Book 9: Chapter 55: The Final Battle (Two)

“Steve Rogers… that indomitable spirit of his is truly troublesome!” Qin Lun sighed, his expression growing serious.

Grant nodded in agreement. People like him and Qin Lun never respected someone solely for their power, nor did they look down on others for being weak.

Lancelot of the First Knights of the Round Table, holder of the Relics, might have been the strongest to appear that night, yet Qin Lun and Grant saw him only as prey. Captain America might have been weaker than Lancelot in sheer power, but both men regarded him as a true opponent and an annoying “problem”.

Whether it was Qin Lun or Clown Grant, they were Apostles, but deep down they still viewed themselves as anti-human, anti-social serial killers. Someone like Captain America, a paragon of justice with near-perfect spirit and will, was in some ways their natural enemy.

As for Lancelot, a powerful ancient knight with lofty status and noble aura? They thought little of him. To these two serial killers, the First Knight of the Round Table, tainted by major flaws in both character and spirit, wasn’t even worth as much as Integra, whom Grant had killed earlier.

That woman, despite being an ordinary human and having her corpse desecrated for their tactical purposes, had earned their respect in her final moments. Both killers knew it well.

Compared to Captain America or Integra, Lancelot, in the eyes of the two murderers, was little more than a walking treasure chest. Beyond that, he was no different from dog dung on the roadside.

“Qin Lun,” Grant observed, “that exoskeleton Captain America is wearing is impressive. In combat, it doesn’t seem to hinder the wearer’s movement or agility at all. In fact, it often enables counterattacks of an almost unimaginable nature, suggesting it possesses highly sophisticated anthropomorphic intelligence.”

“You’re right,” Qin Lun mused, raising an eyebrow. “A programmed computer shouldn’t achieve this level. Grant, do you remember what Major Montana said? The Americans acquired a complete mechanical life-form from the Egyptian pyramid crash incident!”

“You mean… that thing is that mechanical life-form?” Grant’s eyes lit up with interest. “If we fail to get the Relics in the end, getting this thing doesn’t sound too bad!”

“No,” Qin Lun blinked calmly, “the American government wouldn’t hand over the actual mechanical life-form directly to Steve Rogers. That is likely just an experimental copy. Moreover, I doubt its value is that high, certainly not on par with the Relics.”

“Why do you say that?” Knowing Qin Lun never spoke without reason, Grant asked curiously.

“World Law.” Surveying the distant stalemate, Qin Lun briefly explained his thoughts.

The Divine Comedy World was currently intersecting with one or more spacetimes governed by Superstring Spaces. These could include high-tech worlds as well as magical ones. The intelligent machine before them had a high probability of not being the fully-realized mechanical life-form.

Furthermore, even if it truly was an artificial mechanical life-form, it mattered little. The level of technology it exhibited might be several eras ahead of the Divine Comedy World, and its combat abilities were decent. But crucially, this was only relative to the Divine Comedy World.

If Qin Lun and Grant had entered the mechanical life-form’s home world, not the Divine Comedy World, this machine might be nothing special, just an ordinary artificial life. If something replicated successfully within the Divine Comedy World represented the pinnacle of achievement within the mechanical life-form’s native reality, that would be deeply disappointing.

In other words, within the World Law of its own native reality, this mechanical life-form didn’t belong to the high echelons.

The Christian Relics worn by Lancelot and Father Anderson, however, were entirely different. Those artifacts ran through the entire history of human civilization. The Exploration Rate and World Origin crystallized within them were immense, representing the very essence of the Divine Comedy World. They were utterly incomparable to the mechanical creation.

“You’re right.” Lost in thought, Grant rubbed the stubble on his chin. Qin Lun’s explanation significantly dampened his interest in the exoskeleton.

Just as the two conversed, the protracted battle in the distance abruptly reached a boiling point. A sudden, drastic change occurred, catching everyone off guard.

Earlier in this fight, the conflict between Alucard and the two men of the cloth had been relatively subdued. This wasn’t due to Lancelot or Father Anderson lacking effort; it was entirely because Alucard fought in an exceedingly evasive manner.

The Vampire was markedly different from when he fought Qin Lun. The contrast wasn’t rooted in a change in strength, but rather in his mindset. Back then, Alucard had harbored a death wish, a desire to find his end. In other words, he had grown weary of living and sought death.

Had Qin Lun merely been an ordinary Superhuman, Alucard might very well have embraced death at his hands willingly then.

