129. Fantasy Bleeding into Reality

It was a little past ten in the morning.

Dean and Marco arrived at the Van Helsing Pet Clinic, a spacious and exquisitely decorated building resembling a storefront along the road.

The entrance served as a reception desk and waiting room, furnished with a telephone, promotional brochures, and a television playing pet care commercials.

However, because Marco had been assisting Dean with his investigation over the past few days, the clinic was temporarily closed for business, leaving it empty and devoid of other staff members.

Moving past that, room after room lined the corridor, with signs on the doors reading Examination Room, Pharmacy, Injection Room, Laboratory, and Operating Room. Dean even caught sight of an X-ray machine in one of the rooms.

"Your clinic is quite nice, not much smaller than a regular hospital," Dean couldn't help praising.

"Of course. My family's clinic has been operating here in Reno for over a decade. It has an excellent reputation and is deeply loved and trusted by our customers. While the income doesn't make us immensely wealthy, it provides a comfortable living," Marco said, a hint of expert pride crossing his serious face before he shook his head and sighed. "Yet my son doesn't appreciate it and refuses to take over the family business."

"Finding him this time might make him turn over a new leaf."

The two walked past the "Inpatient Department" down the hallway.

Woof!

Meow—

Suddenly, a chorus of noisy barks and cries echoed back and forth through the wooden doors. Marco's mouth curved into a smile as he pushed the door open. The room was lined on both sides with cages of various sizes—most of them empty, but a few containing plump, glossy cats and dogs.

"Good kids, did you miss me after a few days?" Marco wore a loving smile on his poker face, and his voice became lively. His affectionate attitude made it seem as though these shorthairs, tabbies, and big Golden Retrievers were his own children.

With great patience and meticulousness, he changed the water and food for the cats and dogs, opened the cages one by one to pat their heads, scratch their chins and bellies, and stroke their backs.

"Marco, you treat these pets better than you treat Ruben."

Dean looked at the awkward smile on the old man's face and muttered from behind him.

"Of course. These little guys are much more obedient than Ruben, and pets only have eyes for their master... Whereas Ruben only has eyes for his damned delusions and writer's dreams, completely ignoring me as his father and his duty to continue the family line," Marco said with an expression that implied it was only natural.

Dean didn't know what else to say. Then, a thought struck him, and he walked toward a sturdy, honest-looking Golden Retriever that was wagging its fluffy tail and panting with a silly smile, making clicking sounds with his mouth.

"Woof!"

The Golden Retriever barked loudly at him, then lowered its body, spread its four paws, wrinkled its black nose to bare its white teeth, and let out a series of low growls from its throat... as if it were being threatened.

"Relax, Lucky. This is Dean, a good friend, relax!" Marco patted the Golden Retriever's back, but the large dog continued to bare its teeth with undiminished hostility.

Dean frowned and, refusing to back down, approached again.

Five meters. Three meters. Two meters.

Grrr...

The low growl suddenly turned into a frightened wail. The large Golden Retriever abruptly backed away into the corner of the cage, tucked its tail, and began to tremble all over.

Meow—

A piercing cat screech rang out once more. A beautiful shorthair cat tightened its limbs like a spring and leaped to the very back of the cage, its fur standing on end as it hissed repeatedly.

This cry acted like a signal, instantly igniting all the animals in the inpatient department.

Woof woof!

Arooo!

Squeak!

Marco flailed about in a panic to calm them down. A flicker of disappointment crossed Dean's eyes as he backed out of the room and closed the door, instantly silencing the chaotic uproar.

A moment later, Marco wiped the sweat from his forehead, stepped back out into the hallway, and looked at Dean with utter bewilderment.

"Sorry, what the hell is this? This has never happened before. These pets have always had great personalities, aren't afraid of strangers, and are affectionate with everyone. Why did they go crazy today?"

"Don't blame them. Maybe it's me—like they can tell I'm a werewolf in human skin and are afraid I'll eat them?" Dean grinned, revealing a neat row of white teeth. "Let's go find the blood."

...

After the brief interlude, the two quickened their pace to the laboratory in the corner and retrieved a tube of frozen blood from a large freezer.

"It's been frozen for seven or eight months, completely spoiled and ruined. Is this any use?" Marco glanced at the date on the test tube and handed it to Dean.

