Steve Chapter 894: Real Identity... A Wishing Machine! (Patreon)

“Run!!!”

Integra’s shout snapped everyone on the battlefield back to their senses.

Father Anderson whirled around and bolted. Thanks to his super‑human physique he covered several hundred meters in the blink of an eye, pages from the Bible fluttering continuously from his cassock. The moment anything looked amiss he was ready to cast his teleportation miracle and leave the field altogether.

Walter acted just as quickly.

With a flick of his wrist the monofilament wires coiled around his arm shot out, latching onto a distant building. He yanked hard and his whole body arced through the air like Spider‑Man, hurtling away from danger.

Even in flight he did not forget Integra.

His free hand swept back toward her; several filaments curled gently around her, clearly intending to whisk his “young mistress” to safety as well.

But at that instant a gloved hand materialized out of nowhere, seizing the delicate strands and halting Walter’s attempt.

“What …?” Walter’s brow knit at the sight.

“Really—do you still mean to save her at this point?”

Alucard’s deep, velvety voice rolled across the ruins, each word dripping with mockery.

“And in what capacity do you think you can act, betrayer that you are?”

“…Alucard!”

Walter’s expression turned ice‑cold.

With the slightest twitch of his fingers the once‑supple wires became razor‑keen, slicing Alucard’s palm to shreds as easily as tofu.

“Ha‑ha‑ha! The Angel of Death is angry!”

Yet Alucard paid the damage no mind; he simply threw back his head and laughed, voice thick with derision.

“Integra is now my adorable master alone—no longer yours… traitor!”

Walter’s face grew even more fearsome.

Alucard, however, ignored him. A warped, monstrous hound rose from the shadows at his feet.

The moment it appeared, the beast charged Integra, nudged her up onto its back with its snout, and streaked away like black lightning.

“Heh‑heh… ha‑ha‑ha‑ha‑ha!!!”

Once Integra was clear, Alucard clutched his head and laughed maniacally.

And then—

The sky‑blotting aircraft carrier came crashing down.

Its massive bow plunged nearly vertical, smashing into Alucard with titanic force. Tens of thousands of tons of steel and momentum reduced him to a crimson smear in an instant.

The prow kept driving, rammed deep into the earth.

All of London seemed to judder; an earth‑shaking roar followed, echoing into the heavens.

The carrier itself groaned under the stress—hull twisting, plates buckling. Something—armory or fuel stores—detonated, and a pillar of flame erupted as though to set the very sky ablaze.

Turrets, deck, even the hull split apart.
Crushing inertia compacted the fore‑section; almost a third of the ship’s length seemed to vanish into itself.

And still it was not over.

With a deafening boom the starboard and port aft blew outward, keel warped and broken, armor plating peeling away and bending nearly ninety degrees. Seen from a distance the mutilated vessel now stood like a colossal steel cross thrust into the earth.

Fuel poured out; infernos raged.

Against the backdrop of London’s shattered skyline, that burning metal crucifix looked like a final requiem for every restless soul.

“Mm‑hm, not bad at all.”

The architect of this devastation—Fang Mo—stood nearby, admiring his handiwork with satisfaction.

“Shame I don’t know ships that well,” he mused. “Could have slapped a few life‑enchantments on her, turned her into a cute anime waifu. Then I’d have my own little Azur Lane…”

“Wang Jiangchen!!!”

Walter’s voice cut through his reverie.

“Huh?” Fang Mo turned reflexively.

Walter swung back on his wires, landing before him, voice tight with anger. “What is the meaning of this? You promised me a fight with Alucard!”

“He’s not dead—you’re impatient,” Fang Mo replied, eyeing Walter’s partially restored youth. The Angel of Death had clearly eaten the Golden Apple; no longer an elderly butler, he now looked like a striking English gentleman—hair neatly tied back, black leather suit replacing his old livery, an aura of chill resolve surrounding him.

“Weren’t you here to kill Alucard?” Walter asked, baffled. “Why drop a carrier on him, then?”

“I didn’t. He just couldn’t be bothered to dodge—”

Fang Mo shrugged, but another furious voice rang out: “Wang Jiangchen, you fiend!!!”

