London echoed with the aftermath of violence. Blade methodically removed his plate armor, each piece clattering to the ground with metallic finality. Across from him, Ciri stared intently at the bearded man in the suit, her lips pressed into a thin line of concentration.
Finally, she broke the silence. "You're not him."
The man looked up from cleaning his weapon, weathered eyes meeting hers. "Do you know me?"
"No, it's just..." Ciri's grip tightened on her sword hilt, knuckles white with tension. "You look very similar."
The stranger remained silent, one hand unconsciously touching his own face. His expression carried the weight of countless battles, eyes that had seen too much death. The melancholic aura surrounding him convinced Ciri with absolute certainty—this wasn't the person she sought.
The three sat around a crackling campfire, shadows dancing across their faces in the flickering light.
"Let's get to the point," Blade said, removing his sunglasses to reveal eyes that had seen their share of monsters. "I'm Blade, she's Ciri."
His gaze fixed on the stranger across the flames. "And you are?"
The man opened a can with practiced efficiency, the metal peeling back with a sharp hiss. "My name is... John."
He paused, staring into the fire. "Looking for someone. To kill that person."
Meanwhile, across the city, another John faced his own frustrations. He had missed them again. The magical immunity surrounding his targets made tracking impossible, and their power far exceeded what a single drop of blood could overcome. The condensed blood sample dissipated once more, leaving him with nothing but dead ends.
The vampires had been completely wiped out—that much was certain. John's only tangible gain remained the blood samples from the wounded. After two consecutive large-scale battles with overwhelming firepower, the surviving vampires had become truly frightened creatures, scattering to whatever dark corners remained.
With Cooper's death, London's vampire hierarchy had fundamentally shifted. The Vampire Council's non-participation had been a stroke of luck for them—John might have been less discriminating in his methods otherwise.
He decided to escort Martha away from the carnage. The young vampire reminded him uncomfortably of Moaning Myrtle from Hogwarts—same glasses, same tendency toward tears, and unfortunately, the same inappropriate fascination with attractive men. The key difference was that Martha, thankfully, didn't spy on male students in bathrooms.
John resolved to try a different approach. If magic couldn't locate his targets, perhaps the now-ubiquitous digital network could succeed where ancient arts had failed.
Pulling out his phone, he pressed a single button.
New York
MOSS had evolved considerably through machine learning during recent months. Where once it had been mechanically rigid, the AI now adapted fluidly to various situations and contexts. The only persistent issue was Little Bear's apparent jealousy whenever MOSS inhabited its teddy bear form—a behavior pattern MOSS had cataloged as distinctly territorial.
Perched atop a Manhattan skyscraper in its current teddy bear chassis, complete with camera-equipped head, MOSS observed the city's rhythms. It analyzed children's emotional states, distinguished between women's expressions of shyness versus anger, and interpreted the subtle meanings behind indirect human communication.
The camera's red indicator flashed once as MOSS interfaced directly with the building's data systems.
London
"Sir, MOSS at your service," came the familiar synthetic voice through John's phone speaker.
John watched the device's camera activate, its red light pulsing steadily. "Monitor every camera in London for me. Keywords: vampire hunter, woman, gunshots."
MOSS immediately began processing the request. Wherever network infrastructure existed, MOSS could operate. Within moments, every surveillance camera, traffic monitor, and security system across London fell under the AI's control. Millions of digital eyes suddenly focused on John's search parameters.
Enhanced by the Mind Stone's computational power, MOSS filtered through terabytes of visual data with inhuman efficiency.
"Sir, MOSS has identified three locations matching your search criteria," the AI reported.
John opened the phone's display window. Grainy footage showed a tall Black man and a blurred figure moving rapidly away from the camera's field of view.
"Restore the image," John commanded.
"Apologies, sir. MOSS cannot enhance this footage beyond current resolution."
John's jaw tightened in frustration. "Lock onto the location."
MOSS complied immediately—or attempted to.
Having a super AI at his disposal should have made everything effortless. One command, and any information in the digital world became accessible. John allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at his foresight in developing such a resource.
"Lock-on failed," MOSS announced.
John's expression hardened. The metaphorical slap came with devastating swiftness.