"It should barely work."

Dean took the sample, shoved it into his suit pocket, and nonchalantly crushed it. The moment the solid blood made contact with his body, a prompt flashed before Dean's eyes:

Do you wish to replace the original sample with Ruben Van Helsing's blood?

Yes.

Analysis countdown: 3:59:59

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness the Polymorph ability had been upgraded once, otherwise analyzing this tube of old, frozen blood might not have been possible.

...

Having achieved their goal, the two quickly left the pet clinic and returned to Ruben's apartment, gathering the "all-black attire" that matched the previous plot sequence.

As a homebody, Ruben had very monotonous taste in clothing, buying multiple sets of identical clothes and shoes, which saved Dean a lot of trouble.

"Young people have such broad thinking. Are you going to put on Ruben's clothes and disguise yourself as him?" Marco looked Dean up and down, then shook his head. "But Ruben is a full half-head taller than you."

"I have my own ways."

"When are we moving, then? I want to appreciate your wonderful performance."

"You've got one thing wrong. It's not 'we'," Dean said, shaking his head and looking straight into the old man's eyes with an unquestionable tone. "It's just me acting alone. If you get involved, you'll disrupt the plot in the book."

"Kid, I go to the shooting range to fire a few rounds every month, and I even won a hunting championship when I was young. I don't need your protection." Marco gestured with his withered palms, spitting as he spoke.

"Performing surgery on pets requires absolute silence and intense focus, and my work similarly cannot be disturbed. So this is non-negotiable. If you don't follow my instructions, I'm heading right back to Las Vegas." Dean's face was cold and unyielding, giving not an inch.

Marco was so angry his mustache bristled and the veins on his neck bulged, but a moment later he nodded helplessly...

Dean placed the package in the car, then drove the old man to a spot beneath a tree about two hundred meters away from the Virginia Street Bridge.

"You can move around freely for now, but after eight o'clock tonight, you must stay quietly inside my car. As soon as I find Ruben, I'll bring him straight to you." Dean instructed the old man once more. "Don't run around, and don't come out no matter what commotion you hear, or you'll harm your own son."

The event required Marco to witness Ruben's end with his own eyes.

Therefore, he couldn't be too far from the bridge where the incident took place to avoid missing the moment to witness it, nor could he be too close, which would disrupt the plot in the book.

...

After the old man agreed, he left temporarily to make his own preparations.

Meanwhile, Dean began his long wait.

He repeatedly read *Ruben Van Helsing* to ensure no details were missed.

He took various weapons out of the trunk to inspect them: a Colt M1911A1 with three boxes of .45 ACP rounds; a semi-automatic AR-15 rifle with three boxes of .223 Remington small-caliber rifle rounds; and a TAC-50 sniper rifle with three boxes of .50 BMG, including tracer, incendiary, and armor-piercing rounds.

Three guns, capable of both long and short range. Combined with Dean's level 3 shooting skill, they could even be used to engage helicopters and armored vehicles, so dealing with physically formidable targets should be no problem.

...

Aside from the firearms, there were also two drums of gasoline paired with tracer rounds to ignite the target and inflict fire damage.

A few oval-shaped M26 grenades were kept just in case; because the commotion they caused was too large, they wouldn't be used unless absolutely necessary.

...

His fingers grazed the cold, hard, metallic sheen of the gun casings, removing the magazines, pulling back the slides and bolts, and inspecting them meticulously to confirm their condition. Dean felt a lot more at ease inside.

However, he had to admit that carrying these weapons meant taking on huge risks. Only the M1911A1 and the AR-15 were legally owned by him with ammunition stored separately; once the rest of the gear was discovered, a trip to the police station for a tour would be inevitable.

"If only I had a portable storage space."

...

He packed the weapons away again.

Dean walked back and forth along the Virginia Street Bridge, repeatedly surveying the surrounding terrain, looking for cover and hiding spots, and making thorough preparations for any potential combat.

Once the inspection was complete, he returned to the car, closed his eyes, and conserved his energy.

Time flew by.

The sun sank below the horizon, and night draped over the city of Reno.

At eight o'clock in the evening, Marco returned to the car.

