The Bodor Gaxy, buried deep in the Eastern Fringe of the Imperial Empire, had long been known as a dead zone—low in morale, resources, and hope.

  Senator Shizuna Lee, known for her precision and ruthless efficiency, stood aboard her crystalline orbit tower, looking down at the sand-colored worlds rotating below.

  Her data scrolls unfurled like scripture.

  “NE Zone 99999.00001…” she read aloud. “Value: minimal. Output: two resource-cssified minerals—Pslisteel Ore and Lerium Ore.”

  Her finger traced glowing charts.

  “Average colonial sectors report 30 to 600 unique ore deposits. This? Two. At best.”

  Shizuna turned to the imperial recorders, her voice dry.

  “Impose tribute: 10% of total Pslisteel and Lerium yield. Reason: Imperial protection of Lozy Gaxy from outer fringe invasions.”

  She smiled coldly.

  “A fair deal for so little.”

  She continued her analysis.

  “No Holy Steel. No Unholy Steel. No steel of any css. No usable lead for firearms, no Uranium-259 for advanced reactors. The war pnets and Eternal War Zones—where orcs bleed on command, Spider Hive fleets scream through voidspace, and death is demanded—require more than this sector can ever give.”

  Shizuna sighed.

  “Let it be poor. But let it be quiet.”

  She sealed her report with an Imperial sigil—red fme over broken chain.

  Deep within Bodor's dust-scorched wastes, a man knelt before an ancient altar carved from pre-Imperial rock. His eyes were hollow. His wife, murdered by a conscripted soldier for smuggling forbidden medicine to her vilge, was dust now.

  He dragged a bde across his arm. Blood trickled down onto the altar’s surface.

  It hissed.

  The altar fred.

  A vision of 1,000 yered realms spiraled before him. As his blood mixed with vengeance, a rift opened. Out stepped a skeletal being, cloaked in dark magic. Its teeth were long. Its mouth is always smiling.

  “One name. One soul,” it whispered.

  The man pointed skyward.

  “He killed her. For helping others. Kill him.”

  The vampire nodded.

  A silent pact formed—unseen but eternal.

  The being vanished.

  It reappeared on Odor, a moon of the nearby Alpha Gaxy, known for its endless dunes and secret camps. Soldiers moved in silence, unaware of the predator now walking among them.

  The vampire’s eyes turned white, scanning the sins of every soldier nearby. The pain of knowing too much, too fast, rattled his form. It took him an hour to sift through the moral filth until he found the one.

  The killer.

  He approached in silence.

  The man looked up, confused—too te.

  Fangs sank in.

  But before the soul could fully be drawn, a trumpet sounded. Patrol check.

  Another soldier appeared.

  The vampire looked up, bloodied and serene.

  “Adultery. You’ve got no one praying for you in the Angelic Dominion. The reaper will take you.”

  The soldier opened fire with Lerium rounds, dumping everything he had. Half the vampire's body disintegrated—until he reformed, untouched, expression unchanged.

  He drained the soldier instantly, leaving the man who summoned him untouched.

  Two souls shifted:

  The guilty killer was pulled into the Endless Blood Dimension, his sins now echoing eternally in yered torment.

  The adulterous soldier awoke in the 2nd Layer of the Underworld, in its northern sector—a pce modeled to mimic a quiet human town.

  But nothing there stayed quiet.

  Each day, he wandered narrow streets under blood-lit moons, only to face:

  Succubi, who teleported directly before him, their beauty twisted by intent. They didn’t kill. They drained him slowly, soul essence first, never finishing the job.

  Monstrous females, who flirted, stalked, and offered false marriages, each a contract of eternal possession.

  He was not damned in fire.

  He was hunted by seduction, in a loop where fear and desire were the same.

  And somewhere in the Bodor Gaxy, another altar waited.

  Another wound would bleed.

  And another vengeance would be born.

  The alert came in as a low-priority internal ping: Shots fired – Sector 18B, Barracks Line 12.

  But Imperial NCO Thalek, a 20-year veteran of the Outer War Zones, knew better. Alerts like that never stayed quiet for long.

  He jogged through the rain-slick steel corridors of the Imperial Outpost on Station 99999.49991, only a breath away from the NE 99999.50001 border—the very edge of the known universe, where Frontier Orc Cns warred relentlessly against imperial expansions.

