Sullivan didn't stop moving. He was practically spamming Apparition, blinking toward the horizon as far as his eyes could see. He covered three miles in about two minutes before the castle the boss had mentioned finally came into view.
The castle wasn't exactly a skyscraper. It was built from crumbling black stone and shrouded by dense, overgrown trees—no wonder he hadn't spotted it from the sky earlier.
Now that he was close, Sullivan dialed back the aggression. He cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself, slowed his pace, and crept toward the structure—wand in his right hand, magic pistol in his left.
As he got closer, the metallic tang of blood hit his nose. His heart sank a little. Don't tell me something bad has already happened.
He reached into his Undetectable Extension Bag, pulled out a brooch, pinned it to his chest, and activated it. A faint, shimmering film enveloped his body. It was a dual-purpose barrier: protection and concealment. It locked in his scent completely. Judging by the smell of blood in the air, the current tenants of this castle definitely weren't human.
Magical creatures usually had heightened senses, and Sullivan wasn't about to bet his life that a simple Disillusionment Charm would fool the landlord.
Finally, he slipped inside. The place wasn't huge. Without much searching, he found himself in the Great Hall.
Standing there were a man and four women.
The man was decked out in classic British aristocracy garb, with long, meticulously groomed hair. He was handsome—almost gave Sullivan a run for his money—except for a scar over his eye, heavy bags under them, and skin that was a sickly, pathological white.
The three standing women, however, were knockouts. despite the late October chill, they were dressed for a summer pool party. They wore sheer gauze and strapless tops that pushed their pale assets dangerously high.
Their toned midriffs and long, smooth legs played peek-a-boo beneath the translucent fabric. Sullivan couldn't help but take a second look.
The man looked ecstatic. In front of him was a stone altar where another woman lay unconscious. The three other women stood to the side—one looked curious, another looked jealous.
Ignoring them, the pale man began making strange gestures over the altar with his hands, like he was conducting a symphony. Sullivan could feel a vile, dark magic swirling around him.
"Hahaha! I never imagined I, Dracula, would capture a noble and beautiful Metamorphmagus! Once the ritual is complete and I grant you the Embrace, you shall be my Countess!"
The Embrace! Count! Sullivan clocked the keywords immediately. This guy was a vampire. And the three backup dancers? Definitely vampires too.
The "Metamorphmagus" Dracula was drooling over had to be Tonks lying on the stone slab. It looked like the actual biting part hadn't started yet. He wasn't too late.
Sullivan quickly ran the numbers. With his current stats and his arsenal of alchemical gadgets, if he went 1v1 against the Count, it'd probably be a draw. But if the three brides jumped in? He'd likely get wrecked.
He patted the small head of Coal Ball, who was tucked in his jacket, and spoke through their telepathic link:
"I'm going to open with fire and explosion curses. I'll try to take one of the women out instantly. Then, you take one, I take one. We need to speed-run this fight."
"Once they're down, you run and hide. I have my own way out. Got it?"
Coal Ball nodded, though his eyes were filled with worry. "You sure you can escape?"
"Trust me."
Sullivan cut the chatter and quietly maneuvered behind the three female vampires. He switched his magic pistol's chamber to Confringo (the Blasting Curse), took a deep breath, slashed his wand, and shouted:
"Incendio!"
A jet of red light shot from his wand, expanding into a massive fireball mid-air that roared toward the backs of the three vampires. Simultaneously, he pulled the trigger on his pistol. An orange streak of light—the Blasting Curse—trailed right behind it.
This pistol was custom-made by Sullivan with a mana amplifier. Back when his Magic was Level 5, it could boost spells to Level 6 power. But now that Sullivan's raw Magic was Level 8, the amplifier was struggling just to keep the spell from losing power. That single shot drained the capacitor dry.
BOOM!
The massive explosion of fire and force slammed into the middle vampire. She was torn apart instantly, her remains catching fire before they even hit the ground.
The one on the left didn't fare much better. Her arm was blown clean off, and she was set ablaze, rolling on the floor and screaming in agony.
Sullivan ripped the collar off Coal Ball's neck. The little creature instantly reverted to his true form, lunging at the one-armed vampire and tearing her head off with a savage snap.
