57. I Specialize in Killing Vampire

The H.A.R.M. Cascadia Headquarters' Mission Control Center was a hive of activity. The massive concrete and steel structure, its metal doors flung wide open, pulsed with a sense of urgency. Figures in black uniforms hurried in and out, their faces etched with grim determination.

I stood at the entrance, taking in the scene. The majority of the agents, despite their imposing uniforms, lacked the distinctive star insignia on their sleeves. These were the probationary members, their average age hovering around forty. Though they possessed the aura of First Realmers, their energy felt raw and unrefined, an evidence of their recent breakthroughs.

These, I realized, were the H.A.R.M. agents Butcher Garcia had described as "growing crop after crop."

In contrast, the few who passed by with stars on their sleeves were noticeably younger, their eyes sharp and alert, their movements exuding a quiet confidence. They were the elite, the true warriors of H.A.R.M., their power honed through years of rigorous training and countless battles against the vampire menace.

The electrician, Colt McCoy, leaned in, his voice a low rumble amidst the bustling activity of the Mission Control Center. "There are over seven thousand agents in H.A.R.M. - three thousand in Containment, four thousand in Purge. We're responsible for the safety of twelve cities and a staggering 205 counties across Cascadia."

He let out a heavy sigh, the weight of their responsibility evident in his eyes. "Containment mostly handles the cities. We're the ones out in the trenches, in the counties. On average, that's about twenty agents per county. Barely enough to keep the darkness at bay."

"When a captain leads a mission, they usually take five to eight agents. A major, no more than twenty. Even if they encounter a catastrophic situation and the entire team is wiped out, it's considered an acceptable loss."

His words hung in the air, a chilling reminder of our brutal reality. The casual way he spoke of death and destruction sent a shiver down my spine. To qualify as a team leader, a captain had to be a Wave Realm expert—in Pinewood County, such individuals were dominant forces wielding immense power and authority. Yet even their lives were considered expendable in the grand scheme of H.A.R.M.'s operations.

"Don't worry," Colt continued, his lips twisting into a grim smile. "As long as you don't vanish without a trace, someone will come looking for you within two weeks. H.A.R.M. doesn't forget its fallen."

He recounted a chilling tale of retribution, his voice filled with a macabre sense of pride. "The H.A.R.M. General of Sacramento was ambushed and killed by three treacherous security schools. They thought they'd gotten away with it, but the admiral's second disciple descended upon them with a thousand men. Six days later, two thousand three hundred heads were piled high at the city gates. A message to anyone who dared to challenge H.A.R.M."

The story, instead of filling me with awe at H.A.R.M.'s might, served as a stark reminder of the dangers that lurked in this apocalyptic world. Even those with power and prestige were not immune to the darkness.

I tightened my grip on my sword, a silent vow echoing in my mind. I had thought that my newfound strength would guarantee my safety, but it was clear that the world was far more treacherous than I had imagined. Survival, even for the most skilled warriors, was a constant struggle.

… …

"Hey, what are you good at?" Noa's voice cut through the air. "Tracking and investigation? Long-distance raids? Or wait—aren't you quite skilled at close combat and capturing vampire?" Her questions, directed at me, were accompanied by a playful glint in her eyes as she recalled the recent courtyard incident.

Colt McCoy shifted uncomfortably, his fists clenching and unclenching. The unspoken competition between agents with similar skillsets was a constant undercurrent in H.A.R.M. If I truly excelled at close combat, Colt's own position might be jeopardized.

Seeing my puzzled expression, Colt quickly composed himself. "It's just for the records," he explained, his voice carefully neutral. "If Major Atzmon falls in the line of duty and you survive, it'll help the next major select you into a suitable team. Don't overthink it. Just tell us your strongest skill."

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"Is that so?" I mused, my mind racing. I silently assessed my abilities, the various techniques I had mastered swirling in my thoughts. A flicker of uncertainty crossed my face.

The others watched me, their bewilderment growing. The question seemed straightforward enough—every agent typically knew their area of expertise.

After a long pause, I finally spoke, my voice hesitant. "Killing vampires?"

The Cobra's Coil, Nightshade Assassin, Bloody Quintet, Shadow Touch... each technique a weapon of immense power, each one honed to perfection. It was impossible to choose a single favorite, to declare one superior to the others.

Dave Gray and Colt McCoy stared at me, their jaws agape.

