Clothes flew in all directions. The girl screamed, and the man laughed with abandon—their voices echoing throughout the room.
He knew this might be his final moment of pleasure before death.
As he tore away at her clothing, the woman was quickly reduced to a half-covered, helpless vision—like a white lamb offered to a beast—radiating unwanted allure.
The girl could no longer resist. Her eyes, brimming with tears, stared into the void as she murmured, broken and lifeless:
"Merciful Lord... I am your devout believer. Why have you forsaken me?"
She was not only the first heir of Transylvania, but also a devout Roman Catholic. In her homeland, she had always symbolized beauty, dignity, and grace. Her temperament was gentle, her character kind.
Naïve to a fault, she had even once considered giving the throne to her younger brother.
But now...
In this moment of utter despair, she gave up on prayer. She realized that her gods had abandoned her. Prayers meant nothing.
Watching her vile brother slice through the rope and move to separate her legs, she cried out in desperation:
"Someone—please save me! I'll give anything! Everything I have!"
Puff!
A gasp.
Wide eyes.
Blood streamed from his chest, pierced clean through by a sword.
"Heh..."
The man coughed violently, breath ragged, blood flooding from his lips.
The girl turned her head. A figure in crimson armor and a black cloak stood behind her. Her pupils shrank in recognition.
"The Impaler... Vlad!" her brother muttered—and dropped dead.
"That happened... fast," the girl thought numbly, stunned as she stared at the scene. Her lips parted in disbelief, making her look all the more innocent.
Then, she felt his gaze.
Snapping out of her trance, she turned to face the man who had just saved her. But instead of fear, she felt something else—a strange, unexplainable calm. Her heart, long closed to emotion, suddenly pounded.
Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
Vlad gazed down at the delicate girl before him—naked, blushing, breathing heavily. Amused, he crouched beside her and gently lifted her chin.
Her lashes trembled. Her body stiffened under the weight of his bold touch.
She knew exactly how vulnerable she looked.
But strangely, despite the violation of her dignity, a faint joy stirred beneath the surface of her shame.
Her eyes flickered with panic and confusion—trapped in a strange emotional spiral.
Vlad observed her quietly. The proud, noble aura she once carried had vanished, replaced by something more intimate. Her vulnerability was stunning.
"What you said earlier," he whispered, "was it true?"
She blinked in confusion—then understood. Meeting the eyes of the man who had saved her in her most hopeless moment, she nodded without hesitation.
"Of course it's true. I'm willing to give everything I have." Her voice cracked slightly, but her eyes were steady.
Somehow, this man—this stranger—felt like the prince she had dreamed of since childhood.
It made no sense, but it felt undeniably real.
Vlad's lips curled slightly. He released her chin, his fingers trailing from her slender neck downward.
"Your name?" he asked.
"Verona," she answered, her voice trembling.
His gaze and touch made her feel bare in more ways than one. Her shame grew, but so did her fascination.
Her body trembled uncontrollably. Her nerves screamed, overwhelmed by the strange sensation of submission.
It was new. Terrifying. And yet...
She felt a desire she couldn't explain.
Vlad noticed, and something clicked in his mind. Her face. Her name. They stirred something familiar.
He searched his memories... and then his eyes widened.
Van Helsing.
A name from a film surged into his mind.
Verona—the eldest of Dracula's three vampire brides.
Vlad was momentarily stunned by the realization.
"Could you untie my wrists first?" Verona asked softly, her eyes dreamy and her cheeks glowing red.
Vlad came back to his senses. He quickly untied her.
She stood slowly, arms instinctively covering herself. With a deep blush, she asked:
"I... I don't even know your name."
Vlad studied her flushed face and replied with a smirk:
"Call me Master."
"Eh?!" Her eyes widened in disbelief.
Vlad stepped forward, his tall figure casting a shadow over her. He pulled her gently but firmly into his arms.
"You don't want to?" he asked, voice deep and commanding.
Verona's body went numb again, her heart thudding uncontrollably. The tremor returned—stronger this time.
"I do."
Only after the words escaped her lips did she realize what she had said.
"What's happening to me? Why do I feel like I'm not myself when I'm with him?"
It made no sense.
And yet—it did. As if fate had written it long ago.
Her heart buzzed with a strange joy. A thrill.
"So strange," she thought again.
Vlad, watching her bury her face in his chest, allowed himself a small smile.
He glanced toward the window.
The world was becoming more interesting.
Chaos in the Capital
Blood filled the palace halls. The sounds of battle had not faded.
The elite soldiers of the Ottoman Empire hadn't come to pillage—they were here to suppress rebellion.
Though some resistance remained, most of the city's chaos was now caused by opportunists—commoners who took advantage of the unrest.
Vlad's army, at least, obeyed rules.
When a city was captured, he allowed one night of celebration—but forbade harm to civilians. After all, they had little worth.
And the policy worked.
Sparing the majority while crushing the defiant prevented mass resistance—and weakened the noble factions.
Combined with Vlad's brutal impalement punishments, very few dared defy him.
This time was no different.
That was why the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire had made Vlad his most trusted general—granting him the title King of Wallachia.
With the rebellion crushed, it was time for Vlad to return home and ascend the throne.
As he walked through the palace halls of Transylvania, he turned to his guards.
"Send the order. Restore order in the city. I want Transylvania intact."
"As you command, Lord Vlad."
The guards bowed deeply, eyes filled with reverence, then hurried to carry out his command.
They gave no thought to the beautiful girl in torn clothing following behind him.
Verona, hearing the name from the guards' lips, finally realized who he was.
"You're the Archduke of Impalement—Vlad?!"
"Hmm? Didn't your brother say that already?" Vlad replied with a raised brow.
Verona averted her gaze in panic, clearly flustered.
She twiddled her fingers, her face red as a cherry, like a frightened deer caught in the light.
Vlad chuckled internally. He hadn't expected the proud, confident vampire bride from Van Helsing to look like... this.
This wouldn't do.
She needed training.
He smirked wickedly.
"Interesting."
The girl Verona looked at Vlad in confusion. Although she didn't know why he was laughing, the moment she saw Vlad smiling, she also laughed inexplicably.