Blood-Suckers, or "Vampire" in English, often call themselves the "Nobility of the Moon" or simply "the Blood Clan." These are supernatural beings of legend. By drinking the blood of humans or other creatures, they can prolong their lives indefinitely.
The earliest vampire myths come from the Balkans and Eastern Slavic regions, where vampires were described as corpses rising from the grave to drink the blood of the living. Over the last century, though, novels, films, and pop culture have reshaped their image into elegant nocturnal beings with supernatural powers, dependent on blood to survive.
Originally, they were seen as terrifying monsters—hairless, bat-like abominations that tore into their victims' necks, leaving a mess of blood and gore.
But thanks to a bit of creative beautification in human media, vampires are now seen as romantic and graceful aristocrats of the night. Impossibly attractive—handsome men and beautiful women—they sip wine, dance with elegance, and fall hopelessly in love with humans.
Especially after a certain island nation gave them the "anime treatment," the vampire archetype became almost synonymous with the word "loli," and naturally, vampire lolis are almost always tsundere.
In the Bible, the origin of vampires is said to be Cain, Adam's first son, who was cursed by God after killing his brother Abel—doomed to wander in darkness and live by drinking the blood of others.
Yet among the many tales passed down, the most famous origin of vampires is still one name—Dracula. The world remembers him in fear as Count Dracula.
Legend says that Count Dracula was originally Vlad III, a warlord of Wallachia. In 1442, he and his younger brother were sent as hostages to Constantinople by the Ottoman Empire. Years later, supported by the Sultan, Vlad reclaimed his homeland with military force. Upon seizing power, he ruthlessly purged his enemies and used cruel punishments on criminals.
The true terror came in 1462, when the Ottoman army arrived at the gates of his city and saw over 20,000 captured soldiers—stripped naked and impaled on stakes in a horrific display stretching for a kilometer around the city.
Crows and vultures fed on the corpses, and the stench of death filled the air. The Ottoman soldiers, shaken to their cores, lost all morale and fled. From then on, Vlad earned the name "The Impaler" throughout Europe.
It's said that when Vlad returned home to find his beloved wife dead, he cursed God in his anguish. Feeling betrayed after sacrificing so much in God's name, he denounced the divine in a church—and thus became the first vampire.
Stories of Dracula abound—his love-hate relationship with the famed vampire hunter Van Helsing, his battles with God's chosen werewolves, and more.
But in this world, though Dracula is still the King of Vampires, his origin lies elsewhere.
His true name is Gabriel Belmont, once the mightiest paladin of the Brotherhood of Light. He was chosen by the divine to travel the world, slaying three great Lords of Shadow with unmatched courage and wisdom.
Even after death, through faith and willpower alone, he rose again to defeat Satan, the Lord of Hell, who sought to invade the mortal world.
A saint. A warrior. A devout believer.
To save mankind, he drank the blood of a vampire princess, becoming one himself. He then defeated the Forgotten One—a godlike being second only to the Creator—and absorbed its power.
But in the end, God turned His back on him.
Betrayed despite saving the world, Gabriel embraced the darkness. He became the Lord of Shadows, ruler of all evil, the Dragon King—Dracula.
Night. In the wilderness near Paris, France.
There, hidden in the mountains outside the city, stood a towering castle—gloomy, vast, and eerie, as large as a small city. Despite its close proximity to the capital, it remained unnoticed by the world.
Above Paris, stars shimmered around a radiant moon. The city below buzzed with lights, where nobles and the rich reveled in their luxuries—wine, women, and decadence flowing like a river wider than the Rhine.
But in the countryside, beneath a blood-red moon, the clouds around the castle glowed crimson and ominous.
Suddenly, a bolt of red lightning split the sky, illuminating the bizarre heavens above the castle and its intricate, opulent architecture: red carpets, white marble floors, sculptures, vases, and a chandelier encrusted with countless gems.
The castle's layout was sprawling and complex—grand halls, stairways, guest rooms, libraries, dining halls, and at the very top, the lord's throne chamber. Beneath it were dungeons filled with ancient torture devices—bloodstained whips, iron maidens, and even lava pits.
Flanking the main hall were two wings—each filled with mechanical traps and bizarre layouts, making the entire fortress a labyrinth worthy of a demon king.
Indeed, this wasn't just any castle—it was the famed Demon Castle. In a world of gods and devils, it bore a name that inspired dread: Castlevania.
CRACK!
Another flash of lightning tore across the sky. The blood moon vanished behind gathering storm clouds, which began to swirl above the castle in a massive vortex—a harbinger of a demonic power's return.
The scent of blood filled the air—fragrant and intoxicating, the perfume of the moon's children. An overwhelming magical power surged through the atmosphere, converging toward the throne chamber at the castle's peak.
Behind that throne, within the bedchamber, sat a stone sarcophagus.
On its lid, a golden crucifix was inscribed, along with ancient runes:
"Disturb not the Lord of Shadows' slumber, lest ye witness the wrath of the returning dragon."
Magic surged beneath the coffin. A blood-red hexagram slowly emerged under it.
At the same time, the golden cross emitted a blinding holy light, projecting a sealing glyph that clashed with the blood-colored magic beneath.
But the holy seal was weakening—overwhelmed by the blood-red array's endless supply of power. Slowly, it was drowned out.
CRACK.
The seal shattered, exploding into fragments of golden starlight. A torrent of crimson energy burst forth, surging into the coffin like an eager beast.
The storm clouds dispersed. The blood moon, now slightly "wetting its pants" from fear, peeked out timidly from behind them.
Just when it seemed all was calm, the coffin lid trembled—
BOOM!
With a single hand, someone inside slowly pushed the lid aside. A storm of dust erupted from the centuries-long slumber.
From within, a young man in a red coat sat up.
He opened his crimson eyes, still hazy with sleep, and looked around in confusion. Then he coughed, waving a hand in front of his nose.
"Cough, cough... ugh." he muttered, frowning. "So much dust. How long have I been out?"
He vaguely remembered some unpleasant things—seraphim spears, Satan's hellfire, Yahweh's holy light...
"But their blood did taste pretty good," he added.
The red-coated youth placed a hand on the coffin and slowly stood. He brushed off the dust clinging to him from centuries of sleep, squinting at the fog-like haze around him.
"Clean."
A wave of red light burst from his body, washing over the entire castle—sweeping away every speck of dust in an instant.
After cleaning himself up, the young man in the red trench coat gave a satisfied nod and stepped out of his personal coffin—one specially reserved for long slumbers.
He straightened his appearance, then began to walk with slow, graceful steps out of his chamber.
As he strolled down the familiar yet slightly unfamiliar corridor, the young man in red lifted his eyes to admire the ceiling frescoes overhead.
He was sorting through his emotions—the joy and hunger of waking from centuries of slumber; the hatred and resolve that had burned in his heart on that final battlefield centuries ago, when he'd faced off against two united archrivals; the guilt over friends and innocent humans who'd been dragged into his vendetta and perished… and finally, all of these conflicting feelings swirled together and settled into one single, overriding emotion—
Laziness.
Dragging his feet, he made his way to the throne hall—a room that symbolized his supreme status and unmatched might.
He slowly climbed the steps and plopped himself down on the throne.
Then, suddenly, he jumped up, clutching his backside with a wince.
"Damn it, slept too long… my butt hurts…"