Run, run, if you can. Run, run, from the man. The one in black, who wields a sword, and carves the enemies of our land. When you run, don't come back, or he'll catch you with a clawed hand.

Flee, flee, if you can. Flee, flee, from the man. The Sultan, the Khan, and the Pope couldn't stop him. He has killed all who have taken arms against him.

-Old Romanian Nursery Rhyme

Chapter 24: The Path of Least Resistance

The Library was finally in flames. Who even knew where Librarian was? Not Alexander Anderson, no sir. He walked out of the burning building, with the three large books in tow.

Of course, one of the three idiots approached him.

"Well, sir", Cyril said, looking timid as he adjusted his glasses, "don't take this the wrong way, but I drew the short straw. What took you so long? It's dark out! People will see this fire for miles!"

"That is their problem", Anderson explained with a grin, "and no longer ours. Now, all we have to do is- what the...?"

Approaching them rapidly was a huge wall of fog. The fog was heavy enough to crush cars, and as soon as their anti-theft systems sounded, they would be enveloped by the fog, and the alarms would abruptly cut off as the thick fog silenced them. That alone was quite concerning; what was worse by far was the man in the middle of the fog wall.

The man in the middle of the fog was easily six and a half feet tall, clothed in blackened, segmented armor, and a long, flowing black cloak that was torn and tattered. The hood was drawn up, and all that Anderson could discern of the man was his eyes, glowing red and powerful like spotlights of hellish hatred, piercing the soul of all that they stared into.

Anderson examined the man further. The segmented armor was battle-worn, covered in scratches, dents, and almost miniscule perforations. The largest piece of non-segmented armor was his chest piece, which covered his vital organs down to the liver and kidneys. The armor barely made a sound at the man marched forward, likely modified with cloth and leather to be whisper-quiet and offer ultimate protection from sword and arrow. The metal gauntlets on his hands appeared to have the fingers filed down into sharp claws.

In his right hand, he held a huge, blessed, English Longsword-patterned, otherwise normal-looking sword. Anderson realized quickly that it couldn't have been Alucard who was approaching him, as he clung to his Magyar like a kid to his blanket. Searching for a clue as to who the man may be, he looked at his chest piece again. This time, this time, he could see the outline of an ornate European dragon, wielding a flaming sword in its mouth.

Wasn't that the symbol of Helsing Armories?

"SURPRESSING FIRE", Cyril yelled, pulling his rifle from his coat and depressing the trigger.

Rounds sparked off of the man's armor, and he flourished his sword to protect his head. To the man's right, one of the men charged him, blazing away with his dual pistols. The tall metal man cut the Iscariot in half with his huge sword. It had happened so fast, Anderson had barely seen it.

This made the Iscariot pushing his left fall back, taking cover behind the engine block of a nearby car. The tall metal man extended his palm in the Iscariot's direction, and a wave of fog smashed against the car like a tsunami. The force of the blow pushed the car, with the Iscariot clinging on the side, against the nearby wall, crushing the Iscariot. Blood poured out of his nose and mouth, splashing onto the hood of the car.

Cyril reloaded his rifle, bringing it back up to continue firing. Too late; the metal man was already on top of him. He sliced the rifle in half with his massive sword, and put a fist into Cyril's sternum, launching him towards Anderson. He came to a crumbled stop at Anderson's feet.

Anderson leaned down to feel for a pulse, and, finding none, stood to his full height. He flicked his wrists to reset the tracks running along his wrists, bringing two fresh blessed bayonets into his hands. The tracks retreated up his arms, returning to the dimensional rifts that had been knit into his coat.

Though the rift contained countless thousands of blessed bayonets, he still wondered if he had enough to put this bastard down.

The two men circled one another, looking for an opening. Or, at least, Anderson was. The tall metal man seemed to be passively analyzing Anderson like how someone might observe a video of a car crash in slow motion.

Anderson, despite seeing no opening, charged in, bellowing a war cry and feigning a high attack. Seeing right through it, the metal man blocked low. He countered, swinging at Anderson's chest. It seemed like he overswung, bringing the sword too far out and exposing his back. On instinct, Anderson swung at it with a blessed blade. It bounced off with a "clank".

