Even without the dangerous aura radiating from his body, the sheer brutality of the "Oathbound Scripture" clutched in his hand—its spiked corners gleaming with cold menace—was enough to make it obvious that the man before him was no mere "civilian administrator."
The leader of the Wolf-Tongue Cult had simply made the snide comment out of habit, flaunting his composure and confidence as he advanced toward the vampire priest.
Feeling the surge of power gifted to him by the Pain-Wolf, Sherwin halted, lifted his head with satisfaction, and stretched out his arms toward the heretic in front of him.
"Now, strike at me, pitiful lamb! For I—"
His proclamation was cut short by the deafening bang of a firearm.
A bullet tore past his left cheek, nicking flesh and drawing a warm trickle of blood. From across the street, the newly anointed "High Priest of the Oathbound," Benson, stepped forward, smoke curling from the barrel of his sawed-off shotgun.
"I really hate people who won't shut up during working hours," he said flatly, advancing with the slow, deliberate steps of a man who'd rather be anywhere else.
This was Benson's first real battle since joining the Oathbound Cross. Until now, he'd mostly stayed out of the field—writing religious texts, compiling the Oathbound Scripture, and handling the cult's legal affairs. Violence was not typically in his job description.
But the moment he drank Jack Arnold's Embrace of Blood, he'd felt it—a rush, a hunger, a howling storm boiling through his undead veins. His very soul seemed to beg for blood and terror.
Sherwin, wiping the blood from his face, chuckled darkly and pulled back his hood. His face was a patchwork of scars and lesions. Reaching up, he stroked the wound, his fingers trembling slightly.
"So rash," he muttered. Then, louder: "You think you can harm me with such pathetic mortal weapons?"
His grin tore open unnaturally wide, revealing jagged teeth beneath his split cheeks. "Perhaps your mind has rotted under the influence of your so-called blood god."
"Oh please," Benson replied, reloading his weapon with a casual twist. "You really think this is about weapons? I can already tell you don't read."
He holstered the shotgun, and in one smooth motion, opened the iron-bound Oathbound Scripture. Its heavy pages fluttered in the wind, blank at first glance—but now glowing with runes written in blood.
"You heretics never learn. Violence is the only language you understand." He sighed, adjusted his glasses with one hand, and with the other, summoned the scripture's true power.
Chains of scarlet light burst forth, writhing around him like spectral serpents—an ability called "Blood Curse." The more fear his enemies felt, the more powerful the chains became.
Sherwin snarled and lunged, hurling cursed bandages at Benson like vipers. But Benson struck back with the scripture itself, slamming the iron corner straight into Sherwin's temple. The cult leader staggered, stunned for a split second.
"Not bad…" Sherwin growled—but before he could finish his sentence, a piercing wail echoed through the night.
It was "Ghost Echo," one of the arcane abilities passed down from the Vampire King.
The sound bypassed flesh and struck straight at the soul. Sherwin's face twisted violently, his cursed eyes blinking erratically as he stumbled back, letting out an unholy scream.
Meanwhile, within the blood-soaked theater…
"I'll show you… how I'm going to end you."
Ivins stood over a mutilated corpse, panting and bleeding heavily from the neck. Regenerating tissue wriggled across his wounds like living threads. Across from him, the lead Silent Monk of the Wolf-Tongue Cult glared back with equal intensity, his left arm limp, his robes soaked in blood.
Without a word, the monk charged—but Ivins didn't bother dodging.
He let the blade pierce his ribs, grabbed the monk's face, and ripped skin from bone with his clawed hand.
"Still smiling, clown?" he snarled, and with a final, vicious thrust, drove his fingers through the man's throat, ending him.
Elsewhere on the battlefield, the tide had begun to turn.
Glynn, on the verge of becoming a third-generation vampire, had joined the fray. With Gloria backing him up, the two brought down another monk, tipping the scales for good.
The remaining thirteen members of the "Sons of Jacob," no longer struggling just to survive, began pushing forward. The regenerative power of vampire blood flowed through them, accelerating their skill and battle instincts to near-supernatural levels.
Then came the sound of a body crashing down from above—two, actually.
Michelle, standing on the second-floor balcony, wiped gore from his coat. His longcoat was soaked in blood. Without hesitation, he jumped down, landing like a meteor.
His newly acquired ability—Bronze Hands—allowed him to grow an extra pair of arms as tough as tempered steel. They could block small-caliber bullets, and crush bones like clay.
He landed directly on top of a Silent Monk, crushing the man beneath his heel.
BAM.
Another blow. Then another. Until nothing was left of the monk's face but a red ruin.
Michelle didn't speak. He simply turned, searching for his next target.
Glynn watched him work with open envy—but also with hope. When this was over, he would be the next to ascend.
Up above, Constantine stood behind the balcony railing, peering down at the brutal clash. The two teams of monks that had infiltrated the second floor were now corpses, thanks to Marilyn and Michelle.
That left Constantine and the other "normal" members with little to do.
He hated that.
It would make him look bad—useless, even. So he glanced toward the back exit of the theater and whispered to the others beside him.
"I think I heard something out by the rear door," he said, cocking his gun. "Come on, let's go check it out. Can't sit around while the bosses are doing all the fun stuff."