Chapter 94: Van Helsing Backstory
Rachel's Narration:
Long ago, before the human world glimpsed into the shadows of the supernatural, conflicts simmered and boiled among them.
Before Transylvania became part of Romania, it was caught in the midst of another invader: the mighty Ottoman Empire.
At the forefront of this assault was the ruler Vlad II Dracul, a figure torn between the desires of his people and the relentless demands of a foreign power.
He stood at a crossroads, grappling with a choice that would define his legacy: to concede to the Empire's demands or prepare for war, risking everything for the hope of independence.
The crown prince at the time, Vlad Tepes, was fiercely determined to defend his homeland against any intruders.
Vlad understood that the Ottoman Empire was not merely a threat but a relentless tide that sought to swallow up all that he held dear.
At this time, Vlad was working within the Ordo Draconum, a noble subdivision dedicated to guiding future rulers in the defense of their realms under the banner of God.
It was a clandestine society, steeped in ancient traditions and secrets, where principles of honor and duty intertwined with strategies of warfare.
Alongside him was his brother, Radu Tepes, and my ancestor.
"Pause, PAUSE!" Ricky exclaimed, interrupting the flow of the narration as he turned to Rachael, his brow furrowed in disbelief.
"You're related to Dracula?" Ricky's expression was a mix of shock and amusement, the implications swirling in his mind.
Ricky had always sensed a deeper connection between the Van Helsing family and the infamous vampire, but he hadn't imagined it was through blood.
"Everything is explained in the story if you'll let me finish." Rachael replied, Rachael's annoyance was palpable as she crossed her arms, edging with frustration.
Ricky frowned, clearly not ready to be chastised and then bicker with her, so he took another sip of his wine, deciding to indulge her for the moment.
*AHEM*
Under the order, the two brothers worked tirelessly to usher in a new age for their homeland.
Vlad devoted himself to the preservation of history and the flourishing of the arts, believing that culture was the backbone of a strong nation.
In contrast, my ancestor, Radu, committed his soul to the church, seeing faith as the guiding light for their people.
Radu made the conscious decision to join the clergy, supporting Vlad within the congregation, fostering a bond that transcended the mere titles of brothers.
Their camaraderie was rooted in trust and shared ideals; they were not just kin but true best friends, each one standing as the other's pillar in times of strife.
However, the news of the Ottoman invasion shattered their lives, tearing them from the quiet roles of students and thrusting them violently into the chaos of battle.
There was no time to deliberate or ponder; as soon as the dreadful news reached their ears, the first clash erupted like a storm.
They rushed back to their homeland, hearts pounding with a mix of urgency and dread as they barely stopped for sleep.
Word of the battle reached them like a chilling whisper on the wind, describing a brutal exchange of forces that left their father's strength waning.
Each retelling along the way spoke of the relentless tide of invaders, pushing back their defenses, as their father fought valiantly to protect what was rightfully theirs.
However, upon their return, they were met not with the warm embrace of their homeland, but with a nightmarish display that shattered their hearts.
There, in the shadow of the castle, their father, Vlad II Dracul, was cruelly impaled on a wooden stake.
His face, once marked by strength and determination from their childhood memories, was now grotesquely contorted in a grimace of agony.
Blood gushed from the horrific wound, pooling around his lifeless body in dark, glistening puddles that mingled with the earth, soaking into the ground like a sinister offering.
It was a grotesque message from the Ottomans and a gruesome welcome home gift that pierced their hearts, igniting a fire within them that would forever alter the course of their lives.
Many say war changed the two brothers, but in truth, it was the harrowing sight of their brutally disfigured father that shattered their bond, sending them spiraling down separate paths.
In that moment of horror, the weight of loss forged a rift that neither would be able to bridge.
From that day forward, they had no choice but to fight for their people, pouring their hearts and souls into the brutal conflict.
Yet no matter how fiercely they battled, it was never enough to halt the relentless advance of the Ottoman forces.
Unlike my resilient ancestor, who remained anchored by his faith in God, Vlad found himself increasingly consumed by a darkness that began to take root within him.
