(Author note: Hello everyone. I just wished to say. This isn't a Castlevania world crossover - I am taking elements from it and some characters but repurposed for this world. That's all.
No worries. Otherwise the world would be too big, and too complex for readers who don't know them, and I know that.
Also, this is me taking elements from the Castlevania Netflix Show and Castlevania Lord of Shadows game.
Now, enjoy!)
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Weeks ago
Trevor Belmont's POV:
The whiskey burned like hellfire going down, which seemed fitting. I'd sent enough bloodsuckers there tonight.
I stared at the empty bottle, my fifth, or maybe sixth. Hard to keep count when your hands are still shaking from adrenaline and blood loss.
The dingy London flat I called home these days reeked of copper and alcohol - a hunter's perfume.
My weapons lay scattered across the worn coffee table: silver knives crusted with blackened vampire blood, wooden stakes splintered from impact with ribcages, holy water vials empty after being emptied down throats that hadn't tasted blessed water in centuries.
And the Vampire Killer - the Morningstar - coiled neatly beside them all. Always pristine no matter how much blood it drank. The chain whip gleamed in the dim light, almost alive, almost judging.
(The Vampire Killer/The Morningstar appearance here)
"Don't look at me like that," I muttered to it, reaching for the gun instead.
The revolver was old, a Webley from some war or another. Family heirloom, like everything else I owned. I popped the cylinder, emptied the chambers save one. One bullet. That's all it would take.
The metal was cold against my temple, then colder still against my tongue as I shifted it to my mouth. My finger trembled against the trigger.
Twenty years old and so fucking tired.
Last of the Belmonts.
Last of God's champions.
Last of Dracula's bloodline.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
My gaze drifted to the ancient leather-bound tome on the table. The Belmont family journal, passed from father to son for seventeen centuries. Each generation adding their knowledge, their hunts, their failures.
I lowered the gun, set it on my thigh. One more read. One more time through the family shame before I ended it all.
The journal's binding creaked as I opened it, the pages yellowed and brittle at the beginning, newer toward the end.
Blood - centuries of it - stained the margins. Belmont blood. The blood that tied us to him.
The earliest pages were in Latin, written in a careful hand:
Anno Domini 289
I am Marcus Belmont, son of Gabriel, once the champion of God. I write these words so that our lineage will never forget its purpose, its shame, and its duty.
My father was born in the year of our Lord 231, orphaned as a child during the persecutions. The Brotherhood of Light found him, recognized something divine in his spirit, and raised him as their own.
By sixteen, he had mastered weapons that grown men struggled with. By twenty, he had been blessed by Heaven itself, chosen as God's champion on Earth.
His duty was sacred: to protect the prophets, those rare souls who carried God's voice to mankind. In an age of false prophets and charlatans, a true voice of God required a guardian of exceptional skill and faith.
My father was that guardian.
I took another swig from a fresh bottle, grimacing at both the burn and the familiar words. How many times had I read this? A hundred? Two? The origin story of our cursed bloodline, drilled into me since I could read.
The pages continued, the handwriting changing subtly as Marcus aged:
Anno Domini 302
Today I learned more of my father's fall. He met my mother, Marie, while guarding a prophet in Gaul. She was a healer, touched by God's grace though not a prophet herself.
They married with the Brotherhood's blessing, as a champion's strength is bolstered by love's foundation.
For seven years, they served God together. Then came the illness. A fever that no prayer or remedy could cure.
As my mother wasted away, my father prayed ceaselessly for divine intervention.
None came.
In his desperation, he began seeking other means. First through foreign physicians, then through questionable herbalists, finally through those who practiced forbidden arts.
Each step took him further from his oath to Heaven.
The Brotherhood warned him. The prophet he guarded begged him to accept God's will. But my father's love for my mother had become greater than his love for God - his first sin of pride, though he could not see it then.
I traced the words with my finger, understanding too well that desperate need to save someone you love. Hadn't I tried the same with my father? With my sister? With everyone I'd lost?
The next entry was in a different hand, shakier, angrier:
Anno Domini 311
I, Marcus Belmont, continue this record as an old man. My mother died despite my father's efforts.
Her soul, pure and faithful to the end, ascended to Heaven.
My father's grief turned to rage - rage against God for not saving her, rage against the Brotherhood for not helping him break divine law, rage against the prophet who told him to accept God's will.
He disappeared for months. When he returned, he was changed. His skin was pale as death, his eyes sometimes flashed red, and he no longer prayed. The Brotherhood sensed the darkness in him and cast him out.
It was then he told me what he had done. A First Order vampire - one of the original bloodlines created by the Alpha - had approached him in his grief.
This ancient creature offered him power, immortality, and most temptingly, the possibility of one day becoming powerful enough to breach Heaven itself to reclaim my mother's soul.
In his despair and anger, my father accepted. He became Dracula - "son of the dragon" - the most powerful vampire ever to walk the earth.
His betrayal of God was complete.
I slammed the journal shut, my hands shaking worse than before. The gun felt heavier on my thigh.
