The twin moons hung low in the starry sky, their silver light casting a pale glow over the ancient battlefield. Amid the ruins of a forgotten world, two figures clashed on a floating platform of cracked stone. The air around them shimmered with raw energy, thick and oppressive, as mountains crumbled in the distance and fissures in space itself sparked and mended with every exchanged blow.
The first man, known across realms as the Blood Sage, looked no older than twenty-five. His black robes, adorned with a crimson dragon coiled in golden thread, shifted gently in the chaos of their battle. His crimson eyes burned with an ageless intensity, the weight of countless lifetimes swirling within. Across from him stood his opponent, an elder in appearance, clad in an azure robe with the words Azure Dragon Sect embroidered beneath intricate designs of swans and phoenixes. Though his face bore the lines of age, his sharp gaze and precise strikes revealed the power and wisdom of centuries.
They had once stood shoulder to shoulder, shaping the fate of countless worlds with their combined strength. They had shared triumphs as friends and borne the weight of loss as brothers. Now, they faced each other as enemies, locked in a final, fateful confrontation. The elder cultivator had not sought this battle for victory, but for closure. His life, prolonged by cultivation, was nearing its end, and he wanted to die by the hand of someone he respected, the most ruthless, most indomitable opponent he had ever known.
With every clash, shockwaves tore through the heavens. The Blood Sage wielded his boundless strength with precision, while the elder poured his remaining life force into each strike. Yet, as the battle dragged on, the azure-robed man faltered, his energy dwindling. Finally, he dropped to one knee, his breathing labored, as cracks formed in the floating platform beneath them.
“You’ve fought well, my old friend,” the Blood Sage said, lowering his bloodstained hand. His voice carried a mix of admiration and sorrow. “But it’s over. Today, you will die.”
The elder, though battered and weary, managed a faint smile. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he raised his head to meet the Blood Sage’s piercing gaze. “Before you end it… tell me. How did you come to be this… this immortal god? You look no older than a young man, yet your power stretches beyond comprehension. How are you still standing after all this time?”
The Blood Sage chuckled softly, the sound carrying both amusement and melancholy. “I am over 100,000 years old,” he said, his words laced with the gravity of eternity. “Do you truly want to know? Very well. Let me tell you how I reached godhood. How I conquered death itself. I am dead, yet here I stand, as alive as any man, though I have been dead for centuries. It all began in another world, a place without spiritual energy, where kingdoms rose and fell like waves, and their inventions would seem like magic to you. A place where I was born, and where my story truly begins.”
As the Blood Sage spoke, the winds stilled, as though the universe itself held its breath, listening to the tale of a man who defied time, destiny, and the very fabric of mortality.
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The shadow of the Carpathian Mountains stretched across the valleys of Wallachia, casting an ominous shroud over the lands of the Vlad family. In the heart of this wild, untamed region, the legend of their bloodline had grown over centuries, whispered in hushed tones by villagers and chronicled by monks brave enough to put pen to parchment.
The Vlad family bore the blood of dragons. It was said that Vlad II, known as Vlad Dracul—the Dragon—had struck a pact with an ancient order of knights, the Order of the Dragon, which symbolized the strength and power of the mythical creatures. His title, "Dracul," was both a mark of respect and a symbol of the ancient powers running through his veins.
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Vlad Dracul's bloodline, however, was a burden, not a blessing. His pact with the Order tied him to a legacy of war and conquest, and the dragon's power demanded not only protection but also a thirst for control. Over time, the bloodline, rich with the fierce will of a dragon, began to darken. The descendants of Dracul were destined to face both greatness and madness.
By the time Vlad III, known to his enemies as Vlad the Impaler, inherited his father's name and legacy, the dragon's bloodline had grown twisted. Vlad Dracul had ruled Wallachia with ambition and cunning, but his son would take the legacy to darker extremes.
As a child, Vlad had been told of his father's legacy. His mother had knelt beside him in the castle chapel, her voice low and reverent as she spoke of Vlad Dracul’s pact with the Order of the Dragon.
"You carry his fire, my son," she had whispered, her fingers brushing his cheek. "A fire that can forge empires—or consume them."
Vlad had taken those words to heart. From his earliest years, he had trained his body and mind to be worthy of his lineage. He mastered the sword before he could write his name, learned the strategies of war before he had seen his first battlefield. But it was in the crucible of captivity that his resolve had hardened.
As a hostage of the Ottoman Empire, Vlad endured years of humiliation and pain. He and his younger brother, Radu, were taken by Sultan Murad II as pawns to secure their father's loyalty. While Radu bent under the weight of Ottoman influence, earning the favor of the court, Vlad grew colder, his hatred burning like a forge.
When Vlad returned to Wallachia, he did so with one purpose: vengeance.
Through cunning and ruthlessness, Vlad seized the throne. He ruled with an iron fist, determined to protect his lands from external threats and internal treachery. His reign was marked by a campaign of terror against his enemies. Impalement became his signature punishment—a method of execution so horrifying it struck fear into the hearts of his adversaries.
The tales of his cruelty spread like wildfire. Ottoman envoys were sent back to their sultan with their turbans nailed to their skulls for refusing to remove them in his court. Entire villages were wiped out, their populations left impaled in forests of corpses. One account told of 20,000 impaled Ottomans outside Târgoviște, a grisly warning to invaders.
Vlad believed fear was his greatest weapon, and he wielded it mercilessly. To his people, he was both a savior and a tyrant. To his enemies, he was a demon clothed in mortal flesh.
But even dragons can be hunted.
In December of 1476, Vlad met his end on the battlefield. Betrayed by boyars and abandoned by his allies, he faced the Ottoman forces near Bucharest. The details of his death were obscured by chaos and time, but it was said that he fought like a cornered beast, cutting down dozens before being overwhelmed.
His severed head was sent to Sultan Mehmed II as proof of his demise. His body, stripped of honors, was buried in an unmarked grave at the monastery of Snagov. Yet, even in death, Vlad's name refused to fade.
The blood of dragons does not surrender so easily.
The crypt was silent when he awoke.
At first, there was only darkness—thick, suffocating, and endless. Then came the pain, a searing heat that coursed through his veins, as if his very blood were on fire. Vlad gasped, clawing at the stone walls around him, his nails splintering against the unyielding rock.
And then he heard it: a voice, cold and mechanical, speaking in a language he did not understand yet somehow comprehended.
"System initializing... Dragon bloodline detected. Corruption level: 73%. Awakening complete."
"What... what is this?" Vlad rasped, his voice raw from disuse.
"You have awakened, Vlad Dracula. Your dragon bloodline, tainted by your cruelty, has manifested in a corrupted form. You are now a vampire because of that corruption."
The word hung in the air like a death knell. Vampire. A creature of the night, cursed to feed on the blood of the living.
"This system has been bound to you. Your survival depends on the completion of missions. Fail, and your existence will cease. Succeed, and freedom awaits in the 21st century."