Chapter Twenty-Five: The Punisher

Once again, it was a quiet night. Pike, following his list, arrived at the base of a small New York City gang. This gang dabbled in all manner of crime, with their specialty being betrayal and double-crossing, but many of its members were American military veterans, which was why they managed to survive in this territory. The urge to kill was rising within him… Wait… the urge was cut short, abruptly.

Pike stared, somewhat bewildered, at the blood-soaked headquarters. At the same time, one of the names on his list flickered several times before vanishing altogether. Immediately after, a corpse hurtled from a third-floor window, landing with a sickening thud right in front of him, blood splattering everywhere.

Seconds later, a man vaulted from the window, landing nimbly on the ground. He hesitated when he saw Pike standing in the doorway—another soul startled by Pike’s naturally concealed presence.

“You stole my prey,” Pike said, his gaze fixed on the man.

After all this time, Pike had developed his own consciousness, though it was a peculiar one; his behavior was governed by instincts more akin to a beast. The memories left by Sandel served only as a faint guide, barely influencing Pike’s actions.

“Is that so? And what do you intend to do about it?” Frank spun a spring-blade knife in his hand—one of his favorite melee weapons. Within ten meters, its blade could easily claim a life.

“You’re not on my list,” Pike said after a pause.

“List? And what if I am? What if I’m not?” Frank’s hand stilled. Although he’d cleaned out this gang without firing a shot, his true expertise lay in firearms—hardly surprising, given that he was once a Level 10 agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Not being able to handle a gun would be unthinkable.

“I sense hostility,” Pike finally sorted out his thoughts in the face of Frank’s bluntness—no more words were necessary.

Shh! An arrow embedded itself in the ground between Pike and Frank, its shaft buried deep in the concrete, only the fletching visible.

“Come now, Pike, it wasn’t intentional. There’s no need for so much bloodlust.”

Frank turned toward the direction the arrow had come from and saw a man descending from the sky, gripping the talons of an eagle. The sight was almost unbelievable—the eagle was barely half the man’s size, so how could it possibly carry him?

With Van Helsing’s arrival, Blade leaped down from the rooftop, slinging a longbow across his back. The eagle returned to his shoulder—a companion he’d tamed under Van Helsing’s guidance.

Pike tilted his head, scrutinizing Van Helsing. He could sense the friendly marker left by Yang Qiu on Van Helsing, yet Pike himself didn’t recognize this man.

“Well? After more than a hundred years, you see an old friend and don’t even say hello?” Van Helsing smoothed his hair as he spoke.

He’d come to New York specifically for Pike. Upon seeing Pike’s blurry silhouette in a second-rate tabloid, Van Helsing had dredged up memories of him from his mind. They were men of the same era, and though Pike’s methods were ruthless and his thirst for slaughter intense, which made him unwelcome among most monster hunters of the time, Van Helsing himself was not so different. Back then, they’d gotten along fairly well.

Van Helsing remembered that Pike had perished at sea in an accident before he himself had gone to face Dracula—so to find him walking the earth a century later was a surprise. Of course, all this was courtesy of Yang Qiu’s “patchwork.” What? Not a patch but a retcon? Haven’t Warcraft and League of Legends “retconned” enough? Why can they do it and not him? Besides, can an editor’s work really be called a retcon?

“Master, why do I feel like this elder… is a bit slow?” Blade whispered.

Frank stood aside, feeling like an outsider. By rights, he should have left, but his residual instincts as an agent told him that the information exchanged among these people was immensely important—hinting at a domain he’d never encountered before. His curiosity was fully piqued; he had no desire to walk away.

“His mind is indeed a bit unclear. Please excuse him.” Suddenly, Pike’s demeanor shifted, and space and time around them began to warp; faintly, the motion of clock hands could be seen. Blade instinctively took a defensive stance, but Van Helsing became deferential.

“Master Kirin?” Van Helsing ventured.

“It’s me,” Pike—now Yang Qiu—nodded, gesturing with his hand. Several chairs appeared under them. “Let’s sit and talk.”

“Master, who is this Mage Kirin?” Blade whispered, never having seen his teacher show such respect before.

“One of the founders of the Monster Hunters’ Association, the most powerful mage in the world,” Van Helsing answered, eyes straight ahead.

“Hahaha, I hardly deserve it. The waves of the Yangtze River push ever forward; each new generation surpasses the last. Young people today are far more capable than those of my era,” Kirin laughed heartily.

“You’re too modest,” Van Helsing replied, pausing. “Master, has the Monster Hunters’ Association disbanded? I can’t find a trace of it.”

“Not disbanded, exactly—more of a merger. Not long after you died, the Watchers, Witchers, Monster Hunters, and other associations consolidated into what is now the Ouroboros Containment Organization,” Kirin explained.

Ouroboros? Frank sat unmoving, quietly committing the name to memory.

“Then why are there no official stations anymore? I remember back in our day, every major city had one,” Van Helsing pressed on.

“Because of the Ancient One.”

“The Ancient One? The Sorcerer Supreme? I thought she wasn’t on the same path as us.”

“Shortly after you fell into slumber, the Ancient One convened the leaders of various factions. We all agreed that, with the rapid development of ordinary people, interference from the mystical side was becoming more of an obstacle. Now, aside from dealing with truly eldritch matters, everything is left to mortals to decide. No one from the mystical side is allowed to reveal their abilities without permission.”

“Should I submit a report explaining the situation, and why we no longer act, yet vampires are still active?” Van Helsing sounded displeased.

“Dracula renounced his place in the mystical hierarchy on behalf of the vampires and has been lowering their mystic ranking ever since. He’s now considered an ordinary human,” Kirin explained.

Van Helsing said nothing, arms crossed. He hated political compromise, yet he was surprised—Dracula had paid a heavy price, trading the future of all vampires for their freedom, and from the look of things, that freedom was not yet achieved.

On the other hand, Van Helsing couldn’t help feeling pleased; vampires were born from humanity and could never be eradicated, but if Dracula persisted, their extinction would be inevitable—and permanent.