"Don't worry, I got every shot," Skye said, handing over the camera. "But seriously, why did you want me to photograph those fragments anyway?"
"To decipher the text, of course," Lucas replied with a grin.
"But didn't you say no human could decode that language?"
Lucas nodded. "Yeah, no human can. But a vampire might."
Skye's eyes widened. "Oh, so now you're playing word games with me?" She shoved the camera into his hands, annoyed, and walked off toward Frank, clearly done talking to him.
Lucas shrugged. "Hey, I didn't lie."
Meanwhile, Blade pressed his boot against Quinn's face.
"Quinn, my patience has officially run out," Blade said coldly. "Last chance. Where's Deacon Frost?"
The tip of his silver sword hovered a breath away from Quinn's eye. The vampire could feel the holy metal searing his skin just from proximity.
Quinn stayed silent. He knew all too well—betray Deacon Frost, and his end would be far worse than death.
"Then you're useless."
With a shhk of steel, Blade drove the sword straight through Quinn's eye socket. The vampire didn't even have time to scream before his body burst into flames and crumbled to ash.
With Quinn dead, the lead on Frost was completely gone. Blade sank onto the floor, sword still in hand, lost in thought and frustration.
Lucas walked over and said, "Don't lose hope. There's still a chance."
He tossed the camera to Blade. "These are photos of the Book of Truth. I'm guessing you know someone who can read this stuff. There's a clue in there—something Frost wants."
Blade stared at the camera for a moment, thinking. He did know someone who could decipher ancient vampire script—though calling that person human would be inaccurate.
"…Thanks," Blade said quietly. For once, the stoic Daywalker acknowledged it. Lucas and the others had been helping him this whole time, after all.
On the way back, Frank couldn't stop asking about The Adjudicator. Anyone could see how much he coveted the gun.
For Frank Castle, firearms weren't just tools—they were extensions of his soul. And The Adjudicator looked like the ultimate weapon, a masterpiece forged for divine judgment itself.
Still, he wasn't the kind of man to take what wasn't his. He just admired it—openly.
Lucas, seeing that, handed the revolver over. "Take a closer look."
Frank held it reverently, running his calloused fingers along its flawless surface as if caressing a lover. Every line of the weapon was art—the elegant curvature, the golden cross pattern etched along the barrel, the weight that hummed with restrained power. He wished, just for a moment, that he had one of his own.
"Lucas," he asked finally, "how the hell do you reload this thing?"
He had examined every inch and found no chamber, no slot, no mechanism for loading rounds. The gun was seamless—almost alive.
"Oh, it doesn't use bullets," Lucas said lightly. "It's powered by magic."
Frank blinked. "Magic. Right."
Lucas grinned. "It's not your standard sidearm. Think of it as a divine weapon—made to fight demons. It's been upgraded, too, so no need for ammo."
Frank could only shake his head in envy. For a man without magic, The Adjudicator might as well have been a museum piece—beautiful, but useless.
---
At that same moment, in a secluded manor deep in the countryside, a group of ancient vampires in tailored suits sat gathered around a long table.
At the head of the table sat an elder with silvery-white hair, dressed in a spotless black robe. A blood-red ruby pendant hung from his neck, glinting like a drop of frozen blood. Every gesture radiated old-world nobility.
"Silence," he said softly.
The command wasn't loud, but the effect was immediate. The previously noisy chamber fell utterly still.
"You have all lived for over a thousand years," he continued, his voice calm but sharp. "And yet you squabble like those filthy humans. Have you no dignity?"
Not once did he glance at the others. His presence alone was enough to make them lower their heads.
"Now, have you investigated the humans involved in this affair?"
Before anyone could answer, the heavy doors burst open with a loud bang.
A young man swaggered in—casually dressed, looking more like a street punk than a noble.
"Deacon Frost," the elder said icily. "You are interrupting a meeting of the Council. You have no right to be here, you ill-bred mongrel."
His words were cold, but the disgust in his eyes was unmistakable.
To him, bloodline was everything. The pureblood vampires considered turned ones—like Frost—to be filthy, impure mockeries of their kind. The fact that this "half-breed" dared step into the Council's sanctum was an outrage.
Frost smirked. "Heh. Still clinging to your medieval garbage about 'pure blood'? Wake up, old man. This is the modern world. Power rules now. No wonder you fossils hide in your coffins while humans run the planet."
"You dare—!" One of the elders slammed the table and stood. "You insolent half-breed! Get out at once! Guards! GUARDS!"
Their outrage filled the chamber. To them, Frost wasn't even a person—just a stain on their lineage, a reminder that vampires had fallen from grace.
But Frost didn't flinch. He leaned casually against the table, watching them rant as if it were a stage performance.
Then, slowly, the elders realized something was wrong. The manor was always heavily guarded. No one outside the Council should've been able to enter. Unless…
They paled. Even after centuries, fear still ran deep in these ancient creatures. One by one, the shouting stopped.
"What's wrong?" Frost said mockingly. "Why so quiet all of a sudden?"
He strolled behind one of the elders—a bloated vampire in a velvet suit—and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"A moment ago, you were all so loud. What happened?"
Frost's tone dripped with contempt. These relics of the old world clung to their titles and ceremonies, too blind to see the world had moved on.
"The age of your kind is over," he said softly. "Your medieval aristocracy is dead. Your time is up."
"You filthy half-breed!" one elder roared, leaping to his feet. "You dare challenge us? You are nothing here!"
Swish!
A flash of steel cut through the air. Frost's dagger pierced straight through the elder's heart before the man even realized he'd moved. The vampire turned to ash instantly.
The remaining elders froze, terror painted across their faces.
"Listen well," Frost said, voice low and venomous. "I've shown you respect only because of your age. Keep talking, and I'll burn this entire council to the ground."
He slammed both hands down on the table, the impact echoing like thunder through the hall. The fat elder beneath his hand didn't dare make a sound—not even a whimper.
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