Five years later.

  The Victorian Age had entered a darker era, one where the line between life and death had blurred into obscurity. The world was no longer a place of simple order and civility but a battlefield between the living, the undead, and the corrupted forces that served neither realm.

  In the heart of England, whispers of an infamous bounty hunter circulated through taverns and underground markets alike. His name was Ethan Smith Rodriguez, a man whose reputation was carved in blood and survival. Though born in England, Ethan came from a proud Spanish lineage, a heritage reflected in his stubborn resilience and unwavering sense of duty.

  At 40 years old, Ethan had spent over half his life tracking down both human criminals and supernatural beasts. His eyes, once vibrant with youthful ambition, now carried the weight of countless battles. Scars marred his rugged face—a testament to the hunts that had nearly cost him everything.

  Ethan's journey to becoming a bounty hunter was born out of tragedy. Years ago, his family had been slaughtered during a raid led by sinner souls under Dracula’s command. His wife’s lifeless body, and his daughter's screams as she was dragged away—these were the echoes that haunted him still. What should have broken him instead forged a man obsessed with vengeance.

  Ethan has become a servant of Lord Thanatos for 3 years after his resurrection, he still has his knowledge from when he was a human, for now, he is a Second Life, and for his revenge is hunting down Dracula to gain back his life.

  Palo Gordo, Villa Zaragoza

  The morning sky remained grim, clouds swirling overhead like a premonition of violence. Ethan dismounted from his horse and led her into a hidden patch of scrub near a crumbling stone fence. His boots crunched on the dry, cracked ground as he approached the eerie ranch.

  The air was thick with decay, the scent of burnt wood and rotting flesh mingling. The buildings stood like forgotten gravestones in a town that had long surrendered to darkness.

  As Ethan stepped past an overturned cart, the faint sound of chopping echoed from beyond the main house. A lone farmer hacked relentlessly at logs near a weathered tree stump. The man’s frame was hunched, his movements jerky and unnatural.

  “Buenos días, amigo,”

  Ethan called cautiously, hand hovering near his revolver.

  No response.

  The farmer stilled for a moment, the axe blade embedded deep in the wood. Then, with an unsettling creak of joints, the man turned. His bloodshot eyes glowed red beneath a strange cursed symbol etched into his forehead. The skin around it pulsed unnaturally, like writhing maggots trapped beneath the flesh.

  "?Estás bien, amigo?"

  Ethan asked, though dread coiled in his gut.

  The farmer’s lips peeled back into a grotesque grin, revealing jagged, yellowed teeth. With a guttural snarl, he yanked the axe free and charged.

  Ethan reacted on instinct. The Colt Peacemaker roared in his hand, the bullet finding its mark between the farmer’s eyes. The man staggered, but instead of falling, he jerked upright with a violent spasm, the cursed symbol glowing brighter.

  "Son of a—"

  Before Ethan could fire again, the farmer lunged, swinging the axe wildly. Ethan rolled to the side, the blade narrowly missing his head and embedding itself in a wooden post. He rose swiftly, planting two more rounds into the farmer’s chest. This time, the man collapsed in a heap, black ichor seeping from the wounds.

  Ethan exhaled sharply. "Damnit they took these guys already took this place, I hope the leader is still here," he muttered, reloading his revolver.

  The silence was short-lived.

  A shrill whistle pierced the air. Shadows moved among the dilapidated buildings as more figures emerged—farmers, ranch hands, and villagers, all marked with the same cursed symbols. Some wielded rusty machetes, others crude crossbows.

  Ethan cursed under his breath.

  "Here we go."

  The villagers advanced with unsettling coordination, spreading out to surround him. Bolts whistled through the air, forcing Ethan to dive behind an overturned wagon. Wood splinters exploded around him as the cultists closed in.

  He peeked over the edge, taking quick stock of the situation. At least six visible attackers, with more likely hidden in the shadows.

  "Let’s thin the herd,"

  he growled.

  Ethan popped up, firing two quick shots. One villager’s head snapped back as black blood sprayed from the wound. The second shot caught another in the throat, sending him gurgling to the ground.

  The remaining villagers pressed forward, undeterred. A crossbow bolt grazed Ethan’s shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood.

  "I'll give you that mate!"

  he hissed, ducking back into cover.

  A heavy thud echoed behind him. One of the cultists had climbed atop the wagon, a rusted machete raised high.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Ethan spun, grabbing the man by the wrist and slamming him into the ground. The machete clattered away. Without hesitation, Ethan stomped on the villager’s face, crushing bone beneath his boot.

  Another attacker charged from the side, swinging a spiked club. Ethan dodged, firing point-blank into the cultist’s chest. The man stumbled but didn’t fall.

  "Of course,"

  Ethan muttered. He holstered the revolver and drew a combat knife from his belt, now he has dealt with cults from the Sinner Souls.

  The cultist lunged again, but Ethan sidestepped, driving the blade into his opponent’s ribs. Black ichor bubbled from the wound as the cultist spasmed and collapsed.

  The whistle sounded again—this time louder and more insistent.

  Ethan’s eyes narrowed as a new figure rode into view on horseback, flanked by two more cultists wielding torches.