Yet now, Integra, whom Alucard saw as his spiritual anchor, was dead. More than that, her very Soul was gone. Even a centuries-old Vampire, accustomed to death, couldn’t be devoid of vengeance.

Therefore, against the two clergy, he remained highly cautious, constantly weaving through the Necro forces, seldom allowing himself to engage directly with Lancelot or Anderson. Both the Vampire and his opponents understood that time favored the immortal. For this very reason, among the two holy warriors, Lancelot hadn’t even unleashed the true power of his Relic yet.

Dawn was imminent; this war was nearing its end.

Once daylight broke, neither the United States across the ocean, nor the nations of Europe at his doorstep, would permit the Crusaders to remain in London any longer. What was happening now could no longer be framed as a religious crusade; it would be seen instead as the Church blatantly usurping a secular government.

Alucard merely needed to endure until then. With his near-endless lifespan ahead, he could plot devastating reprisals against the Church and its Nazi-allied organizations, avenging Integra’s senseless murder.

Alas, fate rarely complies with hopes. While their titanic battle yielded no victor, the other frontline, that of Captain America and the Vampire girl Seras, had reached a climax.

After consuming Hawkeye Clint, Seras had become a true Vampire. Inheriting her bloodline directly from Alucard, she awakened possessing immense power over blood and Soul, even absorbing Clint’s combat experience.

Naturally, Seras couldn’t instantly master this surge in power and the foreign fight experience integrated into her being. Given time, she might indeed blossom into a Vampire rivaling Alucard himself. Unfortunately, time was a luxury absent now.

Against a different opponent — say, Lieutenant Lieber or Lieutenant Luke from Millennium Bug, or even Black Widow from the Avengers — Seras’s overwhelming raw power might have compensated somewhat for her glaring lack of combat finesse.

Her adversary, however, was Captain America, Steve Rogers. Worse, he was now clad in the S-Agent, a combat exoskeleton that boosted his capabilities to an entirely new tier.

Objectively speaking, the current iteration of Captain America, armored and empowered, wouldn’t pale in comparison to Alucard or Lancelot. Fighting Seras was, quite simply, bullying.

Though incensed by the sight of his comrades reanimated as Necro, Steve Rogers mastered his fury. At the start of the fight, he meticulously probed Seras’s capabilities. Once he sufficiently understood his opponent’s limits, disaster swept over the young Vampire.

Seras had been a Vampire for merely months. Prior to that, she was just a village policewoman, trained only in basic arrests and marksmanship — skills utterly useless in supernatural combat. She fought clumsily, exclusively relying on the massive, ghostly blood-claw extending from her back to block Captain America’s relentless barrage.

Having deciphered her crude strategy, Steve Rogers struck definitively. He subtly disengaged from the S-Agent mid-fight, his form almost completely merging with the shadow cast by the bulky exoskeleton.

Rogers had initially utilized the S-Agent primarily to mask his living aura amidst the Necro. The unit itself was an autonomous intelligent entity; its movements didn’t require an operator. Whether Rogers was inside it or not mattered little for its functions. It perfectly shielded Steve’s flanking maneuver.

Had Captain America’s opponent been Qin Lun, or any other seasoned Superhuman on the field, they likely would have sensed the approaching threat through aura detection alone and evaded. Tragically for Seras, she lacked that refined sensitivity. Even though the Vampire girl felt an instinctive surge of wrongness, her inexperience rendered her incapable of reacting meaningfully. Such instinct needed countless brutal conflicts to sharpen. She possessed no legacy of war to bridge this fatal gap.

The moment came as Seras braced against another blow from the S-Agent robot, deflecting it with her massive claw. Suddenly, Captain America appeared behind the robot, catching her completely off-guard. Before she could react, Steve slammed his Vibranium shield horizontally into her midriff. The impact cut her clean in half at the waist.

This nearly flawless ambush possessed one slight imperfection. Due to the S-Agent’s positioning directly in front of her, Rogers couldn’t strike squarely at her heart with the initial blow. This tiny flaw left young Seras clinging to the most tenuous strand of life.

Under normal circumstances, this was merely a minor hiccup for Steve. Dispensing the final blow would require next to no time. Seras, however, wasn’t fighting alone. Alucard, already circling the periphery engaging multiple foes, caught sight of his progeny’s mortal peril.

To Alucard, Seras’ importance paled next to Integra’s. Yet with Integra gone, the Vampire girl represented his sole remaining connection to this world. He could not, would not, stand idly by and witness another loss tonight.