The man observed him with his piercing eyes. It caught Anderson off guard when the metal man reversed his grip and thrusted backwards towards Anderson's chest. Anderson jumped back, attempting to right himself. Even as he got his footing, the metal man was upon him, sending a flurry of strikes at his center, many of which seemed to be overpowered. Anderson retreated, focusing on the defense.

Anderson was baffled by the man's fighting style. He was using a two-handed sword like a one handed one, and frankly, he was overextending by small increments. That didn't seem to stop Anderson from being overwhelmed by his relentless attacks.

Anderson barely missed a strike, and as punishment, his forearm was severed. The severed limb dissipated into dust, as a new one began forming. Realizing that his right arm track was now broken, and fearing a follow-up strike, Anderson flicked what remained of his forearm, and a bayonet shot out of his torn sleeve, towards the metal man's face. He dodged a little slowly, his hood getting caught by the blade, and tearing a little. A lock of jet-black, curly hair fell out of the hood.

Kinda like Alucard's, Anderson thought, as the metal man's blade tore through his chest.

The wound closed quickly, and in synch, his hand fully healed. He flicked his right wrist, and a bayonet shot out of his sleeve and into his hand. He caught it deftly, allowing its explosive momentum to pull him forward, thrusting the blade towards the metal man's exposed head.

The man dodged unnaturally, bending backwards at the waist, making his armor creak in protest. Anderson reversed his grip, preparing to stab downward, but the man countered, kicking his leg up, and throwing Anderson off-balance. The man rolled backwards like a cat, quickly righting himself, and lunging at Anderson. Anderson blocked, but he was hit with such forced that he stumbled backwards, into the burning library through the open door. The man continued to press the attack, slashing through Anderson's bowels. Anderson recovered quickly, blocking high and swinging higher. The man didn't take the bait, and swung low. In another second, Anderson was against the wall, and their blades were all locked.

Anderson kept the man's blade in a pincer, preparing to push in left. To his surprise, the man went with the action, allowing Anderson's blades to slide down his own. He adjusted his fulcrum to angle his blade straight into Anderson's neck, and pushed. Blood shot out in a stream, painting the wall behind him. Anderson tried to duck it, and realized that if he did, he would have to tuck and roll out of it, and leave his back exposed.

The man's sword tore through the wall, and then through Anderson's back as he got to his feet. As he turned to face the man and tried to get his footing, the sword tore through his chest, too, having been thrusted through. Before Anderson could react, the man twisted, tearing up Anderson's right lung. Annoyed, Anderson pushed in to the sword, reaching up to slice at the metal man's head.

This seemed to catch the man off guard, and it tore through the other side of the man's hood. It fluttered to the ground, revealing that the man had gotten his left hand up to protect his head, and had caught the bayonet's blade in his armored gauntlet... and revealing his face.

Alucard's, albeit with a large moustache stretching across his face.

"Alucard", Anderson asked, startled.

Alucard responded by twisting his gauntlet, snapping the blessed blade in half. He took the broken blade, and swiped it across Anderson's face, opening up the scar that was already there. When Anderson stumbled back, dumbfounded, Alucard responded with another thrust to the chest. Anderson parried, but hesitated to counter-attack. Alucard did not, aiming a strike at his neck. Anderson parried, and returned the favor. Alucard blocked, and angled his sword to tear through Anderson's shoulder. Anderson pincered the blade again, pushing it off of him, and swinging low with one bayonet. Alucard stepped into the strike, letting his armor absorb the blow, and slammed his forehead into Anderson's nose, crushing it. Blood poured from it, and Anderson stumbled back. Alucard swung for Anderson's neck.

"No, stop", Anderson shouted in an authoritative manner.

Alucard stopped short of Anderson's neck. Alucard's eyes went wide. He lowered his sword, staring at his bloodied hands.

Alucard began to ventilate, and his face fell to anger. He roared in Anderson's face, and unleashed a flurry of attacks on him. Anderson barely managed to defend himself, missing occasionally and taking a nasty hit.

If this punishment kept up, he wouldn't last much longer.

Anderson moved to block with both of his blades, only for them to be cleaved in half by Alucard's larger sword. Anderson was stunned, so much so that he didn't notice Alucard reach in with a clawed gauntlet to grab Anderson's throat. Anderson, knowing that he was a dead man, decided right then would be a good time to play his trump card.