  The rider wore tattered robes and bore a massive chainsaw strapped to his back. The cursed symbol on his forehead glowed like a beacon of malevolence.

  "It's about time to wake up the big one"

  Ethan muttered.

  Rider of Sacrifices.

  The rider roared as the chainsaw screeched to life, its teeth gnashing hungrily through the smoky air. Flames flickered in the distance from scattered debris, casting jagged shadows across the blood-soaked ranch.

  Ethan’s revolver barked twice—bullets sparked uselessly off the thick, rusted metal plating covering the rider’s chest. The monster didn’t even flinch.

  "Damn thing’s built like a tank,"

  Ethan hissed.

  The rider spurred his horse into a mad charge, swinging the roaring chainsaw in a brutal arc. The serrated teeth chewed through wooden posts and fence rails as if they were butter. Splinters exploded into the air.

  Ethan dove to the side, rolling across the dirt as the blade narrowly missed cleaving him in two. The sheer force of the swing left a deep gouge in the earth.

  The rider turned sharply, black ichor dripping from his mouth as he howled with glee. Ethan scrambled to his feet, sweat dripping down his brow.

  "Alright, let’s dance,"

  he growled, flipping the revolver to his left hand while drawing his combat knife with his right.

  The rider charged again, the chainsaw screeching louder than ever. Sparks flew as the teeth grazed the edge of Ethan's blade, the force nearly wrenching the knife from his grip.

  Ethan countered by ducking low and slicing upward, aiming for the rider’s unprotected leg. The blade cut deep, black blood spurting from the wound. The rider roared in pain but didn’t falter.

  "Stubborn bastard,"

  Ethan spat.

  The chainsaw came down again in a vicious vertical slash, missing Ethan by mere inches as he sidestepped. The blade buried itself in a support beam, sending a shockwave through the structure.

  Seeing an opening, Ethan planted a boot on the rider’s thigh and slashed upward, carving a jagged wound across his armored torso.

  The rider howled, wrenching the chainsaw free and backhanding Ethan with surprising speed. The blow sent him sprawling across the dirt, his knife skittering out of reach.

  Ethan groaned, tasting blood. The rider dismounted, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel. He revved the chainsaw menacingly, the weapon snarling like a rabid beast.

  "That all you got?"

  Ethan coughed, wiping blood from his mouth.

  The rider lunged, bringing the blade down in a wild overhead swing. Ethan rolled beneath the attack, the chainsaw chewing through dirt and stone. He grabbed a handful of dirt and flung it into the rider’s face.

  Blinded, the rider staggered back, thrashing wildly.

  Ethan didn’t waste the opportunity. He sprinted to his revolver, snapping it up and aiming for the exposed neck beneath the rider’s helmet.

  The shot rang out, striking true. Black ichor sprayed from the wound, but the rider only laughed—a guttural, choking sound filled with madness.

  "You gotta be kidding me,"

  Ethan muttered, backing away.

  The rider stomped forward, his eyes blazing with fury. Ethan spotted something glinting on the rider’s back—a fuel tank connected to the chainsaw's motor.

  "There's your weakness,"

  Ethan murmured grimly.

  The rider charged again, swinging the chainsaw in a deadly arc. Ethan ducked under the blade, the air vibrating with its mechanical shriek. He fired twice more, each bullet ricocheting off the thick armor.

  Thinking fast, Ethan kicked a nearby barrel, sending it rolling toward the rider.

  The rider slashed the barrel in half—but the sudden splash of fuel soaked his armor.

  "Time to end this,"

  Ethan growled.

  He fired at a shattered lantern lying in the dirt. Flames erupted instantly, engulfing the rider in a blazing inferno.

  The chainsaw screamed as the rider thrashed, trying to extinguish the flames. Black smoke billowed from his body as flesh and armor melted together into a grotesque mass.

  Still, he came forward.

  "Persistent son of a bitch,"

  Ethan muttered.

  The rider swung the flaming chainsaw one last time, but his movements were sluggish and clumsy. Ethan dodged easily, driving his knife into the rider’s exposed neck with brutal force.

  Black ichor geyser from the wound as the rider gurgled his last breath. The chainsaw sputtered and died as the monster collapsed in a smoldering heap.

  Ethan stood over the corpse, breathing heavily.

  "Stay down this time."

  The acrid smell of burnt flesh filled the air as the flames flickered out. Ethan wiped the sweat from his brow, holstered his revolver, and surveyed the carnage.

  It was over—for now.

  The sudden ringing of a church bell echoed across the ranch, deep and mournful, cutting through the smoke and chaos like a funeral toll. The flames flickering from the wreckage cast distorted shadows on the cracked earth.

  Ethan froze, heart pounding as a wave of unease swept over him. The bell wasn't just a signal — it was a call. The remaining villagers, still gripping their weapons moments before, suddenly stopped as though gripped by an unseen force. Their bloodied faces slackened, their red eyes dimming as if hypnotized.

  "Viva las almas de los pecados,"

  they chanted in low, guttural tones, voices blending into a twisted symphony of devotion.

  Ethan's brow furrowed.

  "Hail for the sinner souls?"

  he repeated under his breath, disbelief coloring his voice. But yet he still has to see who is responsible.