Your footsteps reverberate over the smooth floor of Chaldea's hallway, where the antiseptic, chilly lights flicker dimly. Only the distant buzz of equipment disturbs the strange silence in the air. As though the room itself trembles at the presence of people, a fine mist appears to cling to the wall corners.

And then you feel it.

A sudden, suffocating weight settles over the corridor, as though gravity itself bends in reverence or dread. A chill brushes your spine, unprovoked by any breeze. Then, from the end of the hallway, he appears.

Vlad III.

Draped in regal black, his figure seems almost unreal—his coat sweeping behind him like the wings of a specter, his presence cutting through the very air like a blade of silence. His face, pale as bone, is half-shrouded by his long, white hair that flows with unnatural grace. Those crimson eyes meet yours—piercing, impassive, eternal.

You stop, breath caught in your throat—not from fear, but the sheer pressure of being seen by something so utterly beyond you.

He halts a few steps away, the shadows clinging to his figure like loyal subjects. When he speaks, his voice is like the tolling of a great bell—dignified, cold, and absolute.

"So… you sought me out, Master."

His words are not unkind, yet they carry a weight that demands reverence. He tilts his head ever so slightly, eyes narrowing as he studies you—not with suspicion, but judgment. A king evaluating his subject.

"Hmph… You must have known that walking these halls with intent would draw my attention. Few dare look directly into the abyss and name it with such certainty."

He steps closer. The echo of his boots is swallowed by the hallway itself.

"Speak then. If your will is steady and your words worthy, I shall listen."

A faint, almost imperceptible curve touches his lips—not a smile, but something colder, more enigmatic.

"But remember, Master… though you may command me by name, our bond is not of equals. You stand in the presence of a King. And kings… do not suffer trifles lightly."