But vampires don't go down easy. Her headless body rolled, extinguishing the flames, and suddenly a pair of bat wings burst from her back. She lunged blindly at Coal Ball, trying to snatch her head back.
Coal Ball yelped and bolted. Speed was his main stat—if he couldn't win the fight, he could definitely win the race.
The vampire on the right was the luckiest. She'd been standing further away and was just blown back by the shockwave. She slammed hard into the wall but didn't take critical damage.
"Who dares intruder in my castle?! Sophia, kill him!" Dracula roared in fury, but he didn't move from the altar. The ritual was still active.
He just needed a little more time to complete the Embrace—drain this Metamorphmagus dry, replace her blood with his own, and make her his eternal servant.
Sophia, the surviving bride, opened her mouth, revealing razor-sharp fangs, and let out a piercing shriek at Sullivan.
Then, she shifted. Leather wings ripped out of her back, her clothes vanished into a thick, greyish hide, and her fingers elongated into dagger-like claws.
She flapped her wings and dive-bombed Sullivan.
Sullivan raised his left hand and fanned the hammer, firing three rapid Confringo shots. Even without the amplifier, his Level 8 mana meant the pistol shots hit with Level 7 force. Against a vampire maid, that should've been enough.
Sophia didn't dare tank the hits. She zigzagged in the air, dodging the curses while closing the distance.
Sullivan was in a tight spot. Sophia was fast, forcing him to split his focus between shooting and moving, which slowed him down. Meanwhile, Dracula was leaning in, baring his fangs at Tonks' neck.
"Expecto Patronum!"
Sullivan swung his wand. The Patronus Charm wasn't just for Dementors; it packed a punch against dark creatures like vampires too.
Blinding white light erupted from the tip of his wand, condensing into a massive, silver Raven. Since leveling up to Magic Level 8, Sullivan felt the bird had gained a spark of true sentience. The Raven flapped its wings and shot like an arrow straight for Dracula's head.
Thwack!
The impact sent Dracula flying backward. The side of his face that touched the Raven sizzled, skin peeling away like burnt paper to reveal bone and teeth. It looked excruciating.
Sullivan wasn't having a great time either. Because he'd been distracted casting the Patronus, he hadn't fully dodged Sophia's dive. Her claws raked across his shoulder, leaving three deep gashes.
Black blood oozed from the wound. Poison. Great.
He didn't have time to inspect it. He reached into his bag, grabbed an antidote, and chugged it while sprinting. He made a mental note to thank Snape later—and to beg him to brew another batch.
Sullivan dashed to the stone altar. Tonks was lying there, sporting silver hair today and dressed in the same skimpy outfit as the vampires. Sullivan couldn't help but glance at the deep valley of her cleavage.
Focus. He realized something was wrong. Tonks couldn't move. Only her eyes were active, filled with shock and relief as tears streamed down her face.
"Finite Incantatem!" Sullivan cast the counter-spell, sending a white light into her body.
Nothing happened. Was it not a spell? Or is my counter-spell level too low? He didn't know the ultimate counter-curse yet.
Suddenly, Tonks' eyes widened in panic. A massive sense of danger screamed at Sullivan from behind. He snapped back to reality—he was still in a war zone.
He spun around to see the vampire Sophia, body rigid, diving feet-first like a living spear, her claws aimed straight for his skull. She was going for the kill.
Sullivan's blood ran cold. He instinctively reached for his bag—he had a Portkey in there, his trump card. He wanted to save people, sure, but his bottom line was staying alive.
But before he could grab it, the silver Raven in the sky sensed its master's peril. It banked hard, turning into a streak of moonlight, and sliced through the air—and through Sophia's midsection.
Like a hot knife through butter, the Raven cut her cleanly in half.
There was no blood. Sophia's severed torso began to crumble into black ash, the disintegration spreading rapidly.
"No! No! Master, save me!" Sophia shrieked, her face flickering between the hideous monster and the beautiful maid.
It was useless. Two seconds later, Sophia was nothing but dust on the castle floor.
Sullivan let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and took his hand out of the bag. Even he hadn't expected his Patronus to have an auto-attack function.