At ten, Dean, dressed in a black suit, left the vehicle, grabbed a bag of clothing, and hid in the shadows of an alley.

*Crack, crack.* A muffled sound like a rat's squeak, the crisp cracking of bones, and a suppressed, painful hiss echoed as the human-shaped shadow on the ground expanded and contracted wildly.

One minute later.

A young white man standing over one meter ninety tall, wearing a black trench coat, stepped out of the alley. He had short flaxen hair and sharply angled facial features, though his temples were slightly sunken, the corners of his lips turned down, and he wore a sorrowful expression. Beaded sweat hung on his forehead, as if he had just engaged in strenuous exercise.

"Hmm, not bad. The preparation time and pain level for the polymorph are much lower than before, and this face is an exact match for the photo. From now on, I am Ruben Van Helsing," Dean muttered, looking into the makeup mirror. He grinned, tossed the mirror aside, and swaggered toward the brightly lit downtown area.

To perfectly match the scenario in the book, he carried nothing on him other than a wallet and a planchette.

...

"Make way, pal..." Dean gently patted the shoulder of a tall man in a leather jacket and slipped into the Lover's Bar.

Instantly, a scorching wave of heat and surging music washed over him.

Spherical colored lights on the ceiling rotated, radiating dazzling beams. On the dance floor, pairs of young men and women embraced closely, moving their feet slowly to the rhythm of the music.

At the bar and tables, "hunters" out to release their passions rocked their wine glasses, their eyes dazed yet retaining a trace of sobriety as they scanned their surroundings for prey.

Dean crossed the dance floor and plopped down onto a high stool at the bar, about to order a drink when he suddenly froze.

Ruben, the protagonist in the book, drank until he was half-drunk in the Lover's Bar, and as a flawless imitator, Dean had to recreate every single detail.

However, one of Dean's principles after transmigrating was: no drinking.

"If I don't drink, that ruins the plot and makes the imitation a failure. But if I do drink, I'm breaking my own principle."

Dean wrestled with himself for a moment, a flash of determination in his eyes.

"No wait, I've already turned into Ruben. Drinking alcohol doesn't count as breaking the rules!"

He tapped the table with his index finger curled, threw his head back, and laughed.

"Ten Mojitos..."

The bartender in a striped vest, who was wiping a liquor bottle with a white cloth, froze mid-motion. Surprise flickered in his eyes beneath his neat flat-top haircut. Mojitos weren't very strong, but this guy was ordering ten of them all at once.

"If you want to get drunk, I'd suggest whiskey, or genuine vodka or tequila. If you want something with a kick, get a Bloody Mary... Uh, wait, God! You're Ruben, that guy who's been missing for ages?"

"Sadly, I'm Ruben's cousin Peter, but everyone says we look a lot alike. Too bad I'll never see him again..." Dean spouted nonsense with a sorrowful expression.

"Really? Poor Ruben, the eternal virgin of the Lover's Bar." The bartender crossed himself and whispered a brief prayer. "May he be alive and well. By the way, his taste is identical to yours—he only loved Mojitos."

Dean nodded. "Did Ruben ever talk to you about his writing?"

"Nah, he was a listener. He just listened to me talk about the stories of my hundred ex-girlfriends."

...

Soon enough.

Ten Mojitos were lined up in a row in front of Dean, the liquor reflecting an alluring luster under the lights. This spectacular sight immediately caught the attention of quite a few people.

This was clearly a frustrated man trying to drown his sorrows in alcohol. Who could comfort his wounded soul?

"Care to buy me a drink?" asked a brown-skinned woman with short hair and a nose ring, deep cleavage exposed beneath her elastic tank top. She walked up proactively and breathed hot air against Dean's ear.

"Sorry, I'm not in the mood today."

Dean glanced at her chest, picked up a Mojito, and downed it in one gulp.

Cool, refreshing, sweet-and-sour liquid poured into his mouth and slid down his throat.

The long-absent stimulation of alcohol made Dean narrow his eyes in comfort.

...

Just like that, cup after cup.

For a full two and a half hours, Dean drank without stopping for a second. For the first time, he felt that his level 16 formidable physique was a nuisance—his alcohol tolerance was simply inhuman, and his powerful kidneys prevented him from even going to the restroom to pee out the alcohol.