Noa burst into laughter, her hand covering her mouth. She turned and disappeared into the building, her voice echoing down the corridor. "Alright, write it down. The kid said he is good at killing vampires."

Ethan Atzmon emerged from the office, a look of bemusement on his face. He had known since Pinewood County that the young man’s training was scattered, but this complete lack of specialization was unexpected. Perhaps I should arrange for a family retainer to assess his aptitude, he thought, help him find a more focused path.

"Stewart," Ethan Atzmon barked, his voice sharp and commanding, "arrange some bloodsteeds. Seamist County, Vancouver. Immediately." The short man, his movements surprisingly swift for his stature, snapped to attention and vanished into the bustling crowd.

Atzmon led the group out of H.A.R.M. headquarters.

Dave Gray, ever observant, noted the tension in Atzmon's shoulders. "The major seems a bit on edge," he whispered, leaning closer to me. "We just came back from Pinewood County, all the high profile assignments have been snatched by other teams. Rescuing Colonel Hightower was a major coup, but until she returns, he can't claim any credit for it."

A sly grin spread across Gray's face. "If he handles another incident involving a Wave Realm threat, he might just earn that promotion to Lieutenant Colonel. I wonder if we can get anything out of this trip."

The prospect of advancement lit a fire in both men's eyes. They were, after all, scions of great families, joining H.A.R.M. in order to make a name for themselves.

I only then noticed the two stars on their sleeves. Atzmon's eagerness for recognition was palpable, and it seemed his subordinates were equally hungry for advancement.

"Don't get too envious. If you can participate in five incidents involving Wave Realm vampires, or take the primary credit just once, you'll earn another star. After that, gaining access to internal techniques becomes a natural progression."

As they stepped out onto the bustling street, the smiles vanished from their faces, replaced by expressions of stoic professionalism. Passersby, recognizing the H.A.R.M. uniforms, paused and offered respectful salutes. We acknowledged the gestures with curt nods, our focus unwavering.

A shuttle deposited us at the foot of the towering city gate, where Stewart Atzmon, his diminutive figure dwarfed by the massive bloodsteeds, awaited our arrival.

"This is our scout," Dave Gray announced, swinging himself onto one of the powerful beasts. "At full gallop, he can make a round trip between Pinewood County and Seattle in just one day. If you ever need to send a message, he's your man."

Stewart shot Gray a disapproving look, then turned to me, his voice a model of efficiency. "I can deliver your messages swiftly and discreetly," he assured me.

As we mounted the bloodsteeds, Noa Atzmon took the lead, her posture radiating confidence and authority.

Riding at the rear, I observed the formation, a subtle understanding dawning on me. The arrangement was not accidental. Those with the highest realms, their senses sharpest and their reflexes quickest, were positioned at the front, ready to react to any unforeseen danger. The hierarchy of power, even in this simple act of travel, was evident.

Ethan Atzmon rode in tense silence, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the back of his hand. The weight of the mission pressed heavily on his shoulders.

Colt McCoy, sensing his unease, tried to lighten the mood. "It can't be that serious, can it?" he joked, waving a hand in front of Atzmon's face. "We might be short-handed, but it's just a routine check-in at Seamist County, right?"

Dave Gray seized the opportunity to fill me in on the details. "A few agents were sent to Seamist County for oversight of an event," he explained. "They're supposed to send a report back every three days, but we haven't heard from them in two weeks. It's probably nothing to worry about. Seamist County has a powerful sea god. If anything serious happened to the sea god, the villagers would have raised the alarm by now."

Atzmon remained silent for a long moment, his brow furrowed in thought. Finally, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a bloodstained badge. "This was sent by the officials of Vancouver," he said, his voice grave. "It was delivered to Mission Control just before we left."

He turned to me, his gaze piercing. "I initially intended this mission to be a gentle introduction for you," he admitted, "a chance to familiarize yourself with the field. But it seems circumstances have changed."

His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Gray and McCoy exchanged worried glances. They knew of my exploits in Pinewood County, my victories against the jackalvamps and the apevamps.

Atzmon's warning, then, could only mean one thing: the threat they were facing was far more dangerous than they had anticipated. The beastvamp lurking in Seamist County was likely a Wave Realm entity, a creature of immense power and cunning.

Colt McCoy, who just told me a story of death and revenge, looked at me with a mixture of apology and concern. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath. "I've jinxed us."

I leaned forward, my senses heightened. Stewart, his face impassive, wiped a stray droplet of McCoy's spittle from his cheek and glared at the electrician.