Steve Chapter 876: We Close Doors with Blocks (Patreon)

“I…”

Hearing Fang Mo’s question, the policewoman froze for a moment. She glanced down at the boiled sausage – stuffed with sardine-and-lamb innards – in her hand, then looked over at Walter. She seemed stuck in some inner debate.

From what she knew of vampire lore, it was true that vampires were typically unable to consume human food. They could only drink the blood of humans or livestock, feared sunlight, and supposedly couldn’t cross running water… Walter had already explained those rules to her.

But she’d only just become a vampire.
Having lived over twenty years as a human, it was hard to accept that she was now supposed to drink blood. So she’d asked Walter, their butler, to cook her a normal human meal, hoping that even if she was a vampire, maybe she could still eat ordinary food.

But that little bite of sausage earlier made her so nauseous she nearly spit it out on reflex. It looked like she really couldn’t handle human food.

…Or could it be the food itself was the problem?

She cast a suspicious eye at the unholy mix of fish offal and lamb intestines in her sausage. Then she turned to Walter again. Lamb had that pungent gamy taste, and fish had that salty reek—the combination sounded horrifying.

Plus, it tasted like the fat had gone rancid from being stored too long, giving it a waxy mouthfeel. Honestly, it was like gnawing on a rotten lamb shank that had been soaking in seawater and congealed corpse wax. Even a normal human might have puked.

“Ahem…”

Perhaps sensing her stare, Walter coughed awkwardly. “Yes, Seras, these sausages have been in storage for quite a while. The fresh ingredients all got burned, so this was all we had in the backup freezer…”

“Eh, cut it out.”

Fang Mo, who was rolling up his sleeves, broke in with a snide remark. “British food is just plain nasty. Stop pretending otherwise.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

Walter bristled. “British cuisine is actually quite famous—”

“Famous for what?”

Snorting, Fang Mo pulled out some ingredients. He grabbed a knife and started prepping as he spoke. “Famous for being terrible, maybe. If you at least tried something like battered fish and chips, maybe I’d give you a pass… But you Brits want to talk gourmet with me? Don’t make me laugh. How can your dim flicker of glow-worm compare to the bright moon in the sky?”

“I—”

Walter opened his mouth to argue, but then his attention fell on the blade in Fang Mo’s hand. “Hold on—what’s with that knife?”

“It’s my kitchen knife,”

Fang Mo said matter-of-factly.

“…That’s obviously a katana,” Walter muttered, eye twitching. “Even in the East, I doubt anyone uses that kind of weapon for cooking.”

Indeed, Fang Mo was wielding what looked like a pinkish katana. The blade was a soft cherry-blossom hue, the guard a bright cerulean, and the hilt was wrapped in pale gold cord. Two fluffy white pom-poms dangled from the pommel. It gave off a cute, upbeat vibe—way more “girly” than anything a burly man might use.

Yes, this was Fang Mo’s newly forged weapon: “True Cotton Bloom,” an amalgamation of Tinkers’ Construct craftsmanship, illusions from “Kyōka Suigetsu,” and materials like acid-resistant aluminum and adamantine. Its attacks were purely spiritual—it was an illusion-based weapon that targeted the mind, letting Fang Mo manipulate an enemy’s five senses and layer multiple illusions to bewilder even those who had high resistance.

“Enough from you, Mr. British Chef.”

Fang Mo brandished his Cotton Bloom and flipped Walter off while prepping the ingredients. “You know nothing about real cooking. Just go peel your damn potatoes.”

With that, Fang Mo ignored Walter’s offended expression. He hummed a little cannibal ditty under his breath, waved his hand, and summoned a pixelated red lump onto the cutting board.

It was a clotted mass of bright red “blood,” fresh from Tinkers’ Construct. In that mod, whenever a player or monster falls into the smeltery and takes damage, they produce molten blood. Solidifying it yields a gelatinous clump of congealed blood, which can be used as “food.” Eaten raw, it poisons you but gives you two bonus hearts. If you hang it to dry, you get a “blood droplet” that can safely restore your health without poisoning you—basically a vampire appetizer.

Fang Mo dropped the clotted blood into a bowl, drizzled two spoonfuls of honey over the top, then turned to make himself a bowl of spicy soup and a couple of fried flatbreads.

“All right, breakfast is served.”

