Chapter 13

Chapter 13: The Last Demon Hunter in the Bayou

The moonless night draped the Bayou Lafourche in near-total darkness. The scent of damp earth and decaying vegetation filled the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood. Sam Gilbert crouched in the shadows, his carbon-fiber red mask blending seamlessly into the pitch-black surroundings. He adjusted his grip on the silenced handgun loaded with wooden bullets and prepared to enter the fray.

On his HUD, the black-market web known as The Abyss pinged with updates. The contract had come through not long ago—$5,000 for every werewolf saved, $15,000 for every vampire killed. The Crescent Wolf Pack was being slaughtered. Not in their fearsome wolf forms—no, it wasn't a full moon tonight. They were in their weaker human states, and Marcel's vampires were carving through them like predators in a cage of lambs.

Sam's mission was clear: protect the wolves, eliminate the threat.

His status had been upgraded after his last hunt. His new title, The Last Demon Hunter, granted him rudimentary sixth-sense abilities, enough to feel danger before it struck, but not enough to avoid every blow. His assimilation rate had climbed to 54%, and his stats were pushing the boundaries of human limitation.

The red glow of his mask's lenses flickered, scanning the marshland ahead. He could sense them before he saw them—vampires moving through the trees with unnatural speed and precision. They were swift, their eyes glowing red as they descended on the weakened Crescent wolves.

Sam's breath steadied. Time to go to work.

The first vampire didn't even hear him.

With a ghost's silence, Sam darted out from the shadows, his footfalls light on the soggy ground. His silenced handgun raised, he fired two shots, each finding their mark in the vampire's back. The wooden bullets penetrated the heart, and the vampire let out a choked gasp before collapsing into dust.

The wolves—two young men and a woman—barely had time to react before Sam stepped forward, tossing a vial of vervain at their feet.

"Drink. Now," Sam ordered, his voice muffled but commanding through the mask.

The wolves, dazed from blood loss and shock, obeyed without question. They quickly downed the vials, the potent herb protecting them from further vampire manipulation.

"Stay down. I'll handle the rest."

Sam moved forward before they could respond. His sixth sense flared, alerting him to the next wave of vampires approaching. Three of them, closing in fast.

He holstered his handgun and pulled two wooden stakes from his back. His movements were fluid, honed by years of training and endless nights of bloodshed. He wasn't just a man tonight—he was a ghost, an assassin in the darkness.

The vampires didn't know what hit them.

Sam slipped into the center of the group with precision. The first stake buried itself into the chest of the vampire to his left. A quick twist, and the body disintegrated before the vampire could scream.

The second vampire managed a swipe, but Sam ducked beneath the blow, driving his knee into the vampire's ribs before slamming the second stake into his chest. As the vampire turned to dust, Sam spun on his heel, dodging a feral punch from the third assailant.

This one was faster, stronger. Sam could feel it. He let out a breath, focusing, and his sixth sense kicked in. A flash of insight—a half-second glimpse into the vampire's next move. Sam adjusted his body just in time to avoid a vicious elbow aimed at his throat.

He countered by driving his boot into the vampire's kneecap, the bone shattering with a sickening crunch. The vampire howled in pain but didn't get the chance to recover. Sam thrust his stake forward with a brutal efficiency, piercing the heart and reducing the creature to dust.

Three down. Dozens to go.

The slaughter raged on deeper in the bayou. Sam moved like a shadow, slipping through the trees, dispatching vampires with ruthless efficiency. Every kill brought a sense of satisfaction, not for the money but for the mission. He was The Last Demon Hunter. This was what he did.

But for every vampire he killed, more seemed to pour into the battlefield. The werewolves were barely holding on, their weakened bodies no match for the swarm of vampires hunting them like sport.

Sam sprinted through the swamp, his feet splashing through shallow water. His sixth sense prickled, a warning flashing in his mind. He dove to the side just as a vampire lunged at him from behind. Rolling in the mud, Sam unsheathed his combat knife—a silver blade coated in vervain.

The vampire hissed as Sam drove the knife into its throat. Sam twisted the blade, severing the creature's spine. In one fluid motion, he pulled a splinter grenade from his belt, yanked the pin, and tossed it into the midst of another group of vampires.

The explosion sent wooden shrapnel flying in every direction. Vampires screeched as they were impaled by the tiny splinters, disintegrating in seconds. Sam used the chaos to reload his handgun, his eyes scanning the battlefield for his next target.

Then, he saw him.

Marcel.

Standing atop a fallen tree, surveying the carnage with cold, calculating eyes. His figure was imposing, a man who commanded respect and fear in equal measure. He wore a dark leather jacket, his stance relaxed but predatory. The vampires around him moved with precision, organized like an army.

Sam's sixth sense screamed in his head. This was no ordinary vampire.

Marcel noticed him too. Their eyes locked across the battlefield, and for a moment, everything seemed to slow. Sam's heart hammered in his chest as a chilling realization settled in: Marcel was stronger than any vampire he'd faced before. He was the king of the bayou, and Sam was in his territory now.

Without hesitation, Marcel jumped down from his perch, moving towards Sam with a deadly grace. Sam's mind raced—he wasn't ready for this fight. Not yet.

He holstered his weapons and turned, sprinting into the dense trees.

The chase was relentless.

Sam weaved through the thick underbrush, leaping over fallen logs and ducking beneath low-hanging branches. Marcel was faster, gaining on him with every step. The vampires he encountered during his escape barely registered—a quick silenced shot to the head or a stake to the heart as he continued his mad dash through the bayou.

His lungs burned as he pushed himself harder, his senses heightened to their limit. Every sound, every movement in the dark felt like a potential threat. But he couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop.

Marcel's voice echoed through the trees, smooth and mocking. "You can't run forever, Red Mask or on some days Red Hood, or your most famous one, Demons' Bane."

Sam ignored him, focusing on the path ahead. He had to lose him, find a way to break the pursuit. His mind raced as his sixth sense flared again—a sudden warning. Sam dove to the side just as Marcel's fist slammed into the ground where he had been standing. The force of the blow sent a shockwave through the earth, splintering the nearby trees.

Sam rolled to his feet, his chest heaving. Marcel stood before him, a dangerous smile on his face.

"You've caused quite a stir tonight," Marcel said, his voice calm but laced with deadly intent. "But it ends here."

Sam's hand twitched towards his knife, but he knew it wouldn't be enough. Not against Marcel. Not tonight.

Without a word, Sam turned and bolted again, his legs pumping with renewed urgency. The dark trees blurred past him as he sprinted through the bayou, his sixth sense guiding him through the maze of obstacles.

He wouldn't win this fight, but he'd survive to fight another day.

Hours later, Sam stood at the edge of the bayou, his body covered in mud and blood, but he was alive. The werewolves he managed to save had fled deeper into the swamp, and the vampires had retreated for now. But Marcel… Marcel was still out there.

Sam pulled up The Abyss on his HUD. The contract was completed—$700,000. The credits pinged into his account, but the numbers felt hollow.

Marcel is now his primary target. 

A lesson will be taught to Marcel of the etiquette of meeting the last demon hunter, Helsing's successor.