"Let us commence our operations; we simply must leave something behind for this world."
The majority of the Last Battalion had boarded the airships—vessels generously sponsored by Advanced Idea Mechanics.
Even if M.O.D.O.K. himself refused to admit it, A.I.M. was now thoroughly shackled to the Last Battalion's war chariot.
Whether in victory or defeat, A.I.M. would be branded with the indelible mark of the Third Reich. Even if the organization had originally been born from its ashes, this was an infamy they had no desire to shoulder again.
M.O.D.O.K. sat in a chair in the corner, his expression grim.
His Super-Intelligence was rendered practically useless in the face of a pack of madmen.
These creatures never listened to him. Even though he possessed the power to influence minds, these soldiers had long since abandoned reason, their hearts filled only with a thick, suffocating desire for destruction.
The airships were equipped with enough advanced stealth technology to remain undetected during flight. But what was far more fatal was that the Major had carved that banner representing infinite suffering onto the hull, and had even spray-painted the A.I.M. logo right alongside it.
Furthermore, the firepower aboard these ships was sufficient to wage a not-so-minor war.
M.O.D.O.K. couldn't extricate himself now even if he wanted to. He could only watch as this colossal vessel sank, dragging him down with it to batter open the gates of Hell.
"Heil!"
The officers standing before the Major extended their arms in unison, mourning the loss of that insane empire.
They had waited too long for this feast.
They were prepared for war. Every single one of them craned their necks, eagerly awaiting the arrival of death.
"Gentlemen! I love war! Gentlemen, I love war! Gentlemen! I love war more than anything! I love wars of annihilation! I love blitzkriegs! I love offensive strikes! I love defensive actions! I love sieges! I love breakthroughs! I love routs! I love mopping-up operations! I love retreats..."
The portly Major, one foot planted on the corpse of his former superior, began his high-pitched address to the soldiers before him.
Rows of parallel sentences, like crashing waves, narrated the cruelty of war and the fanaticism of this deranged leader.
His speech was filled with descriptions of war's gruesome spectacles, brimming with worship and longing for the conflict itself.
That fanaticism quickly infected the heart of everyone on the airship.
Quiet murmurs of agreement gradually swelled into a thunderous cheer. The frenzied war machine had begun to move.
Not long ago, the Major had personally executed his commanding officer in front of the troops. This catastrophe was not something a single person's will could halt.
For those who try to stem the tide, there is only one outcome besides victory: extinction.
These soldiers had already lost the visage of humanity. Twisted demonic horns, crimson skin, and cloven hooves stripped them of the last traces of their human existence.
Although the research into demonization was not yet fully mature, these soldiers—already modified into vampires—accepted this brand-new power with joyous hearts.
They could no longer be judged by the standards of yesterday.
"What is it that you desire?! Do you wish for a more intense war?! Do you yearn for a merciless struggle that treats life like dirt?! Do you crave a tempestuous conflict where iron winds and lightning fires slaughter the crows of three thousand worlds?!"
As the Major's speech neared its conclusion, Captain Dobelbroff, standing beside him, pulled the brim of his hat low and remained standing in silence.
Within the Last Battalion, he was now the only pure one left. Even if he was a pure werewolf, he was better than those mongrel mixtures of vampire and demon.
The Wolfman Captain had sought eternal rest from the very beginning; he was merely a silent man swept up by the tide.
As a pure werewolf, he had once enjoyed the battlefield, intoxicated by the strange thrill brought by spilling blood.
But now, he only wanted to sleep.
The Major raised his arms high, basking in the fanatical praise of the soldiers before him. The battle was about to begin.
Roars of "War!" surged like a tsunami from the mouths of the soldiers. Now possessing the power of demons, they were more zealous than ever.
The immortality of vampires and the strength of demons had blended to form the specter of this insane empire!
Mephisto's silhouette appeared in the shadows nearby, excitement etched upon his face.
According to the contract, the souls of every life these soldiers extinguished would fall under his control.
The grander the scale of the war, the stronger he would become.
With just a few hundred thousand souls, he could completely break free from the control of his main body in Hell.
If he could just wander the mortal realm slowly, gathering souls, he would become a Hell Lord walking upon the earth!
Freedom held a completely different meaning for this clone.
The joy of deciding his next move by his own will caused a smile to spread across the face of the Hell Lord's avatar.
As for Nive's revenge?
He didn't care.
Just as Nive couldn't kill him even if Mephisto's true form arrived, Nive could not kill this avatar of the Demon Lord either!
