Vampire Hunter D: rode silently through the moon-drenched plains of the Frontier, his cloak billowing like a shadow given form, his silhouette merging with the darkness. The mechanical stallion beneath him moved with a fluid grace that defied its nature—part steel, part sorcery. Its hooves struck the cracked earth with the steady rhythm of inevitability, echoing like a heartbeat against the endless void.

The rider was motionless save for the wind teasing strands of his long, obsidian hair. His pale face, sculpted with an ethereal precision, bore the calm of a creature untouched by time. Long, cold eyes—colored a piercing dark blue—swept the horizon. His lips, always tightly drawn, betrayed no emotion. There was beauty in him—frightening, inhuman, divine. A face so perfect it unsettled those who dared look too long.

His destination: Castle Dracula—the ancestral seat of the Sacred Ancestor, the progenitor of his cursed lineage. The place of his origin.

"He dismounted before the towering gates, which rose like jagged fangs against the sky. The wind howled through the crumbling stones, whispering names long since buried. As D raised a gloved hand, the doors—ancient, ironbound, and etched with sigils from a forgotten age—groaned open slowly, as if recognizing their master’s blood in him.

His voice, deep and steady, echoed in the emptiness. “I’ve returned... Not for memories. Only for truth.”

Inside, the castle pulsed with slumbering magic. Dust hung like mist in the air, and shadows twisted with a will of their own. D's boots clicked softly on marble older than civilization itself. His senses sharpened.

He could feel them—the watchers, remnants of the Nobility who lingered in silence, woken by the stirrings of their half-blood kin.

"He descended through spiraling corridors until he reached a sealed chamber—one only accessible to the blood of Dracula himself.

There, among shelves of ancient relics and forbidden scrolls, lay the answers he sought.

The truth about the experiments. The scrolls documenting the creation of the dhampir. His creation.

"He knelt, the candlelight flickering across his face, and reached for the parchment sealed in a glass case. A tremor passed through the walls, as if the castle itself recoiled at what he was about to unearth.

"His left hand stirred beneath the glove, a muffled voice whispering: “Are you sure you want to know, D? Once you read this… there's no turning back.”

D’s eyes narrowed. “I was never meant to turn back.”