Chapter 122: Lucien Blackthorne

The European winter outside the sprawling stone estate offered no mercy. Snow blanketed the manicured courtyards, only to be violently marred by dark, steaming splashes of blood that soaked into the drifts, turning the pristine white powder a brutal, rusted crimson.

Lifeless bodies lay scattered across the frozen earth, silent testaments to a massacre that had unfolded with terrifying swiftness. Somewhere in the shadows of the estate, the frantic, panicked shouts of men and women running for their lives had abruptly cut off, replaced by an absolute, suffocating stillness.

The silence that followed the slaughter was more unsettling than the screams that had preceded it. Only minutes earlier, the estate had been filled with shouting, the thunder of gunfire, and the frantic pounding of boots as people ran for their lives. Doors had slammed. Windows had shattered. Commands had been barked into communication devices by men and women who had believed themselves prepared for anything.

One by one, their voices had disappeared. Now, the only sounds were the wind sweeping through the trees.

Huddled together against the freezing stone wall of an exterior alcove, two operatives fought to control their ragged breathing. The cold air burned their lungs with every gasp as they hid from the nightmare that had systematically dismantled their entire strike team.

They were both dressed in heavy tactical black, their bodies weighed down by holsters, combat knives, and military-grade gear. The man clutched a heavy, modified assault rifle, his knuckles white against the grip, while the woman held a specialized tactical crossbow loaded with a lethal silver-alloy bolt.

“He’s completely unstoppable,” the woman whispered, her voice trembling violently as she pressed her back against the freezing brickwork. She glanced sideways at her partner, her eyes wide with unadulterated panic. “I thought you said this new weapon protocol could bring an Original down. You swore the high-ups tested it.”

“That was what Bill and the research division promised before deployment,” the man shot back, his own voice cracking under the pressure. “They swore the weaponized frequency and the silver-mercury compound would disrupt an Original’s cellular regeneration. They verified it at headquarters, which is why this entire black-ops authorization was signed off.”

“Well, it isn’t killing him! It isn’t even slowing him down!” she hissed back in horror, clutching her crossbow so tightly her fingers ached.

“He is tearing through our battalions like paper.”

Her voice rose before she caught herself and glanced toward the courtyard again. Dave pressed a finger to his lips, but the gesture only made her expression harder.

“Don’t tell me to be quiet,” she hissed. “I’ve watched that man take bullets to the chest without slowing down. I’ve watched him walk through gunfire as though the people shooting at him were children throwing stones. And when someone finally managed to hit him with one of those damn weapons, he looked down at the wound, laughed, and kept coming. Whatever Bill created, it isn’t killing him. It isn’t even hurting him enough to make him hesitate.”

Dave looked away. That small movement told her more than his words had.

She leaned closer, lowering her voice until it was barely audible. “You knew there was a possibility it wouldn’t work.”

“I knew there were risks.”

“Risks?” She almost laughed, but the sound caught in her throat. “There is a difference between risking your life and being sent somewhere to die because a group of people sitting comfortably behind secure walls decided they had discovered a way to kill an Original Lycan. We were told this would be controlled. We were told we had the advantage.”

Dave opened his mouth, but no answer came.

The woman looked down at the communication device fastened to her shoulder. She had been trying to reach the others for several minutes, switching between channels, repeating their unit identification, and waiting for someone—anyone—to respond.

But there was nothing. Not even static. She pressed the transmitter again.

“Unit Seven calling command. Do you copy? Command, this is Unit Seven. We have sustained heavy casualties, and the target remains active. I repeat, the target remains active. We require immediate extraction.”

She waited for an answer but the silence stretched.

“Command, do you copy?”

Still, nothing. She lowered her hand slowly in defeat.

Dave watched her face. “Try the emergency channel.”

“I have.”

“The secondary frequency?”

“There is no one answering, Dave! I’ve been trying to cycle through the squad frequencies for five minutes—no one is answering the comms. Nothing.”