Among the fanatical soldiers below were agents who had originally belonged to S.H.I.E.L.D., but after multiple modifications, these agents had lost their reason, becoming part of the madness.
The Third Reich had used their unique methods to alter these once-unwavering agents in a short span of time.
Discipline builds strength! Teamwork builds strength!
And this strength, crowned with "Glory," forged action!
Beings who couldn't find their place had found themselves within this insane collective, and thus, they became even more insane!
This was how the Third Reich had done it before, and it was the method by which they forged the storm of their mad empire.
When people are trapped in the tide, no one clearly realizes what they are doing.
They will only say, "I just did what I was supposed to do," hiding all brutality and injustice within the collective.
The sober are naturally ostracized, either drowning in the tide or becoming just another splash in the water.
And within the group known as agents, how many were truly sober?
Or rather, how many people in this world are truly awake?
Just recognizing one's true self is a difficult enough task.
"Gentlemen! Let us create Hell together!"
The Major delivered his final summary with his characteristic smile.
Perhaps he didn't intend to make that expression, but with most of his body modified into machinery, he was incapable of making any expressions outside of a specific few.
Perhaps his enthusiasm and fanaticism were complex, but that no longer mattered.
The tide had begun to move; not even the initiator could stop it now.
The Major grinned, shouting loudly, throwing himself into this utter carnival!
His gaze was blocked by his glasses; one could only see a pair of shining lenses reflecting a cold light toward the soldiers!
Everyone knew he had his own objectives, but the soldiers no longer cared. They only wanted a grand finale!
The fanatical roars of the soldiers echoed throughout the airship as it prepared to launch.
With a sudden lurch, the war was about to begin!
"Report. The Last Battalion has begun operations! The Church's armed forces have also arrived on the outskirts of London. We have not determined what method the Last Battalion will use to attack."
Inside S.H.I.E.L.D., Nick Fury quietly watched the agent reporting the news, then silently picked up the landline on his desk.
A landline connected only to internal circuits was exceptionally useful for conveying orders.
"Dugan, set off."
Nick Fury said only that short phrase, then turned his head to look at Coulson, who stood before him, hesitating.
"Now, you can enjoy some leave."
Nick Fury did not intend to follow his original thought of sending Coulson to Hellsing to take over Steve's work.
This was a war, and Coulson was not suitable to join the battlefield directly.
"Director, Captain America is there. Fighting alongside him is one of my greatest dreams."
Coulson spoke with his head bowed.
He had no intention of fleeing. As long as this battle was necessary, he was willing to sacrifice his life.
"There aren't many people in S.H.I.E.L.D. who can intervene in this war. This is a war of supernaturals against ordinary humans. Our individual strength is too insignificant."
Nick Fury sat squarely at his desk, his gaze drifting.
With London becoming the main battlefield, he didn't have the courage to bypass the UK and use nuclear weapons directly.
That sort of thing was no joking matter.
Fury felt that even if the battlefield were New York, those foul politicians wouldn't be crazy enough to drop nukes on their own soil.
Right now, the combat was asymmetrical.
"Director, if the situation spirals out of control, nuclear weapons would be the last resort. For the sake of hundreds of thousands of civilians, we should put forth our utmost effort to crush the enemy."
Coulson raised his head, arguing contentiously.
He was dissatisfied that the UK had refused aid from other countries; currently, only small-scale forces could be deployed there.
The British weren't being arrogant; they simply remained full of confidence because of that vampire named Alucard.
Alucard's power had been proven in war, and they were confident they could extinguish the flames of war ignited by the Last Battalion.
"If you don't need a vacation, then keep tracking Hydra!"
Nick Fury shouted sternly, putting a stop to Coulson's request.
Fury believed that humanity could achieve victory in a battle against indigenous creatures, even as his hand rested upon that old-fashioned pager.
"If you insist."
For the first time, Coulson stormed out of the room in anger, his destination unknown.
He didn't know that Nick Fury had already mobilized the Howling Commandos for a decapitation strike.
Nick Fury had incorrectly estimated the nature of this war.
The Last Battalion was not out to rule the world, nor were they seeking profit.
They simply wanted a sufficiently brilliant curtain call.
Killing Alucard was, in their perception, the most glorious result achievable.
Everything was for destruction, for war itself.
Even the world's most cutting-edge analysts couldn't fathom the plans of these lunatics.
A decapitation strike would do nothing to stop the slaughter of these madmen.
(End of Chapter)
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