He flicked the hem of his jacket, and from the flaps of his coat, the rift was torn, and a tsunami of bayonets shot forth, with such force that a few of them punctured Alucard's chest plate. Being hit with such a force shot Alucard backwards, throwing him to the ground on his back.

It didn't give Alucard enough pause to help Anderson. Alucard jumped to his feet, and began ripping the embedded blades out of his chest, and throwing them back at Anderson. A few of them stuck in him, and his wounds tried to heal themselves around the bayonets, spitting the bayonets out as they fully healed, but Anderson was beginning to become overwhelmed, and his healing factor was beginning to falter.

Alucard hit him, hard, and grabbed him around the throat. Alucard threw Anderson, back-first, into one of the support pillars. It crunched horizontally, and as Anderson tried to right himself, Alucard was upon him, putting his fist through both Anderson's chest and the pillar. Alucard pulled his fist from the pillar, and grabbed Anderson around the waist, throwing him up into the air. He ran up the pillar after Anderson, and as Anderson began his downward arc, Alucard jumped unto his back, sinking his sword into Anderson's heart, riding him to the ground.

Anderson belly-flopped onto the rubble-strewn ground, and Alucard landed on his back with a sickening crunch signaling the fracturing of Anderson's spine. Alucard pulled his sword from Anderson's back, holding it reversed. He marched towards the exit, Anderson's blood dripping from the blade in his hand.

Anderson tried to struggle to his feet, but found it to be impossible. He fell back to the ground, looking upwards to see Alucard marching out of the open door through the mirage of the heat-waves coming off the flames surrounding them. Alucard didn't even look back.

The pillar cracked, and the ceiling began to cave in. Anderson knew that he wouldn't be able to move in time to escape the rubble. His healing factor nearly depleted, he wondered if he would indeed survive the coming collapse. He braced himself.

...

Anderson tore his way through the rubble with his right arm, honestly surprised that he was still alive. He took stock of himself, noting that he still had multiple bayonets sticking out of his abdomen, his left arm was a mess of hamburger meat and exposed bone, his right leg had multiple fractures, and worst of all, he had a still-bleeding gash in his chest where his heart was. Unknowing if his heart had any tears was a big gamble, as too much damage to the heart in such a shambled state could ultimately kill him.

Still had enough left in the tank to kick Alucard's ass.

...

He wasn't quite sure where he was. He was just an animal, following the tells of his master, Vlad, but when his master refused to lead him, he was simply a murderer, and his victims were everywhere. He was Dracula, and he was very little more than a mask.

It appeared to him that he had not been worn in some time, as the world around him had greatly changed. Those horseless carriages were everywhere, and the guns he had seen had advanced by leaps and bounds.

Not only did he not know where he was, but he had no idea where he was going either. He was wondering almost aimlessly, killing without regard, until Vlad told him otherwise. Following that tugging wire, that base desire, he was beginning to exit the city altogether, until the calling of one of his names stopped him.

He turned to find the one his master recognized, Anderson. At first, he was confused, as he was certain that he had killed him. Then his wounds gave him away; a Regenerator on its last legs. The wounds tried to close so slowly, that he might as well have been a human. Nevertheless, he was on guard. He had fought several Regenerators, and he had only won once.

"Whatever's gotten into ya", the Scotsman shouted, leveling a silver bayonet, "I'm gonna beat it outta ya!"

The man was Christian, judging by the silver cross dangling from his necklace, which meant that in fighting him, Dracula was bound to the code of Chivalry. He wasn't certain if the man would honor his part in the code, but until he did otherwise, Dracula would act in every way necessary a gentleman.

He put his left arm behind his back, evening the playing field for the wounded man ever so slightly. The wounded man seemed offput by this, and tried to steel himself for a fight. The night was still for a moment, as the two combatants stared each other down.

The wounded man bellowed and charged, ignoring his own wounded leg, and aiming for Dracula's exposed head. Dracula side-stepped, blocked, and counter-attacked, slashing at the wounded man's now exposed back. He must have expected it, because he blocked the attack with a spinning rear block. He twirled around, aiming another full power strike towards his head. Dracula parried, and responded with a counter that set the wounded man off of his feet.

