. This was the only kindness they could offer.
More than twenty soldiers holstered their silver-plated sabers, the blades sliding into sheaths with metallic whispers. They raised lasgun instead, taking careful aim despite knowing these targets wouldn't resist or flee.
Triggers pulled. Energy weapons discharged with their characteristic sharp cracks.
Blue-white and crimson laser beams lanced through the darkness, each one finding its mark with surgical precision. The beams punched through corrupted flesh, cauterizing as they went, delivering instant death to people who'd suffered far too long already.
The Thrall fell in quick succession, released at last from whatever torment they'd endured.
Old John watched until the last one dropped, then nodded once. His beard, still matted with dried blood that had turned it from white to crimson, trembled slightly as he exhaled.
"This area's clear for now." His voice carried the authority of someone accustomed to command, even if he'd never wanted the responsibility. "We halt the advance here. Wait for the teams behind us to catch up before pushing further." He scanned their surroundings with his single eye, taking in unfamiliar streets and buildings he'd never seen before tonight. "We've penetrated deep into hostile territory. Could be vulnerable to counter-attack from unexpected angles."
His mechanical arm rose, clenching into a fist that he waved in a broad gesture encompassing the surrounding structures. "Search the buildings horizontally. If you find civilians still hiding, evacuate them immediately. Don't wait to rejoin the main formation. Get them to safety and trust the rest of us to hold position."
The Gang Dogs responded with immediate efficiency, breaking into five-man teams without needing additional instruction. They dispersed toward the low-rise buildings surrounding the intersection, weapons ready but moving with the careful awareness of people conducting search-and-rescue rather than assault operations.
Old John remained at the center of the cleared area, his posture relaxing fractionally now that immediate threats had been eliminated. His robotic arm reached inside the carapace armor's storage compartments, metal fingers closing on shotgun shells. He began reloading the weapon with unhurried precision, muscle memory guiding the process while his attention remained on the surrounding environment.
The ground beneath his boots was saturated with enemy blood. Puddles of it spread across broken pavement, soaking into cracks and pooling in depressions. The smell was overwhelming this close, copper and rot and something else, something fundamentally wrong that made primal instincts scream warnings.
Thin tendrils of blood began moving.
The motion started subtly, almost imperceptible. Individual droplets stirred, flowing against gravity in ways that violated natural law. The tendrils extended outward from larger pools, creating networks of crimson veins that spread across the ground with disturbingly organic purpose.
They moved toward Old John's position. Slowly. Quietly. Seeking.
Old John's hands never stopped their reloading motion. Shell. Chamber. Shell. Chamber. His face remained calm, focused on the weapon, giving no indication he'd noticed the approaching threat.
The bloodshot veins crept closer. Inches from his boots now. Almost at their target.
Old John exploded into motion.
His legs drove downward with tremendous force, launching his armored bulk several meters straight up. The carapace plating that would have made such a leap impossible for an unenhanced human barely slowed him. He rose through the air in a perfect vertical ascent, clearing the immediate danger zone completely.
Something small and spherical tumbled from his hand as he jumped, falling with deliberate placement to land exactly where he'd been standing.
A freezing grenade, ring already pulled, timer already counting down toward detonation.
The explosion came while Old John was still airborne.
Bloody icicles burst into existence, each one angled outward from the central detonation point like the petals of some frozen, terrible flower. They formed a blooming pattern of crystalline beauty and lethal cold, spreading outward in geometric precision.
The extreme temperature flash-froze everything within the blast radius. The bloodshot veins crystallized mid-motion, their unnatural animation locked into permanent stillness. The puddles of blood transformed into irregular sheets of crimson ice. Even the air itself seemed to freeze, moisture condensing into thousands of tiny ice crystals that caught the firelight and sparkled.
Old John descended through this frozen garden, his combat boots coming down hard on the icy surface. Carapace-reinforced soles shattered the bloody icicles beneath him, crushing them into glittering fragments that crunched with each step.
He landed in a stable crouch, one hand on the ground for balance, the other still gripping his shotgun. His single eye lifted, tracking toward a dim alley approximately twenty meters distant.
A cold smile pulled at his lips, transforming his face into something predatory. "Haha." The laugh was dry, humorless. "Come out, little one. I spotted the blood-scent on you before the last engagement even ended. Why do you think I sent my boys away early? To reduce their casualties, certainly... but also to have this conversation privately."
For several heartbeats, nothing moved. The alley remained dark, quiet, giving no indication anyone hid within its shadows.
Then a figure emerged, stepping into the firelight with deliberate slowness.
She was a Mexican woman, undeniably attractive in a way that seemed calculated to draw attention. Her wheat-colored skin possessed a subtle luminescence in the night, as if she generated her own light from within. Dark hair framed features that might have been beautiful before whatever transformation the Blood Coven had performed on her.