  As he reached Barracks 12, the silence told him more than any report could.

  “Line secure. Entry granted,” he said to the AI panel.

  The door hissed open.

  Inside: cold air, the metallic scent of recycled oxygen, and death.

  One of the bunks was occupied.

  Private William!!

  Or what was left of him.

  A dried husk, skin wrinkled and gray, body nearly mummified. Eyes wide open in terror. Bloodless.

  The NCO activated his comms.

  “Command. This is Thalek. Reporting confirmed death. Private William. Dried corpse. Likely extraction of total blood volume. Suspected cause: demonic variant. Vampiric css.”

  Moments ter, Anna Bke appeared on the line. A high-level synthetic operative, bound by direct neural interface with the Golden Shrine Intelligence System.

  “Acknowledged. What’s the cause?” she asked, calm but clipped.

  Thalek pulled on his military-grade sensor gloves, then crouched by the corpse. He tilted his chin up, then found them.

  “Neck punctures. Deep fang marks. Upper canine spacing suggests a Css B-X variant. Not native. We’ve got a demonic strain in our ranks.”

  Blood was still pooled on the bunk bed above, soaked deep into the mattress. Not enough for a kill. But enough for a ritual.

  Anna’s voice returned, this time slower. Distracted.

  “I’m scanning now. Pulling from the Golden Shrine Database…”

  She fell silent.

  Then: “4.5 trillion recorded incidents tied to **Blood Cults and vampire attacks. 80% linked to revenge-based assaults—blood rites. 20% show clear records of female vampires being contracted for frontline war work.”

  She paused again.

  “Mostly deployed against Frontier Orc Cns.”

  Thalek spat. “Figures.”

  Anna continued. “This particur region’s near NE 99999.50001. So deep in the red zone that vat-grown soldiers are rotated in constantly. Naturally born personnel—like William—aren’t supposed to be assigned here.”

  Thalek’s fist smmed against the bunk rail.

  “All you're doing is telling, Anna! I don't want stats—I want images. I want proof. I want you to go there, find who’s left!! Search for dog tags!! Tell me who’s alive and who’s been turned!!!”

  There was silence.

  Then Anna responded. Her voice, no longer calm, carried something colder.

  “Understood. Beginning deployment scan. Uploading field-detection assets. We’ll isote heat ghosts and essence signatures. This won’t be silent any longer.”

  Thalek stood up, jaw tight. He looked around the barracks.

  The walls suddenly felt too thin. The doors, too open.

  Because this wasn’t just one vampire.

  This was an infiltration—an old enemy, dressed in myth, walking into a synthetic, digital war.

  And the border of NE 99999.50001?

  It was no longer just a frontline.

  It was a feeding ground.

  NCO Thalek stood at the command deck of the S2 Imperial Ship Iron Resolute, the ship's armor bckened from centuries of war. He tightened his glove straps and barked orders through the deck speakers.

  “Set course to NE 99999.50001—immediate warp jump!”

  The ship shuddered once, then slipped into subspace acceleration.

  They arrived 0.70 seconds ter—a blinding burst of distortion snapping them into orbit over a battlefield drenched in chaos.

  Below them, two worlds burned.

  Around them, Orc warships—jagged, brutal vessels powered by warp energy—cshed viciously with fleets of skeletal demonic vampires. The void shimmered with energy bsts and twisted bck spells.

  "Full sector scan," Thalek ordered.

  The scans unfolded across the holo-map.

  Two pnets stood out:

  The first pnet: blue and green dots—Imperial humans and Orc allies—locked in bloody combat against a tide of red markers, the vampires.

  The second pnet: deeper red, denoting it almost entirely overrun by skeletal forces.

  Thalek opened a channel to ground forces.

  “Allied forces, report! Who is designated as friendlies?”

  A ragged voice replied, broken but defiant.

  “Orcs! They're the good guys, sir. They love a good fight! Orders were simple: hold this ground or die trying. Vat-grown soldiers make up most of us here—me and a few others were pulled by emergency beacon.”

  Below, the S3 and S4-css dropships roared in. They began unloading K3 tanks—behemoths of steel and will.

  Crews scrambled.

  “Load 130mm kinetic rounds! Target those incoming vampire squads!”

  The first rounds were fired. The K3’s 130mm cannons cracked the ground and air, vaporizing skeletal columns charging the allied lines.