Dracula would have closed in, but chivalry dictated he leave the advantage to the wounded man. He waited for the man to recover, and aggress first. The man regained his footing, and waited for an attack. When none came, he steeled himself and attacked again. Dracula defended, blocking, parrying, and counter-attacking in time with the wounded man's strikes. The wounded man lost his balance, and Dracula waited for him to regain it.

The wounded man righted himself, and charged in again. This time, he snuck a bayonet into his wounded left hand. He flung it towards Dracula's head, at the same time attacking with the right. Dracula disarmed the right hand and grabbed the left. He twisted it grotesquely, disarming it as well.

Dracula let go of the mangled arm, and grabbed the wounded man around the neck, lifting him into the air, and constricting his windpipe. The wounded man choked and sputtered, as Dracula began counting down the seconds until he was sufficiently deprived.

The wounded man kicked, but Dracula held on. He tried to fulcrum his arm, but Dracula held on. He tried to reach out and grab Dracula's face, but Dracula put his own sword in the man's bicep, stopping him in his tracks.

The wounded man sputtered, spit shooting out of his mouth as he tried to suck air in. His face slowly turned purple. Then his feet stopped kicking.

Dracula threw the body to the side, and marched on.

...

His senses heightened.

He turned, noting the area he was in to be a large field with a vineyard off to the north. He gripped his sword tighter as the feeling washed over him again, the feeling of primal dread, that sixth sense knowledge that you are being hunted by an apex predator.

Even in his life he had felt the feeling, the kind that freezes blood and roots the feet to the ground. He had hunted evil creatures in his life and for most of his death, but he had never felt the fear quite this strong. A lesser man, living or dead, would have crumbled beneath it.

He reversed his grip, thrusting behind himself. He turned with the blade, slashing across the chest region.

He found he had almost been too late. The creature that had snuck up on him had thrown a slender, pale, clawed arm towards him, but the blade had batted it away. The creature countered with another throw of the other hand, and Dracula ducked it, slashing up, ending the attack with a cruciform follow-through. The creature effortlessly shot out of his reach, and counter-charged. Dracula pushed the blade into the ground, rushing forth to meet the creature, and threw dirt into its face with the blade, dancing out a crushing swirl of an attack as a follow-up. The creature was stunned by the display, giving Dracula enough time to wind up and bring the sword down on its head, but the creature once more shot back.

As Dracula recovered his posture, the creature stopped long enough for Dracula to fully observe it. Eyes black as pitch, with otherwise sharply beautiful features on its pale face. The creature was easily eight feet tall, with a powerful structure, but a distinctly human one, with a human gait, posture, and nothing distinctly animal about him, minus the longer than normal arms. And now those, too, receded into flowing white robes, becoming normal... human sized.

This was no monstrous hell-spawn of Nephilim, no war-animal of pre-Flood society.

Standing before him was a creature he never believed he would see again.

The angel's eyes lost their black pitch, retreating into whites around a deep red iris, with a black pupil dilating and receding.

"He told me you would be here", the angel spoke, "but he didn't tell me how professional you were. You handle yourself better than most. This will be interesting."

Dracula pointed his sword at him, declaring more than asking, "Who sent you?"

"A blessed blade of silver", the angel commented, pointing at Dracula's sword. "I had thought the last to be destroyed."

He was correct. Terminus Est had been destroyed in an Allied bombing raid during World War Two, one of many Christian artifacts that had been deliberately targeted. But the angel was avoiding the question.

"Who sent you?"

"Come now", the angel said, "we were speaking as gentlemen but a moment ago. You already know who sent me, as the Great Tyrant wants nothing to do with you... or me."

A Fallen angel. One of many who had forsaken God for earthly pleasure. Those who had altered the course of humanity so drastically that God was forced to flood the earth to save what was left of it. 3,000 years of human history, maybe more, gone forever because of these selfish beings.

Despite the fact that he no longer considered himself a Christian, he felt the very Christian urge to destroy this evil beast.

He gripped his sword tighter.

"If you will not speak to me as a gentleman", the angel told him, reaching into his robe, "then perhaps you will fight me like one."

The angel withdrew a rather large, one-handed bronze sword. Dracula could tell it was bronze by the sheen, and by the ridge along the center. It was longer than the average bronze blade by almost a foot and a half, but it was clearly one-handed by the handle.

