Everything was fading away, drifting away.

A piece of wood hit Jonathan in the head as he went under, making him bleed. He nearly lost consciousness. Unlike him, the blood floated to the surface. He watched it rise as he sank, as the cold gripped him, as he lost everything.

Piece by piece.

Hands open, lungs full of water.

Everything around him was dark, but not because it was night, nor because he was in the water. His vision was fading.

Come on. Come on, you have to fight.

Jonathan clenched his fists.

He wouldn’t not die. He couldn’t die here. Not forever, but if he drowned, maybe the next time he opened his eyes the battle would be lost.

Maybe he wouldn't even have time to open my eyes.

Gathering his strength, he began to swim to the surface. Against the feeling that he was going to faint, against the blood in his eyes, against the cold and the force of the water that seemed to crush him.

But he succeeded.

He succeeded; he popped his head up to the surface.

Drinking the night air quickly.

He clung to one of the pieces of driftwood as if it were a life preserver.

It was night, indeed, but looking up one could almost fool oneself. A shower of arrows and large flaming rocks passed overhead, leaving a trail in the sky.

Jonathan had to get to shore.

In the water, he was easy prey. But once he reached the shore, nay, the city....

Then the ball would begin to spin. An avalanche that would consume this city and the two hundred years of the man who called himself Count Dracula.

Jonathan’s body was practically begging him to faint. But he couldn't afford to, not now. He might pass out or die once he was out of the water. Reaching shore in this state seemed practically impossible.

Under his own power, at least, the current in the end would drag his body there.

But that was only the first step. He couldn’t not give up, give in to his body's demands, when the real battle hadn’t begun yet.

So he started swimming towards the shore, giving his all and more. The water running down his face was thick as blood and cold as the death that had almost claimed him.

He swam among the debris of the Red Eagle, among the dead floating in the water.

He had eyes only for the shore, but his consciousness stretched out across the waters, touching dozens and dozens of lives. Of undead. Mostly to bring back and regenerate the fallen, but also giving orders.

It was as if he had dozens of eyes, ears, senses.

Maybe that's why he didn't see it coming in time. An arrow stuck in his shoulder, tearing a scream from his throat. And it would be nice if it was only an arrow. But it was on fire like the others, naturally.

What worried him wasn’t the flames, although burning alive must surely be one of the worst ways to die.

He gripped the arrow, enduring it burning his palm.

He gritted his teeth, ripped it off and threw it into the sea, where it went out instantly. But perhaps it was too late. What he had worried about was that it would act as a beacon for the marksmen on the battlements. A way to mark the target, to see who he was.

As much as he had said they couldn’t not recognize him from that distance.

And that his ship being the first to fall, despite the measures he had taken, changing ships, had been nothing more than a coincidence…

He had that fear anyway. Because he had to get to shore or he was lost.

His blood was flowing through the water again.

The debris...

Jonathan gritted his teeth, screaming more in rage than pain, pushing them aside. Obstacles everywhere. It was as if the world was against him.

But he would win. He would win. He would win.

It had given him the feeling that the shore was so far away that he wouldn't reach it even if he spent the rest of the night swimming. But, of course, that was just a feeling.

He got there fast. Sweating, dizzy, his head spinning.

And his guts churning. He was close to vomiting again. But the important thing was that he had arrived, and more or less intact, on top. More than he had thought he could ask for.

Undoubtedly, it was a victory.

But a small one. As he had said, it was only the first step. So he had to keep moving. To be specific, to the battlements.

He didn't need to beat around the bush.

Jonathan was much stronger and faster than before. He simply ran along the wall upwards, effortlessly.

Of course, it didn't take long for them to hear him and notice him. But the only ones who could shoot were the archers, those with the catapults evidently couldn't and wouldn't direct their weapons against their own wall.

So even though a few of them stopped aiming at the ship to shoot at him, it was simple.

He just had to move.

Along the wall. Without stopping to run.

With such high stats, he was a far cry from a normal person. He couldn't dodge bullets, but he shouldn't have any trouble with arrows, as long as he could see them coming first.

He could do that.

He could do that and much more.

As soon as Jonathan reached the top of the battlements, he grabbed the nearest archer by the collar of his shirt, crouched like a panther about to pounce on its prey.

Jonathan grabbed him and threw him backwards, over his shoulder. More contemptuously impossible.

The archer fell all the way back, screaming as if instead of throwing him he had stabbed him. At last Jonathan heard a crunch. This could be from his neck or his back, either way, he would never get up again.

So, Jonathan unsheathed the sword, leaping.

Finally leaping just like a panther. But what came out of his mouth was something else entirely. A guttural sound that had little to do with his own voice, dead, sterile, airless, like someone trying to speak without air in its lungs. That kind of scream.

That chilled the blood, closed the throats. The warriors on the battlements stepped back with wide eyes, as if they were the ones outnumbered.

When he reached them, he didn't attack, brandishing his sword. He stole the spear from one of them and broke it in half. One half, of course, ended up buried in the eye of the wielder. The other in the eye of the next one who came to hand.

