Sanguinis Hill was a graveyard of fire and steel.


    The battlefield stretched under a sky thick with smoke and storm clouds. The air stank of burning flesh. Trenches cut through the mud, half-collapsed and useless. Bodies filled them. Twisted. Torn apart. Some human. Some not. The stench of blood and gunpowder clung to everything.


    Beyond the sandbags and barbed wire, the vampires rushed forward. Starving. Mindless. Endless. Their skin stretched tight over bone. Their eyes burned red with hunger. They didn’t fight like soldiers. They pounced. Tore. Shrieked. Claws ripped through armor. Fangs sank into throats.


    And in the middle of it all, the Gorilla Squadron held their ground.


    Hardened soldiers. Veterans. Their uniforms were tattered, stained with dirt and blood. Their helmets were cracked, dented. The silver gorilla on their insignia was smeared with ash. They didn’t flinch. Their machine guns rattled through the night. Bullets ripped through the horde. But for every vampire that fell, more climbed over their dead to take their place.


    Behind them, what was left of a field hospital stood in a broken farmhouse. Wounded men lay in rows, some moaning for water, some silent forever. Medics worked fast. Hands shaking. Coats are red with blood.


    Then came the order.


    The Commissar stood tall. Cold. Clean. His heavy greatcoat was lined with wolf fur. His uniform was spotless. The golden buttons on his chest gleamed in the firelight. His face was sharp. Eyes like ice. His peaked cap sat high, the sigil of the Sacrament shining on it.


    His voice cut through the chaos.


    "Fall back! Leave the wounded! The vampires have broken through—we regroup at the Iron Bastion!"


    The Gorilla Squadron froze. The words hit harder than a bullet.


    Their leader, Bok the Ogre, stood at the front.


    Bok was a mountain. Scarred. Built for war. His armor was patched together with steel plates, welded over his uniform. His skin, thick and gray-green, bore the marks of a hundred battles. His tusks curved from his jaw, sharp and deadly. His small yellow eyes locked onto the Commissar with nothing but hate.


    His voice rumbled like thunder.


    "We’re not leaving them."


    The Commissar’s lip curled.


    "That is an order, Ogre. Disobey, and you’ll be court-martialed for insubordination."


    Bok spat. His fists clenched. The steel of his gloves groaned under the pressure.


    "Then court-martial me for doing the right damn thing."


    Silence.


    In the distance, men screamed as vampires tore them apart.


    The Commissar turned to the others.


    "Abandon your leader. Fall back, or you share his fate."


    No one moved.


    One by one, the Gorilla Squadron tightened their grips on their weapons. Their faces were set. Hard. Unshaken.


    The Commissar hissed in frustration. Then he turned. His men followed. They marched away.


    Bok inhaled deeply. His fingers wrapped around the trigger of his rotary gun.


    "Fine then," he growled. "Let’s buy these people some time."


    He charged.


    Gunfire lit up the dark. His men ran with him. The first vampire lunged—Bok’s gun ripped it apart mid-air. Another sank claws into his shoulder—he swung hard, crushed its skull against a broken wall.


    The battlefield erupted again.


    Bok was a storm of death. His rotary gun shredded the enemy. His men fought beside him. Bayonets flashed. Grenades burst. Blood soaked the earth. Human. Inhuman. It didn’t matter.


    Sanguinis Hill was lost.


    But the Gorilla Squadron wasn’t.


    Rain slammed into the ruins of the field hospital, mixing with the blood in the mud. The wounded groaned behind the barricades—sandbags, carts, broken stone. The Gorilla Squadron didn’t move.


    They knelt in the dirt. Rifles are tight in their hands. Breathing slowly. Their hands shook—not with fear but with faith.


    "Great Mother Wolf," one of them whispered. "Watch over your cubs."


    "Let our claws strike true."


    "Let our fangs tear deep."


    "Let us hunt in your name and feast in your halls."


    A howl rose from their ranks. Low at first. Then stronger. Then louder.


    They were not prey.


    Then—movement in the fog.


    The vampires came.


    They didn’t run. They flowed. Pale, twisted bodies moving like liquid. Eyes like burning coals. Their mouths stretched wide, too wide, fangs glistening.


    They hit the barricades.


    Gunfire cracked.


    The Gorilla Squadron fired fast. No wasted shots. No wasted time. Silver bullets ripped into the undead. Some dropped instantly. Some burned. Some just screamed and kept coming.


    Bok stood in the center. His rotary gun whined to life.


    He squeezed the trigger.


    The storm began.


    A wall of bullets tore through the fog. Flesh shredded. Limbs snapped. The ground turned black with ichor.


    A vampire leapt over the barricade—its head exploded before it hit the ground. Another dropped from above—a bayonet slammed through its throat.


    "Hold the line!" Bok roared.


    Then came the big one.


    Taller. Heavier. Stronger. It smashed through the defenses. A soldier screamed as its claws ripped through his chest.


    Bok turned. His tusks curled in a snarl. He punched the thing across the jaw.


    Bone shattered.


