Deacon Frost rose.
Deacon Frost died.
It happened fast.
In the blink of an eye—Hawk's Phoenix beam lanced across the altar, and the fanged Deacon Frost, poised to realize his grand vampire-supremacist dream, vaporized on the spot.
No different from the rest.
No—there was a difference.
As the heat faded from Hawk's eyes, his gaze fell on the blood left behind after Frost's vaporization.
It was like a clot of living blood.
It hovered over the altar—twisting, grotesque, writhing.
Hawk stared thoughtfully. Through that warped, wriggling mass, his six senses brushed something beyond—like a world made of blood.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
Hawk turned.
A broad-lipped Black man stepped into view, shirtless, both arms marked with needle pinpricks, looking drained and weak.
Freed by the doctor and rushing in to stop Deacon Frost's ritual, Blade skidded to a halt when he saw Hawk.
Blade raised his sword, eyes wary. "Who are you?"
"…S.H.I.E.L.D. is outside waiting. You can go."
Hawk spared him a glance, uninterested. He tossed off the line and, with a step, appeared atop the altar before the hovering clot of blood.
Once again—
He had no special fondness for "superheroes."
Least of all the kind who insisted on sunglasses at night.
When he swept this underground complex, he'd left Blade and the woman doctor alive only because it was Sharon's request.
Put it this way:
If Sharon hadn't mentioned them, he'd have cleared them with everything else. Just convenience.
But a friend asked—so he obliged.
Which is why—
He was far more interested in the hovering blood than in Blade.
He could feel it: the living clot linked to a separate dimensional space.
And as energy kept spilling from that dimension, the blood mass swelled—growing restless, violent.
The next second—
Hawk slid aside.
Fwip!
Bloated like a water balloon, the hovering blood whooshed past the spot where he'd stood—arrowing straight for Blade, who had followed Hawk inside instead of leaving.
If Blade were at full strength, his pure-blood speed would have let him dodge easily.
But bled out and weak, his mind processed the threat while his body lagged behind. Eyes narrowed, he watched the blood rush up to crash into him—
No chance.
Rrmmbl!
Hawk flashed in front of Blade. The blood mass smashed into Hawk's chest instead and, with a thunderous rush, poured into him.
Not that he was playing savior.
He blocked it for one reason.
Spoils of war.
His spoils were his alone. And even if he didn't want them, he certainly wouldn't hand them to a guy in shades.
Get real.
Gurgle…
Inside Hawk's microcosmos, the blood that had tried to spear Blade—then slammed into Hawk because he moved too fast—bubbled as it arrived and spread.
The instant it appeared, the "living" blood hesitated, then thrashed harder, probing outward to invade.
Right then—
The Phoenix asserted itself.
A colossal Phoenix silhouette unfurled across the inner universe. Scarlet fire ringed the writhing blood.
In a heartbeat—
The blood began to boil.
And a frail, ancient voice rose out of the roiling mass.
"Stop!"
A Phoenix cry echoed. Hawk's consciousness projected to the scene; the corner of his mouth lifted as he faced the blood trapped by his flame. "I thought you weren't going to speak."
As he finished, the blood pulsed—and a humanoid outline formed, shaped entirely from crimson fluid. The blood congealed; the figure sharpened.
A moment later—
An elderly, nondescript man—who looked one breath from death—stood before Hawk, formed wholly of blood.
Hawk arched a brow. "The Blood God—La Magra?"
"Yes."
The man—La Magra—didn't deny it.
"Tch."
"So it really is you."
"The true source of Dracula's lineage."
Hawk's brow ticked up. He studied the blood-wrought deity. "Who did this to you? You look like you're about to keel over, La Magra."
Yes—
Even though the figure was blood, the aura didn't lie. Dimensional signatures never did.
If Mephisto's hellish stench was repulsive but vast, La Magra's blood-realm reeked of decay.
Even the avatar before him felt the same—
Like a man at death's door.
At first, Hawk thought it was a disguise.
That was why he hadn't touched the blood on the altar right away. He couldn't confirm if the "unclaimed dimension" he sensed beyond it was genuine—or a trap.
If he moved rashly then, he might have blundered.
But when the blood lunged for Blade, Hawk confirmed it:
Not a disguise.
This blood-realm truly was about to become unclaimed. And its master—La Magra—truly was nearing his end.
And now—
Sure enough.
"Yahweh."
"…"
Hawk lifted a brow at the name. "Who?"
"Yahweh wounded me."
La Magra glanced at Hawk, voice low. "When Yahweh and Mephisto fought ages ago, I was dragged in. Yahweh struck me with his Archangel Sword. Since then, I've slept—trying to recover."
No use.
Mephisto had a creator-god behind him—Death.
Yahweh had the cosmic entity Eternity—and the Celestials it birthed.
And La Magra…
Had nothing.
Like a no-name brand caught between two giants—ground to paste.
Back then, Heaven and Hell were fighting over Earth. They held nothing back. Yahweh even launched a "holy purge."
Demons and hell-witches hiding among mortals were hunted and burned. Vampires embedded in human society got dragged into the catastrophe.
As everyone knows—
Dracula's legend is among the oldest in mortal lore.
La Magra's losses were catastrophic.
So—
When he heard his faithful were being swept up in Heaven vs. Hell, the enraged Blood God appeared, demanding an explanation from Yahweh.
And then—
Hawk saw where this was going and chuckled. "Yahweh stabbed you?"
La Magra stared without expression.
"Mephisto stabbed me."
"…Wait."
Hawk's brow rose. "Mephisto?"
"Yes. Yahweh pinned my limbs so I couldn't become blood. Mephisto grabbed Yahweh's Archangel Sword and drove it through my heart."
Hawk sucked in a breath.
"Aren't they mortal enemies?"
"Heh."
La Magra's gaze drifted toward the far edge of Hawk's inner cosmos—toward its underworld—then back, eyes thoughtful. "Let me guess—Mephisto told you he defeated Heaven, didn't he?"
Hawk met the deity's half-smile, mind racing.
"You—"
"He told me the same thing back then."
La Magra snorted. "Mephisto and Yahweh are close enough to wear the same pants. I believed his lies—and ended up like this."
Hawk fell silent.
"Mephisto and Yahweh are… friends?"
"More than friends. They're allies. Any life-bearing world where the two of them show up together ends the same way—ruin."
La Magra's lip curled. He fixed Hawk with a look.
"Know why they conspired to erase me?"
Hawk frowned. "…Because vampires are immortal?"
La Magra shook his head. "I am the Blood God. My race is Bloodkin. 'Vampires' are a label Yahweh and Mephisto spread after I fled—meant to dilute my identity and erase me for good."
He let out a twisted, joyless smile.
"And they nearly succeeded."
"If no one remembered who I am, I wouldn't last much longer."
"After all, my bloodborn have been—"
"Hold on."
Hawk raised a brow. "Dracula—he was yours, wasn't he?"
La Magra shot him a glance.
"My Dracula is dead. The Dracula you know now—he belongs to Heaven."
"…"
(End of Chapter)
[Check Out My P@treon For +20 Extra Chapters On All My Fanfics!!][[email protected]/euridome]
[Thank You For Your Support!]