"Vampires. Truly revolting creatures, stirring disgust from the depths of the soul."
Father Alexander Anderson stepped out from a halo of fluttering pages. His hands clasped together, the scattered pages coalesced into a single Bible, gripped firmly in his grasp.
Not long ago, he had parted ways with Mephisto and Constantine. Now, he found himself in the fetid depths of a sewer. A black-clad cleric lowered his walkie-talkie and saluted Anderson.
"We are all lambs, brothers under the same shepherd, no different from those in the Lord's garden."
Father Anderson's hearty smile radiated warmth as he regarded the cleric. Devotion was his hallmark, the cornerstone of his being. Faith had tempered the righteous fury born from his slaughter, keeping him steadfast on his path. Though he despised heretics almost as much as he loathed demons and monsters, he extended a measure of tolerance to humans. The glint of his glasses softened his stern features, lending him an air of gentleness.
"Father Anderson, the Daywalker is being hunted by vampires. Not the usual bloodsucking rabble, but those we've been tracking."
"Leave it to me. I'll handle things here."
Anderson nodded with a benevolent smile, ever merciful to the Lord's faithful. He had heard of the Daywalker—Blade. While he admired the half-human's deeds, he couldn't bring himself to like the half-vampire. The cleric withdrew, leaving Anderson alone in the dim sewer.
"Slayer." "Headsman." "Regenerator." "Angel Dust." "Bayonet Priest."
These were the monikers of Alexander Anderson, the ace of the Vatican's secretive Section XIII. Armed with his signature bayonets, he dispatched all enemies with lethal precision. Section XIII existed to wage war against the unholy, branded as betrayers for defying God's universal love for humanity. They were the Church's blade, purging evil under divine banners, unrepentant in their mission.
Unlike the esoteric divine arts, Anderson preferred the direct approach—delivering death with his own hands. He even mused about descending to Hell after death, eager to continue his crusade against demons until every last one was eradicated. Whether it was Blade, the Daywalker, or the ancient bloodline of Alucard, Anderson saw them as enemies to be vanquished without mercy.
Not far from where he stood, Blade was fleeing, pursued relentlessly by Yang Valentine. None of Blade's attacks—concentrated garlic extract, anticoagulants—had any noticeable effect on his pursuer. Even silver blades, usually deadly to vampires, left only superficial wounds, no different from an ordinary knife. Yang Valentine seemed to lack the supernatural healing typical of vampires, yet Blade's every effort failed to slow him. Doubt crept in—was this creature even a vampire? With no other option, Blade ran, fighting to survive.
"Demons deserve neither the Lord's mercy nor rest among His lambs."
Anderson's Bible transformed into a pair of gleaming bayonets, their edges sparking with divine fire. Each page of his Bible could become a weapon—countless blades at his command. He crossed the bayonets before him, forming a radiant crucifix.
"Amen!"
With his cry, Blade's figure darted into Anderson's view. The Bible dissolved into a cascade of pages, each glowing with golden flames that bathed the sewer in holy light. This was Anderson's domain now—no enemy could escape without his permission.
Blade's heart lurched as he saw Anderson. Gritting his teeth, he tried to flee.
"Even if you act for good, you are no apostle. Just a diseased soul craving blood, awaiting the Lord's radiance."
Anderson's form barely flickered. His lips twisted into a savage grin, his once-kindly face now more terrifying than a ravenous ghoul. A surge of righteous fury overwhelmed Blade, who blacked out in an instant.
In the blink of an eye, four bayonets pierced Blade's body—wrists and feet impaled, a massive cross-shaped wound carved into his chest. The blades burned with holy fire, sizzling as they seared his flesh, the scent of roasting meat filling the air. Blood sprayed, staining Anderson's robes, but the priest remained unmoved, his cross pendant swaying gently.
"Demon, die!"