"You filth... I was imprisoned for five hundred years, exiled from my homeland... and now you dare enter my world and ruin my ritual? Human, you are not prepared!"
Dracula pulled himself up. The burns on his face had already fully healed. He stared at Sullivan with eyes spitting fire.
With a roar, his bat wings expanded, and he grew from a tall man to a hulking three-meter monstrosity. Given the "Illidan Stormrage" vibes of his speech, Sullivan half-expected him to whip out a pair of Warglaives.
Shaking off the stray thought, Sullivan commanded the silver Raven to dive at the Count again.
But this time, Dracula reached out with a massive claw and snatched the Raven out of the air. His hand sizzled and smoked, turning black from the holy magic, but he didn't let go.
The Raven struggled and screeched, but Dracula crushed his grip. With a final mournful cry, the Patronus shattered into specks of white starlight and vanished.
Sullivan froze. A dark creature that can physically crush a Patronus?
He realized his threat assessment was wildly off. He couldn't fight this guy.
He grabbed Tonks, threw her over his back, and cast a binding spell to strap her to him. He considered Apparating, but Tonks' magical stability was questionable; Splinching her in half wasn't part of the rescue plan. The Portkey was safer, but he wanted to save that for a true emergency.
So, he pulled out a different gadget. It looked like a giant firework rocket—basically an oversized bottle rocket. He grabbed the handles, flipped the switch.
FWOOSH!
The "Sky Monkey" booster rocket ignited, launching Sullivan and Tonks straight through the castle window and toward the distant mountains.
Three seconds later, they touched down. In those three seconds, they had covered nearly six miles—roughly Mach 10. It was an early prototype escape tool Sullivan had built and forgotten about once he learned Apparition. Who knew it would actually save his bacon?
Back in the castle, Dracula had just finished crushing the annoying bird when he saw his prey rocket away. He let out a furious howl.
He crouched and launched himself upward, smashing through the castle's vaulted ceiling and soaring three hundred feet into the air.
The sun hadn't fully set yet. Dracula hated the sun—it nerfed his stats—but he didn't care.
With his supernatural vision, he spotted Sullivan and Tonks running six miles away. He flapped his wings and engaged his afterburners, streaking toward them. He wasn't supersonic, but he'd catch them on foot in less than a minute.
Sullivan heard the sonic boom behind him. He adjusted his glasses to telescopic mode and saw Dracula closing in. He didn't know the terrain. Where the hell should he run?
He reached into his bag and pulled out a small vial he'd looted from a dragon poacher: Felix Felicis, Liquid Luck.
He downed it. A warm, golden sensation spread through him. He abandoned his plan to use his flying motorcycle and instead followed his gut instinct, veering off toward a specific cliff.
Dracula was less than half a mile behind them when Sullivan reached the edge. Ahead was a waterfall, about thirty feet wide with a hundred-foot drop.
Sullivan reached into his bag one more time. He pulled out an RPG launcher.
If I can mod a revolver with magic, why not a rocket launcher?
He shouldered the tube, locked onto the flying vampire, and pulled the trigger. Thump-whoosh. The warhead trailed fire as it screamed toward Dracula.
Dracula sneered. He didn't know what this metal stick was, but he just had to dodge it.
He banked his wings, executing a perfect aerial maneuver. The rocket whizzed past his face.
Sullivan didn't look disappointed. He smirked and snapped his fingers.
BOOM.
The rocket detonated right in front of Dracula.
The explosion wasn't huge—it only knocked the vampire back a few yards. But this wasn't a Muggle high-explosive round. It was a collaboration between Sullivan and an American Potions Master.
A massive cloud of pink gas erupted from the warhead, engulfing everything within a hundred-foot radius. It was a high-concentration, aerosolized Confusion and Euphoria Elixir.
Dracula's eyes instantly glazed over. His feral expression melted into a look of pure, unadulterated bliss. He was tripping balls, lost in a hallucination of his greatest desires.
Sullivan remembered when they were testing the prototype. He'd accidentally inhaled a whiff. Let's just say... it felt better than sex.
He tossed the empty launcher aside, untied the ropes binding Tonks, held her tight, and dove straight into the deep pool beneath the waterfall.