The tension in the hall snapped from a cold stalemate to a jagged, electrified standoff. As Gunther's words hung in the air, the silence returned, heavier and more dangerous than before. The other three generals were measuring the risk of the lie against the potential of the reward, their eyes searching Gunther's weathered face for any sign of a tremor.
Gunther didn't give them the satisfaction of a defense. Instead, he let out a long, weary sigh and leaned back, his chair creaking in the quiet room.
"Whether you believe me or not," he said, his voice flat and indifferent, "is no longer my concern."
The reaction was instantaneous. Three pairs of eyes flared into a blinding, predatory crimson. Blood magic surged, gathering around the hands of Quel, Armal, and Pyrax like swirling smoke, ready to tear Gunther limb from limb. Gunther didn't flinch; he simply let his own power hum beneath the surface, a silent warning that he wouldn't go down alone.
"Kill me then," Gunther added, his voice cutting through their posturing. "But remember—there is no path back to the way things were. Do you think Patrick will forgive you for Selina? For his child? If you turn back now out of cowardice, he will spend a century making you regret every breath you take."
He leaned forward, his shadow stretching across the table. "If this boy doesn't exist, we are already dead. We'll be picked off by Raphael or some other vulture gang while we're busy bickering over the scraps of Wilson. This boy is our only leverage. Believe it, or don't. The end is the same."
The logic was a cold bucket of water. Slowly, the glowing light in their eyes faded. The gathered magic dissipated, and the three generals settled back into their seats.
"It's damning," Pyrax muttered, glancing around the room. "To see where our greed has brought us."
The others gave him looks of pure venom. Pyrax was the most two-faced snake among them; the idea of him lamenting "greed" was a joke they didn't find funny. They all knew Pyrax likely had an escape plan or a hidden ace he wasn't sharing. In response, a fresh layer of secrecy settled over the group. No one was going to share their best cards now.
With a silent, mutual understanding that the estate was no longer a place of trust, the meeting broke up. They had agreed that no one would live in the grand residence—a symbolic gesture to ensure no one claimed the "throne" prematurely.
As Gunther walked through the rubble-strewn streets of Wilson toward his own resting place, the confidence he had projected in the hall began to crumble. He ground his teeth, the doubt gnawing at his gut. His informants were lowlifes—street rats he'd plucked from the gutter. They had no reason to be loyal, and he had no leash tight enough to keep them from lying to save their own skins. If they had fabricated the "miracle boy" to please him, he had just led his entire gang into a meat grinder.
He knew the numbers. Raphael's military strength eclipsed theirs. A direct war was suicide.
He reached his "home"—a squat, poorly-constructed enclosure. It had once belonged to a family, but Gunther had claimed it by force, tossing their bodies into the street for the Druids to find.
He looked out at the dark horizon of Wilson, and his mind snagged on the memory of those vile, massive beasts. The Druids were the town's apex scavengers—monstrous, mindless, and terrifyingly powerful.
A dark idea began to take root. *Subjugation.*
If he couldn't win with soldiers, he would win with monsters. He had been feeding Raphael scraps of information, playing the double agent to fill the tyrant with overconfidence, but he had never intended to be Raphael's lapdog.
Gunther sauntered out from his shelter, his gaze fixed on a massive Druid a few dozen yards away. The beast was hunched over the remains of a dead vampire, the sound of snapping bone wet and rhythmic in the night air.
Gunther didn't feel fear. He felt a desperate, cold ambition. If he could harness the town's nightmares, he wouldn't just survive the war—he would own the ruins.
The Druids were the bloated, silent nightmares of Wilson. They were towering abominations—hunched, pale-skinned scavengers with elongated limbs and skin that looked like stretched parchment over excessive muscle. They weren't born of magic, but of a grim, biological gluttony; they had grown to their massive size by feasting on the endless supply of vampire corpses the town provided. While they lacked supernatural abilities, their strength was raw and physical, governed by a scavenger's intelligence that taught them one vital rule: avoid the Devil's Flames.
Gunther watched the beast before him, his eyes cold and calculating. He knew they understood fear. If he could amplify that fear into absolute agony, he could turn a scavenger into a soldier.
Gunther didn't hesitate. He raised his hands, the crimson glow of blood magic swirling between his palms. With a practiced motion, he conjured a recurve bow of solid light, nocking an arrow of condensed energy. He drew back the string and released.
The projectile whistled through the air, striking the Druid squarely in the meat of its neck. A moderately-sized explosion followed, a flash of red that scorched the beast's pale hide.
The Druid shrieked—a high, rattling sound that filled the stagnant Wilson air. It staggered back, clutching at the charred wound with its spindly fingers. As the smoke cleared, the beast's eyes locked onto Gunther.
For the first time in its long, wretched existence, the Druid felt a shift in the hierarchy. This vampire didn't smell like the sickly, terrified wretches it usually pulled from the gutters. Those meals were weak, their blood thin and bitter with the taste of impending death. This man was healthy, radiant with power, and stood with a confidence that made the towering abomination shiver.
