But time no longer made sense.

Days blurred together in a haze of blood, screaming, and the constant stench of sweat, fear, and burning incense.

This was the fourth wave in less than 24 hours. Or was it the fifth?

At this point, even the vampires seemed exhausted—less like predators and more like disgruntled night shift workers just doing their jobs.

One snarled at her from the barricade, missed his footing on the sandbag pile, and tumbled like a sack of rotten potatoes.

She barely had the strength to laugh.

For three straight days, the cycle repeated—sleep for minutes, fight for hours, eat if you remembered how.

The second wall was barely holding. Morale was shot. People were starting to hallucinate. Selis could've sworn she saw a guy swing his sword at a scarecrow shouting, "Get behind me, Mother!"

By the end of the third day, Selis was a walking corpse. Her legs felt like boiled noodles. Her eyes burned. Her wrists were blistered raw from gripping her hilt so tightly.

She'd begun to believe this was hell, or purgatory, or both—except worse, because there weren't even decent snacks.

Then it happened.

She tripped. Her vision doubled. The world tilted sideways.

And in that moment—somewhere between consciousness and collapse—a vampire lunged at her.

It was tall. Grinning. Way too smug. Its claws gleamed with venom, and she was too slow to raise her blade.

Oh, come on! she screamed internally. This is how I go?! Not even a dramatic death—just exhaustion and bad luck?!

She cursed everything—her stamina, her life choices, the stupid stars in her system. Sure, she could revive, but the shame. The permanent death log. The record that would haunt her in future tavern tales: Selis the Stupid, slain by a level-12 feral while sneezing from fatigue.

At least I have enough stars left to revive, she thought bitterly. Not that my pride will.

She braced herself for the bite.

But it never came.

In a flash—a literal whoosh of wind and silver—five vampires around her were decapitated, their bodies disintegrating mid-air like bad special effects.

Selis blinked.

Standing there, his coat flaring dramatically in the smoke, was Lucian.

His black hair was short as ever, his boots still clean somehow, and his expression? Equal parts disappointed and furious.

It felt like an entire year had passed since she'd last seen him. But in truth, it had only been—what? A month or more?

And never, not once, had she felt so ridiculously happy to see that condescending glare.

"Lucian!" she croaked, half-laughing, half-weeping. "You're finally here!"

Lucian didn't even blink. He stormed up to her, grabbed her wrist, and shoved her sword back into her hand like a parent returning a dropped pacifier.

"You're still dropping your weapon?!" he barked. "Unbelievable! I should throw you back into basic training until your arms fall off!"

"I was tired!" Selis protested. "I haven't slept since the moon exploded or whatever!"

"I don't care if you were halfway to the grave—you never drop your blade, you idiot!"

"Thanks for saving me, by the way," she said dryly, brushing vampire ash off her face. "Real tender moment."

Lucian turned away, already slicing down another two vampires mid-sentence. "You can thank me by surviving until tomorrow without embarrassing yourself."

Around them, the rest of the vampire hunters were beginning to realize something had changed. Lucian's arrival was like tossing a boulder into a stagnant pond.

Commanders barked orders with new life. Reinforcements came surging in from behind him, slamming into the vampires like a hammer. Finally—finally—the tide was turning.

And Selis?

She stood shakily, wiped blood from her brow, and grinned despite herself.

Lucian might be a pain in the ass, but with him here, they might actually have a chance.

Finally—finally—a real vampire hunter had arrived.

Not just any hunter either.

Lucian.

The man, the myth, the nightmare of every bloodsucker this side of the continent. The strongest human soldier in recorded history. The one whose name vampire fledglings were warned about like a campfire tale: Sleep now, or Lucian will find you in your coffin.

And here he was, in the flesh, standing at the frontlines like a battle god freshly carved from granite and pure spite.

For the exhausted, blood-soaked defenders of the capital, it was as if dawn had broken for the first time in days.

After a week of being toyed with, chewed up, and spat out by the vampire horde, the sight of Lucian swinging his blade through the ranks like he was slicing through soggy bread gave them something dangerously close to . . . hope.

"Holy crap, it's him!" someone whispered, eyes wide, covered in soot and dried vampire goo.

"Lucian's here! We're saved!" another shouted, dropping his broken spear and grabbing a tambourine—where did he even get that?

There had been other high-ranking vampire hunters before Lucian—skilled, fearless, and battle-hardened. Some were legends in their own right. But even they had struggled against the relentless vampire horde.

Many failed to push the tide back. Some barely made it out alive. Others were carried off the battlefield, their bodies broken and spirits crushed. A few never returned at all.

No matter how strong they were, the vampires always came back stronger, faster, smarter.

That's why Lucian's arrival wasn't just exciting—it was different. Because unlike the others . . .

Lucian didn't just survive.

He dominated.

With Lucian's arrival, the vampire lines buckled like soggy plywood.

Some fled outright, tripping over their own capes. Others froze mid-bite, only to be sliced in half before they could say, Wait, is that Luci—?

Even the bold ones with glowing fangs and enchanted claws suddenly looked like interns at their first job interview.

Lucian didn't just kill vampires—he embarrassed them. He had the kind of aura that said, You're not worth the blood on my boots.

But then—he appeared.

One vampire remained standing in the chaos.

He wasn't just another grunt or shrieking mid-tier freak with bad hair and worse breath.

No, this one . . . had style.

He was tall, lean, and wore a black military-style coat that billowed dramatically without wind (how?!). His hair shimmered like liquid night. His skin was pale as moonlight, his posture poised and commanding like someone born to lead, and his crimson eyes held a cold, sharp focus that gave off the quiet confidence of someone used to being obeyed.

There was something unnervingly refined about him—like a noble who had traded a crown for fangs.

He didn't snarl or hiss like the others. He simply watched. Unbothered. Unhurried. Completely unimpressed by the chaos around him.

And that alone made him terrifying.