A sudden movement—too fast for the human eye—broke through the battlefield's eerie quiet.
One hand, powerful and unyielding, shot out and seized Victor's wrist.
Victor snarled, fangs bared, as he turned to meet the piercing gaze of James Howlett. There was anger in those steel-blue eyes, but beneath it lay something else—control, discipline, an iron will that Victor had long since abandoned. The two men, both titans in their own right, stood locked in a silent contest of strength, unmoving.
"Why are you stopping me?" Victor growled, his voice low, guttural, barely human. His muscles flexed beneath his torn, bloodstained coat, veins bulging with raw power.
"They're not vampires," James said evenly, his grip tightening.
"They are the enemy!" Victor roared, wrenching his wrist free with a violent jerk. His other hand shot forward, prepared to strike—but James was faster. With a practiced movement, he intercepted the blow and twisted, forcing Victor's arm down in a controlled maneuver that could have shattered bone if he'd chosen to apply real pressure.
"Then let them face federal bullets and trial," James countered, voice cold, sharp as a blade. His eyes flicked over Victor's form—his tattered uniform, the countless bloodied wounds on his body, the sluggish black ooze dripping from half-healed gashes. His expression darkened.
Victor had been bitten. Again.
James had been watching it happen more frequently. Too frequently.
The silver-threaded rounds that the Union army had begun using against the undead were effective, but against someone like Victor? The wounds should have closed in seconds. Instead, they lingered—festering, oozing, refusing to heal properly.
Was it the influence of vampire blood?
A sharp whistle pierced the night. The distant rumble of approaching boots signaled the arrival of Union reinforcements. The remaining Confederate troops, seeing the tide turn, began dropping their weapons, surrendering in groups.
Among them, a name sent ripples of shock through the ranks.
Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson.
The legendary general of the Confederate left flank had been captured alive.
James barely had time to process this before a familiar voice cut through the chaos.
"Mr. Howlett!"
A Union officer strode toward them, his uniform crisp despite the grime of battle. Even before James turned, he knew who it was.
General Joseph Hooker.
The commander of the Army of the Potomac stopped a few paces away, removed his hat, and placed a hand over his chest in salute. His face, usually hardened by the weight of war, carried something rare—relief.
"On behalf of the entire Union Army, I extend my highest gratitude. You and your men turned the tide of battle this night. Without your aid, we would not have secured such a decisive victory. Capturing Jackson… this is the greatest success we've had since the war began!"
James inclined his head, removing his mask, revealing sharp, defined features that bore no trace of exhaustion despite the night's carnage.
"This was our shared victory, General. I regret that I could not be at Fredericksburg."
Hooker waved the comment aside. "The front lines stretch across half a nation. You can't be everywhere at once, Howlett."
His gaze shifted slightly, locking onto Victor, who stood a few paces away, his back turned. Even under the moonlight, his presence was a thing of raw intimidation—tall, broad, shoulders squared like a beast at rest but never truly calm.
"This must be the infamous 'Sabretooth,'" Hooker mused. "Taller than the rumors say."
Victor said nothing.
Instead, he walked away.
Hooker didn't seem offended. If anything, he looked unsurprised.
But his face soon hardened. His voice dropped, taking on a tone of concern.
"There are more of them, James," Hooker murmured. "More monsters in the Southern ranks. The Confederacy isn't just using men anymore. They're bolstering their forces with things that shouldn't exist."
James nodded. He had seen it firsthand.
Since Lincoln's announcement of emancipation and the move to arm Black soldiers, the Confederacy had suffered severe blows to morale. The war had been shifting.
Then the vampires came.
Unkillable regiments of Confederate undead had begun appearing on battlefields, forcing the Union into a desperate arms race. Silver bullets, sanctified weapons, new experimental rounds—all were being developed as fast as possible.
But for now, it was James, Victor, and their small elite group that were keeping the monsters at bay.
"Silverized ammunition is already en route to major battlefields," James assured him. "Most of these creatures are mass-produced blood thralls. Crude imitations of their masters. A little silver in their bodies, and they fall apart quickly."
Hooker exhaled. "I pray you're right. Because Gettysburg is coming, and if we're not ready..."
James said nothing.
He was already thinking of what awaited them in Pennsylvania.
Meanwhile...
A dimly lit room. The flickering glow of candlelight cast shifting shadows across the damp stone walls.
A man—gaunt, hollow-eyed, his long, unkempt hair clinging to his sweat-slicked forehead—knelt before another figure. His body trembled.
"You don't know?"
The voice came from the shadows. Smooth. Controlled. Laced with something predatory.
Adam stepped forward, eyes glowing faintly red.
The kneeling man swallowed hard. "M-Master Adam… The silver ammunition for Gettysburg… No one knows which train it's on except James Howlett and Lincoln himself."
Adam stared at him for a long moment.
The man panicked, rushing to continue. "But—I do know this! Each train has assigned escorts. I—I can find out which men are guarding them!"
Silence.
Then—a smile.
It was a slow, deliberate thing, revealing the barest hint of elongated canines.
"Good," Adam murmured. "Do that. And if you succeed…" He tilted his head, amusement glinting in his gaze. "Perhaps I'll grant you something greater than life."
The kneeling man shuddered, not with fear, but something dangerously close to longing.
Washington, D.C.
A pigeon fluttered down, landing gracefully on the windowsill. A thin parchment was fastened to its leg.
Inside the White House, President Abraham Lincoln removed the note, scanning its contents.
He sighed. The war never stopped.
"I still don't like this," he muttered. "It's just you and Victor."
James leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "More men would be a liability. This mission needs precision, not numbers."
Lincoln chuckled dryly. "You ever think about how absurd this is? That a sitting president of the United States is discussing vampire warfare?"
James smirked. "It's a strange world, Mr. President."
A pause. Then Lincoln's expression turned grave.
"Gettysburg is where this ends," he said. "And if Adam wants to win, he'll come for that silver."
James nodded, gaze darkening.
"Good," he murmured.
He had been waiting for this.
For an opponent worthy of the hunt.