Max was dead inside.
Not physically, not yet—but something fundamental in him had broken.
He had never realized just how powerless he truly was until this moment. His entire existence as a Guardian, everything his ancestors had sworn to protect, felt like a cruel joke. At that moment, all types of emotions surged through his devastated mind. He hated the Church. Despised the gods for abandoning them. Cursed his ancestors for taking up such a burden.
And most of all—he blamed himself.
For involving his wife.
For exposing his son.
For being too weak to stop this.
"That's one minute gone, young Silverwood."
The Noble Skinwalker's voice was sickeningly casual, dripping with amusement as he gripped Rebecca, his clawed fingers trailing her skin like a predator savoring its meal. He shoved her onto the bed, his form still wearing the twisted mockery of Max's older brother.
"Wait!" Max's voice was hoarse, filled with pure desperation. He knew—it was pointless. Whatever was about to happen, it didn't matter anymore.
Just not his family.
Rebecca lifted her head, swollen eyes locking onto his. She shook her head—silently telling him not to give in. Not to tell them where the orb was.
Max broke.
Tears poured freely down his face.
"Too long."
The Skinwalker grabbed a fistful of her hair, forcing her head down—
And then the world froze.
A new voice cut through the suffocating air.
"Your wife. She's the best thing you could ever ask for, Max."
A cold, quiet fury seeped into the room. The very air changed—thick with something monstrous.
The scent of blood vanished.
The Skinwalkers' suffocating aura was crushed under something far more primal.
Something older.
Something hungrier.
A figure stood by the shattered window, his silver hair glowing under the moonlight.
His crimson eyes burned with an intensity that sent a deep, paralyzing dread through every Skinwalker in the room. The intricate noble pattern flared within his gaze—one eerily similar to Palmer's.
The air was thick with rage.
The sky outside turned crimson. The pressure that followed was unbearable—low-ranked Skinwalkers collapsed instantly, forced to their knees.
Max, barely conscious, managed to lift his head. His vision blurred with blood, but he saw him—the man from the graveyard.
A weak, broken chuckle escaped his lips.
"Now you're acting like a proper vampire."
The Noble Skinwalker released Rebecca, stepping forward, intrigued rather than afraid.
"Well, well… I wasn't expecting a Noble to join the party." His lips curled into a grin. "But you're different, aren't you? I can tell just by looking at you."
He tilted his head, studying him.
"You don't belong anywhere, do you?"
The vampire's expression remained unreadable. "Would you rather that be your last word?" he asked, his voice like a blade drawn from its sheath.
The Noble Skinwalker scoffed.
"Noble or not, you're outnumbered. You can't take on this much elites on your own"
A hundred Skinwalkers crawled from the darkness, stepping from the walls, the ceiling, the very shadows themselves.
Max's heart sank. This wasn't just an ambush. This was a mass execution.
The Skinwalker smirked, motioning lazily with his hand. "Guess we'll have to force the answer out of you—"
They lunged.