As the war dragged on, his thirst for power became undeniable, slowly overshadowing the noble intentions that had once guided him.
The desperation of their struggle twisted him, igniting an insatiable hunger that would lead him down a treacherous path, one where the line between savior and tyrant began to blur.
However, that insatiable hunger soon transformed into despair after one fateful battle.
Radu, desperate and afraid, pleaded with Vlad to condense their forces within the castle's fortified walls.
But Vlad, driven by an unyielding ambition, remained resolute in his determination as the Ottomans had pushed him onto the defensive time and time again, and the thought of retreat felt like a stain on his honor.
When scouting reports came in of an advancing fleet, Vlad seized the opportunity to execute a bold plan: he would lead their forces, alongside Radu, to attack the vanguard and flank them, hoping to secure a much-needed victory for their homeland.
Radu's protests fell on deaf ears as he watched his brother's eyes gleam with the promise of glory.
Their battle was arduous, a relentless test of endurance and skill and yet, fueled by their unbreakable bond and instinctual chemistry, the brothers managed to secure a critical foothold, achieving a staggering victory that echoed throughout the land.
Cheers of triumph rang in their ears as they envisioned their homeland finally freed from the Ottoman grip as they seemingly took the first step towards changing the course of the war.
But when they returned, their jubilation was swiftly extinguished as instead of a hero's welcome, they were met with the harrowing sight of their beloved castle engulfed in flames, its once-majestic towers now reduced to smoldering ruins.
The Ottomans had shown no mercy, ruthlessly sacrificing their own men in a desperate bid to overwhelm the capital while the brothers were away, exploiting their absence with cruel cunning.
What they had never anticipated was that their departure from the castle would leave it vulnerable.
Vlad and Radu, believing their home safe behind the stone walls, had ridden out to the battlefield, leaving behind a gaping hole in their defenses.
When Vlad finally fought his way back into the smoldering remains of his own castle, the scene that greeted him was a nightmare made flesh.
Vlad's heart raced as he stumbled through the wreckage, desperately searching for any sign of life.
But the cold truth hit him like a dagger, his wife and child lay lifeless, their once-vibrant bodies now still and breathless.
Vlad's world shattered in the moment he cradled their bodies in his trembling arms, the warmth of their lives snuffed out like a candle in the wind.
Grief tore through him like wildfire, a tempest of rage and despair igniting in the depths of his soul as the weight of their loss crushed him, rendering him with the hollow feeling of being utterly powerless.
Radu rushed to his brother's side, his heart aching for Vlad, desperate to offer comfort in this unimaginable moment.
But Vlad was beyond reach, consumed by a darkness that clouded his mind as he pushed Radu away with a visceral force, his eyes burning with a hateful glare directed at the captured attackers, those who had torn his world apart.
It was then that Vlad embraced his future moniker, a name that would strike fear into the hearts of his enemies as he impaled over a hundred men, their screams mingling with the cries of the dying.
Each stake plunged deep into the earth became a testament to his wrath, a brutal message sent back to the Ottoman forces.
If they wished to kill him, to take his land, then so be it.
But they would have to do so while surrounded by the lifeless bodies of their comrades, the very soldiers who once stood shoulder to shoulder with them.
The soldiers who had once reveled in their own violence stood pale and trembling at the sight, confronted by a level of brutality they had only ever inflicted into the mind of others.
Vlad's transformation was cruel and brutal; the moment he lost his family, he lost his humanity.
Each of his attacks grew more vicious, each victory marred by an insatiable thirst for retribution.
No longer was he merely defending his homeland; he sought to shatter every part of the Ottoman Empire.
Transylvania, once a land of breathtaking beauty, was now a haunting landscape strewn with the spiked remains of Vlad's enemies.
The vibrant greens of the rolling hills were choked by the shadows of death, the once-clear rivers stained red with the blood of countless foes.
Even though their forces were minuscule compared to the Ottomans, the sheer brutality of Vlad's tactics sent shockwaves through enemy ranks, spreading fear throughout their encampments and crushing their morale.
Tales of his mercilessness rippled across the battlefield, creating a palpable tension that hung in the air like a storm cloud.
