Ezra's eyes were still locked on the sky where Chu Kuangren and Marcell clashed. The world shook with each blow—steel-blue fire ripping apart mountains, crimson blood freezing the very air.

A firm hand landed on his shoulder.

"Hey. Why are you dazed out?"

Ezra blinked and turned. A white-haired, middle-aged man stood beside him, eyes sharp and steady like drawn blades. Even without flaring his aura, the pressure around him was suffocating.

Ezra immediately recognized him—Lin Qingzi, Head of the Cobra Unit of Blood-fort, one of humanity's most feared special forces. A half-step Rank 7, his name alone was enough to silence enemies.

"I'm fine," Ezra said quickly, nodding.

Lin Qingzi studied him for a moment, then gave a short nod. "Good. Take care of yourself." Without another word, his figure blurred and vanished into the chaos of battle.

Ezra exhaled slowly. The Cobra Unit was already moving fifty Rank 6 warriors, all specialists trained in infiltration and elimination, spreading through the battlefield like shadows. Their coordination was terrifying; every strike was precise, every motion sharp, as if they were one body with fifty blades.

His grip tightened on his weapon. The time for staring was over. He dashed forward, aura flaring, cutting a straight path into the ranks of vampires.

Ezra moved fast, his body weaving between the chaos of blood and steel. A vampire lunged at him with his sword but Ezra's blade flashed once clean, precise. The creature's head rolled before its body even realized it was dead.

Another vampire came from behind. Ezra turned with a half-step, his sword slicing upward in a spiral slash. The technique left a faint sliver shimmer in the air and the vampire split from shoulder to hip, blood raining down on the dirt.

He pressed forward, cutting a path through the encirclement. One by one, the vampires fell, his sword never slowing, his movements sharp but calm. There was no wasted motion, no panic. Only precision.

Up ahead, Sergei's back was like an unyielding mountain. Sergei's presence cut open the battlefield, and Ezra walked that path sword flashing, eyes sharp, every kill clean.

Soon, they reached the fort.

The vampires were already circling it, their numbers swelling like a tide of blood and fangs. Ezra's gaze flicked across the field, and his eyes narrowed.

"Too many… and most of them Rank 6. Shit."

As if in answer, shadows dropped from the sky. The Cobra Unit — fifty black-clad elites — landed around them, blades and spears gleaming. The special force of the Federation moved as one, forming a wall of silent killers. But the vampires kept coming, hunger and madness driving them closer.

Then Sergei's voice boomed across the battlefield. "Yun Hao! Come out!"

The silence that followed was heavy. No answer.

Sergei's eyes narrowed. His voice sharpened like steel. "If you can fight, then fight me. Don't hide like a coward!"

Still, nothing. Only the rush of blood aura in the air.

And then it began. Dozens of blood swords materialized, whistling through the air toward them. Sergei moved, a whirlwind of skill and force, intercepting every single blade. Sparks and blood-tinged mana clashed in midair, scattering into the dirt. His expression didn't falter, but Ezra caught the faint paleness on his face — even Sergei had been forced to exert himself.

A mocking laugh rolled across the fort's edge.

"Yun Hao is not coming."

A figure stepped forward, wine goblet in hand, smiling like the world was his stage. His crimson eyes gleamed, and the weight of old power pressed on the air. Count Alaric.

"Why don't you cross swords with me instead?" he asked casually, sipping his wine. "I've long wanted to see the strength of the Sword Saintess' younger brother."

Sergei lifted into the air, eyes narrowing. His voice was cold, contemptuous. "A weakling like you dares to speak her name? Tell me where Yun Hao is, and I may spare your life."

Alaric chuckled darkly, crimson aura beginning to rise. "Then come and take it."

Alaric moved first, his crimson aura igniting the sky. Without a care for the vampires or even his own allies nearby, he hurled a barrage of massive fireballs, each the size of a carriage, roaring toward Sergei in a blazing tide.

The heat was suffocating, scorching even the air itself. Ezra instinctively shifted back, shielding his eyes.

"Behind me—kill as many as you can!" Sergei's command was sharp, leaving no room for hesitation.

His aura flared, bright and oppressive, a steel-edged pressure that made the fort tremble. The sword in his hand was suddenly wrapped in a storm of sword aura, every edge sharpened beyond mortal comprehension. With one sweeping strike, Sergei cleaved through the incoming fireballs.

