The look Darren shot him could have curdled blood. It wasn't just disdain—it was the kind of expression you give to a man who'd just confessed to microwaving soup with the spoon still in it.
Even Blade, the walking personification of "cool and stoic," couldn't hide the flicker of embarrassment that crossed his face.
To be fair, his predicament made sense. Every single shotgun shell in his arsenal was loaded with pure silver—beautiful, lethal, and obscenely expensive. One pull of the trigger easily cost him a few hundred bucks.
And as an unemployed wanderer whose full-time hobby was "vampire slaying," Blade wasn't exactly rolling in cash.
Why did he mostly use that signature silver sword, you ask?
Not just because it looked badass.
Well… okay, maybe a little because of that.
"Give me the gun," Darren said, hand outstretched.
"It's empty," Blade replied, wary.
"Five thousand dollars. I'm buying it."
"Catch!" Blade barked, his tone suddenly bright and efficient. In one smooth motion, he tossed the shotgun and the remaining twenty silver shells over without a hint of hesitation.
Darren blinked.
Bro. That cold, stoic image of yours just shattered faster than a vampire in sunlight.
He caught the shotgun, loaded it with crisp precision, then raised it toward the remaining vampires still crouched behind their cover.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The shots thundered across the nightclub, each blast tearing through the dark. Vampire heads exploded like overripe fruit; their bodies collapsed and disintegrated into piles of fine gray dust.
The survivors froze, trembling. Those who hadn't fled yet ducked even lower behind the furniture, too terrified to move.
Darren didn't bother chasing them. Instead, he calmly pulled a few grenades from his belt, yanked the pins, and lobbed them lazily toward the barricades.
BOOM!
The blast shook the entire club, a wave of flame and debris engulfing the room. A few unfortunate vampires were flung into the air, their charred bodies shrieking in agony as they hit the ground.
Tough bastards, Darren thought. Even blown half to hell, they were still screaming like they had lungs to spare.
He raised the shotgun again and began picking them off, one by one. Each trigger pull brought another ash pile, another bump in the mission counter.
From across the room, Quinn swallowed hard. He forced himself to shout, voice cracking with false bravado, "Don't panic! He can't kill us all at once! Go! Together!"
The vampires exchanged uncertain glances—but the illusion of courage is sometimes all it takes. They raised their guns and opened fire.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Seconds later, they were gone—literally reduced to dust.
Turns out Darren could kill them all at once.
Then came a sharp crack as he fired one last shot, hitting Quinn squarely in the legs before the man could limp away.
"He's yours," Darren said casually, already turning to finish off the rest.
Blade strode over, interrogated Quinn for a few brief, brutal seconds, then tossed him to the floor.
Darren didn't need to ask how it went.
He simply raised his Sun Blade—shing!—and took off Quinn's head in a single swing.
[Current Vampire Kills: 666]
Darren exhaled in satisfaction, like a man finally scratching an unreachable itch. "Ah. Perfect."
Blade stared at him, speechless. The number… the grin… was this man enjoying it a little too much?
"Right," Darren said, sheathing the blade. "What's next for you?"
"Quinn said Frost's planning something big," Blade answered darkly. "No details, but whatever it is, it's dangerous. I'm going after him. I'll hunt down every lead until I find his nest."
The name Frost carried venom when he spoke it. His mother's murderer. The one vampire Blade would never forgive.
Darren grinned. "Well, I'm still on vampire-hunting duty. Why not team up for now? You go after Frost, I'll take the body count."
Blade thought for a moment, then nodded. "Deal."
The moment their agreement settled, a system notification echoed in Darren's mind:
[NPC Eric Brooks has joined your party]
[You can now view your teammate's profile panel]
Darren blinked in surprise. "Wait, the game has a party system? Since when?"
He remembered fighting a boss with Tony Stark earlier—no such feature had appeared then.
[NPCs cannot initiate parties. Only players may invite them. Upon acceptance, the party is formed.]
"Why didn't you say that before?" he snapped.
[This game features ultra-high freedom. Players are encouraged to explore mechanics organically to ensure maximum immersion.]
"Yeah, yeah, whatever."
Darren sighed and opened Blade's profile.
[NPC: Eric Brooks (Blade)]
[Race: Half Human / Half Vampire]
[Attributes: Strength ??? / Agility ??? / Constitution ??? / Spirit ??? (Insufficient Affection to View)]
[Equipment: Cool Shades, Bulletproof Armor, Silver Longsword, Silver Knives]
[Affection: 0]
"So this guy's half vampire…" Darren mused aloud. "Huh. Wonder if killing him counts for half a vampire point?"
The thought was tempting.
Then curiosity struck. The menu showed that Blade's equipment slots were interactive. Darren tapped on the silver sword.
[Insufficient affection. Cannot remove equipment.]
"Wait, hold up." Darren's eyes widened. "So if his affection level was high enough, I could… just take his gear?"
[Affirmative.]
He sucked in a sharp breath, the kind that contributed to mild global warming.
He'd just stumbled upon an overpowered mechanic.
Darren turned toward Blade with sudden enthusiasm, voice dripping with friendliness. "Hey, bro, need help with any missions? Anything at all? I'm free. Totally free!"
Blade frowned. "No."
For some reason, a chill crawled up his spine. That smile was too wide. Too eager. Something about this player wasn't right.
...
After wrapping things up, the two left the club and agreed on their next meeting spot.
Before heading out, Blade combed the battlefield for every last silver shell he could find—plucking them from the floor, prying them from the walls with his knife, even scraping out the ones embedded in the bar counter.
Silver wasn't just precious. It was survival.
Behind the stoic, legendary image of a vampire hunter was a broke man counting his bullets.
Meanwhile, Darren managed to coax a few vampire-hunting gadgets out of him.
At first, Blade hesitated. His gear was expensive, custom-forged, and priceless in the right hands.
Then Darren casually pulled out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills—Ben Franklin's smug little face smiling up at them.
Blade froze, expression unreadable. Then, with silent fury, he snatched the money, shoved it into his own pocket, and began stripping his gear without hesitation.
By the end, he'd given Darren everything except his trademark shades—those, apparently, were sacred.
Not that Darren wanted them anyway.
He wasn't trying to cosplay as a vampire-slaying fashion icon.
Still, as he watched Blade pocket the cash and sigh heavily, Darren couldn't help but think:
Even superheroes have bills to pay.