He flinched at the sharpness of her voice.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke. The woman stared at the dead communication device in her hand, her thumb resting against the transmission button as if pressing it one more time might somehow restore the voices that had answered her only an hour ago.

She inched slightly upward from her squatting position, risking a terrified glance around the stone pillar to survey the courtyard.

Her partner stared at her, the grim reality settling over his features like lead. “It can only mean one thing, Elena.”

She pulled back, her chest heaving as she looked down at him. “What?”

“Everyone else is dead.”

“Then how do we get the fuck out of this place?” Elena whispered, panic threatening to swallow her whole. “If we stay pinned in this alcove, he’s going to find us, and he’s going to slaughter us.”

For all her rigorous tactical training, months of combat simulations, and psychological conditioning at the Aegis academy, instinct stripped away the bravado. When faced with an immortal apex predator that refused to die, the human mind shattered into a singular, primal urge to flee.

“I don’t know,” the man replied, shaking his head. “He’s systematically locked down the primary exits. His Beta and Gamma are securing the perimeter flanks. And with all localized communications jammed, we’re entirely cut off. Our fate was sealed the moment we crossed those gates.”

“Do you find it even remotely amusing,” a smooth, cultured masculine voice drifted lazily through the frozen air, “that knowing precisely how this disastrous little venture would conclude, Aegis still chose to send you out here as absolute sacrificial lambs?”

Both operatives gasped, their bodies jolting as though struck by an electrical current. Fear locked their joints in place.

Out of the swirling snow and shadow, a figure stepped into the dim light of the alcove. He walked with an unhurried, devastating elegance, his expensive leather shoes clicking softly against the stone.

He wore the tailored trousers of a bespoke dark suit paired with a crisp white shirt, the top three buttons left casually open to reveal the smooth, pale expanse of his collarbone.

There were faint, dark splatters of fresh blood smeared across the cotton fabric, contrasting sharply with his immaculate presentation. He kept his left hand casually tucked into his trouser pocket, looking less like a monster fresh from a slaughter and more like an aristocrat taking an evening stroll through his private gardens.

“I am genuinely curious,” the man continued, his tone carrying a rich, melodic amusement that somehow made the situation infinitely more terrifying. He gestured lazily at the carnage surrounding them with a tilt of his head.

“What on earth gave you all the collective courage to march up to my personal residence and attempt an assassination? I would almost be inclined to applaud the sheer, breathtaking audacity of it… if it weren’t such an exceptionally foolish life choice.”

He took another unhurried step closer, the cold moonlight catching his features. He bore a striking, undeniable resemblance to Alexander—the same towering height, the broad, commanding shoulders, and the flawlessly sculpted jawline.

But where Alexander projected a dark, brooding, obsidian-like intensity, this man radiated a terrifying, effortless charm. His hair was a striking, platinum blonde cut short and neat, and his eyes were the same brilliant, luminous blue as his brother’s, though completely devoid of Alexander’s stern gravity. Instead, they danced with bright, razor-sharp mischief.

The woman felt her throat tighten. Something in her told her that he knew exactly where they were.

Of course he knew. He had known they were there long before he appeared, and he was now standing close enough for her to see the faint red streak near the corner of his mouth.

There was some blood on his face….Someone else’s blood though. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, barely sparing it a glance.

“So tell me,” he said, taking another leisurely step toward them, “what convinced you that tonight was the night you would finally succeed where generations of your predecessors have failed?”

Neither of them answered. Hearing nothing from them, the man tilted his head.

“Nothing? That’s disappointing. I was hoping for a compelling explanation. Perhaps a deeply personal grievance, a heroic desire to save humanity, or some grand revelation about the terrible things my kind has supposedly done to your people.”

He paused, pretending to consider the possibilities. “Although, given the state of the bodies outside, I suspect your definition of saving humanity may require some reconsideration.”

His smile remained in place. That was the worst part.

He did not look enraged. He did not appear breathless or impatient. There was no visible strain in his shoulders, no tremor in his hands, no indication that he had spent the last several minutes tearing through a trained unit.

He looked entertained….