"Fucking family legacy," I muttered, taking another burning swallow of whiskey.
I opened the journal again, flipping forward several centuries. The Latin gave way to Old English, then Middle English, the story continuing through generations of Belmonts hunting their own progenitor.
Year of Our Lord 1462
I, William Belmont, record a confrontation with the one we hunt. Dracula has grown more powerful than any of my ancestors described.
His castle now appears to defy natural law, manifesting where he wills it. He commands lesser vampires as a king commands subjects.
We tracked him to Wallachia, where he has taken a new identity among the nobility. The locals both fear and respect him, calling him "The Impaler" for his brutal methods against the Ottoman invaders.
I confronted him with the Vampire Killer, blessed by three priests before battle. He recognized the whip - and me - immediately.
"Another of my blood comes to end me," he said, his voice carrying no fear, only weariness. "How many generations has it been?"
I scoffed. How dramatic of my ancestors to write his words in bold.
I told him I was the eleventh Belmont to hunt him. He laughed.
"Eleven generations of my own blood seeking my destruction. The irony would please God, I think."
We fought. The Vampire Killer drew his blood - our blood - but he was too strong. Before delivering the killing blow, he stayed his hand.
"You fight well," he said. "Your mother's spirit shines in you."
He knew my mother's name, described her accurately though she died when I was but a child. He has been watching us - his descendants - all these centuries.
He left me alive as a message: The Belmonts will never be free of him, nor he of us. We are bound by blood for eternity.
I flipped forward again, landing in the 18th century. The handwriting here was familiar - my great grandfather's. The old man lived a really damn long time for a hunter - especially a fucking Belmont.
September 17, 1743
I have received troubling reports from our contacts in the Americas. Dracula has been sighted in the New World, specifically in the French territory of Louisiana.
After his confrontation with the creature known as Klaus Mikaelson in Vienna last year, many believed him destroyed.
Klaus Mikaelson is an enigma - one of the "Original" vampires, though this term is misleading. The Originals are not the first vampires (that distinction belongs to the Alpha and his First Order), but rather a separate bloodline entirely.
Our records on the Originals are frustratingly incomplete.
Some texts suggest their existence predates the building of the Pyramids, with ruins bearing their symbols dating to before written history.
Yet other equally credible sources claim they were created merely a thousand years ago.
What we do know is this: Their mother was a witch of extraordinary power who made some manner of deal with the Mother of Demons.
Through means unknown, she transformed her children into vampiric beings of godlike power. Unlike other vampires, they cannot be killed by conventional means.
Klaus, called "The Destroyer of Worlds" and "Fenris" in certain texts, is said to be the most dangerous among them. That he and Dracula clashed is unsurprising - two apex predators rarely share territory peacefully.
The battle reportedly leveled half of Vienna's old quarter. Witnesses claim Dracula was impaled on some manner of white oak weapon that caused his body to ignite.
No remains were found.
If these American sightings are accurate, then either Dracula survived or has found some means of resurrection. I must investigate further.
The entry ended there. The next was dated months later, the handwriting shaky, as if written by someone gravely injured:
January 4, 1784
I have failed. Dracula lives, though greatly weakened from his battle with Klaus. He has retreated to some manner of magical slumber to recover his strength. His castle has vanished from the physical plane entirely.
Before entering his dormancy, he spoke to me - his own flesh and blood - with something almost like affection.
"Sleep well, grandson," he said. "When next we meet, it will be through your children's children. I go to dream of Marie until my strength returns."
The Vampire Killer wounded him grievously, but not fatally. Only a Belmont can truly wield its power against him, and even then, our shared blood weakens its effect.
I write this from my deathbed, having taken wounds that will not heal. I pass this journal and the Morningstar to my son, Edward. May God grant him strength where I had weakness.
I closed the journal again, rubbing my eyes.
My grandfather after great grandfather had continued the record until his death in 1979 documenting every whisper, every rumor of Dracula's possible awakening.
My father had added barely a dozen pages before a nest of vampires tore him apart two years ago.
Now it was just me. The last Belmont, with no son to pass the journal to.
I lifted the gun again, feeling its weight. One bullet. One end to centuries of burden.
The sharp knock at my door was so unexpected that I nearly pulled the trigger in surprise.
Cursing, I tucked the gun into my waistband at the small of my back and approached the door cautiously. Nobody knew this location - nobody who wished me well, anyway.
I opened the door a crack, keeping the chain on.
"Trevor Belmont?" A woman's voice, cultured, upper-class British.
"Who's asking?" I kept my hand near my concealed gun.
"Toni Bevill, British Men of Letters." She held up an identification card bearing an emblem I recognized - an ancient order of supernatural researchers and occasional hunters. "May we come in?"
"We?" I peered past her to see a man in an immaculately tailored suit standing in the hallway.
"Arthur Ketch," he introduced himself with a slight nod. "We have matters of importance to discuss with the last Belmont."
I considered slamming the door in their faces. The Men of Letters were bureaucrats, academics who thought hunting could be reduced to protocols and paperwork.