Realization dawned on the creature. It began to take slow, deliberate steps backward, its teeth chattering in a rhythmic display of terror. Suddenly, its eyes went wide, staring in feigned shock at something behind Gunther.
Gunther didn't even flinch. He knew a distraction when he saw one.
"A cheap trick," Gunther muttered, the sound of his boots clicking against the cracked pavement as he closed the distance.
When he was only a few meters away, Gunther knelt down slightly, offering the creature a cold, mirthless smile. Then, in a blur of movement that defied the beast's primitive senses, he blitzed forward. He caught the Druid by its thick neck, the sheer force of his momentum slamming its head into the stone with a sickening crack.
"You are going to be very useful," Gunther said. He knew the beast couldn't understand his words, but he knew it understood the weight of his hand.
He hoisted the hulking scavenger into the air as if it weighed nothing, then tossed it aside. The Druid skidded across the dirt, wailing in a pathetic, broken tone, its limbs flailing as it tried to regain its footing.
Gunther walked toward it again, his hands glowing. He wove his blood magic into a thick, jagged collar, pulsing with a volatile red light. He stepped onto the beast's chest and clamped the collar violently around its throat.
The Druid went still. It didn't fight. It didn't claw. It simply lay there, its chest heaving, knowing that any act of defiance would only invite a fresh wave of pain. It had been broken in a matter of minutes.
Gunther stood back, admiring the sight. A dark, satisfied smile pulled at his lips. This was only the beginning—one beast was a pet, but a dozen would be an army that Raphael Night would never see coming.
He grabbed the crimson chains attached to the collar and dragged the massive creature back toward his enclosure. With a flick of his wrist, he fashioned a heavy peg of solidified blood magic in the ground and tethered the beast.
Gunther stood there for a moment, wiping a stray drop of blood from his cheek, before turning his gaze back toward the dark, ruined skyline of Wilson. Somewhere out there, more shadows moved. He set off into the night, hunting for the rest of his new battalion.
The night air of Wilson, usually thick with the stagnant smell of decay, was suddenly shattered by the sound of frantic, heavy footfalls. Gunther had tracked a trio of Druids to a run-down abode, catching them mid-feast. But as he closed in, the scavengers didn't fight. They turned tail, their massive, pale frames lurching through the ruins in a desperate bid for the shadows.
Gunther didn't just follow; he hunted. He was a blur of predatory intent, far faster than the lumbering abominations anticipated. As the three Druids fled, their panicked retreat acted like a siren, drawing out other scavengers from the dark corners of the town. One trio became six; six became a dozen. The terrified creatures were inadvertently leading Gunther to every feast in the district.
His grin widened, teeth flashing in the dark. A herd was forming.
He channeled his blood magic, the air around him beginning to hum and ionize. Crimson lightning began to dance between his fingertips, crackling with a violent, jagged energy. To break a hundred beasts at once, he needed more than a leash—he needed a storm.
"Run," he whispered, his voice lost in the thunder of footsteps. "Lead me to the rest."
The lightning leaped from his palms, a web of red electricity that streaked through the air. It struck the hindmost Druid and instantly arched to the next, and the next, traveling through the damp, pale hides like a viral infection. Within seconds, a writhing mass of nearly a hundred Druids was being systematically electrocuted.
The town of Wilson became a theater of carnage. The stampede was unstoppable. The massive Druids, blinded by pain and electricity, tore through enclosures like they were made of paper. Makeshift homes were leveled, and the weak—those vampires too sickly to move or too slow to react—were crushed beneath the weight of a hundred trampling limbs. It was natural selection at its most brutal, orchestrated by a man who had long ago traded his conscience for a crown.
The air was filled with a chorus of wails so primal and loud they seemed to vibrate the very foundation of the town. It was a sound of absolute horror, a collective scream that reached every ear in Wilson.
From their separate, hidden sanctuaries, the other ex-generals emerged.
Quel stood atop a pile of rubble, his eyes wide with genuine shock. He had known Gunther was cold, but the sheer scale of this madness—the audacity to weaponize the town's scavengers—left him speechless. A few streets over, Armal stepped into the moonlight, watched the glowing red cage of lightning for a moment, and let out a dismissive snort. He turned his back on the spectacle, retreating into his hole; to him, it was just another loud play for power. Pyrax simply stood in a doorway, his face a blank mask, his mind likely already recalculating the odds of his own survival.
Gunther ignored them all. He stood at the center of the storm, his hands raised like a conductor. With a massive expenditure of magic, he slammed his palms into the earth. Crimson light erupted from the ground, weaving together to form a gargantuan, reinforced stronghold—a shed of solidified blood magic designed to act as a cage for his new battalion.
As the last of the scorched, whimpering Druids were funneled into the enclosure, Gunther didn't offer mercy. He channeled an even stronger surge of lightning into the heart of the herd, a final, agonizing reminder of who held the leash.
The screaming intensified, then settled into a low, rhythmic sobbing of broken beasts. Gunther stood before the glowing red bars of his new stable, his chest heaving, his eyes reflecting the jagged light of the blood magic. He had his army. Now, he just had to point them at Fluxton.