Vampire Progenitor System-Chapter 124: Unlikely Alliance

Unknown Hideout – Somewhere in the Eastern Ruins

The room shook slightly as he slammed his fist into the wall, sending cracks spreading across the concrete like angry veins.

"Damn it!!"

His voice echoed off the rusted steel beams above, loud and filled with venom.

"All my plans—ruined. By those supernatural bastards!"

He paced, hands clenched, jaw tight. His coat dragged behind him like a storm cloud, and his eyes burned with sleepless fury.

"How dare they... walk freely after everything they did... how dare they pretend they’re part of this world now..."

His name?

Calen Rooks.

Former engineer. Husband. Father. Now? The man who wanted the supernatural race bled dry.

He stopped at the center of the room where a dusty table was cluttered with old photos, blueprints, newspaper articles, and grainy summit footage.

His hand hovered over one particular photo.

Burned at the edges.

Smudged with ash.

A woman. A girl. Standing outside a park. Both smiling.

His hand trembled as he touched it.

"Marcie... and Lyla..."

His eyes glazed for a second—just a second—and then...

FLASHBACK – one month back, During the Rift Tear

The sky had cracked open.

Black lightning poured through the clouds like veins across the heavens. People ran. Screamed. Cars flipped. Buildings collapsed like they were made of paper.

And in the middle of it all—

Marcie had screamed his name.

"Calen!! Get her out of here!!"

Lyla, their daughter, no older than eight, held his hand tight, tears streaming down her face.

Then the howl came.

Low.

Monstrous.

It wasn’t human.

And it wasn’t alone.

Three beasts burst from the rift near the center of the city. Not werewolves. Not vampires. Not witches. Something else. Something worse. Twisted by the Rift. Mindless.

Calen remembered trying to run.

Trying to shield his daughter.

But—

The claws reached them before they made it ten steps.

Blood sprayed.

Screams vanished into static.

He had woken up three hours later in the rubble.

Alone.

His wife and daughter? Gone.

Not even bodies left.

BACK TO NOW

"I begged them to give me names. Faces. Answers," Calen muttered. "But all they gave me was silence. Denial."

He looked up at the screen. Lucifer’s face was paused mid-step, white hair glowing in the summit light.

"They gave him praise," he whispered, voice shaking. "They gave the monster a seat at the table."

His breathing sharpened.

He turned sharply toward the small group gathered in the corner of the room. About six of them. Some old Resistance survivors. Others? New. Trained in silence. Loyal.

"They think they’ve killed the Resistance," Calen growled. "They think it’s over."

He slammed a knife into the desk.

"They’re wrong."

He turned to his men, eyes wild but focused.

"I want Lucifer Origin and every one of those freaks on their knees."

He started pointing.

"Pull the rest of the cells out of hiding. Every contact, every sleeper agent we have. I want eyes in every supernatural school, sanctuary, and safe zone."

One man stepped forward cautiously. "Sir, after what they did to the HQ... we need time—"

Calen spun and gripped him by the collar.

"You think we have time?!"

The soldier froze.

"They walk freely now. Smile for cameras. Shake hands with presidents. They’ve infiltrated everything. And soon, they’ll control everything."

He shoved the man back.

"I don’t care what it takes. Bribes. Blackmail. Blood. Get to their heads. Turn their own against them. Find people with doubts—humans and supernaturals. Make them ours."

Another voice from the back: "And if we can’t?"

Calen didn’t hesitate.

"Then burn it all. If we can’t save this world..."

He looked at the photo one more time.

"...we’ll rebuild it from its ashes."

Silence filled the room.

Not fear. But cold, quiet loyalty.

Then the command went out.

"All units. Operation Cinder begins now."

"All this ruckus for something so small. Why don’t you use your head instead?"

Calen froze.

The air in the room changed instantly.

He turned around.

And his men stiffened.

Standing at the far end of the room—dressed in a dark charcoal suit, flanked by two silent guards in black—was a man most of them had only seen on broadcast screens.

Prime Minister Malakov.

Leader of the Russian Federation.

Here.

In the flesh.

Calen narrowed his eyes. "...You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here without warning."

Malakov stepped forward slowly, unbothered. His gloves were clean. His boots barely made a sound.

"Would you have welcomed me if I scheduled a visit?"

Calen didn’t answer. Just watched him.

The guards scanned the room, then stood still at the sides. They weren’t here to speak.

Only he was.

"I saw your little speech," Malakov continued, walking slowly around the table. He glanced at the Resistance’s battle maps. The satellite images. The files stamped with the names of vampires, witches, werewolves.

"Operation Cinder. A bold name. I like it."

Calen crossed his arms. "I didn’t expect support from the same world leader who stood at the summit and smiled when Lucifer spoke."

Orlov stopped, eyes sharp now.

"That summit was a cage, Rooks. A performance. I smiled because I had to. Not because I agreed."

He placed a hand on the edge of the table. Calm.

"My original plan was never to integrate those creatures into society. That was the fantasy of the others—idealists who think monsters can become neighbors. They pushed peace. Pushed ’coexistence.’ And I... played along."

A small smile crossed his face. "But men like us? We know better."

Calen didn’t speak. But something in his jaw eased.

Malakov tapped on the photo of Lucifer again. "He’s a problem. But not just because he’s strong. It’s because he’s respected. Revered. People trust him. Even humans. If we don’t change that..."

He looked up.

"...we lose the world."

Calen’s eyes sharpened.

Malakov stepped closer, voice lower now.

"So I’m here to make a deal. One no other leader will give you. I’m going to fund your crusade. Fully."

He opened a sleek case and slid it onto the table.

Inside: a black folder with gold trim.

Malakov tapped it once.

"Inside is everything you’ll need. Blacksite locations. Untraceable funds. Access to Russian tech labs. Biochemical weapon samples. Armories beneath the Arctic no one has touched in decades. You’ll have it all."

Calen walked slowly toward the case. Flipped open the folder.

Documents. Coordinates. Bank chains.

And schematics.

Schematics of supernatural weaknesses.

Serum designs. Anti-vampire gas. Silver-threaded net tech. Spirit-binding cuffs.

It was real.

"You’re serious," Calen said.

Malakov gave a short nod. "More than serious. I’m done pretending. You want war? I’ll give you the fuel. You want blood? I’ll give you the blade."

Calen ran his hand over the folder. Slowly. Carefully.

"...Why me?"

"Because you lost everything," Malakov said. "Because this isn’t about power for you. It’s about pain. And pain makes the most loyal soldiers."

He leaned in.

"And because you’re angry enough to burn the world just to make them feel it."

Calen closed the folder.

"Then get your men out of my way."

Malakov smiled.

"There’s just one thing I want in return."

Calen looked up.

"When you bring them to their knees," Malakov said, "you don’t kill them all. Some of them... we need."

"For what?"

"To build the new world. One where they serve under humans. As weapons. As tools. Controlled. Caged."

Calen nodded.

"I can live with that."

He looked over to his men. "Load up the dropships. Shift all command units to Alpha Mode. Activate every sleeper in Europe and Asia. We’re not hiding anymore."

He turned to Malakov.

"We’re fighting back."

Malakov extended his hand.

Calen took it.

And in that quiet handshake between two broken men...

A new war was born.

Not of gods.

Not of monsters.

But of vengeance.