The very mention of his name became synonymous with death, and the Ottomans found themselves haunted by nightmares of their fallen comrades, displayed as grim trophies of Vlad's vengeance.
The tides of battle slowly started to even out, shifting ever so slightly in favor of the forces of Transylvania.
Yet, even when the Ottomans, sensing their vulnerability, offered a treaty to halt the bloodshed, Vlad's response was resolute and unwavering.
He declined without a moment's hesitation, and the reason was simple yet profound.
It wasn't enough.
The Ottomans hadn't experienced enough of the pain Vlad had felt that day, the day he had clutched his two most precious people, watching as life slipped from their grasp.
That haunting memory played on a relentless loop in his mind, an indelible mark that fueled his determination to continue the fight as he couldn't consider halting the war; for him, peace meant betraying their memory.
Radu stood helplessly by, witnessing the transformation of his brother as he saw the darkness encroaching, the vengeance consuming Vlad, yet he felt paralyzed by fear, or perhaps it was cowardice.
Rather than confronting the monster his brother was becoming, he chose to assist him from the shadows, hoping that the brother he had once known would somehow reemerge from the depths of despair.
But with each passing day, Vlad grew more distant, morphing into a vengeful force, driven by an insatiable thirst for power and retribution.
It was during this tumultuous time that the vampiric monster Varnae crossed paths with Vlad, a creature of ancient darkness searching for someone to inherit his legacy.
Varnae had grown weary of the living world and its relentless suffering, seeking a worthy successor who could carry on his sinister lineage.
He found that in Vlad, who stood at the precipice of destruction, desperate and willing to do anything to avenge the ones he had lost.
Varnae's interest in Vlad was immediate and profound as to him, here was a young man ablaze with rage and sorrow, a soul teetering on the brink of transformation.
Varnae saw not just a vessel for his power but a kindred spirit-
"Hahahahahahahahaha!" Verdelet erupted into a fit of cackling, his laughter echoing through the room and slicing through Rachael's narration like a hot knife through butter.
"I-HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Veredelt struggled to even speak, his laughter barreling over his own coherent words.
"I don't understand the humor in Rachael's words." Alexander interjected, his brow furrowed in confusion as he glanced at the slightly buzzed Ricky.
"Don't look at me, man. I'm just teetering in and out of this whole sob story." Ricky shrugged nonchalantly, clearly more interested in his wine than in the tragic tale of the Van Helsings.
"What's so funny, Verdelet?" Rachael squinted at the ancient vampire, her annoyance flaring as she watched him dissolve into hysterics at her words.
"What's funny is that your family still hasn't realized the truth." Verdelet shook his head, a mix of disbelief and pity etched across his features as he regarded the naive girl.
"Even I, who was once oblivious, eventually unraveled the layers of deception during my downtime. Yet the entire Van Helsing family remains blissfully ignorant of the fact that Dracula's entire upbringing was meticulously orchestrated by Varnae." Veredelt clicked his tongue in disappointment, the sound echoing in the tense air as Rachael's eyes widened in horror, her expression shifting from irritation to shock.
"W-What?"
"You see, you were right in saying that Varnae was searching for a successor." Verdelet sighed, adjusting his crisp white suit as he glanced at Ricky, who now wore an eager expression, clearly entertained.
"But you failed to grasp that a millennium-old vampire wouldn't just randomly hand over his entire legacy." Verdelet's clarification took Rachael aback, her eyes widening as she processed his words but before she could respond, Ricky suddenly jumped between them
"Oh, come on, Verdelet! You can't leave me hanging like this!" Ricky chuckled, nudging the ancient vampire playfully, as if they were old friends sharing a joke.
"Alright, since I've piqued your curiosity, it's only fair that I satisfy it with the real story, or at least, from my first hand perspective."
Veredelt's Narration:
You see, the Van Helsing perspective captures the chaos of those hysterical events, but in the realm of the supernatural, it was Varnae who was truly pulling the strings from the shadows.
At that time, I hadn't yet grasped the depths of my master's weariness with his immortal existence; he yearned for death, an end to his endless suffering.