He placed the bowl of congealed blood in front of the policewoman. “Oh yeah, keep in mind: there are no vegetarians here.”

“…What is it?”

The policewoman took the bowl hesitantly. “Pudding? This is… my breakfast?”

Exactly. Fang Mo had pulled out Cotton Bloom because he wanted to test its illusions on her. Hellsing’s vampires were known for decent sensory abilities—they might have “third eyes” to break illusions. But apparently, Seras was a rookie and fell for it instantly, seeing the raw blood as some sort of caramel pudding.

“Strictly speaking, it’s a type of ‘slaughterhouse dish.’ Let’s call it ‘Northeast pudding.’”

Satisfied with how well the illusion worked, Fang Mo nodded. “Trust me, just eat it. Uncle Jiangshi here wouldn’t trick you.”

“What’s that red stuff in your bowl, though?”
She eyed the “blood soup” in front of Fang Mo. From her viewpoint, it seemed like some horrifying stew of fresh gore.

“Oh, this?”

Fang Mo glanced at his own meal—a perfectly ordinary spicy soup. He improvised, “It’s, uh, ‘human-head borscht.’”

“…”

She fell silent. Fang Mo, unfazed, started wolfing down his food. He wasn’t picky, and though it wasn’t gourmet-level, it was at least edible.

Seeing him devour it so heartily, the policewoman gulped. She really was starving. She’d gotten badly wounded last night—nearly impaled to death by that jerk Anderson. Even high-tier vampires needed sustenance after severe injuries, or else their powers would weaken. She just didn’t realize how badly she needed it until now.

Feeling anxious, she looked down at the “pudding.” Nervously, she scooped a small spoonful into her mouth.

“Mmm!?”

Her eyes snapped wide as sweet flavor blossomed on her tongue. The pudding-like substance melted into a rich, silky liquid that slid down her throat, instantly making her feel revitalized. “This… this is delicious!”

“How can that be!?”

Walter gawked. “She’s a vampire—she can’t eat normal food. This is impossible!”

“Told you, Brits just make terrible meals,”
Fang Mo said, rolling his eyes. Then, smiling, he turned back to the policewoman. She clearly hadn’t noticed anything off. “So, how’s Uncle Jiangshi’s cooking? Not bad, huh?”

“Mmhmm!”

She nodded frantically, scooping mouthful after mouthful of her “pudding.” The odd yet luscious sweetness kept hitting her taste buds, leaving her unable to stop.

“Wha…”

Walter watched her ravenous eating and started to doubt himself. “Could it be my cooking really is awful?”

“What else?”

Fang Mo shrugged. “Look at her—she’s enjoying every bite of my cooking…”

“I…”

Walter stumbled backward, expression torn. “No wonder Miss Integra’s always skipping meals and only asking for coffee. She must have thought my cooking was garbage but never said so…”

While Walter stood there, agonizing over his life choices, breakfast wrapped up. Fang Mo kept a discreet eye on the policewoman’s condition. As a Hellsing vampire, she’d normally absorb the soul or life essence from blood.

In the original story, Seras later fell in love with a mercenary, drank his blood after he died, and “claimed” his life within her. Fang Mo’s “congealed blood,” however, was pure digital stuff. Technically, it had no real source, so who knew what effect it would have?

So far, it didn’t look like Seras was hijacking any new consciousness. She was just… well-fed. Possibly it was just “pure” life force with no identity behind it.

“Uh… Mr. Wang?”

Noticing Fang Mo’s stare, the policewoman touched her face apprehensively. “Is there something on my face?”

“Quit calling me ‘Mr. Wang.’”

“Oh, right. Then, uh, Two-Hea—”

“What, are we never letting that gag die?” Fang Mo cut her off, rolling his eyes. “From now on, just call me ‘Uncle Jiangshi.’”

“Huh?”

She blinked. “But isn’t your name Wang Zhaosheng? Why would I call you ‘Uncle Jiangshi’?”

“That old bat is named Alucard, but you just call him ‘Master,’ right?” Fang Mo replied glibly. “He’s an undead king, and I’m of the same rank. As a junior, it’s rude to address me by my real name. You gotta show some respect. I’m at least uncle level.”

“Got it…”

She still looked a bit fuzzy on the details, but nodded. “All right, I’ll call you Uncle Jiangshi from now on.”

