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When Hawk reappeared, he was standing at the main entrance of the vampire tower.
The building's interior was pitch black.
But—
Countless pairs of eyes glowed an eerie green in the darkness, fixed on Hawk like malevolent stars. They watched his silhouette in the doorway without blinking.
Raspy, hissing warning sounds echoed from within.
The sound was... unusual.
Hearing it made you uncomfortable.
In Hollywood lore, vampires were essentially blood bats. And bat vocalizations were weapons in their own right.
As the raspy screeches poured from the building, they resonated like a chorus—making listeners feel nauseated, dizzy, and sick to their stomachs.
This was exactly why S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had been surrounding the building without attempting to breach.
But Hawk wasn't included in that calculation.
Expression blank, Hawk stepped forward—completely ignoring the warnings from the countless vampires inside—and crossed the threshold.
The next second.
"HSSSS!"
"HAAA!"
The instant Hawk entered the building, two vampires that had been clinging to the ceiling above the door dropped down, fangs bared, lunging at him from above.
Hawk looked up. His eyes flashed crimson.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
The two vampires—claws mere inches from touching Hawk's hair—vaporized on contact with the Phoenix Beams. Not a trace remained.
But, though these two vampires were dead, Hawk's assault didn't stop.
In an instant.
Crimson light flooded the building's interior, illuminating the entire tower.
Outside, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents stared slack-jawed at the crimson glow flickering through the windows like some kind of hellish disco.
....
Just then, Sharon's voice crackled through every agent's earpiece.
"Combat teams, withdraw first."
"Command and logistics, follow in sequence."
"Perimeter shield team—hold position!"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Copy."
"Roger!"
As Sharon's orders came through, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents—curious as they were about what was happening inside—snapped to attention. Following her commands, they quickly loaded into their vehicles and evacuated the scene.
Sharon, meanwhile, grabbed a folding chair with a backrest, sat down comfortably, leaned back, and watched the vampire tower continue to strobe with crimson light like she was watching a movie.
Earlier, she'd been nervous—genuinely worried that Deacon Frost might actually pull off something catastrophic.
But now?
Nervous?? Not a chance...
Before Hawk arrived, sure, she had reason to worry.
But with Hawk here? If she was still nervous, then what was even the point of him showing up?
Sharon thought this to herself, then raised an eyebrow as she spotted something in the distance—a vampire with an expression of absolute terror and despair, sprinting toward the tower's front entrance.
The next second, A Phoenix Beam struck the vampire's back just as one foot crossed the threshold.
POP!
The vampire vaporized instantly.
...
Hawk, hovering in mid-air inside the building, slowly withdrew his Phoenix Beams. His eyes—still cooling rapidly from their blazing crimson—swept across every corner of the tower, conducting a final sweep.
Soon.
After confirming no living signatures remained above ground, Hawk finally looked down—toward what lay beneath the building's foundation.
His Sixth Sense surged downward like a tidal wave, flooding into the depths below.
What Hawk saw was a castle hidden beneath the tower. Its architecture was a bizarre fusion of Gothic gloom, industrial coldness, and futuristic technology—all existing underground.
He saw a slaughterhouse inside the castle.
In this slaughterhouse, humans hung like livestock from moving conveyor chains, either unconscious or semi-conscious.
He saw something resembling a vampire bar's dance floor.
But this wasn't a dance floor—it was more like a swimming pool. And the pool was filled with thick, dark-red blood.
Vampires could socialize here, relax, and feed directly.
He also saw the vampires' sleeping quarters.
No—that wasn't quite right.
To be precise, there were only thirteen bedrooms. And in each of these opulent, luxuriously decorated chambers sat a high-tech cryogenic pod.
Obviously, these were the private quarters of the thirteen pureblood vampires.
But right now, none of those thirteen bedrooms contained a single pureblood.
Clearly.
The thirteen purebloods had already been slaughtered by Deacon Frost and sacrificed to the Blood God.
This wasn't Hawk's guess.
Because he could see it happening.
Right now.
In the ritual hall at the heart of the underground castle, twelve pureblood elders were locked in place at their designated positions. At the center of the hall, standing on the altar, Deacon Frost—shirtless, expression manic—was frantically chanting some arcane incantation.