    The brute staggered. Bok didn’t give it time to breathe. He shoved the smoking barrels of his rotary gun into its gut.


    And pulled the trigger.


    The thing exploded from the inside.


    But there were too many.


    The vampires hit the flanks. They dodged bullets. They climbed the walls. They tore men from the ranks.


    Bok reached for ammo. His hands found nothing.


    Empty.


    A vampire lunged.


    Bok caught it mid-air and slammed it into the mud. He grabbed another and ripped its head off.


    "We are not prey!" a soldier howled as he drove a bayonet through a vampire’s chest.


    The barricades buckled.


    The last magazine was gone.


    The prayers were spoken.


    Now, only the hunt remained.


    The night dragged on. The hours stretched slowly, bleeding across the battlefield like ink. The moon hung low, its silver light fading behind thick clouds. The stars just watched. Cold. Distant. Silent.


    The Gorilla Squadron had no bullets left.


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    Gunfire was gone. Now there was only the sound of steel. Bayonets stabbed deep. Knives tore through flesh. Fangs snapped. Claws raked. The vampires never stopped.


    Bok’s breath was rough. His muscles burned. He ripped his bayonet from a vampire’s eye. The thing twitched. Its fingers clawed at the mess of its skull. Then it dropped. Another came. Bok caught its wrist. Twisted. Snapped. He smashed his forehead into its face and sent it crashing into the mud.


    The battlefield was a pit of bodies and dying screams.


    A soldier near Bok—his face covered in blood and dirt—drove his knife into a vampire’s throat. Another one tackled him from behind. Its fangs sank into his shoulder. He screamed. Bok grabbed the thing by the spine and yanked it off.


    The vampire hissed and thrashed. Bok didn’t care.


    He hurled it into a tree. Bone cracked like glass.


    But more were coming.


    Then Bok saw it.


    Half-buried in the mud. A massive oaken log. Thick as a man’s torso. Gnarled. Heavy. Old as time.


    He stomped toward it. His boots sank into blood-soaked earth. He grabbed the log with both hands.


    His veins bulged. His back tightened like coiled steel.


    With a roar, he ripped it free. Roots tore. Dirt flew. He lifted it over his shoulder.


    The vampires hesitated.


    Then Bok charged.


    His first swing caved in a vampire’s chest. The body flew back and disappeared into the fog. Another lunged. He turned and brought the log down. The skull shattered like a rotten melon.


    A third tried to jump him. He spun and backhanded it with the log. The thing crashed into the wreckage of a burning wagon.


    "Stay with me, Gorillas!" Bok roared.


    His men answered with steel and rage.


    One tackled a vampire and stabbed its throat again and again. Another had nothing left but his bare hands. He ripped and tore like a man who refused to die.


    They were exhausted. Bleeding. Dying.


    But they did not break.


    Bok lifted the log again. His breath was fire. His arms dripped with blood. His vision blurred. His body begged to stop.


    But the night was not over.


    And neither was the hunt.


    Bok and his men fought like mad dogs. The vampires kept coming. Claws slashed. Teeth tore. Bayonets stabbed. Boots crushed. Blood soaked the ground. The air smelled like rot and burning meat. No matter how many they killed, more took their place.


    Bok swung his log like it was part of him. One vampire turned to mist, trying to dodge. He still caught it mid-air, smashing it back into flesh and breaking every bone inside. Another jumped for his throat. He grabbed it and threw it into the fire. He didn’t think. He didn’t stop. He only killed.


    Then the pile of bodies moved.


    The corpses twitched. Bones snapped. Flesh melted and twisted together. The whole heap bubbled and swelled, turning into something wrong.


    It stood as big as Bok. Maybe bigger. It had no face, just a mess of red eyes and snarling mouths stretching across its body. Its arms were long and clawed. Hands and fingers still twitched inside its bulk. Its voice wasn’t one voice. It was many. A moan. A whisper. A scream.


    The Nurgle Lord had come.


    Lok stood beside Bok. His grip on his gun was tight.


    “That ain’t a vampire.”


    Grok swallowed hard.


    “That ain’t even a thing.”


    Kok shook his head.


    “Can guns even kill it?”


    Bok spat blood into the dirt. His yellow eyes burned.


    “If guns can’t kill it,” he said, “my great big fist will.”


    Some of the men tried anyway. Rifles cracked. Shotguns roared. The bullets sank into the thing and disappeared. Like dropping stones into a swamp.


    Then the Nurgle Lord moved.


    It was fast.


    A tendril shot from its chest, wrapped around a soldier, and yanked him forward. The man barely had time to scream before the monster’s teeth tore him apart. Another soldier swung his bayonet. The creature grabbed him with three arms at once and ripped him in half.


    Bok dropped his log.


    He clenched his fists. The steel knuckles groaned.


    He cracked his neck.


    “Come on then,” he said. “Let’s see what you got.”


    The Nurgle Lord lunged.


    Bok met it head-on. His fist smashed into its bulk. It barely moved. Claws raked across his chest. Blood poured from deep cuts. He grunted, planted his feet, and drove his knee into the thing’s stomach. Something inside popped.