The flames split perfectly in half, exploding outward in molten fragments. The heat washed over the battlefield like a wave, charring low-rank vampires who screamed as their own ally's spell turned against them.

Alaric did not even blink. His lips curved into a smile as his form blurred, moving faster than most eyes could follow. His aura pulsed crimson; the vampires in his vicinity dissolved into a thick mist of blood, their bodies shredded willingly into fuel. That blood condensed into a monstrous whip, hundreds of feet long, writhing with killing intent.

Sergei's eyes narrowed. He raised his left hand, conjuring a giant hand of pure mana. It shot out like a titan's grasp, seizing the whip mid-lash. For an instant, the battlefield froze. But Alaric's whip rippled like water, slipping free of the grip before reforming into a sharper, denser shape, hungering for flesh.

Clash followed clash. Whip against sword, mana against blood. The earth quaked beneath them. Yet through it all, Sergei stood calm, his blade carving arcs of domination. With every exchange, he pressed Alaric back, his movements precise, his power overwhelming.

But Alaric only laughed. His smile was twisted, yet confident. "Yes… yes. Show me. Show me why they call you the Sword Saintess' brother."

His hand slipped into his robes, pulling free a dark, rune-etched artifact. The air shuddered the moment it appeared. With a guttural chant, Alaric poured blood and fire mana into it, and the artifact pulsed, amplifying his spell until the very heavens shook.

A fiery sigil spread across the sky, stretching like a burning brand. Alaric roared as he released it.

"Crimson Inferno Cataclysm!"

It was a Rank 7 spell by nature—but under the artifact's distortion, its power soared, reaching Rank 9. The air itself screamed. Fire engulfed the heavens, collapsing into a rain of destruction.

Ezra staggered, nearly driven to his knees by the sheer pressure. Even the Cobra Unit, veterans of countless battles, were forced low. Every soldier felt their bodies suffocating under that impossible weight.

For the first time, Sergei's face hardened. His aura clashed against the descending inferno, but the pressure was monstrous. The battlefield itself threatened to collapse.

Then—he moved.

From his spatial ring, Sergei drew sword after sword, each one humming with killing intent. He brought them together, and as steel touched steel, they merged into a single radiant blade that blazed with impossible brilliance.

The pressure shattered. The crushing weight vanished in an instant. Sergei's aura surged, like a dam bursting, drowning the battlefield in sword intent.

And then his domain unfolded.

A vast silver field spread around him, swallowing the battlefield whole. Within it, Sergei's power doubled. His stamina multiplied. His speed sharpened beyond the eye. Every breath, every motion carried the weight of inevitability.

Alaric's eyes widened in disbelief. The smugness in his smile faltered. "Impossible… a device that cancels Rank 9 pressure… and a domain this refined?!"

Still, he recovered quickly, crimson aura rising like a flood. He tore open his own domain—a vast blood-soaked sphere where every droplet carried his will, every wave of crimson magnified his sorcery. His body glowed, empowered, fangs gleaming as his power climbed higher.

The clash of domains made the air howl, space itself trembling at the collision.

But even as Alaric poured everything into his blood domain, Sergei moved with unshaken calm. His sword aura cut through waves of crimson mist, his steps light, his blade faster than thought. Every strike of Sergei's felt absolute, as though the outcome of the fight had already been decided.

Alaric's smile returned—bitter, almost desperate. He had known from the start. Against Sergei Vlastovich, even an artifact's borrowed strength was only delay, not victory.

____________________

Meanwhile, far from the chaos of the battlefield, Yun Hao knelt before a pale, twisted figure lying on the ground. Its form was vaguely goblin-like, but the complexion was unnervingly fair, almost human, as if some cruel hand had reshaped it.

Dark mana coiled around Yun Hao's arms like living serpents, writhing and pulsing with each transfer. The air around him grew heavy, charged with the scent of iron and decay. Every pulse of energy made the figure's limbs twitch, every dark surge etching a faint outline of life into its body.

A low, amused laugh escaped Yun Hao's lips. "Ah… so fragile, so brittle… and yet, just strong enough to surprise."

He leaned closer, letting a stream of dark mana flow directly into the figure. Its chest rose, then fell, and faint color began to return to its face. Its eyes fluttered. The awakening had begun.

Yun Hao straightened, a grin spreading across his face. "Let's make this even more chaotic," he said, his voice low but carrying an electric edge. Shadows in the room seemed to pulse in agreement, the dark mana thrumming like a heartbeat, eager for the chaos to come.

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