  But the vampires adapted, throwing themselves by the thousands against the tanks, cwing and ripping.

  Then, amidst the chaos, a single soldier did something strange.

  He dropped to his knees.

  He prayed.

  Words to the Emperor echoed into the storm, and the unseen matter of belief answered.

  Faith Matter—raw, coalescing, gathered in the air. The soldier poured it into his old M1 Garand, a weapon centuries obsolete but now burning with divine essence.

  He fired.

  Each bullet exploded through the skeletal vampires, erasing them body and soul.

  Other soldiers, seeing this, immediately copied him, praying, pouring their fear and hope into their weapons.

  Combat report: Faith-charged rounds effective. Soldiers sting 1 hour now holding lines for up to 2 days before ammo depletion.

  Above, the Imperial Navy responded.

  Lerium ammo—hypercharged kinetic rounds—rained from orbit to supply the front lines. Containers smashed into the mud like meteorites.

  Meanwhile, the Orcs barely noticed the need for supplies.

  They simply thought about more ammo.

  And ammo arrived.

  Crates from their home sectors warped to the battlefield, stacking themselves near their trenches like loyal hounds. Some of the more energetic orc shamans warped themselves into the Warp Gaxy, drunk on bloodlust and opportunity.

  On the orbital comms, an Imperial officer demanded answers.

  “Orc vessel! Why are you pushing into the Warp Gaxy without clearance?!”

  The Orc Captain’s answer was simple.

  "You guard a red and bck hole full of endless war. Good fights, good loot. We take. You stay. Everyone happy."

  And with that, the Orcs surged forward.

  They breached the edge of the Warp Gaxy itself, diving into worlds infested by demons. They turned the eternal demon spawn into an eternal battlefield, mining and looting demonic fortresses, reveling in the sughter.

  Meanwhile, on Sector NE 99999.50001, the battle raged.

  Day by day, mile by mile, the front shifted.

  Victoria’s initial reports were grim—5 miles gained a day. Exhausting, endless bloodshed.

  But the truth behind the numbers?

  Most of the ground taken was thanks to the Orcs.

  With every battle cry, every insane charge into the vampire hordes, the line pushed outward.

  Human soldiers held together with tanks, faith, and grit.

  Orcs held the front together with raw strength, warp magic, and a joy for violence that not even demons could match.

  And so, at the burning edge of the universe, against a nightmare tide, humanity and its chaotic green allies carved out another day of survival—with blood, faith, and war.

  The battlefield of Sector NE 99999.50001 churned endlessly with blood, ash, and faith.

  Above the screaming trenches and burning tanks, Valkyries soared—blue fmes trailing from their wings, eyes like cold stars. They moved among the living and the dying, seeking out the bravest, the fiercest, and those who had carved the greatest toll upon the skeletal demonic vampires.

  Without hesitation, they touched the fallen, and the honored warriors vanished in bursts of white-gold fme, carried to the Halls of Valhal beyond mortal reach.

  The Valkyries showed no mercy to hesitation. They ignored cowards, bypassed the broken, and honored only those who fought to the final breath.

  For days, this divine harvest continued.

  But on the ground, something darker began to unfold.

  The skeletal vampires, no longer content to simply consume, began to adapt.

  They drank more blood from the fallen mortals.

  And with the blood, they learned.

  They turned from blind sughter to mining operations, extracting rare metals and minerals from the shattered pnets. Bck-red crystals and ore veins pulsed with chaotic energy.

  With eerie coordination, the vampires began to forge weapons—swords, rifles, even crude artillery powered by blood alchemy.

  The battlefields that had been a one-sided sughter shifted into something worse:

  A stalemate.

  Their weapons weren't beautiful.

  They weren't perfect.

  But they worked—and that was enough to halt the Imperial-Orc advance.

  From Mars, the Imperial Senate watched with grim eyes.

  A final order was issued:

  “Effective immediately: No naturally born humans are to be deployed in Sector NE 99999.50001. All further personnel must be vat-grown. Orders acknowledged by the Emperor’s command.”

  The whistle blew.

  Across every frontline and trench, the signal pierced the air.

  Every human soldier stopped fighting. Pulled back.

  The orcs roared in ughter, delighted to finally fight without "pinkskin interruptions." They surged forward to hold the line alone, meeting the skeletal vampires with howling warp-fueled rage.

