"Everyone in this Salon can be assumed dead, tell the City Lord that all the members’ families must be inspected," Standing at the door of the side hall, Camilla reached out to grasp the door handle and pulled open a crack, his subordinate threw in the Holy Flash scroll with the safety released.
The divine light flashed and disappeared, listening to the screams inside, Camilla pushed open the door, the shotgun in his hands aimed at the Vampire rushing towards him and pulled the trigger. The Deer Bullet tore apart his chest, sending the Vampire flying.
Lowering the muzzle, Camilla fired at the Vampire behind the couch; the Deer Bullet shredded the couch and then the Vampire behind it, turning it into a sacrifice lying in its own pool of blood.
"Reload, cover me," Camilla opened the gun barrel, ejecting the spent shells and loaded two new silver-infused Deer Bullets as the Paladin behind him completed the process of reloading and clearing.
"According to intelligence, the inner walls of this Salon are made of thin wooden boards..." Catching the wall-breaking explosive passed by his subordinate, Camilla slapped it onto the wall, then crouched to the side and pressed the detonator button.
A properly charged explosive tore half of the wall to shreds, and a Paladin at the side threw a grenade inside.
The explosion cleared the dust, and Camilla, holding his gun, was the first to emerge from cover, facing a Vampire holding a Revolver he pulled the trigger. The bullets fired by the Vampire whizzed past Camilla’s ear, but the Deer Bullet he fired tore apart a portion of the Vampire’s body.
Then came the second shot, Camilla knocked down a Blood Slave that pounced at him, and without time to reload, he reversed his shotgun barrel and knocked down another Vampire holding a fork. Pulling out a dagger, Camilla pounced on the Vampire, clearing the firing line for his subordinates at the same time. The dagger in his hand had already pierced through the Vampire’s throat. He pulled out the dagger, the second strike pinned the Vampire’s hand to the wooden floor.
He then drew a new silver-infused dagger from his scabbard at his waist, stabbed it into the Vampire’s waist, pulled it out, then drove it back in. After three times, the dagger ultimately pierced the Vampire’s eye socket.
A Paladin reached out to help their commander up.
Other Paladins had already secured their targets; those riddled with bullets had no ability to resist anymore.
"Clear, Your Excellency, we’ve caught a Vampire whelp," one of the Paladins pushed a young Vampire in from the door.
Camilla sheathed his dagger and then looked at the small Vampire with a smile, "Hand him over to Her Excellency Constance of the Goddess of Harvest Church."
"Yes, Your Excellency," The Paladin took out a cloth bag and covered the young Vampire’s head.
Camilla walked up to the target; the Mister from the Yudam family had five bullet wounds, and since he was a Vampire, he was still breathing, now silently looking at Camilla.
"Mister Yudam, right?" Camilla looked at the Vampire in front of him, "I have some unfortunate news for you, your family has been apprehended by us."
"Pah, you short-lived species!" spat the Vampire.
Camilla smiled and wiped the blood from his face, pulling open the collar around his neck to reveal a blood-colored tattoo.
The Vampire fell silent for a moment, then began to struggle violently.
Camilla stood up and kicked him in the face, the studded boot crushing the Vampire’s face, "Take him away."
Two Paladins drove silver stakes into the Vampire’s back and then dragged him out of the Salon, one on each side.
Camilla passed his shotgun to his lieutenant, took the Revolver from his hand, aimed at the Vampire woman crying in the corner and pulled the trigger.
"Only dead Vampires are good Vampires." Handing back the Revolver to his subordinate, Camilla straightened his collar and left the Salon with his men.
As he mounted his steed, the young man smiled.
Her Excellency Constance of the Goddess of Harvest Church would certainly not have expected that other Trafanians would still be carrying out the ancient and holy revenge hunting.
Hmph, the old dog is so old that he can hardly walk; he can live a few more years in peace, leaving the dirty work for young men like him.
Trafanians, without a King, without a homeland, even without a tomorrow.