The once-divine being held its sword off to the side, the blade pointed towards his right. He approached slowly, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

Dracula scoffed.

"Simp."

The angel paused.

"I'm sorry?"

"Only a simp would betray God's Love for a thot."

Dracula tsked, shaking his head.

Annoyed, the angel responded, "I joined the Opposer's ranks for power, not women."

"That's what I would tell people if I had abandoned God's Light for a crumb of pussy."

The mischievous one, Alucard, was feeding him lines now. Though he was also a mask, he was slightly more autonomous than Dracula. Ultimately, most of the decisions were Vlad's. Dracula himself was not one to be so vulgar.

"And what of your own sexual conquests", the angel angrily countered. "Treating each woman as an army to crush, a castle to plunder, a servant to destroy?"

"I hadn't felt the touch of a woman for three hundred years of my existence", Dracula calmly stated. "If anything, that would make me a Sigma male, which would make you a sugma male."

"What's a sugma male?"

"Sugma male genitalia", Dracula said, throwing a heavy strike.

The angel was not thrown off in the slightest, and he immediately countered with a flurry of strikes. As he did so, clouds began rolling in behind the angel, covering up the bright moon and stars.

Not so long ago, he could have told by sight what kind of angel it was. Now, after convincing himself he would never see one again, he had fallen out of practice. He was fairly certain that this was a Fallen Virtue, since the clouds seemed to roll in in an unnatural pattern.

Regardless, the fight was still in full swing, and the strikes that Dracula was laying against the angel did little to deter it, with him countering each move as easily as a master would the moves of an apprentice. The angel barely had to move to block and parry Dracula's masterful attacks. There was truly no contest between the two of them when it came to skill.

Fortunately for Dracula, he had more on his side than skill.

Dracula was pushed back, and subsequently threw his sword in an Archer stance. The angel easily dodged, smirking. Dracula held his hand out, and the sword came screaming back. The angel barely dodged in time to avoid it, giving a look of concern.

Dracula didn't have time to celebrate this minute victory, because as soon as the sword was in his hands, rain began pouring down, drenching him instantly, and blinding him. The angel took this time to press the attack, seemingly unaffected by the rain, throwing very casual slashes. Dracula was still able to defend himself, having taught himself how to fight in the pitch dark by using the rest of his senses. He even managed a counter that took the angel off-guard, almost clipping him.

The angel got distance from Dracula, remarking, "Very good, vampire, very good. I haven't had to work this hard in a fight in some time. Truly, it has been fun, but I'm afraid I have other business to attend to, and must therefore end this inconsequential fight."

Out of the clouds, a huge tornado swirled, touching the ground and throwing up debris. Dracula was swept up by the wind, and while tumbling through the air, got a chance to take a look at the tornado. It was titanic in size, easily an F5, so big and so powerful that it was pulling chunks of road-covered ground into the air. Dracula angled his body, using his own power to glide towards a particularly large chunk of ground, at least ten by ten feet.

Dracula slammed into the asphalt, digging in with his claws and hanging on for dear life. After getting something of a grip, he began trying to stand up, using power to anchor himself to the torn asphalt. He managed to get to a knee, and then managed to pull himself up straight. The sight that greeted him was the mega-tornado, pulling objects like full-sized trees out of the ground.

His view soon had a new object of importance. A figure coming out of the tornado, who had two huge white objects extending out from his sides. As it got closer, it was easy to see that it was, in fact, the angel who had been attacking him, this time, with his wings extended. He flew straight up to Dracula, a look of annoyance on his face.

"Like a cockroach, you refuse to die", The angel scorned, "an annoyance for all, a roller of dung and spreader of disease."

"You've been quite annoying as well", Dracula responded. "Making a cup from your skull will be quite refreshing."

The angel landed on the piece of road, his wings folding in, and becoming invisible again.

"I don't think you will have the chance", the angel declared, landing several strikes.

Fighting like this was severely disorienting, but it didn't take long for instinct to kick in and right him. Through sheer will he fought through, balancing himself, fighting the storm, and swinging his sword like a true champion. This second wind seemed to throw the angel off, and in retaliation, he swung his sword at the floating piece of ground, chopping it in half and separating the two combatants.