  Meanwhile, the vat-grown humans, born for nothing but war, did not retreat. They bent immediately to new orders.

  They built.

  Bunkers of Crystal stone and steel. Trenches reinforced with lerium frames. Defensive kill-zones yered with auto-turrets and faith-inscribed barriers.

  But even behind defenses, war never slept.

  One to three enemies would break into the defensive lines daily—skeletal vampires screeching, charging with stolen rifles or blood-forged sabers.

  In those tight fights, the few orcs scattered among the humans gleefully joined the carnage, crushing vampires with bare hands, roaring old war songs that shook the very trenches.

  Then came the real assault.

  One of the skeletal vampire warlords—a grotesque creature crowned with a broken blood circlet—rallied a massive horde.

  They hit the orc lines like a tidal wave.

  But worse: half of them breached through the chaos, charging straight toward the human bunkers and hastily reinforced trenches.

  The vat-grown soldiers didn't panic.

  They prayed.

  Faith matter ignited.

  Lerium rounds, infused with pure belief, filled the chambers of every rifle, cannon, and portable railgun.

  When the soldiers fired, the rounds didn’t just kill—the bullets shattered vampire skulls, burned through bck marrow, and tore apart their stolen armor.

  Wave after wave of vampires fell, but they adapted again.

  Under fire, the skeletal vampires dug into the blood-churned soil.

  They built trenches of their own.

  They shifted to ranged combat, using scavenged and blood-forged rifles to snipe at the defenders, matching Imperial tactics with a feral mimicry.

  For the first time, the enemy wasn’t just overwhelming.

  They were learning.

  And on both sides of the frontline, a grim new reality took shape:

  The endless war would not end with one great charge.

  It would be a battle of trenches, prayers, and blood.

  Victory would not come quickly.

  It would be carved, bullet by bullet, soul by soul, inch by inch.

  And as Valkyries hovered overhead, still ferrying the bravest to Valhal, a terrible truth spread across the sector like a cold fire.

  The early warning beacons screamed across the void.

  1,000 S1-css ships and 500 S2 heavy cruisers clustered in formation at the edge of Sector NE 99999.50001, maintaining standard patrol when the anomaly was detected.

  Two colossal blood-forged ships, each the size of a minor moon, ripped into local space—gargantuan vessels, crafted from pure arterial metal and crusted blood-crystals that pulsed like a living heart.

  No hails. No attempts at communication.

  Just destruction.

  The blood ships fired.

  Beams of crystallized blood energy—thicker than orbital stations—nced through the fleet.

  Within 50 seconds, half of the Imperial fleet disintegrated.

  Ships melted into sg, debris fields expanding like iron hurricanes. Thousands of souls screamed into the void, faith matter igniting spontaneously as prayers to the Emperor fred and extinguished.

  On the bridge of the S2 command ship Stormbringer, NCO Thalek did not hesitate.

  “VOLLEY FIRE! TARGET MAIN WEAPONS! BRING THEM DOWN NOW!”

  The surviving Imperial fleet responded with ruthless efficiency.

  Batteries of mass-reactor cannons, lerium torpedoes, and psma-igniter rounds unched in synchronized firestorms.

  In moments, the combined firepower tore through the enemy blood ships.

  First ship: shattered. Second ship: detonated. Third ship: crumpled into a colpsed bck mess, folding inward until nothing remained.

  Space was left scarred and burning—750 small fires from drifting wreckage and three massive core detonations lingering like dead suns.

  The surviving reinforcements floated, stunned.

  Weapons lowered.

  One of the young soldiers, voice shaking, broke the silence:

  “Requesting status report… who… what were they?”

  Thalek’s voice came over command channels, grim and cold:

  “Enemy scouting fleet. Repeat—enemy scout fleet destroyed. Only scouts.”

  The horror sank in.

  If those were scouts, what would the real invasion look like?

  At Command HQ, seated deep within the hardened fortresses of Sector NE 99999.50001, Sector Commander Jaune D'Arc—the Iron Warden herself—filed an urgent transmission to the Senate:

  “Request: Full force authorization. Immediate fleet reinforcement required. Border at critical failure risk.”

  The Senate, fractured and cautious, convened in emergency session.

  Among them rose Modred Pendragon XII, scion of the imperial military elite.

