Vampire Progenitor System
Chapter 150: War Of Mankind 1

Chapter 150: War Of Mankind 1

Origin HQ – Hangar Bay, Two Hours Before Dawn

The roar of engines hummed in the background as final checks were made. The private jet gleamed under floodlights, black-plated with blood-glyph etchings visible only under ultraviolet light. It wasn’t just fast—it was armed. Armored. Customized for missions that didn’t need survivors.

Anita stood at the foot of the ramp, crimson coat billowing from the breeze that rolled across the open hangar. Her short black hair fluttered slightly as she adjusted her gloves. Her fangs peeked under her lip as she gave the checklist a final glance.

"Load sealed. Blood capsules stabilized. Ten minutes to takeoff," a young vampire reported, snapping to attention beside her.

Anita nodded, eyes not leaving the horizon. "Make it five."

Behind her, her squad of elite vampires stood ready.

Jax—tall, lean, half-machine, his eyes glowing with synced targeting reticles.

Vel—silent as ever, red lightning faintly sparking at his heels.

Serah—licking a needle-thin dagger dipped in venom magic, her tongue stained dark red.

Kira stood off to the side, murmuring to herself in curse-tongue, weaving her fingers through the air like knitting reality into knots.

They were the Apex. The tip of Origin’s spear.

And tonight, they had one target.

Malakov.

"Once we’re over Moscow, we drop to the lower forest sectors," Anita said coldly, projecting her voice just enough for the entire team to hear. "Satellite scans show six structures underground, connected by thermal lines. We hit all of them. No survivors."

Jax cracked his knuckles. "That include test subjects?"

"Yes."

Kira chuckled quietly, brushing hair from her face. "Hope they scream."

Anita stepped forward toward the ramp. "Lucifer gave one order—flatten everything."

And she meant it.

But before she could board—

A voice rang out behind them.

"Wait!"

Anita turned, her boots clicking once as her coat flared with the motion. The engines behind her kept humming, and the squad shifted their focus toward the interruption.

Francisca jogged forward, Mob a step behind her. Both looked serious—too serious for a casual update.

Anita frowned. "This better be good."

Francisca didn’t waste time. "Where’s Lucifer?"

Before Anita could answer, a cold, familiar voice spoke behind them.

"Here I am."

They turned.

Lucifer stepped through the side gate like shadow flowing into shape. Still shirtless from the ritual. A simple black jacket now draped over his shoulders, only half-zipped. His eyes were calm, but the air changed the moment he arrived. Like gravity remembering its job.

Mob exhaled quietly. "You heard?"

"No," Lucifer said. "But I assume it’s about the one you saw."

Francisca nodded. "He looked like you, Lucifer. Down to the voice, the stance. He was shirtless. But his hair... it was black. And his eyes were wrong. Not dead... just not yours."

Lucifer tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in thought.

"Did he speak?"

Francisca hesitated. "Just one word. He said... ’Lucifer.’ Like he wasn’t sure if it was his name or a memory."

Mob folded his arms. "We thought he was you until we got close. Then we realized something was off. He was confused. Didn’t even seem fully aware of where he was."

Lucifer turned slowly to Anita, who said nothing but met his gaze like a soldier ready for an answer.

"Hair turned black," Lucifer muttered. "Speech barely formed. Childlike state..."

He ran his tongue lightly across a fang.

"Could be Calen," he said after a second. "Before I killed him, or Malakov and he had time. He had samples. He had the Grimoire. And the motive."

Francisca’s voice cut in. "You think it’s him? A clone of you made from your DNA?"

Lucifer shrugged slightly. "Maybe. Or maybe Malakov used someone else. A vessel with enough blankness in the soul to carry my blood without rejecting it immediately."

Mob asked the question on both their minds. "But... why make a copy of you?"

Lucifer’s eyes darkened. "Because Malakov couldn’t kill me. So he tried to create something he could control. Or maybe he hoped the clone would become strong enough to challenge me one day."

Anita crossed her arms. "That sounds like suicide."

"Not if you think you’re saving humanity by enslaving monsters," Lucifer replied dryly.

Mob’s jaw clenched.

Francisca lowered her voice. "He didn’t seem evil. He didn’t even seem angry."

"That’s how it starts," Lucifer said. "Power like mine, born without memory, without direction—it will follow instinct. And that instinct will either pull him to me..."

He paused.

"Or turn him against me."

Anita didn’t waste another second. "You want him captured or killed?"

Lucifer thought for a moment.