But instead of choosing me, his first student, the very first person he ever turned, Varnae had a different vision.
He sought to cultivate a successor from the ground up, meticulously crafting a legacy that would transcend the mere act of transformation.
It was a grand design, one that involved patience and strategy, all while I remained blissfully unaware of the true depths of his intentions.
The requirements were simple: Varnae sought a successor born into human royalty, for in his mind, to rule a kingdom, one must be bred from its noble stock.
However, Varnae was a notoriously picky vampire, waiting for centuries before he finally stumbled upon Vlad, not in Transylvania, but within the Ordo Draconum.
It was mere curiosity at first, a flicker of interest sparked by the young man's relentless pursuit of success in everything he undertook.
Vlad's tenacity and ambition bloomed like a rare flower in Varnae's eyes, awakening a desire within him.
He saw not just a potential successor, but a vessel through which he could channel his own legacy, an opportunity to mold someone who could carry forth his name and influence long after he was gone.
The more Varnae observed Vlad, the deeper his desire to turn him grew, yet even that wasn't enough.
Varnae understood that to truly shape a ruler fit for the future vampiric empire, he needed to instill within Vlad an insatiable hunger for power.
It wasn't enough for Vlad to simply want; he needed to crave it with a desperation that could drive him to the very brink of madness.
Varnae had lost that fire long ago, and he was determined to ensure that Vlad would possess an unending thirst, a relentless ambition to push the vampiric race forward.
He knew that only through pain and suffering could this drive be forged and by orchestrating Vlad's descent into darkness, Varnae aimed to create a ruler who would embody the ferocity and hunger necessary to lead their kind.
So, he orchestrated the Ottomans' actions, manipulating events to ensure that Vlad's father met his end on the battlefield.
This brutal loss pushed Vlad to the brink, forcing him to abandon his loved ones in a desperate bid to reclaim control and turn the tide of war.
In his darkest hour, when Vlad was at his lowest, Varnae whispered to the commanders, igniting a fire of chaos that left Vlad reeling.
Overwhelmed by grief and rage, he was left clutching the lifeless bodies of his wife and son, his heart shattered into irreparable pieces.
It was then that Varnae, lurking in the shadows, extended his hand toward Vlad, offering the power he so desperately craved.
With a voice like velvet and promises of vengeance, Varnae tempted Vlad with the very strength that could alter the course of his fate, igniting the insatiable thirst for power that would forever change him.
When I observed this, I initially believed Varnae intended to mold Vlad into a mere pawn, a tool to further his own ambitions.
But to my astonishment, he began to guide Vlad with genuine intent.
He taught him the intricacies of leadership, encouraging him to better himself in ways I had never witnessed before and I must admit, at the time, it ignited a deep-seated jealousy within me.
I had followed Varnae as my master for twenty thousand years, yet not once had he offered me such heartfelt guidance.
His attention to Vlad was as if he were nurturing a son rather than cultivating a successor.
It was a strange twist of fate, watching someone else receive the kind of mentorship I had yearned for, the kind that had always felt just out of reach.
As Vlad flourished under Varnae's tutelage, I was left in the shadows, grappling with my own feelings of inadequacy and longing for the recognition I had never truly received.
It was then that Varnae whispered to the vast Ottoman army, orchestrating a last-ditch effort to invade Transylvania in one fell swoop.
As the looming threat approached, Vlad found himself in a state of desperation, his resolve faltering under the weight of the imminent disaster.
Witnessing the sheer size of the Ottoman forces firsthand, 300,000 strong compared to his own scattered 50,000, left him with no choice but to confront the grim reality: he faced complete defeat unless a miracle occurred.
I still remember his begging pleas that echoed through the air, desperate in all measures for the power Varnae was lording over him.
Finally, after a moment that felt like an eternity, Varnae, intrigued and satisfied by Vlad's desperation, responded to his pleas.
Then, without any hesitation, Varnae offered to switch their states of being, to trade each other's lives. I was shocked, left utterly speechless by the words spilling from my master's mouth. I instinctively opened my mouth to voice my objections, but before I could utter a sound, Vlad eagerly accepted the offer.