  "I propose the creation of the Imperial Naval Command, independent from normal navy bureaucracy. The territory beyond our borders demands unified control, not fragmented orders. Jaune D’Arc shall be appointed Supreme Admiral of this new force."

  Debate raged.

  Votes cast.

  53% approved. 47% dissented.

  Victory by the slimmest margin—but victory nonetheless.

  With her authority now absolute, Jaune D'Arc unleashed her will:

  60% of the sector’s resources would be dedicated to Imperial Naval Fleet Creation.

  40% to VAT growth troop production —genetically accelerated soldiers designed for loyalty, speed, and survival.

  Within months, 3,000 scientists under Anna Bke arrived, building refineries, shipyards, cloning vats, and faith-shield generators.

  In one year, Sector NE 99999.50001 became a fortress.

  Above, however, the war never stopped.

  Average combat losses: 3,000 S1 and S2 ships per day.

  Yet no retreat was ordered.

  The Senate allowed only low-css ships and volunteers to deploy, preserving their elite forces for internal stability while using this sector as a meat-grinder and shield.

  But something new stirred.

  From the ruined world-forges, the Artificial Angels were born.

  Forged from 10% of the Faith Matter gathered across the sector, these winged constructs—each gleaming with artificial holiness—rose into orbit.

  Without words, they unched their assault.

  They flew straight into the heart of blood enemy fleets.

  Boarding the massive blood ships, they unleashed faith weapons into the hulls.

  They gathered faith, compressed it, and refined it.

  After one relentless day of battle, they ignited it.

  The faith reaction outshone entire stars.

  The captured blood ship, saturated with gathered belief and rage, detonated with a heat ten times greater than a supernova.

  The explosion was so powerful that it shattered the warp bubble shielding the Endless Blood Dimension fleet hiding within the Warp Gaxy’s edge.

  The Endless Blood Dimensional Will itself, vast and cold, felt the burn.

  It recoiled.

  It calcuted.

  7000 years.

  That was the estimated time needed to rebuild the warp bubble breach and restore its influence in that sector.

  For the first time in a thousand thousand cycles, the Endless Blood Dimension had to pull back, forced to redirect its attention deeper into the unstable chaos of the Warp Gaxy.

  Above the scorched remnants of NE 99999.50001, amidst debris fields glittering like broken gods, the battered Imperial fleet regrouped.

  Jaune D'Arc stood in the war council chamber, her armored gauntlet resting lightly on a star-map of the sector.

  “We bleed. But they burned.Build more ships. Clone more soldiers.This sector will be our fortress.”

  And beyond the bleeding sky, the next wave of war drums sounded.

  The battle for the edge of the universe had just begun.

  Senator Angus Caedmon, draped in the bck and red robes of the Outer Imperial Congress, arrived in Sector NE 99999.50001 under full escort.

  His ship, the Judiciary Star, descended over ruined pnets, burnt-out orbital cities, and battlefields that never cooled. Space itself shimmered with wreckage from the test cshes against the skeletal demonic vampires.

  He was not here to command.

  He was here to count the dead.

  The first report he received chilled even his iron will.

  Casualties:

  480,000,000 vat-grown soldiers dead — frontline infantry sughtered under endless waves of skeletal vampires.

  Urban combat death toll: triple the number, as cities fell into brutal, blood-choked skirmishes.

  Artificial Angels lost in orbital space combat: 8,640,000,000 per cycle.

  The numbers were neatly written.

  Crisp.

  Sanitized.

  As if the Empire could process the loss of billions with the same emotion they tallied grain shipments.

  Angus frowned.

  Something was missing.

  He traveled on foot through the wreckage of a battlefield once called Hope’s Bastion.

  Shells of K3 tanks rusted in craters.

  Vat-grown soldiers’ remains y in shallow mass graves, their identifiers ser-etched onto twisted bones.

  But Angus was looking for something specific: dog tags.

  A soldier’s dog tag was more than a serial number—it marked trueborn humans. Those rare individuals who were born naturally, not created in vats. Humans with full citizen bloodlines.

  If any naturally born soldiers had disobeyed the Senate decree and deployed here, they would carry the dog tags.

  Angus, grim and methodical, began gathering them.

  Field after field.

  Ruined trench after ruined trench.

  Bunker after bunker.

  Dog tags.

  Dozens at first.

  Hundreds.

  Thousands.

  By midday, his aides compiled the count.