"No. Not yet."

Mob blinked. "You’re letting him go?"

"I’m giving him time," Lucifer replied. "If he’s just a blank echo... he’ll come to me. If he’s something more, something Malakov shaped..." He tightened his gloves. "Then we’ll handle it in Russia."

Francisca nodded once. "We just thought you should know."

"You did well," Lucifer said, looking between the two. "Thank you."

He turned back toward the ramp.

Anita followed beside him. "Then the order stands?"

Lucifer’s voice was low.

"Flatten everything."

The squad didn’t need more.

They moved like shadows in motion—boarding the jet with silent precision. Each step echoing with the weight of what was coming.

Francisca and Mob watched them ascend.

"Be careful," Francisca said.

Lucifer paused at the top of the ramp.

"I’m always careful," he said, not turning.

Then he boarded.

The hatch closed.

Engines roared louder.

And the jet tore into the sky.

—

En Route – Over Russian Airspace, 03:42 AM

Inside the jet, no one spoke for several minutes.

The cabin lights dimmed to blood-red. Tactical maps flickered on the central screen. Jax was syncing thermal readings. Kira twisted her fingers around a cursed talisman, weaving static into the floor. Vel didn’t sit—he just stood near the back, arms crossed, lightning coiling around his boots.

Lucifer sat near the front, eyes half-lidded but sharp. Anita sat across from him, arms folded, watching him like a commander watches a blade.

"You’re not worried about the clone?" she asked.

"No," Lucifer said. "I’m annoyed."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to speak to my father tonight."

Anita said nothing.

Lucifer’s eyes glowed faintly red. "And instead... I find out someone’s playing god with my blood."

Jax’s voice came through the comm. "We’ll reach the drop zone in eight minutes."

Anita stood, fixing her coat. "We hit hard. No negotiations."

Lucifer nodded.

"This time, I’m not knocking."

—

Meanwhile – Russian Outskirts, Malakov’s Hidden Base

Far below, buried in the pine-covered wildlands near the edge of Ryazan Oblast, Malakov’s base throbbed with red lights. Multiple underground chambers stretched like roots under the soil—labs, holding cells, cryo-storage, and a deep bunker core only Malakov could access.

Inside one of the deeper labs, a monitor blinked to life.

A pale figure stood in front of it.

Malakov.

Greasy hair tied back. Hollow eyes gleaming.

He stared at the data feed coming through.

"Jet inbound. Origin signature confirmed."

He didn’t panic.

Instead, he tapped a button.

Several tubes hissed.

And deep inside the vault... more clones began to stir.

Some broken.

Some violent.

One, fully submerged in crimson liquid, opened its eyes—black sclera, red irises. Identical to Lucifer.

Malakov leaned forward.

"Let’s see what your blood is really capable of," he whispered.

Sirens blared.

Red lights pulsed across steel corridors like veins of panic. Malakov moved through the observation chamber calmly, even as walls trembled with distant motion. From the overhead monitor, the Origin jet screamed across the sky.

He didn’t look afraid.

He looked ready.

In the lowest containment unit, five figures rose from their tubes—imperfect clones, each bearing fragments of Lucifer’s DNA. Some twitched. One screamed. Another clawed its face apart and laughed through shredded lips.

Then there was one.

Still submerged in crimson fluid. The only perfect one.

The real project.

The one that opened his eyes—black sclera, blood-red irises.

The clone.

Silent. Breathing.

Waiting.

Malakov pressed a hand to the glass. "My beautiful mistake. Now earn your place in history."

The crimson glow pulsed like a heartbeat across the reinforced walls. Alarms wailed in intervals, shrieking warnings of incoming death. But Malakov stood unshaken—his coat slightly open, sweat clinging to his collarbones, eyes locked on the glass tank in front of him.

The clone—the clone—was still submerged, body motionless except for the rising of his chest.

Then Malakov reached for a handheld communicator.

He pressed one button.

A secure line crackled.

"Renlow," he said, voice low. "It’s time. Release the others. Activate the New York batch."

The line was quiet at first.

Then—

"Sir..." Renlow’s voice came in distorted. "Are you sure? The city is too—"

"They’ll flatten this place," Malakov snapped, eyes still on the clone. "But if we spread the infection before they arrive, it won’t matter. We win even if we die here. Release the clones. That’s an order."

Silence again.

Then the line went dead.

Malakov didn’t blink.

His eyes fell once more on the perfect clone.

"Let the night bleed," he whispered. "Let the world see what I made from you."

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