At that moment, Varnae finally revealed his true desires to me, telling me he had no longer wished to live; his immortal existence had grown tiresome.
Instead of feeling sorrow for his plight, I felt an intense wave of betrayal wash over me.
The bond we shared, built over twenty millennia, was suddenly overshadowed by this monumental decision.
Varnae's yearning for death now hung heavily in the air, an unspoken dagger between us, and I realized that I was losing not just my master but the very essence of what I had fought to understand all these years.
This revelation struck me like a thunderbolt. For all the years Varnae had spent molding Vlad, he had left me completely in the dark about his true intentions. When I tried to voice my thoughts, he simply initiated the spell, disregarding my protests.
To truly die, Varnae needed to trade his power for another's mortality, a transaction that would free him from the eternal shackles of life.
As the incantation unfolded, I felt a shiver run through me, an unsettling recognition that I could not intervene.
I was powerless as I watched my master's formidable powers inject themselves into Vlad, transferring centuries of knowledge and strength into the very man who would become his successor.
Each pulse of energy that flowed between them felt like a betrayal, a final severing of our bond.
I could only stand by, consumed by a sense of helplessness as the inevitable took shape before my eyes.
That was the moment Vlad Tepesh died, and in his place, Dracula was born, forever altering the course of history.
As the spell reached its completion, Varnae took his own life, leaving me reeling in disbelief.
Heartbroken, I rushed to my master's side, but it was too late to save him as he passed away with a serene smile on his face, a stark contrast to the chaos that surrounded us.
Dracula, consumed by the newly acquired power coursing through him, was oblivious to the tragedy that had just unfolded.
In a whirlwind of ambition and rage, he took off to confront the forces of the Ottoman Empire, ready to unleash a vengeance that would shake the very foundations of their empire.
The world would soon know the name Dracula, but in that moment, I mourned the loss of my master, knowing that nothing would ever be the same again, that I would never be the same.
That battle was a bloody and cruel affair, as Dracula unleashed his newfound power with a ferocity that obliterated the opposing army.
The ground was soaked with the blood of the fallen, and the cries of the dying echoed in the air as he carved through ranks of soldiers, each strike fueled by his insatiable thirst for revenge.
Yet, as the last remnants of the Ottoman forces fled in terror, Dracula's euphoria was short-lived.
When he sought to chase after them, a harsh realization dawned upon him: there were side effects to his overwhelming strength.
Unlike Varnae, whose constitution dated back to Atlantis and had been honed over millennia to withstand such immense power, Dracula was still very much human at his core.
The toll of his transformation began to manifest as waves of exhaustion washed over him, and a deep ache settled in his bones as if the very essence of his being was rebelling against the power he had just gained.
Dracula had barely dabbled in the realms of magic, and in Varnae's haste, my master had overlooked a critical aspect: Dracula's mortal body.
The transformation had granted him immense power, but it had also revealed his vulnerabilities, which were far greater than anyone had anticipated.
To make matters worse, Dracula couldn't utilize magic during the day, a fundamental limitation that most vampires understood but he had yet to grasp.
As the sun rose, its harsh light would serve as a constant reminder of his frailty.
In that moment of newfound strength, he had forgotten that, like all vampires, he was subject to a myriad of special vulnerabilities.
His most pressing weakness was the need for sustenance; he had to ingest about one quart of fresh blood daily to maintain his vitality.
The hunger gnawed at him, a stark contrast to the power surging through his veins and without nourishment, the very strength he had gained would become a double-edged sword, threatening to turn into a debilitating curse.
Otherwise, his powers will steadily decrease to the point where he enters a comatose state.
Dracula was highly allergic to silver, a fact that could lead to severe injury or even death if he encountered silver weaponry.
Yet, it was in the aftermath of the battle that his unprepared body began to reveal its frailties.
He could be killed by a wooden stake plunged into his heart, a simple act that could disrupt the mystical energies sustaining his life.
Another shackle of his existence was the necessity of lining his coffin with soil from his homeland, a crucial element that not only preserved his power but also allowed him to travel more than a hundred miles from his birthplace without suffering debilitating effects.