Anderson advanced toward the direction Blade had fled from, bayonets at his sides, hands poised for battle. He moved with deceptive calm, as if untouched by the violence. His mission was clear: protect humanity, eliminate the Church's enemies. Only because no other Section XIII operative was nearby had the ace himself been dispatched. Blade, not a pure vampire, was spared due to his human half. If he could endure the holy flames, he'd be free—his vampiric taint burned away, leaving only a human soul. But Yang Valentine? No such mercy awaited him. Anderson's power transcended humanity, his faith and resolve making him a force beyond mortal limits.
"Tony, sleep."
Pepper coaxed Tony like a mother soothing a child, her hand gently brushing through his hair. A soft, maternal glow emanated from her, a tenderness revealed only in private moments. The two were oblivious to their surroundings, forgetting they weren't in a private space.
Outside, Rumlow and Bul-Kathos had nearly exhausted their small talk. After a long silence, Rumlow broke it.
"Why did you give me a chance but let that old soldier die?"
Rumlow's thoughts drifted to his past self, a nagging concern resurfacing. That soldier had been more honorable than he'd ever been.
"Your chance wasn't my doing. Talic and Mokot gave it to you. Honestly, I was ready to crush you myself," Bul-Kathos said, his eyes half-closed with drowsiness. There was no need to hide the truth.
"I don't get it."
Rumlow glanced at Tony, now asleep inside, a pang of unease hitting him.
"You think your redemption erases the blood on your hands?" Bul-Kathos spoke without moving, his voice flat. Rumlow wasn't naive—he knew his debts couldn't be undone. Like a nail pulled from wood, the hole remained. He'd done things that couldn't be justified or repaired. To a barbarian like Bul-Kathos, Rumlow's aura was likely uglier than even Constantine's.
"I don't believe that. I know I have more to do, but…" Rumlow trailed off.
"But you don't know what, because this world doesn't need your sacrifice yet?" Bul-Kathos cut in brusquely, offering no room for debate. "That Bucky had a flicker of goodness buried under his sins, maybe more than you. But when I wanted to kill you, Talic and Mokot stopped me. When Bucky acted, no one did."
Bul-Kathos rejected fate's empty promises. If everything was predestined, why bother? Let everyone lie down and see if destiny starved them all.
"I didn't plan to stop him or save him. He was just a stranger steeped in sin," Bul-Kathos said, taking a swig from his bottle. "And you couldn't save him either."
Rumlow shook his head. His vial had been used on Casillas, and by the time it could've refilled, Bucky was gone.
"It was his choice, Rumlow," Bul-Kathos said, meeting his eyes. A superhuman like Bucky wouldn't die instantly from gunshots unless he'd already given up on living.
"Steve's been off," Rumlow noted, glancing at Tony, who was now vomiting from drinking too much. Pepper gently patted his back, the sound of retching making Rumlow wince.
"This world's rules of death are shaky. Souls passing through Heaven and Hell before reaching Death herself? Strange," Bul-Kathos mused. Death here was like a naive girl, wielding immense power but oblivious to her role, letting rules run themselves.
"So the dead can come back?" Rumlow grinned, thinking he'd stumbled on a grim joke.
"Steve's been struggling since he got here. You should wonder what S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hiding," Bul-Kathos said. He'd sensed a decoy when confronting Nick Fury, but his ability to harm souls made it irrelevant. Resurrection wasn't so rare here.
"If that guy comes back, will you give him a chance too?" Rumlow asked, half-smiling.
"It wouldn't be fair," Bul-Kathos said, his gaze piercing. Barbarians valued justice and fairness, never exploiting the innocent. "You got your chance because Talic paid a price. He and Mokot swore on the Holy Mountain to fight at the forefront, even if it shatters their souls. Bucky hasn't paid."
Steve rode his motorcycle behind Coulson's car, with Hawkeye and Melinda inside. A soldier awake after fifty years couldn't be expected to know the location of a new base. He'd barely explored the city. When Steve approached Coulson, he'd convinced Melinda, who was planning a vacation, for one last mission. They'd also run into Barton, fresh from the med bay, making it a four-person team.
