The Oyster Bay Safe Zone was built to endure, but survival was never guaranteed.
The gathered warriors stood in the center plaza as Mayor Elias Crowe approached, flanked by a few of his aides. Despite the weight of the situation, he carried himself with a practiced calm, the kind of presence honed through years of political maneuvering.
"We'll provide food, supplies, and shelter while you're here," Crowe said, his voice smooth and measured. "But we won't be sending any of our people to fight."
His words hung in the air, met with silence from the assembled warriors.
Noah studied the man carefully. It wasn't fear that held him back—it was calculated self-preservation. Crowe had already decided that Oyster Bay would endure, but only by staying out of this fight.
Marcus folded his arms, his expression unreadable. "You're choosing to wait this out?"
Crowe met his gaze evenly. "I'm choosing to keep this safe zone intact."
Sly let out a low whistle. "So you get to sit pretty while we go deal with the problem?"
Crowe didn't flinch. "You came here by choice. So did we."
The mayor wasn't backing down, and it was clear there would be no changing his mind.
Marcus exhaled, glancing at Noah before giving Crowe a curt nod. "Then we won't waste any more time."
Without another word, the five groups turned and left—heading into the Pink Fog while the people of Oyster Bay remained behind.
---
The five groups moved as one, leaving the walls of Oyster Bay behind.
The government had reliable intel on the boss, a vampire known as the Crimson Count. What little they did know painted him as a vampire lord, a boss-level Fade who ruled over a ruined city swallowed by the Pink Fog.
A vampire meant one thing—they weren't fighting him under the sun.
The plan was simple: move into position before sundown and attack once night fell.
No one spoke much as they walked, the pink mist curling around their bodies, their Glint forms activated for protection.
Bob walked at the back, moving at his own pace. He barely seemed interested in the march, letting the others lead while he occasionally swung a fog-forged club at the debris they passed.
Ahead of him, Noah and Marcus led the formation, scanning for threats.
Big Roz and the DMW Gang, unsurprisingly, didn't care for formations. They swaggered through the fog as if nothing could touch them, their numbers giving them confidence that reality wouldn't support.
And in the distance, beyond the ruins and fog, a fortress loomed.
It was a castle long abandoned by time, its stone walls cracked, its towers broken, yet it still stood, pulsing with an eerie presence. Even without seeing him, they could feel it—something inside was watching.
Inside that fortress of ruin, he waited. The Crimson Count.
But something in the air shifted.
Iris didn't know why, but a chill crawled up his spine. He turned to glance back at Oyster Bay—just once.
He had a bad feeling.
---
Later that night, the peaceful night in Oyster Bay was broken by a scream.
It came suddenly, sharp and panicked, ringing through the quiet streets. At first, it was just one. Then another. Then more. Within minutes, the entire safe zone was filled with shouts, cries, and the sounds of chaos.
Near the western gate, a man stood in the doorway of his home, breathing heavily, his hands shaking. His wife lay motionless on the floor, blood spreading beneath her. His young daughter looked up at him, confused, waiting for him to say something.
His head ached, his chest pounded.
The moon was red in his eyes.
The safe zone's meteor fragment's glow stabbed into his skull, so bright it felt like it was burning him from the inside. The pressure grew stronger and stronger, twisting his thoughts, drowning out everything else.
He raised the knife again.
Across the street, another door flew open. A woman ran outside, gasping, blood on her hands. She barely made it two steps before her husband tackled her to the ground.
Further down, a boy ran into the open, calling for help—only for his father to chase after him, gripping a crowbar.
More houses came alive with the same horror. People stumbling out, attacking each other, their minds lost. The infected had awoken.
Mayor Elias Crowe had been in his office when the first scream came. He had ignored it at first, but now he stood in the plaza, watching as his people tore each other apart.
He raised his voice. "Everyone, return to your homes! Guards, contain the situation!"
No one listened.
The infected didn't hesitate, didn't recognize friend from foe. They weren't turning into monsters, but they had lost control.
Elias grabbed the radio, his grip tight. "Report! What's happening out there?"
Static. Then a panicked voice.
"They— they're attacking us! It's—AAAGH—!"
The line went dead.
He grabbed his gun and rushed toward the streets, his guards following behind. They had to stop this before it got worse.
But it was already too late.
The infected were drawn to their safe zone's meteor fragment.
Elias's breath caught as he saw dozens of them running toward it, their hands clawing at their heads as if the light was stabbing into their brains.
"Stop them!" he shouted.
The guards hesitated. These weren't enemies. These were their own people.
That hesitation sealed Oyster Bay's fate.
The first rock struck the meteor fragment. A sharp crack rang through the plaza.
Then another.
Then another.
A deep fracture split across its surface. The glow flickered.
Elias pushed forward, his voice desperate. "NO! STOP!"
The meteor shattered.
A burst of light exploded outward—then vanished.
The Pink Fog poured in immediately, sweeping over the safe zone like a flood.
Buildings disappeared within seconds. The screams were cut short.
Elias stood frozen, watching everything disappear into the mist.
Oyster Bay was gone.
There was nothing left to save.
He turned and ran, the city vanishing behind him.
---
The five groups reached the entrance of the castle. The towering gates were cracked and covered in blood-colored vines, the stone walls broken and worn by time. The air felt heavy, like something was watching them.
Then, the fog shifted.
A strange silence fell over the ruins. A faint scraping sound echoed through the mist, followed by slow, shuffling footsteps.
Red eyes appeared in the darkness. Then more.