When Dracula finally returned to his castle, he did not find a welcoming parade or celebratory cheers.
Instead, he was met with horror-filled expressions that reflected the monstrous transformation he had undergone.
The very people he had fought to protect recoiled at the sight of him, a chilling reminder of the price of his newfound power.
Radu had fled the battlefield, his heart heavy with fear and disbelief at the horrors Dracula now embodied.
Desperate for solace, he rode to the nearest church, dismounting and falling to his knees upon the cold stone floor.
In that sacred space, he made a vow upon his bloodline: one day, he would kill his brother.
In exchange for his unwavering commitment, God bestowed upon him a surge of power, marking him as an agent of divine retribution.
From that moment forward, Radu's bloodline would remain in purgatory, bound to his mission until it was fulfilled.
Thus, the name Van Helsing was born and with it came the innate magic that would course through their veins, empowering them to battle against Dracula time and again.
During that tumultuous time, Dracula sought ways to overcome the immense weakness and truly wield the overwhelming power that Varnae had bestowed upon him.
The world's science felt woefully inadequate for the task at hand, so he turned his attention to hunting down ancient artifacts rumored to hold great power.
He believed that with the right relics, he could augment his abilities and stabilize the overwhelming magic coursing through him.
As the years passed, with him finding solutions to combat these weaknesses, Dracula discovered a harsh truth: his core was unable to fully handle the magnitude of Varnae's gifts.
Like most vampires, he relied on core magic, a system that allowed them to draw power from the vitality of others.
However, this method proved insufficient for the level of strength of the core he had possessed and molded himself.
Yet, amidst his struggles, there existed one family that uniquely specialized in this elusive form of magic
"The Van Helsings." Rachael's breath caught in her throat as she grasped the implications of Veredelt's words.
"Yes, it's rather cruel." Veredelt continued, shaking his head with a calm smile.
"Dracula allowed your family to roam free, herding them like cattle until a suitable core came along in the form of Abraham." Veredelt's eyes looked towards the pale Rachael, holding her face at the sudden shock as even Ricky felt a tab bit uncomfortable at this sudden revelation.
"However, Abraham's power was far more than Dracula had anticipated, catching him completely off guard. But in the end, his core was harvested, and Dracula began enacting his plan of conquest through sheer power." Veredelt's calm, unsettling voice cut through the room, breaking Rachael a little further with each word uttered.
"It's true, I seek to rule the world as well." Veredelt said, his tone shifting, smooth yet laced with a sharp edge.
"But I don't aim to do it through brute strength like Dracula. No, I'll accomplish it through knowledge and progression." Veredelt leaned toward Rachael, studying her reaction with an intensity that made her uneasy as she could feel his words pulling at her, though doubt flickered in her mind.
"Listen, little Van Helsing." Veredelt continued, his voice a low murmur at this point.
"Every vampire has an obsession. Mine is knowledge." Veredelt paused, a hint of something both proud and haunted crossing his face.
"It is my greatest blessing and at the same time, my greatest curse." Veredelt then crossed his fingers together, leaning back after expression everything he thought was needed.
In truth, Veredelt's mind was both a gift and a torment as knowledge was not merely a pursuit for him; it was a compulsion, an insatiable hunger that gnawed at him day and night.
Veredelt was unable to rest if even a single question lay unanswered.
This need consumed him, filling his waking hours with endless inquiry and his nights with relentless reflection.
Each piece of knowledge he amassed felt like a step toward a distant, impossible goal, one he could never fully reach.
At night, when most beings found respite in the quiet, Veredelt's mind raced, entangled in webs of questions that multiplied like shadows.
If he left even one query unresolved, it would creep into his thoughts, lingering and festering until it forced him to get up, pacing as he searched for understanding.
The silence of unanswered questions was louder to him than any roar and for a long time, it haunted him like a shadow.
But Veredelt eventually learned to not simply let that shadow loom, but embrace it for everything it was and wasn't.
"I understand your hesitation." Veredelt said, his tone gentle yet firm, gazing at Rachael silently stewing before him.
