"Livonian Brothers of the Sword, full complement of three hundred and forty, reporting for duty!"
"Knights of Calatrava, full complement of one hundred and eighteen, reporting for duty!"
"Order of Saint Stephen, Tuscan Legion, full complement of two hundred and fifty-seven, reporting for duty!"
...
Several phalanxes of fully armed Paladins were shouting their reports to the silhouette standing before them.
White pointed hoods, distinct cross insignias, and beak-shaped helms—their attire unmistakably declared their identities. These were the Church's armed forces, gathered from every corner of the globe.
"It has begun."
Anderson watched the Church's forces not far away, his gaze lingering on the soldiers raising their banners and weapons. He spoke slowly, his emotions a complicated tangle.
What could a Transcendent truly achieve in a war of this scale?
The armed forces the Church had hidden across the world were now assembled. Standing behind him were all the members of Section XIII—the Iscariot Organization.
At the forefront, suspended in mid-air on a podium originally meant for a helicopter, his once-prized disciple was shouting at the top of his lungs:
"Kill them all! Kill the heathens! Kill the monsters! This is what my teacher taught me..."
The new Archbishop, Maxwell, was delivering the mobilization speech.
Anderson frowned as he listened to Maxwell's words. He felt a deep pang of regret for the student he had once raised.
What can a Church leader who knows no mercy possibly achieve? Anderson wondered with skepticism.
The Church was meant to be the Lord's will on earth, yet it had become a weapon for a man obsessed with power.
Anderson would never shy away from a battle for his faith, but what was the meaning of a war waged for an unrighteous cause? The information Maxwell had shared with him was certainly not the whole truth. Anderson suspected that Maxwell had entered into some form of cooperation with the "Last Battalion" to secure power.
After all, what was more persuasive for spreading the Lord's gospel than saving the world?
Clearly, his disciple had long since embarked on a path he could not condone.
"Tch!"
Father Anderson gritted his teeth, his hand tightening around the heavy cross on his chest. The hand clutching his Bible was clenched so hard the knuckles turned white.
The combat power present was significant. The Church had scraped together a fighting force of three thousand men from around the world. Every single one of them was a warrior of the Lord, possessing the resolve to dedicate everything to their faith.
They were not a militia organization like the Osiris Club; they were the Church's regular army for combating monsters.
Each man possessed combat capabilities surpassing top-tier special forces. In battles against the supernatural, they were constantly expended and replenished. The three thousand standing here now were each capable of defeating small groups of monsters single-handedly.
They were the entirety of the force the Church was committing to this war.
The true elites were still being kept in reserve. Perhaps the Church felt this force was sufficient to solve the problem. Or perhaps they simply didn't have that much confidence in Maxwell.
However, Anderson believed Maxwell had his own calculations. The ambition of a man striving to be a "great figure" would not allow for failure. All intelligence regarding the Last Battalion was filtered through Maxwell; the man certainly held secret information.
Still, Father Anderson felt uneasy.
"Father Anderson, the mission of Section XIII is to monitor Hellsing and Integra. Keep a close watch on their movements."
Maxwell arranged the mission through the microphone with an arrogant, superior tone. The dissatisfaction in Anderson's heart grew more intense.
Yet, he still held onto a sliver of illusion. Maxwell was, after all, his most proud disciple. But that tolerance was likely to soon transform into the mercy of granting him release.
"By the Archbishop's command!"
Anderson accepted the order with a flat tone. It happened to align with his own desires.
The Blood Queen Nimue and the vampire Alucard were both under Hellsing's control. If the opportunity arose, Anderson wouldn't mind eliminating those two monsters while monitoring them.
He was ready. Holy flames had already begun to ignite on the hand pressing against his Bible.
He just didn't want to speak his former disciple's name right now.
Father Anderson knew the Church's true power far better than Maxwell. Calling for the descent of Angels was their only true trump card. Maxwell was evidently unaware of this—or perhaps he knew and didn't care.
But for Father Anderson, it made no difference.
"We are who?!"
Anderson roared in a low, guttural voice. He turned to face the companions behind him—those dressed as priests—and bowed his head slightly.
These priest-clad colleagues were utterly out of place among the gleaming Paladins. For they were the "Traitors," Section XIII!
"We are the Iscariots! The Judas Iscariots!"
The assembled priests responded to Anderson's inquiry in perfect unison. Their tone was flat, yet beneath it flowed a current of fanaticism.
To these priests, Father Anderson was the most conspicuous banner. They cared nothing for how other believers judged them, just as Anderson never cared what others called him.
"Iscariots, what do you hold in your right hand?"
Anderson bared his teeth in a savage, white grin. His voice rose, impassioned, as if to suppress his inner disapproval of Maxwell's actions.
For his colleagues in Section XIII, Anderson was filled with trust and pride.
"Daggers and poison!"