The first thrall emerged, its body hunched and twisted, its skin stretched over sharp bones. It let out a rattling hiss before charging. More followed, pouring from the ruins, crawling over walls, rushing toward them.
Marcus Hale moved first.
His Glint, a Behemoth, fully activated, transforming him into a towering, four-legged juggernaut of raw defense. His body was covered in thick, armor-like plates, each section layered like a walking fortress. His massive, pillar-like legs crushed the ground beneath him with every step, shaking the battlefield as he barreled forward. A heavy, reinforced head, like that of a war-elephant fused with a rhinoceros, led his charge, forming an impenetrable frontline against the rushing thralls.
"Hold the line!" His voice thundered across the battlefield as the Hounds locked into formation, their bodies braced like a living wall of fangs, claws, and armored hides. Talons dug into the dirt, spiked limbs angled forward, and jagged horns lowered for impact. The enemy crashed into them like a tidal wave, but the line held, unyielding.
Beside him, Selene Ward became a blur.
Her Glint a Banshee made her weightless, her speed inhuman. She vanished and reappeared, weaving between the enemy forces like a whisper in the wind. Every flicker of movement ended with a dagger plunging into a vital point—throats sliced, tendons severed, hearts pierced before they could even react.
She was more than fast. She was untouchable.
Not far from them, the Hayashi Twins moved without a sound.
Ren Hayashi, his Shade form active, was more shadow than man. He didn't block attacks—he simply wasn't there when they landed. One moment, a thrall lunged for him, claws extended—and in the next breath, he was behind it, his blade severing its head cleanly. His movements were fluid, effortless, his presence like a mirage that never truly settled into place.
Aya Hayashi was the opposite.
Her Glint a Revenant made her every strike lethal. She didn't waste movements. Every attack was a kill. Where Ren disappeared, she ended fights in a single motion—her blade finding gaps in even the toughest armor, her instincts honed to a perfect edge.
And then, there was the DMW Gang.
Big Roz charged first, his Glint is a Fenrir, transforming him into a beast of pure aggression. His muscles expanded, his speed tripled, his clawed hands ripping through enemies as if they were made of paper. His war cries echoed through the battlefield, his body a blur of raw destruction.
Big Roz tore through the battlefield like a rampaging beast, his Fenrir Glint in full effect. His muscles had swollen with power, his movements faster than they should have been for a man of his size. He ripped through the thralls, his claws tearing into their flesh, his laughter echoing through the chaos.
But he wasn't watching his surroundings.
The vampire thralls moved like a pack, adapting, circling him in silence. While Roz was busy tearing apart one, another leaped onto his back, sinking its claws into his shoulders. He roared in frustration, shaking it off, but three more took its place.
The DMW Gang had pushed too far, charging without caution. The first of their own were already dead, but Roz wasn't paying attention. He was too caught up in the thrill of the fight—until he wasn't.
The Thralls had swarmed first, mindless and relentless. But then, something faster moved among them.
A Blood Stalker—stronger, faster, and deadlier than the rest—rushed in, its claws cutting deep into Roz's side before she could react.
He grunted, stumbling for the first time. The overwhelming numbers were slowing him down.
More thralls descended on him, sensing weakness. One clamped onto his arm, another lunged at his throat. Roz raised his claws to fight back, but the weight of them was too much. He was going to be torn apart.
Then, the ground shook.
A massive figure charged into the fray, scattering the Thralls like ragdolls. Marcus Hale loomed over Roz, his Behemoth Glint fully activated—a living fortress of plated muscle and armored hide.
The ground shook as he landed, and a Blood Stalker lunged at him, claws outstretched. It was like watching an insect throw itself against a mountain. Marcus didn't even flinch.
His massive trunk swung, smashing the creature sideways with bone-crushing force. Before it could recover, he stomped down, his pillar-like leg caving in its chest with a sickening crunch.
"Move," Marcus ordered.
Roz hesitated, still catching his breath, still processing the fact that he had almost died.
Marcus didn't wait. He took the fight head-on, standing in the gap where Roz had fallen, his heavy fists slamming through anything that dared to get close.
Roz finally pushed himself to his feet, gritting his teeth as he stared at Marcus.
But he said nothing. He just stepped back into the fight, his movements a little slower, his confidence a little more fractured.
Marcus didn't acknowledge him further. He was already turning back to the battle, his Behemoth Glint carrying him forward, clearing a path through the remaining thralls with devastating force.
But the rest of the DMW Gang lacked his power.
They charged wildly, fighting without coordination, relying on bravado instead of strategy.
And the thralls tore into them.
The first to fall didn't even have time to scream.
A blur of fangs and claws descended upon them, bodies hitting the ground in an explosion of blood. Within minutes, six of them were gone—ripped apart by their own arrogance.
Bob watched from the sidelines, barely engaging.
Every now and then, he swung his fog-forged club, smashing a thrall into paste—but he wasn't focused on them.
He was looking for something else.
He was looking for the boss.
---
The battlefield was littered with fallen Thralls and few Blood Stalkers, their bodies ripped apart by claws, impaled on jagged horns, or crushed beneath massive limbs. Even the few Glints who had fought and lost lay broken, their monstrous forms twisted in death. Blood soaked the ground, pooling in the cracks of broken stone. The Pink Fog rolled through the ruins, drifting over the bodies. The air reeked of iron, thick with the stench of death.
And then, finally, he arrived.
A dark figure loomed atop a crumbling spire, the tattered edges of his cloak barely shifting in the wind. He gazed down at the battlefield as if admiring his own work, his eyes glowing a deep, predatory crimson.
Then, without a word, the Vampire Lord, Crimson Count, descended.