Without his shield, Steve's combat prowess was diminished, but he was far from helpless. With Hawkeye and Melinda, they had enough firepower, and Coulson, no stranger to field ops, was reliable.
"Cap, what's the mission?" Barton asked, polishing his bow in the backseat. He hadn't known Steve long enough to notice his unease.
Bucky's body was in the Tahiti Project's lab, likely to be revived soon, but Steve couldn't shake his worry. Coulson and Melinda stayed focused, silent.
"Support the Howling Commandos. Warpath and Mummy have gone silent at the forward base," Steve said, relaying Nick Fury's vague intel.
"Cap, two men are running toward us, pursued by eleven soldiers," Coulson reported, scanning ahead.
"One's the legendary assassin, Baba Yaga—John Wick. The other looks eerily similar, possibly his son."
Coulson's car, while not as high-tech as Fury's, could still scout the terrain. John Wick's face was unmistakable to an elite agent like Coulson. Assassins were usually a police matter, but legends like Wick often drew S.H.I.E.L.D.'s attention. After all, the police weren't exactly a powerhouse compared to, say, the IRS, which even drug lords feared for their tax audits.
"Prepare for combat," Steve ordered. This road was remote—past the last gas station, it was unlikely to see civilians. Warpath and Mummy were distinctive; Coulson would've recognized them. Anyone here was likely an enemy.
"Get out, use the car as cover. Barton, free-fire. Coulson, Melinda, stay behind the car until they're in range."
Steve parked his bike behind the car. Coulson gritted his teeth, drifting his beloved "Lola" to block the road. The three agents ducked low, hiding their numbers—a small tactic, but every edge counted.
"Cap, engage now?" Barton hesitated. He could wipe out an eleven-man squad before they got close, but acting without intel felt wrong.
"They're likely Hydra. If they took out Warpath and Mummy, they're not to be underestimated," Steve said. He didn't know why an assassin like Wick was here with a lookalike, but the soldiers chasing them were the priority. Fury hadn't mentioned his decoy's run-in with Wick—too bizarre, too irrelevant.
"Got it!" Barton nocked an arrow, readying himself. Coulson and Melinda crouched behind the wheels, concealing their positions.
John Wick and Constantine spotted the car blocking the road. Out of kindness, Constantine shouted, "Stay in the car! Wait till we pass!"
He planned to jump in and urge the driver to flee. These weren't ordinary vampires—they moved with military precision, hurling old wooden-handled grenades over three hundred meters. The explosion nearly choked him with smoke. These weren't the sloppy bloodsuckers he'd dealt with before.
"Damn it, I can't get close in this terrain!" John Wick grumbled, clutching his dog's corpse. Baba Yaga thrived in stealth, striking from shadows like his Italian counterpart. But this open road offered no cover—unless he wanted to dig a ditch and bury himself.
"Don't even think about it," Constantine panted, nearing his physical limit. Without Mephisto's avatar or demonic aid, he was just a mystic with no muscle to back it up. "Those things aren't human. Can't you tell?"
"I know. I've killed their kind before," Wick said, adjusting his grip on his dog's body as it slipped.
"Trust me, these are on another level," Constantine retorted. He'd once spent a night with a vampire, only to turn her into a "beautiful firework." These soldiers, with their synchronized steps and relentless pursuit, were something else entirely.
Whoosh! An arrow grazed Constantine's ear. He glanced back, saw it pierce a vampire's skull, and sprinted harder. The vampires accelerated. Wick, sensing danger, didn't look back—just ran faster.
"What the hell are those?" Hawkeye swapped arrows, stunned. No living creature should shrug off a headshot like that.
"What's wrong?" Coulson asked, needing intel.
"Those aren't living. No one keeps moving with an arrow in their skull!" Hawkeye loosed another arrow, this one special. The soldiers scattered, dodging it. Arrows had unmatched penetration but lacked a gun's speed at range. The Third Reich soldiers, seeing ordinary arrows fail, grew cautious. The arrow hit the ground and exploded, forcing them into tactical rolls. The blast couldn't kill them outright, but it could tear their suits, exposing them to the fading sunlight.