"But no matter how many vampires you kill, there will always be another to take its place. It is simply the rule of nature, power shifts, yet it never vanishes." Veredelt sighed, observing the young Van Helsing with a mix of pity and amusement, as though Rachael were a child struggling to grasp a truth far beyond her years.
In his ancient gaze, her resistance seemed almost quaint, a small ripple against the unyielding tide of time and power.
Veredelt had witnessed countless rises to power, but even more crushing falls, each one brimming with bold ideals that, in the end, washed away with the sands of time.
The ambitious and the idealists, the conquerors and the crusaders; they all came and went, leaving behind little more than echoes, their lofty visions eroded by the relentless grind of years and mortality.
To him, it was almost comical.
No matter how fervently each believed in their purpose, how tightly they clung to their convictions, in the end, they succumbed, their dreams dissolving like mist.
Power was a fleeting ember, one that could only burn if carefully tended but vanish in a moment's notice.
He had learned this truth the hard way, watching generations blink into obscurity, while he remained, untouched by time, as unyielding as the night itself.
"You got my vote, Veredelt." Ricky tipped an invisible cap in the vampire's direction, his words mocking towards Rachael but sincere towards him.
Veredelt let out a low, amused chuckle, watching the young man with a glint of both curiosity and bemusement as he took a hearty swig, draining the last of the bottle
"However, unlike Dracula, who covets the power of a king." Veredelt's voice took on a deeper, almost hypnotic tone.
"I desire notoriety to sway others to my ideals. Influence that seeps beneath the surface, subtle, yet unyielding." Veredelt paused, his gaze settling on Rachael and Ricky, as if assessing whether they could grasp the weight of his words.
"Dracula's reign, born of brute strength, may command fear, but it leaves no room for growth, no evolution of thought. " Veredelt continued, a faint, almost wistful smile crossing his lips.
"True power lies in shaping minds, in guiding rather than conquering." Veredelt spoke his belief, seeing Rachael duck his head only for Ricky to perk up.
"That's funny." Ricky muttered, his gaze locking onto Veredelt's with a new, sharpened intensity.
"Dracula once told me that true power lies in those willing to do anything to achieve it."
The words seemed seared into Ricky's mind, as though they had carved themselves into his soul over these years of struggle and survival.
Dracula's philosophy had been a guiding shadow in Ricky's life, haunting his every decision.
Even in the wake of his brutal defeat, Ricky could see the bitter wisdom in Dracula's perspective, finding a grim sense of respect for the vampire's ruthless clarity.
He hadn't merely brushed off Dracula's teachings; he had absorbed them, building his own ideals upon the foundation of that harsh lesson and understood something.
Ricky had come to realize that many of his failures had stemmed from a gnawing fear, fear of death, fear of the obstacle that loomed at the edge of mortality.
But he had changed, evolved past that primal instinct to shrink away from death.
Now, his resolve was ironclad: he would do whatever it took to kill Dracula and claim his own power.
Yet the years had taught him something that Dracula's relentless pursuit of strength had not.
Through the losses, the scars, the relentless march of time, Ricky had learned that there was a force beyond raw power, a foundation stronger than any conquest.
Growth; true, personal, unyielding growth that was the key to transcending any mere gain in strength.
This was the man he's become from everything he had suffered under, and as Veredelt spoke, Ricky felt a kindred spark, a new ideal forming from the ashes of his past ambitions.
Hearing Veredelt's perspective, so vastly different yet strangely compelling, he unconsciously leaned forward, his interest now fully piqued.
"Dracula's words have merit, but in my honest opinion, it is the mind that guides us towards every decision." Veredelt smiled, relishing the opportunity for discourse as he leaned in, his tone both conspiratorial and enlightening.
"Every part of our body is a mere extension of who we truly are. The brain is the crucible in which our desires, fears, and ambitions are forged. It is not enough to possess power; one must also wield it with cunning and strategy." Veredelt paused, gauging Ricky's reaction, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a tangible force.