But they are still armed with hatred, armed with faith, every living Trafanian will remember the tragic story of their ancestors.
Until there is a life-and-death outcome between Vampires and Trafanians.
At the street corner, Casaman finished off two cigarettes, the middle-aged man looked at the street, unsure of where to go back to.
Should he return to his school, waiting for classes to resume tomorrow, or should he go back to the safe house, and start planning to feast on a fat sheep; or should he simply return to the bell tower and continue eating bugs at noon.
Although he felt sorry for the half-human, this clunky fellow was the only friend he had left in the sect.
It’s just a pity, he probably wouldn’t know that his friend was a secret agent from Sydney’s military intelligence.
Well, some encounters are just meant to illustrate the idiom "same bed, different dreams."
But then again, the bed in the bell tower is too hard, better go back to the dormitory at school to rest. At least that way he can have a meal that’s somewhat human tonight.
To hell with that insect feast.
With that thought, Casaman patted off the ash that had settled on his overcoat and turned to head back the way he had come—the school dormitory was over there.
As he passed by the teahouse, he noticed the closed doors of the teahouse, then saw the deep red pool of blood on the floor.
Casaman was stunned for a moment, then a loud noise came from behind him; he turned his head and saw an elderly thing that had crashed into a roadside pushcart stall.
The old man’s coat, which had smashed the pushcart’s awning, had been removed, and his face and body were covered in wounds, a short knife sticking from his neck was still oozing blood, but it seemed he had no blood left to flow.
Scratching his head, Casaman was somewhat unsure how to express his feelings, then he heard the sound of the teahouse door being pushed open, he turned around and saw the two burly men who had entered the teahouse before.
The next second, Casaman, who had pulled out a revolver from his overcoat, killed the burly man in front, and the one behind pushed the corpse into Casaman, knocking both to the ground where they started wrestling.
Casaman and his opponent exchanged savage punches, choked each other, bit each other, until finally, Casaman reached for a short knife; he gripped the handle, thrust it into the gap between the burly man’s ribs, twisted hard, and sawed until the hand around his throat lost its strength.
Pushing the body off him, Casaman turned his head and saw his mentor, who had adopted a different pose, the left hand seemed to be conveying something, and the frozen expression appeared to be smiling at him.
The whistle of the police sounded in the distance, Casaman glanced at the bloodstains on his body and smiled... The old guy was dead; nobody could prove his identity now.
Maybe getting shot by the police was better than being a lonely ghost.
"Boss! Have you gone mad?" Just then, a half-human ran over from the other side of the street, grabbed Casaman’s hand, and dragged him toward an alleyway, as the cops came into view. Noticing them apparently fleeing, an officer fired his gun, but maybe it was too far, Casaman didn’t feel a bullet whizzing by, and the half-human pulled him into the alley, eventually losing their pursuers in the labyrinthine alleys.
"I really don’t understand, what got into you just now, Boss." The half-human stopped, looked at Casaman who seemed to have lost his spirit, and finally sat down on a bench next to the flowerbeds: "I’ve been feeling that you’ve been off lately, so I wanted to find you, but I never expected you to clash with them."
"Them, who." Casaman looked at the half-human: "You know them!"
"Of course, I know them, Master of Wisdom, they are cultists protected by the True God, we lonely ghosts can’t compete. Now that you’ve killed their people, boss... you better run fast..." As the half-human spoke, he leaned back in the chair.
A blood-soaked coat was revealed as the hand holding his abdomen slipped.
Casaman crouched down and felt his lower back; the bullet hadn’t gone through.
This meant the bullet had tumbled after entering the body and ultimately lost all its penetration force.
The half-human was no longer able to speak; he just extended his hand, grabbing Casaman’s.
Casaman read his lip language.
He said so, then lowered his head.
Finally, Casaman stood up, hearing the faint sound of footsteps, the middle-aged man took off his overcoat and covered the half-human with it, then ran towards the exit of the alley.
He needed to survive and then take revenge.