As the chanting continued, the twelve restrained purebloods began to contort. Their blood rose from their bodies, and then—POP—they exploded into blood-wraiths, their physical forms detonating as they screamed and hurled themselves toward Deacon Frost on the altar.
One by one, the pureblood vampires slammed into Deacon Frost's body like they were being absorbed.
Each impact made Deacon sway slightly, as if he'd actually been struck.
But with every sway, the manic expression on his face grew even more unhinged.
Deacon knew perfectly well that S.H.I.E.L.D. had surrounded his tower.
But...
So what?
He had mastered the method to summon the Blood God's power. Once that power was his, S.H.I.E.L.D. would be nothing more than ants beneath his heel.
As a new-generation vampire, Deacon Frost had massive ambitions.
Come on.
They were vampires—supernatural beings. This world should have belonged to them. Why should they hand it over to those weak, pathetic, useless humans?
Vampires should rule the world.
Unfortunately, his opinion didn't matter. The thirteen pureblood elders didn't share his vision. Having survived from an ancient era, the pureblood elders had long since lost their drive and ambition. They were content to hide in the shadows, satisfied with their little corner of the world.
Deacon Frost found them utterly contemptible.
But contempt was one thing. He still couldn't openly defy the thirteen purebloods' decisions.
At least, not before he found the Book of Blood.
As purebloods personally converted by Dracula himself, the elders' sense of superiority didn't come from bloodline alone. Their strength was equally terrifying.
Any single pureblood could crush a half-blood like him without breaking a sweat.
So Deacon had to work in the shadows—quietly building his power while gifting thirteen cryogenic pods to the pureblood elders as presents.
Sure enough.
The elders were delighted. After receiving the gifts, they spent most of their time lounging in those pods. They even handed external affairs over to their thoughtful subordinate, Deacon.
From that point on, Deacon began executing his plan.
Find the Book of Blood. Translate it. Then summon the Blood God's power.
The Original vampire was merely the first vampire—not the source. And the true origin of Dracula's vampirism was the Blood God, La Magra.
Deacon wanted to summon the Blood God, obtain that divine power, and then rule the world.
And now—
Arms spread wide, bare-chested Deacon Frost gazed at the Blood God dimension flickering into existence before his eyes. He could see the Blood God stirring within that dimension. His expression was one of pure, rapturous obsession.
"I'm finally going to succeed!"
"Ooh, not bad."
"..."
Deacon Frost—lost in the ecstasy of his imminent triumph—felt his smile freeze. His gaze snapped toward the man who had appeared at some point, leaning against the hall's doorframe, applauding him.
"Guards!"
"Don't bother. They're all gone. You're the only one left."
Hawk looked at the wide-eyed Deacon Frost and smiled. "One hundred fifty-two total, right? I didn't miss anyone, did I?"
Deacon Frost's heart lurched.
But he didn't panic.
Because.
He could feel it—the Blood God's power had already answered his call. It was flooding into his body in an endless stream.
Just give him a little more time. Just a little.
Deacon Frost remained on the altar, meeting Hawk's gaze. His voice was low, his composure unbroken.
"Who are you? S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
"Nope."
Hawk chuckled. "George Stacy is my future father-in-law. You turned him into a vampire without even asking me first. I thought that took some serious balls. So I came to see what kind of power or confidence could make someone that brave."
Deacon Frost locked eyes with Hawk.
Then—
"Who's George Stacy?"
"Hahahaha..." Hawk actually laughed out loud at that answer.
Deacon's expression darkened.
Ever since S.H.I.E.L.D. had been downsized, he'd noticed New York's S.H.I.E.L.D. presence weaken significantly. He also knew the organization had gone through internal turmoil. That was precisely why he'd chosen this moment to summon the Blood God.
So he'd been busy with the final preparations lately and hadn't paid much attention to outside affairs.
Now—
It seemed like one of his underlings had pissed off someone powerful, and that someone had shown up to settle the score.
But!
None of that mattered anymore. Because the Blood God's power was now his.
Standing on the altar, Deacon Frost lowered his arms and took a deep breath. His eyes blazed with infinite crimson—as if an ocean of blood churned within them. He met Hawk's gaze once more.
Empowered by the Blood God, feeling like he could destroy heaven and earth, Deacon Frost let out a contemptuous snort.
"So what do you want?"
"To kill you."
Hawk smiled. His eyes flashed crimson.
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