In the vast void of space, Castlevania drifted slowly onward. Though nothing could be seen in the empty void to gauge movement, anyone looking at the castle would feel it instinctively—it was moving.
This fortress had been upgraded to its maximum level over Dracula's centuries of interdimensional travel, thanks to all sorts of system rewards. In simple terms: it was a fully maxed-out castle. As everyone knows, anything maxed out is bound to have value. A fully upgraded Castlevania was no mere structure—it could be considered an entire plane of existence, capable of dragging itself—and its whole world—through different universes.
Right now, under system guidance, Castlevania was slowly approaching the next mission zone. Ahead, the glittering barrier of a new world was already visible.
Inside the castle, it was late at night. In the throne room—Dracula's private quarters—he lay resting in his coffin, sound asleep.
But his consciousness had slipped into a dream.
He found himself standing outside a city's wall. Under a blood-red sky, the desolate land before him was filled with countless corpses, impaled on sharp stakes like grotesque human skewers.
This was the infamous impalement punishment of Wallachia.
"Judging from these faces, they're probably Turkish," Dracula muttered, squinting at the corpses. "Which means I'm near Romania's capital."
He had traveled through many worlds by now. Given his reputation and status in his own realm, it was no surprise that he had counterparts in other realities. Out of curiosity, he had once looked into the most infamous legends of "Dracula" across the multiverse.
And none were more infamous than the "Impaler Prince of Romania."
In the historic battle of 1462 against the Ottomans, betrayed by allies, Vlad retreated to the capital. As the Turkish army reached the gates, they were met with a horrifying sight—over 20,000 prisoners stripped naked, impaled on massive stakes surrounding the city. Some were pierced through the mouth, others through the rear. Crows and vultures pecked at the decaying bodies. The air reeked of rot. Witnessing this grotesque scene, the Ottoman forces lost all will to fight and were forced to retreat in terror.
From then on, the tale of Vlad the Impaler spread through Christian Europe. And as his legend grew darker, it eventually gave rise to the myth of the vampire Dracula.
As Dracula gazed coldly at a crow pecking out a corpse's eye and swallowing it, a deep voice rang out behind him.
"Welcome to my domain, traveler from another world… Dracula."
He turned to see a middle-aged man, dressed in opulent black noble attire, with golden hair and a full beard. In his hand he held a long spear—its tip shaped more like a dinner knife.
The man walked up and gave a courteous bow.
"I am Vlad III," he said with poise. "I am Dracula in this world."
"Ah, looks like the system dropped me into your dream without asking," Dracula scratched the back of his head. "So, what brings you here, other me?"
"Uninvited?" Vlad chuckled. "No, my dear guest. You're the uninvited one. This is my throne in the Hall of Heroes."
Dracula blinked. Oh. Right. Classic system nonsense.
"Well, sorry about that," he said. "If you're not happy, I'll leave right away."
"Oh no no no…" Vlad's grin turned sinister. He raised his spear into a battle stance. "This is a rare opportunity—I can't let you slip away so easily. I've tasted the blood of many humans, but the blood of another world's me… now that's something I simply must savor."
"Can we not fight?" Dracula asked, eyes half-lidded. "The world's a beautiful place. Why are you so aggressive?"
"No." Vlad lunged forward, spear gleaming, with a mad, bloodthirsty grin.
{Yeesh, this guy's strong.} Dracula thought as the spear came down toward his head. {But not that it matters. My defenses are invincible. I don't even need to dodge—just stand here and let him flail.}
The spear slammed into his skull with a resounding clang, like metal striking stone. A surge of force rebounded, forcing Vlad to leap back, hands numb from the shock.
"Oho… I see my defenses aren't half bad," Vlad licked his lips as he stared greedily at Dracula's face. "I'm getting more and more eager to taste your blood."
Dracula stared back in disgust. "Look, if you want to drink blood, fine—but can you not make it weird? That face is super gross."
Vlad ignored the comment, launching a flurry of attacks from all directions. The spear rang against Dracula's body over and over again—but not a scratch landed.
Finally, Dracula reached out and grabbed the spearhead mid-thrust, stopping it cold.
He glared at Vlad, who was just about to stab him from the backdoor.
"…You know, I really don't like where that thing was aimed."
"Why do you vampires always like to go in from the back?! Can we not be this filthy?!"
Vlad III completely ignored Dracula's complaints. With manic excitement, he shouted:
"I've got it! Your weakness is—"
"Go to hell, you idiot!!"
A ball of flame burst forth from Dracula's hand, and with a heavy punch, he blasted half of Vlad III's body into smithereens.
"Cough… cough…"
Vlad III, now only half a body, collapsed weakly to the ground. He looked up at Dracula and said with admiration, "As expected of an alternate-world 'me'… such terrifying power."
"But I, Vlad III, won't give up so easily!"
Suddenly, torrents of blood gushed from his body, rushing toward Dracula like a flood.
"Take this—my ultimate Noble Phantasm: Kazikli Bey – The Bloodstained Lord of Impalement!!"
As he stared at the giant wave of blood pouring down from the sky—blood that came from a possibly gay blond man—Dracula felt a chill run down his spine.
The next moment, he suddenly sat up from his coffin, drenched in cold sweat, clutching his head.
He looked at his own hand in confusion and murmured,
"…That was… a dream?"