She wore a dark red robe far more elaborate than the simple garments of the priests Old John had been killing. The fabric was fine quality, embroidered with patterns that suggested rank and authority. The V-shaped neckline plunged dramatically, exposing considerable skin in a display that seemed designed for some purpose beyond simple fashion.
In one slender hand, she gripped a golden scepter. The metal gleamed with its own internal light, suggesting either enchantment or simply expensive craftsmanship.
Her eyes, when they focused on Old John, carried absolute confidence. She radiated authority, the kind that comes from being accustomed to obedience and deference.
"Are you one of the leaders of this invading force?" Her voice emerged cool, controlled, speaking English with only the faintest accent. "The blue demon who escaped our territory before... is he also one of your people?"
The condescension in her tone was unmistakable. She addressed Old John the way royalty might address a servant, expecting answers simply because she'd demanded them.
Old John's beard, still crimson with dried blood, trembled slightly as he processed her words. His eyebrows rose. "Oh? We've been fighting for hours now, and you don't even know who you're at war with? That's remarkably poor intelligence work." He shook his head slowly, the gesture carrying theatrical disappointment. "Besides, how exactly did a hard-working old man like me become a 'leader'?"
He shifted his weight, the shotgun resting comfortably across his shoulder armor. "By the way, I should correct something. We're not invaders. We're the great saviors of humanity." A pause, then he continued with something that might have been self-deprecation or simple honesty. "Although I'm not a local to this world, if I can contribute to this fight, perhaps it'll make the stepping stone into Valhalla a bit thicker when my time comes..."
The Mexican woman's expression didn't change. She simply stared at him with those eyes that were beginning to shift color, red creeping into the whites like blood diffusing through water.
"I don't care who you are." Each word came out precisely enunciated, carrying the weight of someone delivering an ultimatum. "If your force chooses to withdraw from the slum district immediately, the Blood Coven can forgive your rudeness and cruelty. We will also promise to release the remaining civilians. But the transformation will proceed step by step, according to our methods."
Old John's mechanical arm rose suddenly, fingers splaying in a gesture of theatrical consideration. "Wait, wait. Let me think." His organic hand came up as well, fingers ticking off numbers. "Including the priest I just killed, that makes fifteen who've died by my hands specifically, yes? And if I count the priests eliminated by other team members..." He paused, pretending to struggle with the math. "You've lost more than twenty mid-level and senior members tonight alone."
His single eye fixed on her with predatory focus. "But I heard that your sect only has sixty-six Blood Coven priests in total." He let that number hang in the air for a moment. "If we weren't prioritizing civilian evacuations, if we'd simply focused on killing you all... how long do you think you bastards would last?"
His mechanical arm dropped casually to his waist, fingers brushing the remaining freezing grenades on his harness. The shotgun remained perched on his shoulder armor, positioned for quick deployment but not immediately threatening.
He grinned, the expression transforming his blood-caked beard into something almost demonic in the firelight. "So tell me, who are you really? The bishop leading this sect? Or just some woman warming the beds of the higher-ranking members..."
He never got to finish the insult.
The Mexican woman's face transformed. The cool, controlled expression shattered, replaced by something cold and terrible as winter frost. Her entire posture changed, shoulders drawing back, spine straightening, radiating sudden lethal intent.
The golden scepter rose high in her grip.
Her mouth opened, and words emerged. Not Spanish. Not English. Something older, harsher, syllables that seemed to hurt the air as they passed through it. A low-pitched chant that carried sharp edges, cutting and precise.
The corpses littering the ground responded immediately.
Dark red blood erupted from dozens of bodies simultaneously, defying gravity to rise into the air. The liquid streams gathered, coalescing, forming into shapes. They became blood arrows, slender projectiles with pointed tips, dozens of them materializing in the space of a heartbeat.
They oriented on Old John's position and launched forward with tremendous velocity, whistling through the air like living ammunition.
Old John's grin widened into something absolutely feral.
"Little one," he said, his voice carrying satisfaction rather than fear. "I was waiting for you to do exactly that."
His mechanical arm, which had been resting casually at his waist, moved with inhuman speed. The remaining three freezing grenades came free of their housings, rings already pulled, timers already counting down. His arm whipped forward in a throwing motion that put every ounce of mechanical strength behind it.
The grenades spun through the air in a tight cluster, arcing high over the incoming blood arrows, passing just above the Mexican woman's head.
Her eyes widened fractionally, realization hitting too late.
The grenades detonated simultaneously in mid-air behind her, creating a cascading explosion of crystalline cold.
Bloody icicles burst into existence by the hundreds, forming a wall of frozen spikes that erupted from the detonation points. The icicles spread outward and downward like a frozen waterfall, each one gleaming with that characteristic faint blue glow.
The extreme cold flash-froze the blood arrows in mid-flight, transforming them from liquid projectiles into harmless icicles that fell to the ground and shattered.
And the Mexican woman found herself standing in the center of a frozen cage, surrounded by crystalline spikes on all sides.
Old John's laugh echoed across the battlefield, triumphant and merciless.