(POV: Vlad)
Each step of his horse towards the mouth of the cave in the Broken Tooth Mountains felt like a step closer to hell. Vlad dismounted, his heart pounding not from fear, but from a mixture of cold resolve and profound sorrow for what he was about to do. The cave gaped before him like a monster's maw, exhaling cold air that smelled of death and ancient decay.
He lit a torch and stepped inside. The walls were wet and slick, and the floor beneath his feet was littered with piles of bones, yellowed with time. Some were animal bones, but most, he knew, were the unfortunate remains of other power-seekers before him.
He continued deeper, towards the source of the darkness he felt. Finally, he arrived in a vast cave chamber. At its end, on a throne made of black stone and giant bones, a figure sat in the shadows.
The creature was not as he had imagined. It wasn't a beastly monster. Its form was humanoid, but enveloped in swirling darkness, as if made of smoke and nightmares. Two glowing red eyes stared at him from within that darkness, eyes that radiated ancient intelligence and infinite cruelty.
"Another desperate soul comes knocking at my door," the creature's voice echoed throughout the cave. Its voice was deep, hoarse, and filled with a power that made the bones around them tremble. "Tell me, Prince of Men. What do you seek in my lair? Riches? Fame? Or a swift death?"
Vlad straightened his back, refusing to show fear. "I seek power," he answered with a steady voice. "The power to destroy my enemies. The power to save my people."
(POV: Tom)
Tom, hidden behind his self-created illusion of darkness (a combination of his new vampire magic and several AFO Quirks), almost burst out laughing. This actor before him was truly committed. Full of tragic spirit, wounded honor, and noble despair. "This kid is really serious," Tom thought to himself. "Alright, let's give him the role of a lifetime."
"Power..." the "demon" repeated mockingly. "Many have come asking for the same. They all ended up as part of my cave's decor." He waved his hand, hidden in shadow, towards the piles of bones. "What makes you different? What are you willing to sacrifice?"
(POV: Vlad)
"Everything!" Vlad answered without hesitation. "My faith. My humanity. My soul. Take it all. In return, give me the strength to sweep Mehmed's army from my land!"
The "demon" seemed to fall silent for a moment, as if considering the offer. Then, he rose slowly from his throne, his dark figure seeming to loom tall within the cave. "An interesting offer, Prince. Very dramatic. I like it."
The creature approached. "I will give you the power you seek. The power of the night. The power of blood. You will be stronger than ten thousand warriors. You will be a plague, a nightmare to your enemies. You will be... a Dragon. A Dracula."
"But this power comes with a curse," he continued, his voice now like a serpent's hiss. "The sun will be your greatest enemy. Silver will burn your flesh. And you will forever suffer from an insatiable thirst... a thirst for life's blood."
Vlad looked straight into the glowing red eyes. "I accept."
The "demon" smiled, a smile that seemed to tear through the darkness. He conjured an old silver goblet from thin air. With a sharp claw, he grazed his own palm, and dark, thick red blood dripped into the goblet. "Drink," he commanded, "and be reborn in darkness."
Vlad took the goblet with trembling hands. He smelled the strange metallic scent of the blood. With thoughts of his son's face and his people's suffering, he gulped down the viscous liquid to the last drop.
An overwhelming pain instantly exploded within him. It felt like fire and molten ice spreading through his veins simultaneously. He fell to his knees, screaming as his body convulsed violently. His bones felt like they were being crushed and reshaped. He could feel his heart stop beating, replaced by something else, something hollow and hungry.
When the pain finally subsided, he slowly rose. The world seemed different. He could see every crack in the distant cave walls in total darkness. He could hear the heartbeat of a bat hiding in the ceiling. He felt immense strength coursing through his muscles. And most importantly, he felt a dry, burning thirst in his throat. He looked at his hands; his skin was paler, his nails slightly sharper.
He was no longer Prince Vlad. He was Dracula.
"The power is now yours, Prince of Darkness," the "demon" said, his voice now filled with amused triumph. "Use it to destroy your enemies. But remember, the thirst... will be eternal."