"These are elite, stronger than Rumlow's spec ops," Hawkeye noted, comparing them to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best.
"Can you handle them?" Steve asked, crouching.
"Tough call, but they'll lose numbers getting here," Hawkeye replied, firing again. This arrow split mid-flight, like a medieval chain-shot, covering a wide area. As it scattered, another arrow followed, striking a tangled soldier's chest. The explosion killed one and shredded the suits of two others, who burned to ash in the sunlight.
"They're vampires! Wearing Third Reich uniforms—definitely Hydra!" Steve growled.
"Coulson, is your car door bulletproof?"
"Bulletproof, but removing it—"
Before Coulson finished, Steve shot the door's hinges and yanked it free. "They're almost in firing range. We need a frontliner to draw fire."
Steve trusted his battlefield instincts, honed from years of war. Charging with the door as a shield, he startled Constantine.
"Why are you fighting? Just take us and run!" Constantine yelled, ready to steal the car. He sensed this was a deeper mess than he'd bargained for.
Wick, however, saw an opportunity. If he could get a gun, he'd be back in his element. His assassin's pride demanded he fight.
Steve, door in hand, charged past them, low and aggressive, tearing through the enemy's line of fire. Hawkeye's arrows had already proven effective.
"Coulson, grab those two when they reach us!" Steve shouted, noting they were unarmed. They knew something about these soldiers.
Steve entered the enemies' range. Their old submachine guns roared, bullets clanging against the door, which shielded even his legs. Hawkeye switched to electric arrows to avoid disrupting Steve's charge with explosions. The shocks would seize their muscles, human or not.
Steve slammed the door into the nearest soldier, meeting resistance equal to his own strength. Ducking, he angled the door, flipping the soldier into the air. An arrow struck its head, and Steve tore its suit, letting sunlight reduce it to ash.
Wick and Constantine reached the car, greeted by Coulson and Melinda's guns.
"Baba Yaga, why are you here? There's nothing for you at the end of this road," Coulson demanded.
"Someone killed my dog. I made them pay. Now give me a gun—I'm useful," Wick said, catching his breath.
Constantine, squatting, lit a cigarette, eyeing Melinda's gun. "Those aren't normal vampires. Nothing like the usual bloodsuckers."
He sensed S.H.I.E.L.D.'s vibe, like Rumlow's "I reckon" attitude. Drawing in ash on the ground, he crafted a small spell to tear vampire suits. He couldn't summon demons, but this he could manage.
Hawkeye's relentless arrows and Steve's charge dropped the vampires to four. Constantine's spell formed a smoky hand, pinning one to the ground just as it regained movement.
"I hate using magic unless I have to," Constantine muttered, puffing his cigarette. "By the way, I met a guy like you—Rumlow, was it?"
Coulson's gun twitched. Melinda relaxed slightly.
"Sounds like you and him aren't buddies," Constantine smirked. He knew Rumlow's bloody history with S.H.I.E.L.D., though he appreciated his bravery.
"What made these vampires?" Coulson pressed.
Hawkeye's final arrow tore a suit, leaving one vampire, pinned by Steve's door. Before they could question it, blue flames consumed it, leaving only ash.
Hydra's vampire soldiers were confirmed, but their Third Reich aesthetic and lack of loyalty to it unsettled Steve. Even Red Skull had broken with them.
"I don't know. I just saw him by his car, holding his dog's corpse, and asked what happened," Constantine said, withholding Mephisto's involvement. The mystic world was too dangerous for ordinary people—vampires could be explained by science, but demons were another matter.
------------------------------
🌟 Hi everyone! 🌟
If you love my work and want to support me on this creative journey, you can support me here: [patreon.com/DaoistRoeoNQ] 💖
By joining, you will get access to exclusive content, behind-the-scenes updates, and some special perks that I have prepared just for you. Every support really means a lot and helps me strive every day! 🙏✨