A low hum vibrated through the camp, faint at first, but steadily rising in intensity.
It was as if the very air had begun to tremble. The skies above the Dead Zone darkened further, an ominous crimson hue bleeding into the clouds.
Then, with a deafening roar that seemed to tear reality apart, the portal opened.
From the rift in the sky emerged the impossible.
One by one, creatures stepped out—or perhaps fell, as though gravity held no meaning for them. Misshapen, grotesque, and terrifyingly silent, the Messengers poured forth.
Within minutes, they numbered in the hundreds. Their bodies were nightmarish blends of bone and dangling, decayed flesh, twitching erratically as though moved by unseen strings.
They didn't speak.
They didn't scream.
They simply marched forward.
Leo stood on the highest point of the camp's barricade, eyes narrowed. "Three hundred," he murmured, his voice barely audible to anyone but himself. "No commander..."
His mind churned. This wasn't an isolated attack. This was global. A calculated strike sent by the Crimson Herald to sow terror and blood.
"A prelude to something worse," he whispered.
Below him, panic was setting in.
The survivors, barely numbering sixty-five, stood huddled in clusters around the perimeter.
Weapons clutched tightly in trembling hands, eyes darting with fear, hearts pounding. Some were experienced; others were barely battle-hardened. But all of them felt the same thing: dread.
Victoria gripped her bow tighter. "We're outnumbered five to one," she muttered.
Ana stood beside her, twin daggers glinting in the flickering torchlight. "Then we better kill five each."
The brief moment of levity barely masked the fear.
Damien and Logan stood like twin towers of steel, their massive broadswords strapped across their backs. Their eyes were cold, calculating.
Jack Spanner rolled his shoulders, katana in hand, his stance already lowered. Every breath was controlled. Focused.
And then there was Indra.
A member of leo's elite force, Indra stood apart. Clad in a mix of crude leather armor and ancient, ritualistic robes, he wielded a weapon that seemed forged in another time.
A trident, ornately carved, with symbols etched into its blade that pulsed faintly with a golden hue. Inspired by ancient myths, Indra believed his weapon was an offering to forgotten gods. Whether those gods listened or not, it was all he had.
The other members of Rio's personal unit readied themselves as well. Each had distinct weapons—a scythe, a glaive, a chakram, and even an old revolver modified with unknown tech. Their weapons and styles clashed, but their determination did not.
And then, without warning, the battle began.
The Messengers surged forward like a tidal wave of death. Their movements were jagged, almost mechanical. Some leapt, others crawled, and many simply sprinted with terrifying speed.
Ana was the first to move.
Her daggers glinted as she launched herself forward, weaving between the incoming creatures with fluid grace.
She was a blur, a shadow dancing between corpses. Each swipe of her blade found flesh. Each twist of her wrist severed a spine.
She wasn't invincible. Far from it. Sweat beaded on her brow, and small cuts began appearing on her arms and legs. But she never stopped.
Victoria remained at the backline. She drew her bow with elegant precision, releasing a volley of arrows that found their marks with deadly efficiency.
Her aim was true, not for lethality but to save. Each arrow she fired pulled another survivor back from the brink.
Her focus was unwavering, even when one of the Messengers got within arm's reach. A quick sidestep, an arrow straight through the eye socket, and back to firing.
Damien and Logan roared as they charged side by side, their broadswords cleaving through the horde like battering rams. Their coordination was brutal.
When Damien swung low, Logan swung high. When Logan faltered, Damien covered him. They were pillars of raw force, hacking through the unending tide.
Jack Spanner fought alone. Not because he wanted to, but because he could.
Every movement was measured.
His katana gleamed under the blood moon as he sliced cleanly through neck after neck. He didn't waste motion. He didn't bellow or scream.
He was silence and death incarnate.
Thirty, forty kills within minutes. But even the most graceful warrior bleeds. His side bore deep gashes, and yet he pressed on.
Indra stood at the center, trident spinning like a cyclone. His strikes were theatrical, yet devastating.
He invoked names of ancient gods with each thrust. "Agni!"—and fire erupted. "Varuna!"—and a wave of force knocked back several Messengers. Whether it was mysticism or simply raw willpower, no one could say.
Evelynn, ever the Ice Queen, moved like a ghost. Her short daggers gleamed with a blue sheen, her strikes precise and cold. She spoke to no one, moved with no coordination, but left a trail of mutilated bodies in her wake.
Even Miles, often hesitant, had taken up arms. Though not the strongest, he fought with desperate resolve, shielding wounded survivors and pushing back whenever he could.
Still, they were losing ground.
For every Messenger that fell, two more seemed to take its place. Some survivors panicked. Others held their ground. Blood sprayed. Limbs fell. Screams echoed through the night.
Leo watched it all.
He stood unmoving. Arms crossed, crimson eyes reflecting the carnage.
He could have intervened. Could have ended it.
But he didn't.
This was a test. A purification by fire. The weak would perish. The strong would emerge. He needed warriors, not burdens. And this was the forge.
When he finally stepped forward, silence seemed to fall, as though the battlefield itself paused.
He didn't use the Blood Path. No vampiric strikes. No supernatural flares. Just raw strength and martial mastery. His fists crushed skulls. His knees shattered spines. Every movement was calculated, evolving.
Seventy Messengers fell by his hands alone.
He moved with Ana's speed.
Struck with Damien and Logan's power.
Had Victoria's precision.
Jack's grace.
Evelynn's coldness.
He was all of them, and more.
When he finally stopped, his clothes were drenched in blood. And yet he stood tall, unshaken.
The remaining Messengers began to retreat. But Leo wasn't done.
He raised his palm.
Blood on the battlefield began to tremble.
Then it rose. Streams of crimson, twisting through the air like serpents, converged into a dense orb in Leo's hand. A sphere of pure death.
"Die," he whispered.
The word echoed like thunder. The orb exploded outward in a wave, consuming the rest of the Messengers in a single breath.
And just like that, it was over.
Silence.
Only the wind howled.
Bodies littered the field. Survivors groaned. Some cried. Others just sat, staring blankly at what remained.
Jack clutched his side, wincing.
Damien leaned on his sword.
Ana dropped to one knee, gasping for breath.
But they were alive.
Leo turned, his eyes scanning each of them. No praise. No comfort. Just acknowledgement.
They had survived.
Barely.
The cost was high. Some had lost limbs. Others had lost friends.
But now they knew.
This world would not allow weakness.
And Leo...
Leo was not just a survivor.
He was a Sovereign.
He turned his gaze outward, toward the horizon. His thoughts raced ahead. Dead Zone 3 was only the beginning.
The Blood Survival had begun.