With a final echoing laugh, the demonic figure vanished into the shadows, leaving Dracula alone in the silent cave. The darkness within the cave now felt like a part of him. Vlad, or Dracula, as the demon had called him, stood unsteadily, his body adapting to the absence of a heartbeat and the strange coldness in his veins. The pain of the transformation had subsided, replaced by a raw sensation of power pulsating in every muscle, and a burning thirst in his throat. A demanding thirst that could not be ignored.
He needed to test it. With a surge, he lunged forward. The world around him blurred. He wasn't running; he glided like a shadow, arriving at the cave mouth in a blink. He looked at his pale hands under the moonlight, clenching them. He could feel the power to crush stone within them. In the distance, several miles away, he could hear the frightened heartbeat of a wolf, smelling its warm blood. His senses had exploded into something inhuman.
The thirst intensified. He saw a deer drinking from a small stream nearby. With a movement faster than a blink, he was there. There was a brief, pathetic struggle, then silence. He drank the animal's blood. It tasted... bland, unsatisfying, like drinking muddy water when you desperately craved the finest wine. It only slightly eased the burning in his throat, but left a deeper hunger for something else. Something more... alive.
"No..." he whispered, wiping the animal's blood from his lips with disgust. "I will not become a monster like that." He refocused on the one thing that still made him feel human: his rage. Rage at Mehmed. Rage at the Ottoman army.
He knew where to find them. A small detachment of Janissaries, the elite Ottoman soldiers, were camped in a nearby valley, preparing for the next dawn attack. He would make them his first test.
He did not approach the camp by running. He let his new instincts take over. He felt the urge to fly, to become one with the night. He focused his mind, and his body seemed to explode into hundreds of black bats that shot silently into the night sky, a living cloud moving beneath the moon. The sensation was strange, his consciousness divided yet still one. He saw the camp below him, the soldiers laughing around their campfires, unaware of the terror about to descend upon them.
The swarm of bats descended, then coalesced in the darkness among the trees at the edge of the camp. Dracula reappeared, his cape billowing silently.
The battle was not a battle. It was a hunt.
A patrolling guard suddenly felt a cold breath on his neck. Before he could turn, Dracula was behind him, his hand piercing the guard's leather armor and crushing his heart. There was no sound.
He moved from tent to tent like a ghost. He didn't use a sword. He used his monstrous physical strength. He crushed skulls with one hand, broke necks with a swift twist, tore limbs as if they were made of wet paper. The soldiers died in their sleep or with suppressed screams that were immediately silenced forever.
When some of them finally realized something was wrong and raised the alarm, Dracula decided the silent show was over. He stepped out into the now panicked camp, his eyes glowing red in the darkness.
"Who are you?!" shouted a Janissary commander, drawing his scimitar.
"I am Wallachia's vengeance," Dracula replied, his voice cold and emotionless.
The soldiers charged him simultaneously. To them, it was a fight against one man. To Dracula, it was a dance. He moved among them with impossible speed, their swords merely slicing through empty air. Every punch sent a soldier flying, their bones shattering. Every grip crushed whatever it touched.
Arrows were fired at him. He caught some in mid-air, while others lodged in his body without slowing him down one bit. He simply pulled them out casually and threw them back, piercing the archer's neck.
In the midst of the carnage, the thirst returned with full force, now intensified by the scent of human blood spilling everywhere. He could not resist it any longer. He grabbed the remaining Janissary commander, looked into his terrified eyes, then plunged his now elongated fangs into the man's neck.
The sensation of warm blood flowing into his throat felt... incredible. It felt like life itself, satisfying a hunger he hadn't realized was so deep. His strength seemed to grow even greater.
As dawn began to break, painting the sky with a gruesome red, Dracula stood alone in the silent valley. Nothing remained of that Janissary detachment but scattered corpses. He had won. His first victory as a monster.
He looked at his blood-stained hands. There was a grim satisfaction in his heart. This was the power he needed. This was the way to save his people. But as he tasted the last of the blood on his lips, a sense of self-disgust also emerged. He had won the battle, but he knew, he had just begun a much larger war for his own soul.