Darkness bore his name.

It crawled through the veins of history, whispered in the throats of the dying, muttered in desperate prayers that would never reach salvation. Alucard.

The No-Life King.

Before the world knew him as a monster, he had been a man—Vlad Țepeș, the Dragon, the Impaler. A warlord draped in crimson, baptized in blood, feared by nations, cursed by his enemies. He had carved his legend into the bones of the earth, ruling with an iron hand, a sharpened stake, and an insatiable hunger for power.

But death came for all men.

And when it came for him, it did not bring an end. It brought rebirth.

What rose from the grave was no longer human.

Fangs sharper than daggers. Eyes redder than fresh-spilled blood. A body unburdened by mortality, bound only by hunger—an insatiable, endless hunger.

Vlad Dracula III.

A name cursed in every language.

The Vatican called him an abomination. The monsters of the night called him a traitor. But humans —pathetic, fragile, weak —they only called him one thing.

The Devil himself.

He had walked through centuries, watched empires crumble, kings rise and fall. He had bathed in blood, waged wars, and slaughtered those who dared to challenge him.

And he would do it again.

Because Alucard was patient.

And eternity was long.