Steve Chapter 892: Sigh... This weakling... (Patreon)

After a lengthy stalemate Integra finally authorized Fang Mo to attack.

She had no choice—the situation was critical. No one knew what those lunatics meant to do with a hijacked aircraft-carrier, and weapons development was their specialty; if they loaded it with something catastrophic London could truly be doomed.

To be honest, Integra had private reasons as well.

Even now she trusted the vampire king Alucard a bit more. He was the Hellsing family’s trump card and bound to her by contract; in theory he could not betray her.

Fang Mo, by contrast, was different.
His sudden appearance reeked of mystery. Although time together suggested he bore no malice, Integra’s vigilance never relaxed. She did not act merely for herself—she represented the Royal Order of Religious Knights, the entire Hellsing organisation. If anything went wrong, the whole country would pay. She would not gamble.

So she decided to send Fang Mo after the carrier, keeping that unpredictable factor far from London while she and Alucard held the capital.

Frankly, she feared disaster if the roles were reversed. A woman’s intuition kept warning her that when Fang Mo spoke earnestly he was usually lying, while his jokes had an uncanny habit of coming true. Integra sincerely did not wish to see London lift off the ground…

…

Over the Atlantic – roughly 300 nmi from Burlington

High in the air Fang Mo looked down with interest at the warship beneath his feet.

It was an aircraft-carrier lying dead in the water. According to Round Table member Sir Penwood it had been HMS Eagle of the Royal Navy; now it was in the hands of the Major’s fanatics, proudly renamed Flagship Adler. They had slaughtered the crew and, mixing the blood with paint, drawn a huge scarlet swastika across the flight deck—clearly visible even from the sky.

“Man, that symbol makes me think of Rin Tohsaka,” Fang Mo mused. “Maybe after this fight I’ll drop by the Fate verse again. If I can hop timelines, I’ll bring her alternate self back for fun.”

Still chatting to himself, he drifted down toward the carrier.

As he descended every AA mount swung up and tracked him, barrels pointed straight at his chest.

Although the Major had just signed an accord with Fang Mo, his troops knew nothing of it—indeed, that was part of the Major’s scheme.

One such subordinate now sprawled on the deck: Rip Van Winkle. Blissfully unaware she had already been sold out, she squealed with delight on spotting the lone intruder and raised her antique flintlock.

A modified vampire under the Major, Rip possessed a peculiar gift. Within Millennium she was teased as the Magic-Bullet Huntress: she could control any round she fired. The musket looked antique, but its bullets were absurd; in the manga she alone held an entire carrier, swatting down helicopters, jets—even missiles. She could fire only one shot at a time, yet that single bullet could chase a Mach-3 aircraft and skewer it repeatedly.

“Ah? The one who comes isn’t Alucard?”
Rip smiled. “He-he, as long as it isn’t that devil there’s nothing to fear.”

She squeezed the trigger.

Bang! A blue arc of light burst from her muzzle, traced an impossible web of curves through the air, and streaked for Fang Mo. At the same moment every turret erupted; a storm of metal rose to meet him.

Fang Mo noticed the dense hail and, impressed by the spectacle, simply pointed a finger. “Severing Void.”

A huge, translucent barrier blossomed before him. Shells slammed into it amid deafening thunder, yet could not budge it. Even the blue beam froze, revealing its true form: an old-fashioned round bullet suspended in mid-air.

“W-what…?!” Rip froze in disbelief.

Fang Mo descended slowly, eyeing the panicked woman: tall, blue-haired, bespectacled, clutching her flintlock as though she had seen a ghost.

He recalled the opera Der Freischütz—The Marksman—in which a hunter who bargains with the Devil is dragged to hell. In the manga Alucard played that devil, and Rip had collapsed in terror. The series blended vampires, war, philosophy, romance and grand opera so delightfully…

“Right—that’s the mood,” Fang Mo thought.

Lowering himself, he gave Rip a predatory smile. “Hunter… I’ve come to catch you.”

“Eeeeee!”

The effect was immediate: Rip went sheet-white and shook uncontrollably.

“Lieutenant! Lieutenant!” panicked crewmen shouted. “Pull yourself together—he’s only one man!”

“Universal Pull.”

Fang Mo beckoned. One vampire trooper suddenly levitated and shot toward him. Black shoggoth tendrils writhed around Fang Mo like a nightmare, all eyes and fangs. Before the trooper could scream, two tentacles seized his legs and ripped him in half, feeding the pieces into a gaping maw. Wet crunching echoed across the sea.

“Don’t worry,” Fang Mo smiled at Rip, “your turn’s coming.”

“AAAAAA!”

Terror shattered her mind. She spun and bolted, stumbling in panic. Other troopers raised rifles.

“F-foul monster!”

They fired. Bullets sparked off Fang Mo harmlessly; if deck guns had failed, their carbines had no hope.

He landed. Shoggoth shadows spread across the steel like living night. Titanic tendrils erupted, snatched the troops, and hurled them into yawning maws. Bones splintered, skulls burst; the carrier filled with a nauseating stench, then fell silent.

“Hunter, don’t hide,” Fang Mo called, strolling toward Rip’s refuge. “Time’s up.”

Realising she had nowhere to run—the sea is death for a vampire—Rip finally burst out, shaking.

“All life is equal! My bullet shows no mercy!” she screamed, yanking the trigger again. Blue lightning flashed—“Fall! Fall! Stay away from me!”

The azure slug tore the sky, absurdly fast… until Fang Mo caught it between two fingers.

“Eep!”

Rip’s last courage crumbled. She slid down the bulkhead, trembling like a helpless maiden thrown into the slums of Calcutta.

“All martial arts claim invincibility; only speed is truly unbeatable,” Fang Mo chuckled, tossing the bullet aside. “Bullets weak, gun weak—yet you call yourself a Nazi sharpshooter?”

“I—I…” Rip fumbled for another round but her shaking hands couldn’t seat it.

Snap. Fang Mo caught her wrist.

“Eek!” She went rigid, cheeks flushing death-red. “I-I’m going to die…”

“Do you know why you lost?” he asked softly.

“W-why…?” terror clouded her eyes.

“Because your bullets are trash—and your gun’s worse.”

He shook his head and opened his inventory through Steve, the Minecraft avatar. Steve handed him a tiny, shining particle. As Fang Mo touched it, white light flared—his reality-materialising power activating.

Rip stared: a ping-pong-sized sphere of radiance hovered in his palm, cycling countless hues until her head swam. A dread she had never known flooded her veins.

Fang Mo smiled at her horror. “Come…”

“…and witness a true Magic-Bullet Shooter.”