Chapter Twelve: Deacon-Face

While S.H.I.E.L.D. was overwhelmed by all manner of sudden crises, far away in Europe, Dracula too found himself in a foul mood. He had long since noticed Van Helsing’s provocations, but just as Van Helsing had predicted, Dracula paid them no mind. After all, the world was full of people who wished him dead—yet none had ever succeeded.

Even the global organization S.H.I.E.L.D., after several large-scale skirmishes with the vampire clans, had been forced to lay down arms and make peace. After all, there were plenty of influential elders just waiting for vampires to extend their lives. If Fury had managed to annihilate them in one swift stroke, maybe that would have been the end of it. But since he failed, he could never again muster the will of the people. The opposition from outside S.H.I.E.L.D. left him little choice but to compromise with the vampires time and again.

In short, apart from their disastrous failure during the invasion of Huaxia, it had been a long time since the vampires had tasted utter defeat. Nor had they suffered such heavy losses in ages. In the past, if things went too far, they would simply throw a few low-level vampires and blood thralls under the bus and that would be the end of it.

But now, the vampire populations of both New York City and Olympia had been all but wiped out. Those not killed had fled in a panic, not daring to linger in either place. This left Dracula feeling as though his face had been trampled into the dirt—yet he didn’t dare leave his stronghold. The world was a deep, treacherous place. Even after millennia, he had learned that lesson many times—the most recent being when the Ancient One single-handedly trounced him, leaving him doubting his very existence.

Still, Dracula was not afraid. He could see that the Ancient One was not an immortal, and the source of her borrowed power was no benevolent force. So he waited. If five hundred years weren’t enough, then he’d wait another five hundred. The Ancient One would surely die before he did. Then, he would finally be free.

Recently, Dracula had also done some research, scouring both records and his own memory. He could not recall ever having an enemy named Van Helsing. A foe of such strength was one he ought to remember. It was all rather strange.

A sharp clack of hard-soled shoes on marble echoed through the hall.

Dracula looked up. At the foot of his throne stood a vampire in a tailored suit, hair slicked back with pomade.

Gazing at Deacon Frost in this getup, Dracula’s eyes flickered. Here was a proper vampire duke, yet he lacked any air of nobility—insisting on imitating humans. Since when did predators learn to dress like their prey?

Still, dissatisfaction aside, Dracula grudgingly acknowledged Deacon’s strength. Barely two centuries old, Deacon had clawed his way to the rank of duke through sheer power—a true scion of the new era.

“Prince, you summoned me,” Deacon inclined his head, his eyes brimming with unconcealed ambition.

Dracula acted as if he hadn’t noticed the look. He’d seen far too many like Deacon over the years to care anymore. “Deacon, New York and Washington states in America are your domains, are they not?” Dracula asked with haughty indifference.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Those two places have become forbidden ground for our kind. Are you aware of this?”

“I am, your grace.”

“You are?” In a flash, Dracula appeared before Deacon. The oppressive aura of his superior bloodline made Deacon distinctly uncomfortable, yet the smile on his face only grew brighter.

“Nowhere on this earth is forbidden to the great bloodline—save that place! Do you understand?” Dracula pressed.

“I understand, my lord. I will personally visit those two places. I promise you, I will resolve all the issues,” Deacon replied, smiling brilliantly.

“Begone!” Dracula found himself irritated just looking at that smile. But he couldn’t very well kill Deacon outright; that would only put the other dukes on edge. So, with a single slap, he sent Deacon flying out of the palace.

Bathed in the scorching sunlight, Deacon turned to glance at the ornate palace behind him.

Cling to your outdated notions of bloodline purity and rot in your prison, you stubborn old fool. Once I’ve gathered enough power, “Prince”? Hmph! I shall be Emperor!

But first, he thought, I need to win over those vampire hunters who have been slaughtering our kind. Anyone capable of single-handedly toppling a region is no easy mark.

Still, such people are best approached indirectly—let their comrades make the first overture. Conveniently, Deacon commanded no shortage of turned vampire hunters.

As for whether Van Helsing and Parker would join him, Deacon never doubted it. Money, power, strength—he could provide it all. And if they wanted none of that, then surely the prospect of killing Dracula would be tempting enough. As the saying goes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

In Deacon’s plans, these vampire hunters played a vital role. Unaffected by the bloodline’s influence, they could unleash their full power against Dracula. With enough numbers, even he could be brought down.

Luxuriating in visions of his glorious future, Deacon boarded his private jet to Olympia. The life of a vampire duke was indeed enviable—no need to cower from the sun, and an absurd resistance to silver, ultraviolet light, garlic, and countless other hazards. Every part of his body could dissolve into mist at will. He had no vital weaknesses.

Beyond that, at the duke’s level, they gained mastery over certain elements, no longer limited to blood manipulation alone.

But most important to Deacon, their bloodlines had now become unique. Though the suppression from superior blood remained, they were no longer powerless to resist.

In sum, vampires of this rank were a different species altogether from their lesser kin—as though they had undergone a further evolution.

The moment Deacon landed in Olympia, Yang Qiu, who had set the entire city as the stage for his narrative experiment, immediately sensed his presence.

It wasn’t that Yang Qiu’s control had grown stronger; on the contrary, the experiment site had exceeded his limits, and his grip had weakened significantly.

He noticed Deacon simply because the man made no attempt to conceal himself. The aura of a vampire duke radiated outward, as if announcing his arrival to every extraordinary being in the area.

With someone shining like a lighthouse in the gloom, it was hard for Yang Qiu *not* to notice him.

Yet this presented a major problem—Deacon was far stronger than Yang Qiu had anticipated. After count comes marquis, so how had a boss-level threat appeared so abruptly?

No matter. New York was a long way from Olympia; Parker would never make it in time. The first act of the script would have to begin now. All Yang Qiu could hope was that, bolstered by the narrative, Van Helsing could at least escape with his life, or hold out until Parker arrived.

After all, by the rules of the setting, Van Helsing would never flee from a duke. Forcing him to do so was out of the question. If he left the experiment before it concluded, the entire narrative would fail.