  “The number of dog tags recovered today amounts to one quarter of the artificial angels produced each day.”

  Angus stood in the fading red twilight, holding a handful of battered tags.

  Every tag he held meant a human life — not vat-grown, not forged by code — gone.

  Burned away for a border no one even knew if they could hold.

  Later that night, Angus filed his preliminary report to the Senate.

  “The situation is critical beyond prior assessments.Casualty numbers are increasing exponentially.Natural-born humans, despite prohibitions, have fought and died in this sector.Faith weaponization remains high.Artificial angel losses are unsustainable at current manufacturing levels.Recommend: mass reassessment of border prioritization or further escation of artificial forces deployment.”

  At the bottom of the report, Angus added a personal note:

  "We are building a wall of bodies to hold back a tide that cannot drown. Faith fuels us, but blood will not be enough forever. Either we accept endless war—or we find a way to end the dimension that births these nightmares."

  He looked again at the pile of dog tags.

  Then turned back to the endless crimson sky.

  The war was still raging, even now.

  And tomorrow, there will be more tags to count.

  When Senator Angus Caedmon delivered his grim report to the Senate, most of the chamber responded with indifference.

  The majority of senators leaned back in their marble thrones, waving dismissively.

  "Vat-grown soldiers respond to signals. Nothing more. They are tools, not citizens.""The border will bleed, as it always has. The core must remain untouched.""Natural-born deaths are anomalies. Statistical noise."

  No emergency measures were passed.

  No new reinforcements dispatched.

  No fleets surged into the breach.

  Instead, bureaucracy carried on, slow and proud, while the dead continued to pile up beyond NE 99999.50001.

  But after one month, reality shattered the Senate’s delusions.

  The numbers spoke first:

  Casualties tripled.

  Entire sectors bckened by blood vortex storms.

  Faith reactors are overwhelmed and burned out.

  Outposts lost without a single distress signal transmitted.

  Angus had been right.

  And by then, it was almost too te.

  Jaune D’Arc, now Supreme Admiral of the newly created Imperial Naval Command, acted without asking permission.

  She deployed the heavy fleets.

  S1 to S6-css warships—the elite core of the Imperial Navy—were sent directly to the frontlines.

  Their arrival was a seismic shift.

  For the first time in months:

  Death rates among humans and vat-grown soldiers dropped by a quarter each day.

  Skirmish victories increased.

  Faith matter accumuted faster than it could be spent.

  The endless war slowed its bloody crawl.

  Hope, however fragile, flickered at the edge of the universe.

  Then the prayers began.

  Not from the faithful.

  From the enemy.

  1% of the skeletal vampires, those who had stolen and corrupted the rituals of mortals, turned their bckened hearts toward the Endless Blood Will.

  They prayed.

  And the skies answered.

  A rain of blood fell across the entire sector, tainting pnets, ships, and souls alike.

  From the bloodstorm emerged new horrors—Blood Angels and more are born from each bloodstorm.

  They tore from the clouds, screaming in a nguage older than stars. Their wings were jagged bdes of coaguted faith matter. Their armor was muscle and bone.

  They hunted.

  They targeted the artificial angels first—those symbols of Imperial resilience—and shattered them in the void.

  Across the battlefronts, combat reports flooded in:

  40,000,000 Imperial ships—from S1 to S6—engaged.

  Destruction rates spiked 30% higher than standard projections.

  Each video recording showed the truth:

  It took two dual AA lerium guns operating at full capacity to kill a single Blood Angel.

  Artificial angels without faith matter support needed three to overpower two Blood Angels, fighting cw to cw, wing to wing.

  Even with faith matter enhancement, it still took five full minutes to bring down one Blood Angel.

  Five minutes, in the middle of an apocalyptic battlefield, was an eternity.

  And every second brought more death.

  Jaune D’Arc stood grimly at her new command center, her hands csped behind her armored back.

  Behind her, endless vid-screens showed ships burning, angels cshing, blood raining from shattered skies.

  She didn’t blink.

  "Prepare for full escation," she said."Faith weaponry is to be rearmed on all S1 to S6 ships. Deploy the Titan-Css Engines. Summon the Architects of the Crucible."

  There would be no negotiation.

  No quarter.

  This was not just survival anymore.It was faith versus blood.

  Angus realized the war had only just evolved into something far worse than anyone had imagined.