In that instant, Alucard abandoned the protective shroud provided by his vast legion of Necro. He burst forward in a blur of darkness, recklessly intercepting Captain America’s calculated execution strike intended to finish the bisected girl. Seras’s wounds were horrendous; her Vampire constitution possessed incredible regenerative power, but stitching together two severed halves demanded not insignificant time.

This heroic intervention came at a terrible cost. Alucard’s true form was instantly exposed to Lancelot and Father Anderson. Simultaneously, for diverting his focus to shield Seras, he drew the immediate, concentrated fury of both Captain America and the autonomously fighting S-Agent.

Yet Alucard was no fledgling monster like Seras. The moment he chose to save her, he fully anticipated this perilous entanglement. As he moved to guard his heir, a silent command resonated. The nearby Necro forces reacted instantly, flowing towards their master like homing birds tired of flight. Scores of spectral entities dissolved into pure Soul energy, funneling back into Alucard himself. The ancient Vampire made the desperate calculation to shield himself using harbored Souls as literal, expendable armor. He prepared to endure the incoming barrage raw, banking on overwhelming reserves of souls to absorb the devastating impacts from his multiple furious adversaries.

Such a strategy, born of centuries of gruesome warfare, was typically sound. Tragically, two enemies wielding sacred weapons stood among his attackers now. The power of the Christian Relic entrusted to Father Anderson erupted explosively. Anderson’s arms, transformed grotesquely into writhing masses of muscle and sinew, erupted into two colossal, terrifying blades of true holy power. Like executioner’s cleavers forged from liquid fire, he drove them deep into Alucard’s exposed form.

BOOM!

An immense, scorching cruciform wound was blasted open across Alucard’s chest. From its depths billowed blinding golden flames of pure sanctity. Tendrils formed from the transformed holy steel – like invasive razor roots of divine energy – crawled relentlessly outward, toward Alucard’s unbeating, vulnerable heart.

Simultaneously, immediately around them, consecrated fire spontaneously ignited throughout the massive army Alucard commanded. Tens of thousands of Necro, utterly untouched moments before, now ignited like a million candles lit at once. One after another, they became engulfed agonizingly in cleansing, blindingly bright starfire. Terrible, twisting screams – not of hate, but of profound, indescribable anguish – filled the air as their unholy existence was rapidly consumed.

It was an unearthly spectacle. Transparent, luminous silhouettes – human Souls freed from corrupted stolen vessels – shimmered and drifted upwards from the incinerating Necro shells. They ascended silently towards the pre-dawn Star Void stretching above the city. There, against the dark tapestry of the fading night, the untold multitude of released spirits converged. They assembled seamlessly, coalescing layer upon layer into a singular, colossal pattern: a giant radiant Holy Cross formed entirely from countless liberated Souls blazing with inner light. Its form was both terrifying and profoundly beautiful.

The Soul-formed Cross burned brightly, hanging suspended high above London’s ravaged skyline. Waves of pure, forgiving radiance emanated from it, a celestial bathing rain washing over the devastated cityscape below. Its luminescence was like pure diamonds and forgiveness forged into tangible energy – warm without scorching, as vast as the night it banished; profoundly cleansing yet impossibly holy and calm.

It was like an omen carved into darkness itself, a herald of rebirth just before dawn’s true light. As if summoned by this heavenly signpost, the first faintest glimmer of genuine, welcoming sunlight broke through the horizon far to the east. It touched the tallest, still-standing towers of London, painting their crowns and battle-scarred tips with shimmering halos of liquid gold. Dawn clawed its way physically, unambiguously into the tortured city, its golden fingers methodically scaling architecture abandoned to conflict during the night.

Bizarrely, the city, traumatized only moments before, seemed to abruptly exhale the tension of the apocalyptic hours. Deep beneath the Soul-Cross’s fading glow, its fury quietened. Those who witnessed the divine sign – be they weary Crusader soldiers shifting amidst rubble-strewn barricades, or terrified citizens trembling in ruined basements clinging only to prayer – all instinctively lowered their heads as one. Hands moved in practiced motions across chests while lips formed the simple silent shape of the sacred cross symbol. Words breathed by countless lungs became low, unified murmurs of heartfelt prayer turning the wind itself into a psalm. Even shocked expressions of grief etched onto survivors’ faces seemed to slacken incrementally, replaced by a dazed, stunned kind of comfort. The utterly inhuman night’s violence seemed finally cowed beneath heaven’s intervention and tangible sunrise.

The night, impossibly saturated with blood, magic, fear, and darkness, had reached its inevitable endpoint. Reluctantly, heavily vanquished by sunrise and hope, it was finished!