"You see, true mastery lies not in the pursuit of raw strength alone, but in the ability to navigate the intricate web of choices and consequences that life presents us. Power is a tool, yes, but a mind capable of foresight can wield that tool with unparalleled effectiveness." Veredelt explained his reasoning, going in depth into his words as Ricky nodded, absorbing the implications of Veredelt's insights.
"Dracula thrived on fear and dominance." Veredelt continued, his voice low and reflective.
"He built an empire upon the terror he inspired, but such a foundation is precarious. Fear can turn to rebellion, and strength can falter when not supported by wisdom. You must ask yourself: What is your true desire? Is it merely to vanquish Dracula, or is there something greater you seek?" Veredelt purposely made this question hang in the air.
Announcing it in such a way that Ricky felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders, urging him to dig deeper within himself.
Yes, he wanted to defeat Dracula, but was that all?
What would victory mean if it wasn't coupled with growth, understanding, and a vision for a world beyond the bloody struggle for survival?
Would there be a power vacuum when Dracula was slain and in such a case, what would Ricky do in such an event if he was going to return to New York?
"Power without purpose is a hollow victory." Veredelt added, his eyes sparkling with an almost predatory intelligence.
"What will you do once you've toppled your enemy? Will you merely take his place, or will you forge a new path entirely? How will you simply leave after displacing the ruling power?" Veredelt then asked Ricky various questions, letting the conversation take control of him.
"It is easy to win, even easier to kill, but when the adderline fades and you are left with the aftermath of your decisions. What will you do then?" Veredelt then smiled, leaning back as he closed his eyes.
"It is good if you start thinking about it now since, although I'm not saying victory is completely headed your way, it would be good for you to think on your next course of actions." Veredelt then tapped his head, looking at Ricky mulling over his words.
"I-I need time to ponder," Rachael stammered, her voice trembling as she shot up from her seat, feeling overwhelmed by the weight of Veredelt's revelations.
She needed space, a quiet corner where she could sort through everything that had been thrust upon her.
"Very well, take the time you need. I will be here, awaiting your answer." Veredelt inclined his head in acknowledgment, his expression calm yet watchful.
Rachael nodded stiffly, her gaze lingering on him before she turned to leave, vanishing into the shadows and as the door shut behind her, Ricky also rose, stretching with a yawn.
"Well, I'm gonna hit the sack, I'm beat. See you later." Ricky muttered, waving casually, ready to retreat into whatever semblance of rest he could find.
But just as he moved to leave, Veredelt's hand extended toward him, holding out a small, ornate object, no larger than his palm.
It glinted under the moonlight streaming through the window, casting a pale, almost sinister glow across the room.
"Even if she hasn't accepted yet, this is still a key to my hoards. Should you ever wish to enter, simply break it, and a portal will open before you."" Veredelt murmured, his smile gleaming with an unsettling edge.
Ricky took the object cautiously, the intricate designs etched into its surface seemed to pulse faintly, as if alive.
As Veredelt's hand withdrew, his figure seemed to merge with the moonlit shadows, his eyes glinting with an unreadable depth.
"I'll be waiting for your call."
"Thanks, I guess-wait, where did you go?" Ricky spun around, only to find that Veredelt had already disappeared, vanishing into the shadows as if he'd never been there.
With a shrug, Ricky pocketed the mysterious object, deciding to set his questions aside for now.
Come on, cat, let's go," Ricky muttered, reaching down and scooping up the rotund feline, who only offered a half-hearted sigh.
"So soft~" Ricky muttered, his voice softened by the slight buzz from earlier drinks as he pressed his face into Garfield's dense, warm fur.
"Get your gross nose out of my fur-" Garfield grumbled, sounding thoroughly unimpressed with the whole ordeal.
But his complaint was abruptly cut off by a loud, sudden whoosh as a portal swirled open, filling Ricky's room with a strange, shifting light.
Ricky's head snapped up, eyes widening as he watched the portal solidify in midair.
Through the spiraling flickering energy, a figure began to emerge, stepping forward with deliberate, steady strides.
Ricky squinted, blinking away the haze of intoxication to make sense of who, or what, was entering his space.
"Hello Ricky Luciano, may we converse for a while?"