The chase tore through Lungmen's neon-drenched streets, Howard's knuckles whitening on the sedan's wheel as gunfire erupted in a relentless staccato.
Bullets ripped through the car's frame, punching ragged holes in the rear windscreen, sending glass shards cascading like a jagged rain across the torn upholstery.
He jerked the steering hard, the vehicle drifting in a wild arc around a corner—tyres howling against the asphalt, black smoke swirling from the friction, the sharp tang of scorched rubber flooding the cabin.
They're not letting up—gotta shake them quick, he thought, his chest heaving with laboured breaths as the engine growled under the strain.
The bridge stretched ahead, its steel arches shimmering faintly under sparse streetlights, a rare stretch of calm with only a handful of cars drifting by.
Howard slammed the pedal down, coaxing a guttural roar from the battered machine, and pushed his shapeshifting ability to its brink.
His black hair bleached to a stark, ghostly white, strands whipping in the wind through the shattered window, while his skin paled to a deathly ash-grey, veins pulsing faintly beneath.
Time to finish this.
He resolved, fumbling for his phone with a shaky hand.
He dialled Ch'en, urgency sharpening his words.
"Meet me at these coordinates—now—or it's over."
He sent the location, then tossed the phone aside, watching it skid across the dashboard.
One hand gripped the wheel as the other plunged into his neck, fingers sinking deep into flesh.
Blood sprayed forth in a crimson torrent, pooling on the seat and dripping onto the floorboards, and he willed it into motion—tendrils writhing like living serpents.
Four rockets screamed toward him, their fiery trails cutting through the night.
They struck the car in a deafening quartet of blasts, metal crumpling and glass exploding outward as the vehicle flipped, spinning through the air in a chaotic tumble.
Howard was flung free, crashing onto the bridge's concrete, his body skidding amid splintered wreckage as flames devoured the sedan.
The attackers eased their pursuit, thirty sleek cars fanning across the bridge, their engines purring with menace.
They stopped, doors swinging open as hundreds spilt forth—dark-clad figures bristling with weapons, their boots pounding the pavement in a synchronised tide.
One approached the flaming wreckage, peering through the inferno at what seemed a charred corpse slumped within. But he froze mid-step.
Blood erupted from his chest in a violent geyser, spraying the ground as he collapsed, lifeless.
Beyond the fire, Howard rose, his silhouette stark against the blazing backdrop.
Crimson blades hovered at his sides—six jagged, blood-forged daggers, their edges glinting with a wet sheen under the bridge's flickering lights.
Let's see how they like this.
He thought, flicking his wrist to send them hurtling forward.
The blades sliced through the air with a keening whistle, aimed at the nearest foes.
A burly caster retaliated, hurling a gout of blue flame that spiralled into a roaring vortex, melting two blades into sizzling droplets.
Another, a wiry Sankta, snapped off precise shots from a glowing pistol, shattering a third blade mid-flight with a crack of golden light.
A hulking Vouivre swung a massive hammer crackling with electric arts, smashing the rest into a spray of red mist that splattered across the concrete.
Howard advanced, boots crunching on glass, his blood-streaked face set in grim determination.
But a shiver ran through him—something new approached from the bridge's far end.
A tall figure emerged, clad in a white mask, tendrils of smoke curling from its edges to flood the span in a thick, grey shroud.
What's this now?
he wondered, unease flickering in his chest.
The smoke ignited with a thunderous boom, a fiery combustion rippling outward in a searing wave, vaporising his remaining blades into a hiss of steam.
He pieced it together in a flash—the masked figure's Originium Arts conjured explosive vapour at will, a deadly dance of smoke and flame.
Before he could adjust, a whip lashed toward him from the side, its length studded with razor-sharp metal shards—a sword-whip glinting in the firelight.
Too close—!
twisting his body at the last instant. The weapon sliced the air inches from his throat, its tip embedding in the concrete with a metallic clang.
Its wielder stepped into view—a lithe figure masked as a crow, clad in a sleek jacket and long pants, dark feathers etched into the fabric.
"So this is the famed Howard Leyman," she said, her voice a mix of awe and amusement, her whip coiling back into a slender sword with a flick.
She dipped in a slight bow.
"I am the Sorrowful Crow. Regrettably, your head bears a bounty we must claim."
Howard's mind spun.
A bounty? Lin should've buried this—Colombians, maybe? No, Morrison handled that.
He shoved the questions aside, focusing on the fight.
He summoned the darkest vampire imagery he could conjure—Dracula's blood-soaked reign—and intoned a chant:
"By the crimson covenant of night, let blood rise and reap the shadows."