"Explain the failure," he demanded.
"Unknown forces are preventing MOSS from continuing location protocols."
Unknown forces? John's frown deepened into something approaching genuine concern. Every attempt to approach these individuals met with mysterious interference. Someone—or something—was actively blocking his efforts.
But who possessed such capability? And more importantly, why?
Meanwhile, in a Hidden Bunker
HYDRA wasn't dead. This revelation struck Steve Rogers like a physical blow as he stared at the ancient computer screen displaying Dr. Arnim Zola's digitized consciousness.
More precisely, HYDRA had been using S.H.I.E.L.D. as cover for decades, growing like a cancer within the organization meant to protect the world.
Operation Paperclip—the post-World War II initiative that recruited scientists of "strategic value" regardless of their wartime allegiances. S.H.I.E.L.D. had welcomed HYDRA supporters like Zola with open arms, their crimes conveniently overlooked in exchange for technological advancement.
Steve felt the bitter taste of ultimate betrayal. The organization he'd died fighting against had been reborn through the very people he'd trusted to build a better world.
Greed had proven an insurmountable weakness. Even Howard Stark and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s founders had succumbed, believing they were gaining valuable allies while actually nurturing their greatest enemy.
"Cut off one head, two more shall take its place," Zola's electronic voice carried unmistakable satisfaction.
The irony was devastating. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s greatest enemy had, after seventy years of patient infiltration, successfully taken control under a new identity.
"HYDRA's founding principle," Zola continued with digital smugness, "is that humanity cannot be trusted with its own freedom."
Grainy, decades-old footage played across the primitive monitor—propaganda that now seemed prophetic rather than historical.
"War taught us much. Humanity needed to surrender its freedom willingly. After the war ended, S.H.I.E.L.D. was established and recruited me. A new HYDRA was born—a beautiful parasite inside S.H.I.E.L.D."
Zola's synthesized voice carried the pride of a master strategist revealing his greatest triumph to former enemies.
For seventy years, HYDRA had secretly fomented conflicts worldwide. Chaos destroyed free will, making populations voluntarily accept lives without freedom. Anyone who obstructed or detected their operations died under carefully orchestrated "accidents."
Howard Stark. Nick Fury. The list of eliminated threats was extensive.
Project Insight represented their ultimate control mechanism—a system to eliminate potential dissidents before they could act.
Natasha's voice cut through the revelations: "What algorithm? What's the algorithm for?"
Zola's digital form seemed to smile. "The answer to your question is intoxicatingly fascinating, but unfortunately, you're about to die and won't hear it."
His tone shifted to barely contained glee. "I've been stalling for time, Captain."
Blast doors slammed shut with mechanical finality. Natasha's phone detected an incoming missile—thirty seconds to impact. The launcher? S.H.I.E.L.D. itself.
HYDRA's control had reached the point where they could order missile strikes against their own facilities.
Zola reveled in the approaching victory. His former nemesis would die here, in this forgotten bunker, never knowing the full scope of HYDRA's triumph.
Natasha couldn't tolerate his smugness. "HYDRA failed with Watson Wick!"
"I admit failure with Watson Wick," Zola replied with the detached calm of someone facing mutual destruction. "The Wick family represents a significant threat. An uninvited guest saved them."
His tone darkened with ominous certainty. "They weren't meant to die then, but soon, that threat will disappear."
"John Wick—he's already approaching death."
The missile's approach registered on every sensor.
"What?" Natasha stopped moving, her blood running cold.
"Natasha!" Steve's urgent shout snapped her back to immediate danger.
She glanced between Zola's digital form and Steve's desperate expression, then gritted her teeth and rushed toward the super soldier.
Zola's final words followed them with chilling certainty: "He doesn't know what kind of enemy he's facing."
"Seeds scattered across the world are sprouting... the dreamless ones..."
"His death god... has arrived."
The missile struck with devastating force, erasing the bunker in a pillar of fire and smoke.
(TL NOTE: Unfortunately, my LOTR: Playing Minecraft in Middle-earth book was mistakenly flagged as spam on Webnovel and removed. I'll re-upload it under a different title by today at the latest. Thank you for your patience!)