Dracula held on, but it was futile. The angel spread its wings, and dove hard for Dracula, flashing towards him as if he had simply been there all along. He seemed to pass bare inches from Dracula, smashing his sword into Dracula's chest plate. It sent him flying, but he tightened himself up again, landing soundly on yet another piece of floating land.

The angel flashed by him, smashing his sword into Dracula's pauldron, shattering it entirely. Dracula was nearly thrown off the piece of land, but barely managed to hold on, in time to be railroaded by the insanely fast angel yet again. Once again, his chest plate was struck, denting extremely until it was peeled back like a ripe banana. Dracula was tossed to the other side of the land, but managed to land on his feet this time, forcing the angel to adjust his approach vector. His sword still shattered Dracula's other pauldron.

Dracula caught his footing again, but didn't see the angel. A mighty force lifted him up by his back, forcing him towards the rapidly approaching ground. Dracula tried to turn, and succeeded in seeing the smirking face of the angel as it rammed his back into the ground, riding his ruined chest piece like a surfboard. When he had had his fill, he kicked off of Dracula at supersonic speeds, breaking the sound barrier with a crack, and shattering Dracula's rib cage, pulverizing his organs.

He finally came to a stop in the middle of the fields. The tornado had decreased in size, but was still going strong. Dracula stood to face his enemy, and two things immediately happened. His ruined chest and back pieces of armor fell off him like a shed skin, and Dracula doubled over, puking blood.

Dracula righted himself, holding his sword out with both hands.

"Finally", the angel said, walking out of the rain wall before him, "you use that thing properly. You are tough, I will give you that. No normal vampire should have survived what you have. Perhaps you could have helped us after all."

"I still... find you... annoying", Dracula barely managed to spit out.

"What do you think is about to happen here", the angel said arrogantly, holding out his hands and twirling, "I am the storm that approaches. To stop me is to stop the shining of the sun, or the turning of the earth. You cannot lift a finger against me. You have not even laid a scratch on me this whole fight. What hope do you have against me?"

Dracula raised his sword and charged. The angel grabbed his wrist, and raised him up by it, bringing their faces level. The angel's eyes went white, and his mouth hung open. From Dracula, black mist and red vapor began spewing forth, and entering the angel's open mouth. The angel fed on it greedily, until the face of Dracula changed. Now, he had chestnut brown, curly hair, reaching to his shoulders, deep brown eyes, and a moustache that went from cheek to cheek across his face. His eyes looked more sunk in than normal, from what appeared to be sleep deprivation.

"So much power", the angel pointed out, "yet you use so little of it. Now, you will lose all of it!"

The angel's face became normal, as the wrinkles on Vlad's face grew deeper.

"It's fitting, then", the angel told him, "that I should take what is rightfully mine-"

Vlad threw a left cross, punching the angel in the face. Thrown off, the angel let go, and Vlad pressed his attack, using every skill he could think of; Turkish Wrist, Wrath of Man, Tusk of the Boar, anything that could give him an edge. It wasn't enough to stop the angel, and he brought his sword down on Vlad, which he barely blocked, bringing him to his knees. The angel brought his sword down again, and again, breaking Vlad's posture completely.

"Now I will take this power", the angel told him, "and destroy as much of the Earth as I can with it! You have led me to a great victory, and for that, you will die!"

The angel raised his sword again, and everything went still. The angel stopped in his tracks, the tornado stopped spinning, the mounds of earth it had kicked up stopped falling. Out of the thin, immobile air marched a figure that he knew, and yet he didn't understand.

Before him stood Aurelian, the One God's Greatest Hero. But it couldn't truly be him, for he was nine feet tall. It was an armored angel, one that was dressed in Aurelian's helm.

"Vampire", it said, in a deep, booming voice.

Vlad had thought he would see angels in his lifetime, but an armored angel? He had no idea the apocalypse was so close.

"You are a Power", Vlad said in disbelief.

"Yes", the Power responded. "You are about to die."

"Yes", Vlad admitted.

"Step aside", the Power told him, "and allow me to fight this offender."

"No", Vlad told him, forcing himself to his feet.

"No?"

"You are unarmed", Vlad pointed out. "I wouldn't want you to suffer a defeat simply because you don't have a sword."

"Then give me your sword", the angel declared, "and with it, I will destroy this traitor."