Deep, all the way to the brain.

And suddenly it was three against... many. Thousands.

It would be hundreds against thousands soon, when the others made it all the way to the ramparts, as he had. And if everything went his way, the percentages would be reversed by the end. Or the size of his enemies would only increase and all would be lost, facing that tide alone.

A tide, indeed, but he had only.... He dodged, albeit barely, the blade of a sword that would have cut his throat, bending backwards.

Jonathan grabbed the swordsman, one hand on his chest, one on his shoulder.

He lifted him as if he weighed nothing. As if he were simply a child's toy, and gave him the same fate as the first one he had killed.

In other words, he threw him off the battlements.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

His head exploded as he fell, but he didn't remain headless for long. Or motionless.

He charged at the soldiers who were coming to the rescue, crossing the main street, instead of going up to help Jonathan. Of course. Because if he wanted him here he wouldn't have thrown him in the first place.

The fight continued. A few against so many.

Jonathan was fast, he was strong. But he couldn't avoid all the blows. His body was filling up with cuts. Between his blood and that of the enemies, the ground was wet, slippery.

The battlements weren't so narrow. Not when they could contain the catapults.

But they were "narrow" enough so that one false step would be enough to send someone tumbling, with no time to regain his balance.

A sword pierced his jaw.

Better than his neck. Jonathan gripped the sword firmly, despite the blood and sweat that should make his grip slippery, and pulled with all his might, intending to break it.

But, of course, the enemies weren't going to wait for him. While this one had him basically trapped, three or four others tried to throw themselves at him. More didn't come just so they wouldn't get in each other's way; that and that alone was what kept everyone from jumping on him.

Jonathan knew he wasn't going to be able to get the sword out of his jaw in time. So he didn't even try. Instead, he pulled back and to the side quickly, dragging the soldier with him as a consequence of pulling the sword. Of refusing to let go.

He rested one foot between the gaps and used it to jump.

Unbalancing the soldier with a sword in his jaw, which may not have been a great idea. But he was able to knock the other three down, running them over. And he got up quickly.

With the movement, he managed to break the sword in two, as he had done with the spear.

The equipment wasn't much. These guys were guards of a city, not adventurers, not even retired adventurers (that is, most of them). Whereas he...

Well, he was getting stronger with each passing second.

With the sword broken, it was easy to extract the other half, barely a dagger, from his face.

Not that it was unusable. But he dropped it. Simply gripping the sword had hurt his palm too much; if he kept it up, he wasn't going to be able to hold anything for a while.

More threw themselves at him, and one managed to penetrate his defenses, piercing him in the shoulder with a spear.

The same shoulder where he had been shot with an arrow, in fact. He guessed that it showed. From the burns. And the missing piece of his clothing.

He'd barely gotten out of one and now he was already in another mess.

Even with the help of all the soldiers he'd killed so far, here, it was a hairy situation.

Just because they couldn't kill him didn't mean they couldn't defeat him.

But then...

Jonathan noticed them.

They had already arrived.

Climbing the battlements, crawling like beasts, their breath, dead and stagnant, floating in the night air. And the tide of undead descended upon the protectors of the city. Jonathan did not fight alongside his soldiers. Now that there were enough of them fighting, he took the opportunity to descend from the battlements, running down the stairs, practically flying.

His army could scale the ramparts, but it would be more convenient if they could just get through the gate.

He quickly reached the wheel and turned it several times, until the city gate was wide open. He changed his orders, making everyone who had not already set foot in the city head for the gate.

Of course, they could close the gate again. But Jonathan would make sure that didn't happen.

At least not until most of them got through.

As he had predicted, nearly a dozen soldiers came down from the battlements to stand in his way. Desperate, giving their all despite their fear.

"Now you're fighting, huh?" Jonathan laughed half"heartedly. It was a cruel joke, like his life from beginning to end. "Now that you don't have a choice. But if you had the courage to stand up to the Count, which is the same as me, none of this would have happened. I would not have become this...." He scratched his face, twisted with rage, with his free hand, his nails forming a furrow of blood like tears, he was completely out of control. "Thing."

But his words couldn't reach them, he would get nowhere. He was just the monster in their stories. Well. So be it.

They needn't care when he too didn't care what they said or what they were fighting about. Things could have been otherwise, but now it was too late to change anything. Since the Count had defeated him at Elesbury, this had become inevitable.

Jonathan kicked the first of them in the stomach, forcing him to double over. And he twisted one of his arms until he almost broke it to keep it there.

Over his head, he aimed and fired at the next enemy.

It only took one shot.

It blew off his helmet as well as his head. Then he discarded the pistol. Unceremoniously, without a second's hesitation.

He reached for the knife, with which he stabbed once, twice, three times the bastard bent in front of him.

Then, as if he weighed nothing, Jonathan lifted him over his head with both hands. And he threw him towards his companions, some of whom he swept away, throwing them to the ground.

He could deal with them alone, but he wouldn't have to.

A few undead burst through the door and joined the fray. Before long they would be outnumbered.

That, too, was inevitable.