The priests began to march forward in perfect formation. They were heading to their battlefield.
"Iscariots, what do you hold in your left hand?"
Anderson watched his colleagues slowly pass him, his voice pressing them with urgency.
"Thirty pieces of silver and a straw rope!"
As the priests responded to Anderson, they all lowered their heads, speaking with devout reverence. Even the motion of clutching the crosses on their chests was synchronized.
"Iscariots, what are you?!"
This time, Anderson did not wait for an answer. Instead, he joined his colleagues, chanting loudly in unison:
"We are apostles yet not apostles!
Believers yet not believers!
Disciples yet not disciples!
Traitors yet not traitors!
We are death incarnate! An army of the dead!
We bow only to ask forgiveness, and to strike down the enemies of the Lord!
We are the assassins who wield daggers in the dark and poison the evening meal!
We are the Iscariots, the Judas Iscariots!
When the time comes, we cast the thirty pieces of silver into the sanctuary and hang ourselves with the straw rope!"
Father Anderson turned and walked amidst the column of priests, his two disciples following close behind, heading for the front lines.
"Then we shall gather and descend into Hell! Our only wish is to do battle with the seven million, four hundred and five thousand, nine hundred and twenty-six demons!"
A thunderous roar erupted from the ranks of priests. The remaining Paladins watched in silence as the priests of Section XIII moved out first.
The brief shout suppressed all the doubts in Anderson's heart. As long as there were enemies in front of him, he would only think about one thing:
From what angle should he drive his bayonet to eliminate the target most quickly?
The apocryphal texts mention that 7,405,926 is the number of angels who followed the Morning Star in rebellion and fell into Hell. They accounted for one-third of the total host of angels.
The priests of "Traitor" Section XIII existed solely to crusade against the enemies of God. What the Lord hated, they would dispose of.
The entirety of Section XIII mobilized. The remaining armies waited.
They waited for the moment when the true hellscape would manifest!
Maxwell was waiting too. He waited for the Last Battalion to arrive; he needed a catastrophe to establish the Church's glory.
Everything was silent, awaiting the entrance of the maddened actors!
Just outside a church not far from the Vatican forces, the Archangel Gabriel, who had been missing for some time, watched them with a solemn expression.
He felt that his time of destiny was also approaching.
Gabriel silently unfurled his wings. The wings that Bulcatho had torn off had inexplicably regenerated not long ago. Traces of azure brilliance could even be seen radiating from the tips of the feathers.
Gabriel shook his golden hair, his expression somewhat desolate.
Everyone in the Church was as devout as ever, but walking a path of unrighteousness, they had become sacrificial lambs. These people had no qualification to ascend to Heaven.
God did not need magnificent clothes, but humans did.
God needed human faith, but that was merely God's mercy.
This was the angel's most genuine thought.
Those whom God loved were not the violent mobs who trod upon righteousness in His name, but the pure ones who endured in the face of all suffering, and the resisters who fought against peril without ever succumbing to the pleasure of violence.
God is the hope that redeems all!
"The Last Battalion has begun its operation!"
Steve Rogers slammed open the door to Integra's office, phone in hand, stating the news he had just received from Nick Fury.
He had just finished a call with Fury; that black-hearted man had only now passed on the relevant information. Compared to S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Church, Hellsing was undoubtedly slow in receiving intelligence.
However, there was still time. Even if the Last Battalion wanted to reach London, it would take a while.
Nick Fury hadn't schemed against Hellsing on matters involving human safety.
Behind Steve stood Rumlow and Casillas, arms around each other's shoulders, holding half-empty bottles of alcohol. Casillas was swaying; he didn't look well. Until recently a sorcerer, he needed a little something to help him get used to his current identity.
Matthew stood stroking his flanged mace. The three Barbarians present were ready for battle.
"Alucard!"
Integra merely glanced at Steve before calling out to Alucard immediately. Now was not the time for pleasantries with Steve, nor was there a need to question S.H.I.E.L.D.'s sources.
"Ready to fight for you, my Master."
Alucard's figure passed through the wall to stand before Integra. A grotesque smile played on his face; it seemed he was looking forward to this war.
Butler Walter moved his fingers slightly. Several micro-filament wires glided through the air before him and then settled. The time Walter the "Angel of Death" had been waiting for was finally approaching. He only needed to maintain his dignity, wait for the appropriate moment, and then fulfill his long-held wish.
"If you feel it is necessary, release the River of Blood. You are free to act now."
Integra stubbed out her cigar and spoke slowly.
Time was tight, but not so tight that Integra needed to abandon her elegance. Speaking in a rush would only make her appear frazzled and served no purpose.
Although Britain was not perfectly prepared, contingency plans for everything regarding this war were in place.
Evacuating the residents was impossible. The city had a population of over eight million; evacuation could not be completed in such a short time. They could only take shelter nearby. At least London had plenty of usable facilities for sheltering from attacks.