His neck tilted, a deep gash tearing open, blood gushing forth in a relentless flood, staining the air and pooling on the bridge.
It gathered, morphing—some into shambling corpses with hollow eyes and clawing hands, others into jagged swords that gleamed with a malevolent edge.
The masked man countered, unleashing a choking torrent of smoke that billowed across the bridge, thick and suffocating.
The Crow darted forward, dark feather-like arts erupting from her blade—black plumes that sliced through the air like razors, shredding his blood-corpses into wet ribbons and snapping his swords in half with precise, whistling strikes.
They're tougher than I figured.
Howard thought, his resolve wavering as he weighed unleashing his full power.
His fiery gaze flickered, then softened into a faint, resigned smile.
He released his ability, his hair and skin reverting to their natural state, the blood flow staunching.
In that heartbeat, a crimson blur tore onto the scene—Ch'en, her blade aglow with dark, pulsating energy. She moved like a tempest, a streak of red too swift for Howard to follow.
Her sword flashed once, twice—a razor-sharp arc severing the masked man's hand, then the Crow's, their limbs dropping with wet thuds as their weapons clattered uselessly to the ground.
Blood sprayed, mingling with Howard's own, and the attackers staggered back, stunned. Ch'en had arrived.
Howard Leyman's face twisted with sudden alarm, his pale features tightening as a cold dread gripped him.
He fumbled in his pocket, retrieving a sleek, specialised phone—distinct from the one he'd discarded on the bridge. Camelia's in danger, he thought, his mind racing to the only colleague who lingered late at the firm.
She'd always been the last to leave, poring over logistics long after the others had gone.
He dialled her number, pressing the device to his ear.
No response—only silence, again and again.
His heart thudded faster, a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
She's not answering. I've got to reach her.
He turned to Ch'en, who stood poised amid the bridge's carnage, her crimson blade still dripping.
"Please, handle them," he said, his voice urgent yet steady.
Before she could reply, he leapt from the bridge's edge, his body shimmering as he shifted—feathers sprouting, limbs folding into the sleek form of a black bird.
With a powerful beat of his wings, he soared into the night, leaving Ch'en stunned, her gaze flickering between his vanishing form and the maimed attackers.
She unsheathed her second sword, its edge glinting with lethal intent, and faced the masked man and the Crow with a silent vow.
***
Howard winged toward a nearby skyscraper, its glass facade reflecting Lungmen's scattered lights.
Perched on its ledge, he strained to sense Camelia, but the distance dulled his perception.
Too far—I can't feel her, he thought, fear clawing at his chest.
Panic surged, and in a desperate burst of instinct, he made a choice.
Drawing on the depths of his immortality, his body dissolved into a dark, churning mass—an unstable, eerie energy that pulsed with a sinister hum.
The mass morphed into a mist-like form, a shadowy shroud that spilt outward, flooding the city below.
Night cloaked his strangeness; few noticed the odd ripple in the sky, the moving darkness blending with the urban sprawl.
He split himself, tendrils of mist weaving through Lungmen's alleys and towers, searching with relentless purpose.
Where are you, Camelia! his mind whispered, a plea threaded through the haze.
Then he found her—crumpled behind a dumpster, the firm's building ablaze in the distance, flames licking the sky with greedy tongues.
The mist coalesced near her, reforming into his complete shape—pale hair, ashen skin, eyes wide with dread.
His heart hammered, a frantic drumbeat echoing in his ears.
He dropped to his knees beside her, pressing his head to her chest. Nothing—no pulse, no faint thud of life.
Her organs had stilled, her body cold against his touch.
No, no, not yet, he thought, desperation clawing at him.
He channelled his ability, tendrils of energy seeping into her flesh, mending torn tissue and knitting broken bones—but it was futile without a heartbeat.
Her soul teetered on the edge, a fading ember he could feel slipping away.
With no options left, Howard sliced his arm with a trembling hand, blood welling from the cut.
He held it above her lips, but what flowed wasn't the usual red blood of his earlier arts—it was a strange, shimmering blue, the hue of seaborn's blood.
Please, let this work
He prayed silently, his voice lost to the night as the blue liquid dripped into her mouth, staining her lips with an otherworldly glow.
A faint thump broke the silence—her heart, stirring at last.
Relief crashed over him, tears streaming down his face as he gathered her into his arms, cradling her fragile form.
"You're alive," he whispered, his voice cracking with gratitude.
He held her close, her shallow breaths a fragile lifeline against his chest, while the firm burnt in the distance—a roaring inferno that cast flickering shadows over them.
Howard's heart burnt hotter than the flames, a mix of rage, sorrow, and most of all regret.
As he rested his forehead against hers.
His heart flames grew red.