“Good, good. Finally got myself a niece.”

Fang Mo patted her head with a laugh. “How do you feel after eating? Full?”

“It’s… pretty good,” she admitted, tilting her head. “Weird, but if every meal could be like that, I guess it’s not too bad…”

“Right.”

Fang Mo nodded thoughtfully. So that confirmed she hadn’t absorbed anyone else’s soul. The ‘blood droplet’ was basically pure life energy with no real “owner.”

“All right, you can go find something else to do.”
He’d found his answer, so he waved a dismissive hand. “I need to… talk business with Integra. Definitely not torture her or anything.”

“Understood.”

The policewoman headed off in search of Walter.

Fang Mo returned to the basement. Checking a mini-map in his mind (or so it seemed), he quickly found Integra’s room and walked in unannounced.

Her place smelled strongly of cigar smoke, which gave Fang Mo a weird sense of déjà vu; Logan’s room back home often reeked the same way. But Logan never had this level of paperwork. Integra was buried under an avalanche of files, brows furrowed. She’d skipped breakfast to work.

“You know, you’re supposed to knock.”

At the sound of footsteps, Integra glanced up. She caught sight of Fang Mo and raised a brow.

“Sorry. I was worried I’d accidentally smash the door. A wooden door is too flimsy for a jiangshi, you know,” Fang Mo explained with a shrug.

“Where I come from, we just seal the doorway with blocks.”

“Ha?”

She frowned, baffled.

“Wow, you’re busy.” Fang Mo leaned over to peer at her documents. “Vampire reports, huh? Up this early, dealing with administrative stuff?”

“Yes, I’m holding a Round Table meeting today.”
She gave a curt nod, then scowled as if recalling something. “Normally I could just look at these files on the computer, but thanks to your handiwork, I have to do everything the old-fashioned way.”

“Hey, you guys started that fight with me,” Fang Mo shot back. “We could’ve just sat down and talked it out peacefully. Would’ve been less trouble.”

“I…”

Integra inhaled sharply, forcing her anger down. “Fine. You’re right. I was too impulsive. I apologize. Happy?”

“Normally, an apology in my culture involves showing your belly, but you’re so dark-skinned I’ll pass on that.”

Fang Mo waved dismissively. “Let’s skip the formalities. Apology accepted.”

“You little—”

She felt a vein throbbing in her forehead but swallowed her ire. “The construction team is arriving soon. Rebuilding the entire manor is going to be tough, but hopefully we can restore at least part of the living area first.”

“Oh, yeah, I saw them.”

Fang Mo nodded. “Walter went to greet them, and the policewoman’s there too. Anyway… that rebuild’s gotta be expensive, right? Want me to give you a pay raise?”

“Pay raise… for me, the Director?”

She blinked, clearly not understanding.

“You don’t believe me?”

He arched an eyebrow.

“Pfft.”

She didn’t even bother replying to such nonsense, too busy scanning the files in front of her. “If you’re not here on actual business, go brew me some cof—”

BANG!!!

The entire room shook with a deafening thud, interrupting her. Dust rained from the ceiling as both of them gawked. Right next to Fang Mo stood a cubic meter of something that glimmered with a familiar golden sheen, leaving Integra utterly stunned.

“What the— is that…?”

“Your poker face is way worse than Nick’s,” Fang Mo said with a casual smile. “Back in the day, I dropped a chunk of gold this size in front of that bald Nick Fury, and he just gave me the stink eye. Man, that guy—”

Before he could finish, another explosion rocked the basement. The ceiling trembled, and more dust floated down.

“You… did this?”

Integra demanded, gun in hand.

“Nope,” Fang Mo answered, glancing at his “mini-map” again. Two icons he recognized were approaching, along with a mass of red blips. “Looks like we have company—some enemies heading our way.”

“What?”

She froze, then gritted her teeth. “Dammit, now of all times—must’ve heard about today’s Round Table meeting…”

“Huh, you even carry a pistol like Nick,” Fang Mo teased. Then he turned for the door. “All right, you stay put. I’ll go check out the situation.”

He stepped out, leaving her about to follow when the massive gold block shifted eerily, scooting over to block the doorway. Fang Mo’s voice drifted back:

“Didn’t I say doors are too flimsy? I’m reinforcing it with a block for your safety.”

“Open this door, you bastard!!!” she shouted from behind it.