The night was thick with a kind of eerie stillness, a black-haired boy walking through an ancient cemetery, the fog swirling around his feet like ghosts. The path was barely observable because it was so overgrown with weeds and strewn with fallen leaves, but the destination was unmistakable: the silhouette of a towering stone mausoleum, deep in the shadows of the twisted, gnarled trees.
Silence in a graveyard amplified footsteps to the echoing point of being a rhythm. The mausoleum stood ahead, a relic of times gone by, its stone walls wind- and rain-broken. Ivy had attached itself to the structure, and its dark green fingers drew along the walls, as if to drag it back into the earth. Two gargoyle statues flanked the entryway, the stone faces contorted into snarls as their eyes were squinted into perpetual vigilance. Their eyes watched the boy approach, the stone creatures so lifelike that it was almost as if they breathed.
Stopping at the entrance, he took a deep breath. The air inside was thick with damp earth and the smell of decaying leaves, a smell that seemed to filter right into his bones. The weight of history almost crushed him at the realization of where the first vampire lay: Dracula himself, procreator of their entire race. He had a shiver down his back at this, part awe and partly fear.
At a slight push from the boy, the heavy stone door lurched, and he slipped through the narrow opening; its hinges groaned under the disturbance of the ancient slab. From within, a soft, otherworldly glow stirred, pulsed, almost like a remote heartbeat. He stepped inside; at once, the temperature dropped, and cold air wrapped him, like a shroud. The interior of the mausoleum was dimly lit by rows of tapers, whose color looked like blood in this light; they cast long, wavering shadows on the walls.
The walls were lined with intricate carvings and inscriptions in a language so ancient that it had been lost to time, known to but a few scholars in the vampire world. The carvings told the story of Dracula's life and death, each panel a testament to his power, his madness, and his legacy. His eyes swept along the ancient text, his mind reaching to piece together words long forgotten, feeling within each tale carved on stone.
What had held his attention right in the center of the mausoleum was the sarcophagus. It was a huge slab of black marble veined with deep crimson streaks that seemed to pulse with a life all their own. His lid had chiseled into it an exact likeness of Dracula at the height of his powers, his eyes shut as if in peaceful sleep. It was so real that one almost felt the stone could breathe, that the figure might open its eyes at any second.
Slowly he approached the sarcophagus, every tread measured and cautious. He felt the hammering of his heart within his chest, the sound near to deafening in the crypt's silence. Kneeling before the sarcophagus, he hesitated before his hands trembled to make contact with the cold marble. The air seemed to grow heavier around him; flickering candlelight dimmed as if in answer to his presence.
The moment his fingers touched the stone, he felt the shock run through him—a pulse of power that nearly took his breath away. The marble was cold to the touch, but beneath that chill something else, something alive. A bond. His vision blurred and suddenly he wasn't inside the mausoleum anymore.
They saw flashes of images: the face of Dracula, contorted into a mask of rage and sorrow; dark forests where he once roamed, bloodstained halls wherein he ruled. They beheld the moments before his death, where in that end he faced with both defiance and despair. Whispers of some ancient language, an immemorial tongue, seemed to come from the very air itself, echoing across time. He remained there touching the grave for some minutes, until finally.
He stood, his eyes entranced on the sarcophagus, his mind suddenly alive with clarity that had eluded him. It was more than a historic connection; it simply reminded him of the path he was taking, trod long before by Dracula himself. He had known then that he must take on challenges not only in the future but also in Dracula's shadow if he was to find his place in a vampire world.
One last look at the stone effigy of Dracula, and the boy turned to walk back toward the entrance. I must do what Dracula and even the other elders could not, I must unite human and vampire alike. I Draco Lucaso The weight on his shoulders felt heavy, but his resolve was even heavier. Stepping out of the mausoleum into the misty cemetery, the finality of the encounter closed in. This was the beginning of something bigger—something that either would elevate him to new heights or consume him as it had the first vampire.
The mausoleum door creaked shut behind him; the echo swept through the night. There was the face on the sarcophagus—Dracula—an image that could never be forgotten, one that spoke of power and lunacy stemming from being their first. As he walked away, the fog closed in around him, and the mausoleum vanished into its depths, but the experience would stay with him, guiding every move in the wars ahead.
As Lucaso approached the infamous and only vampire academy known as NightShade Academy. When he notices a figure in the distance, he prepares himself, BloodBlade on his hip. As he closes in, he inspects the nearly statue-like man, who shares his black hair. But the man's face was devoid of expression, his eyes were as blank as a canva, and he was dressed in a velvet suit, but Lucaso could not investigate any farther.
The man murmured. "The first trial begins now," Lucaso ascended quickly, his body twisting as he flew, the world spinning around him in a blur. His sword sparkled in the flickering light, a swirl of silver as he twirled with lethal precision. The blade sliced through the air with a faint whisper, pointing right at his opponent's face, the edge only inches away.
But, just as the steel was about to strike flesh, the boy disappeared. His opponent made no unexpected movements, merely waiting for a moment, and for a single second, time seemed to stop, and the place where the boy had been was now filled with a chilly, uncomfortable silence.
Before his opponent could respond, Lacaso emerged behind him, his body in a whirl of movement. He plummeted from the skies like a shadow, his leg darting out like lightning. The kick struck his opponent directly on the side of the head, knocking them off balance. I must win. Seizing the opportunity, he rapidly draws his blade again. The sword quickly morphs, shapes, and transforms until it is practically flame-like. This boy has already progressed to the second level of his BloodBlade, the Sanguineva. His face mostly contorts into a nasty smile. This kid is incredible.
Before promptly fading back into an emotionless face, both combatants rush in, unleashing a flurry of strikes; flesh meets metal many times as they battle, neither giving way. until finally the strange man lands a devastating punch to Lucaso's face that almost sends him reeling back across the battlefield, using the momentum, Lucaso spins and slashes aiming to hit the carotid artery, but a whistle can be heard as his blade glides through the air as the man had moved out of view, only for Lucaso to feel the air leave his lungs as the man connects with a punch to Lucaso's solar plexus.
Soon the man began to reel back his fist to connect with another punch but... Suddenly...
The boy who was just in front of his eyes worried and befuddled was now gone as the man turned around, energy around him started to build before soon he heard the stone cold words of Lucaso behind him exclaiming "DISAPPEAR..."