He threw himself into their midst fearlessly; they couldn't kill him, so their numerical superiority (as long as they had it) would only play against them, they hindered each other, they had to be careful.

While he had a clear path. His sword practically flew in his hand, moving so fast that the steel wasn't visible, just a blur.

Just the trail it left in the corner of the eye. In the midst of that chaos, an enemy's head suddenly exploded, without him or any of his people doing anything.

In the midst of that chaos, an enemy's head suddenly exploded, without him or any of his people doing anything. It didn't take him long to realize that he didn't need to either.

That one had missed trying to shoot him, so he had simply blown the head off one of his comrades.

They were even going to do his job for him. Ha.

His undead outnumbered them right away, as he had predicted. The outcome of the fight had been decided from the beginning, but the sooner it was over, the better.

Jonathan grabbed one guy by the neck.

He lifted him up and slammed him to the ground hard, knocking the air out of his lungs. His eyes practically popped out of their sockets.

He buried the sword deep in his chest, until the handle was the only thing visible.

Jonathan stood up, swinging his head around, eyes wide and teeth clenched, looking for the next enemy. Savage. But he'd already killed them all. That is, all the ones who had come straight for him, hoping to get the door down. There were still too many of them scattered throughout the city.

Now that the fight was over, he couldn't help but think the same thing he had before it started.

"None of this should have happened.

If they had had the courage to fight, things would have been different for so many people. But instead, they had looked the other way. They had told themselves that it wasn't their problem.

And so they had only acted when they were left with no other option.

When "victory" would only allow them to return to a life under the yoke of Count Dracula, without dignity or freedom. Like lambs awaiting their turn at the slaughterhouse.

Yes, like mere cattle.

At least most of the army Jonathan had brought back had had the courage to step forward and pursue the opportunity he had offered them. In other words, they hadn't been able to fight, but they had tried as soon as they were given a chance. They were much braver, much more... human.

But now these people also fight.

In death, he would give them the courage they had lacked in life.

The mark on his hand burned, and the dead around him rose again.

To serve him. To fight on the right side, this time. Soon all the soldiers would join him. Soon the whole city would fall, like all the others who had stood in his way.

"Your people die and yet you still hide," Jonathan said, as if Adam could hear him. "Not so easy now that I'm a real threat, huh?"

Followed by those who had helped him in the fight near the gate, Jonathan returned to the battlements, fighting his way through.

He went back for the catapults. And the cannons.

Especially the cannons.

He directed them toward Dunwich itself. The last city, the city where the fate of mankind would be decided. One way or another, all would be decided before the sun rose again.

And he fired.

Constant volleys rained down on the rooftops of the city. The fountain in the center of the square exploded, along with the statue of the Count, water spilling everywhere, debris flying here and there, flames rising like a spear aimed at the heart of the sky.

He was putting innocent people at risk, he knew.

Moreover, it was impossible that acting like this wouldn't kill many. He could not afford to hold back or have any qualms.

Besides, on the way here he had also killed plenty of innocent people, hadn't he?

People who had only been following orders. Protecting the place where they lived, or at least that's how they saw it.

People who had refused to take him up on his offer, either because they were too scared or for a more weighty reason.

Hell, so were the people who had accepted his offer.

One way or another, he had killed them all. It didn't matter that he had resurrected them afterwards. He had killed them.

He'd come too far to be fussing about it.

The town of Dunwich was full of enemies and obstacles, nothing more.

Besides... Besides, if he managed to kill Adam, then all his evil deeds would be repaid. He would get to save his soul.

(Is that what this is about? Is that what this is about now?)

(Of yourself?)

He had sent two more of his soldiers to load his cannon between shots, while the fighting continued around him, but still Jonathan was distracted enough to be caught by surprise.

Why yes. The fighting was continuing all around him. And while most were too busy with their undead, one decided to try his luck.

He decided it would be best to cut off the snake's head.

Not literally. But it was close. He turned barely in time to parry the blow, raised an arm and the blade slid over the bracelet he wore on his wrist, extending all the way to his forearm.

So instead of cutting his neck, it cut into his shoulder. But it didn't matter.

He had sent two more of his soldiers to load his cannon between shots, while the fighting continued around him, but even so Jonathan was distracted enough to be caught by surprise.

Because yes. The fighting was continuing all around him.

And while most were too busy with his undead, one decided to try his luck.

Decided it would be best to cut off the snake's head.

Not literally. But it was close.

He turned barely in time to parry the blow, raised an arm and the blade slid over the bracelet he wore on his wrist, extending all the way to his forearm. So instead of cutting his neck, it gashed one shoulder.

But it didn't matter.

Jonathan staggered backward....

Into nothingness. Because that's what was there. Nothingness and a long fall.

Then, as he struggled to regain his balance, the enemy thrust his sword through his heart. And as he let go, Jonathan lost his balance altogether, tumbling off the great wall.

He knew this was not the end.

That he would come back with double the fury.

But he couldn't help but feel frustration, even. As if this was going to change or stop anything.

I will kill you, I will personally kill you when I come back, he swore inwardly.