Bevill herself was one I particularly wasn't a fan of after having run into her many times.
But curiosity won out over irritation.
I closed the door, removed the chain, and reopened it wider. "Make it quick."
They entered my flat, Toni's nose wrinkling slightly at the smell of blood and booze. Ketch's eyes swept the room with professional assessment, lingering on my weapons, the open journal, and the nearly empty bottle.
"Rough night?" he asked, his tone conversational but eyes sharp.
"Vampire nest in Whitechapel. Six of them. They're not having a good night either." I didn't offer them seats. "What do you want?"
Ketch glanced at the gun visible in my waistband, then at the journal, understanding dawning in his eyes. I'd been interrupted mid-suicide. He knew it. I knew he knew it. We both ignored it.
"We've detected signs of Dracula's return," he said without preamble.
I laughed, the sound harsh even to my own ears. "Bullshit. Dracula's been gone for three centuries. The Destroyer of Worlds killed him in Vienna."
At least, that's what I'm convincing myself of. The fucker has to be gone.
He just has to be.
"The rumors of Dracula's demise appear to be greatly exaggerated," Ketch replied smoothly. "Our sources indicate activity consistent with his awakening. In America."
I collapsed into the nearest chair, suddenly feeling every wound, every bruise from the night's hunt. "Not my problem. Find someone else."
Toni stepped forward, her heels clicking on the bare floor. "It is very much your problem, Mr. Belmont. You are the last of your line. Only a Belmont can truly destroy Dracula."
"My family has given enough," I snarled, gesturing around the squalid flat. "We've hunted him for seventeen centuries. Look where it's got us. I'm the last one standing, and barely that."
"It is your sacred duty-" Toni began.
"Sacred?" I cut her off. "Lady, there's nothing sacred about this curse. My ancestors have been dying trying to clean up Gabriel's mess for nearly two thousand years. I'm done."
Toni's eyes narrowed. "It is not merely duty, Mr. Belmont. It is blood. Dracula's cursed blood flows through your veins, just as it did all your ancestors."
"You are bound to this, whether you accept it or not. It is after all your bloodline that has brought this curse upon us all, and it is your duty to erase it. If it costs you your life, it is simply repayment to the world you and your ancestors have ruined by failure and weakness."
Something in me snapped. The gun was in my hand and pressed against her forehead before she could blink, my finger tight on the trigger.
"Trevor!" Ketch had his own weapon drawn, aimed at me. "Lower your weapon."
I laughed, a sound with no humor in it. "You know what's funny? I was about to put this bullet through my own head before you knocked. Taking this heartless bitch with me to Hell wouldn't be so bad now that I think about it."
Toni had gone pale, but to her credit, she didn't flinch. Her eyes remained locked on mine, cold and calculating even with death an ounce of pressure away.
"Think, Trevor," Ketch said, his voice deliberately calm. "Think of the innocents. If Dracula has truly awakened, how many will die? Dozens? Hundreds? You know what he's capable of."
I didn't move the gun. "Not my problem anymore."
"The Vampire Killer," Ketch continued, nodding toward the whip. "The Morningstar. Only those of Belmont blood can wield it effectively against him. You are the only one who can end this, once and for all."
"Others have tried. For centuries."
"But none with your training, your knowledge, and the resources we can provide." Ketch lowered his gun slowly. "The righteous blood of God's champions still flows in you, Trevor. Despite Dracula's curse, despite your family's shame. You are still a Belmont."
My hand trembled. The gun felt heavier by the second.
"Fuck," I whispered, lowering the weapon. Toni exhaled sharply.
I stood, brushing past her toward the door, opening it. "You've got what you wanted. I'm going, now get the hell out."
"Where?" Ketch called after me.
I spat on the floor outside. "To America, where bloody else?"
"The British Men of Letters have prepared transportation," Ketch said, following me. "A private plane with all necessary accommodations. It would be far more efficient than commercial travel."
I paused at that. "And what do you get out of this?"
"Dracula contained. Or better yet, destroyed." Ketch's voice was level. "We have connections in America who can assist you. The American branch of the Men of Letters may be extinct, and our branch may be... restricted from direct intervention-"
I scoffed at that. "Your elders still holding you guys by the ass?"
"-on American soil," Ketch continued without acknowledging a word I said, "but we can still provide support from a distance."
I looked him in the eyes, studying him. "You're afraid of him."
Ketch didn't deny it. "Any sane person would be. Which is why we need someone with both the bloodline and the courage to face him."
Flattery. Manipulation. But also truth.
I walked back and grabbed the journal from the table and shoved it into my coat pocket. "Fine. Let's go."
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(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter!
Do tell me how you found it.
How did you find Trevor's story here? For those who well, know him from Castlevania,
Though I personally am most interested in those who don't.
Also, since I personally really liked the Lord of Shadows, Dracula lore - and of course the original as well - I combined it with the original one, into one single thing.
Gabriel Belmont is Dracula, but how he became Dracula was more focused on the original lore.
Well, I hope to see you all later,
Bye!)