Mojitos, Mojitos.

Rum, sugarcane, mint, soda...

He had no idea how many cups he had mixed.

Mixed until his eyes went dark and his wrists felt like they were about to break.

Finally, the time arrived at half-past eleven at night.

Dean suddenly raised his hand to signal a stop.

He lifted his slightly warm face. The surrounding music surged and receded like a tide, and the bartender in front of him split into two, trailing hazy, dotted lines as he moved.

Dean was quite drunk.

The moment he stood up, his footing felt light, as if he were stepping on cotton. At the same time, his shoulders and arms involuntarily swayed to the upbeat music, and he broke into a comical, wobbling dance.

Yet an unprecedented sense of relaxation and relief welled up from within.

Drifting in a daze, Dean felt as though shackles that had bound his body for a long time had been unlocked.

"Haha."

Dean grinned with an exaggerated smile, slapped a few dollar bills onto the bar table, and walked out of the bar.

...

The spring night breeze was slightly cool.

The neon lights on the signs of bars and casinos were dazzling.

A black trench coat, a tall drunkard standing one meter ninety, letting out bursts of silly laughter, swaying back and forth and even taking a header near the guardrail by the roadside, drawing the mockery of a couple on the street.

Then, like a roly-poly toy, he crossed the bustling downtown area and headed toward the quiet streets in the dead of night and the bridge spanning the Truckee River.

The night wind blew on and on.

It whipped across his flushed face, making his half-closed eyes flicker between sobriety and intoxication.

His heart thumped heavily.

Getting closer. Under the cover of night, the dark silhouette of the Virginia Street Bridge was already within reach, its rigid outline resembling the gaping, bloody maw of a monster.

Dean couldn't help holding his breath.

Could illusion step into reality?

Success or failure hinged on this one move!

...

He guarded the bridgehead until midnight.

*Tap, tap, tap.*

Amidst heavy footsteps, Ruben Van Helsing finally couldn't help stepping onto the bridge, one hand resting on the guardrail as he walked slowly toward the opposite bank.

Below the bridge, the river, bathed in a layer of moonlight, surged with a rushing sound. Above the bridge, a few bats fluttered back and forth like spectators watching a play.

The distance from the head of the bridge to the end was only a hundred meters, but the man dawdled and dragged it out for a full five minutes.

Then, that intoxicated, dazed face turned very ugly.

There was not a soul around.

Midnight, a drunk Ruben...

Everything matched the plot, but there was no woman in red!

"Could I have guessed wrong? Did the change in investigation progress mislead me? Is there no such thing as the Red-robed Woman Mary?"

"Or is my imitation still missing some crucial condition?"

He slumped over the guardrail at the far end of the bridge, sighing with utter decadence.

The sigh carried across the bridge and echoed far into the night.

Immediately afterward, a gust of wind swept past, brushing against his skin. The surrounding air rippled like the surface of water, turning damp and clammy, while a thin mist rolled across the bridge.

A "pop" sound rang in Dean's ear, just like bursting a bubble.

The next second, his disappointed expression froze. He held his breath and turned around.

Ten meters away, by the guardrail on the other side of the Virginia Street Bridge where it had been empty just moments before, a figure materialized without warning.

It was as if she had appeared out of thin air, and even the god-eye perspective hadn't captured where she came from.

She sat on the guardrail with her back to Dean, looking down at the rushing Truckee River below. A stunning red dress and flaxen hair draped over her shoulders fluttered gently in the night wind.

That graceful back possessed a slender and elegant swan-like neck, and the exposed skin glowed white. From her back down to her waist, the lines abruptly narrowed before curving outward, swelling into the charming shape of a fertile hill.

Yet right now, that back radiated a melancholic aura, making anyone who glanced at it instantly feel a pang of pity.

Even the bright moonlight paled in comparison here.

She looked like a goddess in a red dress, ready to ride the wind and fly away at any moment.

...

F*ck!

I actually f*cking guessed it right!

Fantasy stepped into reality.

Mary, the Woman in Red, had arrived.

A intense wave of excitement pierced through Dean's body like an electric current, raising goosebumps all over him.

He lunged fiercely toward the woman!

(End of this chapter)