    It reared back and swung. Bok ducked under one massive arm. The second caught him. His boots slid in the mud, but he didn’t fall. He grabbed the beast by its rotting flesh and threw it to the ground. The earth shook.


    It shrieked and lashed out. A claw raked across Bok’s face, cutting deep. Blood ran down his cheek. He grinned through it. His tusks gleamed.


    “That''s all?”


    He grabbed it by one of its many throats and punched. Flesh burst under his knuckles. The thing screamed.


    He punched again.


    And again.


    And again.


    Something broke. Something cracked. The beast thrashed, but Bok didn’t stop. It tried to pull itself back together, but he didn’t give it the chance.


    Flesh split. Bone shattered. Fangs snapped. Bok kept hitting. His knuckles were raw. His breath was fire in his chest.


    But he didn’t stop.


    Because if guns couldn’t kill it, his fists sure as hell would.


    The Nurgle Lord twitched under Bok’s fists.


    Its whole body shuddered. Mouths gasped. Limbs tried to pull themselves back together. Bok didn’t stop. His fists were red. His breath was fire. He still swung. Still smashed. Still tore through flesh and rot. The ground under them turned into a black pit of gore.


    The thing reached for him. One last desperate grab.


    Bok caught the arm. He ripped it clean off. Black ichor sprayed across his chest. The thing shrieked in a dozen voices at once.


    "Stay dead."


    Bok raised his fists. Slammed them down.


    The thing convulsed.


    Then it stopped moving.


    Everything went quiet.


    For the first time since the night began, the vampires hesitated. They saw their champion fall. Their snarling mouths faltered. Their black eyes flickered. Something strange in them. Fear.


    Then one of them turned.


    Then another.


    Then all of them.


    They melted into the mist. Slipped between broken walls. Vanished into the trees. They left behind only their dead.


    Bok staggered back. His chest heaved. His fists were still clenched. His body didn’t know the fight was over. He blinked through the blood in his eyes.


    They had won.


    A low sound rumbled through the valley. At first, Bok thought it was thunder.


    Then the light crested the horizon.


    The sun was rising.


    The first golden rays cut through the storm clouds. The mist started to burn away. It revealed the true cost of the night.


    Bodies littered the ground. Both human and monster. Blood soaked the mud, thick and black and steaming. The field hospital was nothing but a smoldering ruin.


    Footsteps behind him. His men. The survivors. They stepped over the dead. Some helped the wounded. Some just stood there, staring.


    Grok, his uniform torn and bloodstained, looked up at the sky.


    "Dawn." His voice cracked. "Never thought I’d live to see it."


    Lok wiped vampire gore from his cheek. His grip on his bayonet was still tight.


    "We held."


    Kok, hands shaking, sank to his knees. He didn’t speak. He just let out a breath. A breath he had been holding all night.


    Bok turned his eyes to the east. The golden light washed over him. It painted the battlefield in hues of fire and gold. He let out a slow breath. Let the warmth sink into his bones.


    The night had been long.


    But they endured.


    The ground still smoldered under Bok’s boots as he walked through the ruins of the field hospital. The fires were out. Only charred wood. Twisted metal. Bodies.


    Some of the wounded still moved. Their moans barely rose over the wind. Soldiers lay where they fell. Their uniforms were soaked through with blood. Their weapons were scattered from hands too weak to hold them. Bok stepped over a broken stretcher and knelt beside a man missing most of his leg.


    The soldier’s eyes fluttered open. He heard Bok’s heavy footsteps.


    "Are you alive?" Bok grunted.


    The man gave a weak nod.


    "Then get up."


    Bok grabbed him under the arms and hauled him up. The man hissed in pain. He didn’t fight it.


    Bok moved through the wreckage. He lifted those who could not walk. He helped those who could. His men followed. Silent. Tired. But determined.


    No one talked about the battle. No one talked about the dead. They just kept moving.


    By the time they reached the edge of the valley, the sun was up.


    The Iron Bastion stood ahead. A fortress built into the cliffs. Steel. Artillery. Turrets scanned the battlefield. Like a beast waiting for the slaughter to end.


    As they got close, shouts rang through the air.


    The Commissar stood at the command post. Black coat. Shiny medals. His hands were behind his back. His face is cold as stone.


    He turned as he saw Bok and his men. His eyes narrowed. His lips curled.


    Then he raised a hand.


    "Soldiers. Take aim."


    The gate guards and the artillery division snapped their rifles up. Bayonets glinted. The click of safeties going off hit the air like hammer blows.


    The wounded froze.


    Bok’s men tensed. Hands hovered near weapons.


    The Commissar stepped forward. His boots barely touched the dirt. His voice was calm. Sharp. Final.


    "Bok of the Gorilla Squadron."


    Bok met his gaze. Didn’t blink.


    "You are under arrest for insubordination."


    The order came. The soldiers moved.


    Cold steel pressed into Bok’s back. His men bristled.


    Bok raised a hand. A slow, clear motion. Stand down.


    The cuffs snapped shut.


    The wounded he carried. The men he saved. They could only watch aled away in chains.