Bloodlines of the Night

 Wolves of War

Location – Central London

Time – Operation: Nightfall Omega

The city burned.

Millennium's final push had begun.

Civilians flooded the streets in panic as vampire troops poured through cracks in the city like roaches, biting, slaughtering, turning anyone they touched. Helicopters burned in the skyline, church bells rang with no hands to ring them.

This was no longer a skirmish.

This was the fall of an empire.

Frontline – Mercenary Zone, Civilian Evac

Victoria Seras kicked down a barricade, waving people through the alley with one hand, her Harkonnen cannon strapped to her back, her eyes scanning for movement.

"MOVE! MOVE!" she shouted, grabbing a child and throwing her over her shoulder. "You stay with the Wild Geese! Go!"

Pip Bernadotte barked orders from a Humvee, firing bursts into encroaching freaks while dragging a wounded soldier.

One of the civilians screamed, pointing at a figure on the rooftop—

"Sniper!"

Crack!

Victoria whipped around and shot through the scope before the trigger was pulled.

Blood splattered behind the enemy, and she exhaled.

"They're pushing harder," she muttered.

Pip reloaded. "Let them push. We push back harder."

Elsewhere – David vs. The Captain

Smoke parted on a quiet street.

And there he was.

The Captain.

He stood tall, expression unreadable, his Nazi coat fluttering in the wind. His eyes were like twin voids. No words. No challenge.

Just the slow sound of boots crunching glass.

David stepped forward, blades in hand, coat torn and bloodied. His powers hummed beneath the surface—memory fragments of the anime swirling in his head.

He already knew how this fight ended.

Unless he changed it.

"I know what you are," David said.

The Captain cracked his neck once.

Then lunged.

The Captain struck with inhuman force, faster than bullets, slashing with claws and fangs. David ducked and weaved, countering with bursts of gunfire from his custom twin pistols—each one loaded with silver nitrate rounds, crafted specifically for monsters like this.

The bullets tore through the Captain's coat and skin, sizzling on contact. He grunted, but didn't stop.

David was flung into a car. Glass exploded. Blood pooled.

He got up, chest heaving.

"You're not invincible."

The Captain charged again, claws drawn.

David fired at the pavement in front of him—blasting a silver-powder tripwire mine that exploded upward, dousing the werewolf in a shimmering burst of burning mist.

The Captain roared, staggering.

David took his shot.

Three rounds. Right to the chest.

Silver. Direct. Personal.

The beast dropped to one knee, growling, eyes burning with fury—but movement slowed. Muscles twitching. The silver was inside him now.

Climactic Beat – Precision Over Power

The Captain lunged one last time, but David sidestepped, planting a round in his thigh, then another in the shoulder, and finally…

Right beneath the jaw.

Click. Boom.

A final silver nitrate round ripped through his skull.

The Captain crashed to the ground—not dead, but overwhelmed. His regenerative powers trying to keep up with the foreign metal poisoning his system.

David stood over him, breathing hard, guns smoking.

"You're fast," he muttered. "But I came prepared."

He reloaded calmly, eyes never leaving the still form.

"You stay down, or next time it's the heart."

Meanwhile – Iscariot's Wrath

In the heart of the chaos, Alexander Anderson marched through the blood-soaked cathedral streets, bayonets in both hands, slicing through freaks like wheat.

Behind him, Iscariot agents sang Latin hymns as they executed vampire squads, burning corpses with holy flame, tearing heretics limb from limb.

One agent turned to Anderson. "The civilians—"

"They are protected," Anderson growled. "Only Millennium dies tonight."