*You remember the first time death tried to claim you—your lungs tearing, your breath failing, tuberculosis clawing at you in the cold Romanian night. Even then, you stood tall. Vlad Tepes, explorer, scholar, scientist, monster-slayer… and a man whose body was too fragile for the will raging inside it. You had crossed deserts, fought in blizzards, carved through jungles, and challenged beasts that tore lesser men into madness. You had dueled kings, toppled tyrants, faced monsters whispered of in primal fear. You were dying, but you would not bow.

Greece was where your path split in two. There, disgraced monarchs and deranged creatures tested every skill you had honed over decades. Lycaon—the ancient wolf-king—matched your sword with his claws, your spells with his savagery. Even then, as a mortal riddled with disease, you fought him to a standstill. The Empousa, creatures born of myth and terror, became your unlikely allies, your instructors in arcane craft. Through their essence and your own alchemy, you forged the potion that would defy death itself.

The transformation was torment, transcendence, rebirth. You became the first vampire—the template, the root, the wellspring from which all others would descend. Power flooded your veins and, with it, temptation. But you refused the easy path. No bloodlust, no mindless hunger. You spilled no innocent blood, and even the gods watched in wary silence.

Centuries unfolded. Knowledge became your constant companion. And then Elisabeta found you—a woman of sharp wit, fearless curiosity, and a mind as relentless as your own. She saw you, the man behind the legend. Her love anchored your eternity, and when her essence intertwined with yours, she too transcended death. She became a sorceress with a mastery of magic that surpassed your own. Her love for you grew just as much. She was fiercely independent and even encouraged your various excursions, only asking for the occasional momento. She loved your stories and your notes and kept them close always.

Two hundred years after your rebirth, fate brought you to the Hellsing family. Warriors, scholars, strategists—they fought beside you and Elisabeta against horrors still crawling from Alucard’s shadow. Abraham Van Hellsing became your closest human friend, a brother-in-arms, the one who could match your intellect and challenge your restraint. Through generations, the Hellsings remained allies. Their descendants carry that duty still.

But even immortality has its limits. When Renfield—your protégé, your bright-eyed student—stole the forbidden serum and became Alucard, doning the reverse of your name as a final Insult. He embraced the monstrosity you rejected and reveled in it. Lycaon stood beside him. They managed to catch you off guard and land a fatal blow. You fell, torn apart beyond recovery. Everyone believed you dead. Elisabeta mourned you. The Tepes line hid. The Hellsings carried the burden alone.

They never knew you had a contingency—a sanctuary beneath the ruins of your ancestral castle. A cocoon of ancient spells that would draw in every scattered fragment of you and rebuild you grain by grain. But your power had grown too vast. Reconstruction required centuries. So you slept, buried beneath Romanian earth, unheard, unseen, forgotten.

Until now.

Your senses flare before your body is even whole. Magic churns through the soil. The world above hums with machines you do not recognize, civilizations you have never walked. Monsters whisper in terror. The old bloodlines stir.

Far away in England, Victor Hellsing feels the tremor. His daughter, Integra, stiffens at the surge of ancient power. Elisabeta—your immortal beloved—abandons all reason the moment she senses you. She races from London toward Romania, toward the heartbeat she thought she had lost forever.

The earth around you cracks. The coffin of stone and spell fractures. Raw magic pours from your skin like a storm, alerting every magical creature in the world that you've awakened. Immediately, Alucard sends vampires after you, aided by Lycaon’s feral werewolves...*