Integra had already ridden the hound back. She leapt down, drew the pistol at her hip, and trained it on him. “What’s your goal? Why pit Walter against Alucard?”

“Oh, that.” Fang Mo opened his mouth—

“Milady.” Walter cut in. “Did I not already explain?”

“You—”

“What did Wang Jiangchen do?” Walter lit a cigarette, inhaled, and continued. “I was ensnared by some sorcery, defected to his side, reduced to a puppet for his secret scheme, and forced to fight my former master… Is that the story you want to hear?”

“Walter…” Integra looked at him, lost for words.

“I’m not here under anyone’s orders.” Walter’s tone was firm.

“I stand here as myself—Walter C. Dornez—your enemy.”

“But Walter why?!” Integra burst out.

“Don’t say my name!” Walter snapped, freezing her.

“My entire life has led to this moment! You understand nothing!!”

“Now, Integra,” Fang Mo finally spoke, “I never tried to brainwash anyone. At most, I grant people’s innermost wishes—like a universal wish‑machine. Haven’t you realized?”

“What?”

“Walter’s sole desire is to challenge Alucard, no matter the cost, so I made it happen. As for you: you wished I’d stop making trouble in Britain, or help with difficult problems—so I did.

“Your manor destroyed? I gave you gold to rebuild it.

“You didn’t want me fighting Alucard? I haven’t touched him since.

“You wanted someone as reliable as Alucard? I provided intel and solved problems. I even warned you London would fall, did I not?

“Have I really betrayed you?”

“This… what?”

“Alucard is the same.” Fang Mo’s smile sharpened. “I sense his desire too. Care to guess what it is?”

“Wang Jiangchen…” Integra’s eyes were complex.

“Heh‑heh‑heh.”

Two hands burst from the ground and began applauding. Alucard rose like a living shadow, unharmed by the earlier impact.

“Alucard!” Integra called.

“Then tell me,” he said, amused, “what do I crave most?”

“I hardly need to.” Fang Mo glanced at Father Anderson racing back. “You’re this excited because your wish is about to be fulfilled, yes?”

Alucard actually paused.

“Why the fixation on that red overcoat when you could change clothes at will?” Fang Mo asked softly. “Because when Van Helsing drove a stake through your heart and shattered your dream, he was wearing that very coat, wasn’t he? And why hunt vampires everywhere? Orders? No—you most wish to kill your former self.”

Alucard’s expression shifted from blank to shocked.

He had told no one—not even Integra—those secrets.

“Oh, by the way,” Fang Mo added, pointing at Walter, “I didn’t turn him into a vampire or ghoul. He’s still human—eats, fears sunlight, ages, dies—so this really is a fair duel.”

“You…” Alucard’s composure wavered. “You truly are—”

“AAAAMEN!”

Father Anderson finally arrived, bellowing, “Vampires! Heretics! Blasphemers! I’ll drag you to Hell!”

Blades and bayonets became streaks of light, pin‑cushioning Alucard in an instant—even his head sprouted several. He looked like a porcupine.

“Do you?” Fang Mo quipped the Porcupine Man’s classic line—only for two bayonets to spear toward his eyes. He knocked them aside, face dark.

Alucard, skewered yet exhilarated, raised his gun to return fire.

But steel wires whipped in, shredding his arm; the giant black pistol clattered away. Walter and Anderson exchanged a glance and attacked in unison.

“Integra!” Alucard laughed amid the onslaught. “He’s interesting, that one! He speaks truth—no need to doubt. Simply follow your desire!”

Integra’s brow furrowed into a knot.

“Carry on, then,” Fang Mo said, settling into a plastic chair to watch the show—while keeping an eye out for Schrödinger, ready to snatch the cat the moment it appeared.

“Hey! Wang Jiangchen!” Integra soon stalked over.

“What—time to torture me for a change?” Fang Mo looked around. “Huh? Where’s my Enma Blade?”

“Just one last question,” Integra said coldly. “Are you truly unconnected to those Millennium lunatics?”

“Obviously.” Fang Mo snorted. “If I worked for them, London wouldn’t be under attack. Picture it: Zeppelins bearing that swastika crest descending on the city—let’s see if those fools remember the terror of the concen—of being dominated, hmm?”