At this moment, the key British official, Penwood, was manning the dispatch department, relaying messages everywhere. Once the war broke out, this would be the core command center.
MI5's troops had also established defensive lines, waiting only for the enemy to show themselves.
Humanity would absolutely not sit and wait for death in the face of war! That much was certain.
"Your will."
Alucard bowed with a squinting smile, then flexed his arm, holding his hand high before his eyes. He peered through the gaps in his fingers at the people in the doorway.
His expression was mocking, yet he restrained himself from releasing his chilling aura. Releasing his restraints here did not seem like a good choice.
He anticipated a feast of slaughter, but the appetizers hadn't even been served yet. So, he wasn't in a hurry.
His body dissolved into a puddle of bloody shadows where he stood, vanishing from the building.
Alucard was going to a place with a better view to await the start of the banquet. The Progenitor of Vampire's dining table was this very land.
Matthew and Rumlow were opponents he looked forward to; monsters dying at the hands of humans was the most fitting destiny.
As long as they met on the battlefield, Alucard felt in his gut that this result was inevitable. None of the humans he respected held any goodwill toward him.
For him, there was nothing better.
"The thing this vampire pursues seems to be something you don't wish to see?"
Rumlow spoke to Integra with a slightly tipsy tone. There was no need to ask polite questions anymore.
Aside from Integra and Walter, Rumlow knew the most about Alucard among those present. After all, he was the only one who had been running to the basement to talk to that vampire these past few days.
Rumlow had formed some guesses regarding Alucard and Integra, but he didn't plan to ask in this untimely situation.
Behind that seemingly drunken face, Rumlow's eyes were completely sober.
What he ultimately wanted was information on Hydra, and the Last Battalion was the best target for acquiring intelligence. The remnants of the Third Reich—who would believe they had no connection to Hydra?
They probably wouldn't even believe it themselves.
As for Alucard and Hellsing, they were just pieces on the chessboard of war, like him.
"Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., move at your own discretion. We have an agreement."
Integra had no intention of answering Rumlow's question. She bypassed the group at the door and left with Walter.
She was heading to the general command post. Since the curtain had been raised on the war, as the defending side, she needed to appear where she was needed.
A creature with distorted longevity like a vampire held an extraordinary temptation for those greedy old men in power. And the Last Battalion possessed the power to create vampires directly, ignoring the conversion conditions—this was simply terrible.
Integra couldn't watch Penwood man the vital central dispatch room alone, so she was rushing there now.
She had prepared for the worst, but out of trust in Alucard, she remained optimistic about victory. She just couldn't bear the thought of the potential sacrifices.
Seras was elsewhere, leading a mercenary group—Hellsing's reserve force—to be deployed only when needed.
"Blade has already left. Aren't you going to contact Luke and Jessica?"
Steve asked Rumlow behind him, adjusting his shield.
As a veteran who had retired from the battlefield, he knew very well how powerless individual strength was against a collective force unless it reached a certain level. So, he was worried about Luke and Jessica, from whom there was still no news.
Having felt the power of the Barbarians, Steve felt his worry might be superfluous, but it was his habit. Steve never abandoned a teammate; a simple inquiry was second nature to him.
Blade had left Hellsing not long ago. With his injuries fully healed, he was coordinating forces at the S.H.I.E.L.D. London branch to face the coming battle. Blade's combat power wasn't particularly outstanding against high-level threats, so having him lead agents might be the better choice.
"Their date got ruined again. But dating on a battlefield... they might actually enjoy that," Matthew said, swinging his mace a couple of times.
He didn't care much about Luke and Jessica. If the enemy was just the vampire soldiers they had seen before, Luke's safety wasn't a concern.
However, Matthew felt something was wrong. After Bulcatho let out that roar, he had gone straight back to the Sacred Mountain. No one present knew exactly what had happened.
"Then let's move out. Try to find the Last Battalion's command post and execute a beautiful decapitation strike!"
Steve nodded at the words, then walked straight out.
S.H.I.E.L.D. would not turn a blind eye to this war; this was Steve's trust in that shadowy old fox, Nick Fury.
As for the Blood Queen remaining in Hellsing, she no longer needed monitoring. She would act. Nimue had said long ago she would exact revenge on the Last Battalion and then welcome death. That was no longer a concern.
After witnessing the existence of Bulcatho and the Ancient One, Nimue couldn't possibly do anything boring.
Meanwhile, Hellboy, Constantine, and Daimio were at St. Paul's Cathedral.
According to the B.P.R.D.'s long investigation, King Arthur's final resting place was here.
For this, the entire B.P.R.D. staff had even abandoned the protection of British VIPs to investigate news of Excalibur with all their might. Even now, they were still struggling to analyze other possible locations, sacrificing their utility on the frontal battlefield.
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