"But I don't want you to be hurt", Vlad said. "Lend me your power, and I will destroy this traitor for you."

"And why should I trust you with my power", the angel asked.

"You heard your opponent", Vlad reminded the angel, "I had much power, and used very little. I could argue I used it responsibly."

"You have fought against my Lord's creations", the angel angrily declared, "how do I know you will not attack me next?"

"Why should I", Vlad asked. "If you have lent me your power, I can reclaim my own, which your enemy has declared is more than enough. Everything I want and need to do is well within my grasp with the power I wield. Once I have reclaimed my own, you may take back yours."

The Power thought about this.

"I will ask you once more", the Power declared. "Would it not be in your favor to give me your sword?"

"No", Vlad responded. "I would rather take the blows meant for you."

"Very well", the Power said, annoyance evident in his voice. "I will lend you my power, but when you have your own, I will take mine back."

"More than fair", Vlad told him. "I will fight the oppressor with your help."

The eyes in the helmet brightened, and now Vlad could see they were a beautiful molten gold. Suddenly, his whole body stopped feeling like he was dying, and he began feeling stronger than he had ever felt before. Suddenly, he was ten times the man he had been.

The tornado began to move, and the Fallen angel's sword fell on empty ground.

"Wha-", the angel began, turning a horrified expression towards a full-powered Vlad.

Vlad pointed his sword, and charged the angel again.

"No - no", the angel said in a dejected tone. "It's not possible! You are an abomination! How can you be blessed?!"

Vlad easily batted away his sword, and quickly landed several critical blows on him, leaving long, deep gashes in the angel's skin. The angel disengaged, trying in vain to run, but now Vlad was faster than him, and grabbed the joints of his wings, ripping them from his back. Bloody geysers shot from the stubs.

"MY WINGS", the angel cried, "YOU ABOMINABLE BASTARD!"

The angel turned, attacking furiously, but now Vlad could easily repel his sword, countering with more destructive attacks that left more bloody scars in the angel.

Eventually, the angel was forced to his knees, pleading for mercy. Vlad approached him, grasping his shoulders.

Destroy him now, something almost instinctual and natural, like the wind caressing his soul, told him, go the way of the Power.

"No", Vlad said simply, sinking his teeth into the angel's neck. "I'm mad at you. You have abandoned me for the last time."

Indeed, as he felt the power stolen from him reenter, the blessing the angel had put upon him vanished, as likely did the angel himself. Vlad had to play this next part extremely aggressively.

He threw every ounce of power he had into his attack, decapitating the wounded angel. Uncertain if he killed him, Vlad tore a bloody gash into the angel's chest, and quickly reached in, ripping his heart from his chest, holding it in his hand.

Consume the heart, another voice, this one more tangible and foreign, told him, garner the power of the Fa-

Vlad crushed the heart in his hand.

"No", he said simply, "I'm mad at you too."

There was a great cry that went up, and Vlad bore witness to four other angels retrieving the body of their fallen brother, and taking his body through what seemed to be a portal. Vlad couldn't see what was on the other side, but as the four walked with the corpse through the portal, they all disappeared. And now Vlad was alone.

The first thing he did was examine himself, noticing that his armor was ruined. He sighed, and tried to figure out where he was. Discovering some signage, he realized he had stumbled across a vineyard several miles north of Philadelphia.

Having discovered his location, he turned towards Arlington National Cemetery, intent on solving his armor problem.

Having reached the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, he showed his father's medallion to the patrolling Honor Guard. The guard wordlessly bade him enter, stepping aside so he could. He opened the tomb, going inside to collect his inheritance.

Why not store the armor in the Tomb? It was convenient, guarded, and furthermore he was born before the country was even discovered by civilized men. He had helped Spain, the discovering power, by ridding them of their Turk problem, and his father had been a soldier who died nameless.

HE had been a soldier who had died nameless.

The armor in question was submerged in mineral oil and encased in concrete. To open it, Vlad grabbed the sledgehammer in the corner. He lined up the head with one of the corners, and began sledging.

The concrete tomb split open, revealing a red-tinged Lorica Segmentata. Normally, it would take at least one other person to fit him into it, but he had an army at his disposal. The shredded remains of his own breastplate and pauldrons fell from him, as the armor was gently lifted onto him.