The library stretched endlessly before .
Four floors of books, each more intimidating than the last, towered over like silent judges. The shelves weren't just stacked neatly — no, they wound like labyrinthine walls, twisting and overlapping in impossible ways, bending into staircases that led nowhere and balconies that overlooked voids of shadow.
The torches mounted along the walls didn't burn with fla but with cold, bluish light, as if feeding on so unseen fuel. Every once in a while, a spark would sputter out and flit across the hall like a firefly, only to vanish into the cracks of the shelves.
It was the kind of place that made you question if the books were watching you back.
I muttered under my breath, "Figures. Leave it to Dracula to make a library feel like a damn graveyard."
I wandered, scanning the titles. So were ancient tos in languages I couldn't even begin to read without the spell, their letters writhing like worms. Others were blunt and practical, like the three I'd managed to pull earlier:
[An Idiot's Guide to Swordsmanship]
This book on swordsmanship is particularly useful in a nightmare and the dream realm in general, as the most common type of weapon mory is a sword. Understanding how to properly defend myself and counterattack could an the difference between life and death.
[Vampire and Halfbreed Biology]
It is essential to understand how my own biology functions in this world. This knowledge is especially critical given that my father is also a vampire; any weaknesses I discover could prove invaluable if I am ever forced to confront him.
[Poison Brewing and Effects]
Poisons represent one of the most efficient thods for eliminating a threat. Learning how they are concocted and their specific effects is doubly useful—it not only provides a ans to defeat powerful enemies but also equips with the knowledge to identify and counteract poisons used against .
What wasn't useful, though, was the complete lack of chairs.
"Seriously? A library this big and not a single damn chair? Did Dracula just expect people to read while standing around like idiots?"
In the end, I'd given up and made my own "throne" out of stacked books. Probably sacrilegious in a place like this, but if Dracula wanted to complain, he could've provided furniture.
Ti slipped strangely here. Minutes? Hours? Days? No clue. I read and re-read until the words blurred. I was about to finally give up and leave when I saw it.
A flicker of blue.
At first, I thought one of the strange torch-sparks had slipped free again. But when I turned, there it was — a fox. Small, elegant, its fur glowing faintly with an unnatural sapphire sheen. Nine tails swayed behind it, each trailing faint streaks of light like cot tails. Its eyes sparkled with sothing that wasn't quite mischief, wasn't quite malice, but definitely trouble.
"…The hell?" I muttered.
The fox just stared at . Then it grinned. I swear it actually grinned. Before I could move, it leapt onto the top of a nearby shelf, balanced like a dancer, and — with theatrical precision — shoved a thick, heavy to off the edge.
The book slamd into my head with the subtlety of a hamr.
"Son of a—!" I staggered, clutching my skull. The fox giggled. Actually giggled, covering its muzzle with its paw before vanishing into the shelves, nine tails swishing like curtains closing on a play.
I groaned and picked up the offending object.
The title sent a shiver down my spine.
"Dracula's Journal."
"…Oh, great. Just what I needed. My immortal dad's secret diary."
The cover was pitch black, trimd in faint silver thread. The pages inside? Blank. Every single one.
I almost tossed it aside. But then a sting shot through my finger — paper cut. A bead of blood rolled down and splashed onto the page.
The parchnt drank it greedily.
The crimson stain spread into jagged runes, rearranging into words that pulsed faintly. Then, a voice echoed — not from the room, not even from the book, but from inside my skull.
Dracula's voice.
"Date: 3.11.228. Today I stole bread again. Cassandra scolded , but what else was I supposed to do? The others would have starved."
My vision blanked. The library vanished.
I stood in a crumbling stone orphanage.
The sll of mold, rot, and desperation hung thick in the air. Children with hollow cheeks huddled together under ragged blankets. And in the center of it all was a boy — black hair, red eyes, frail but burning with stubborn fire.
He was handing out pieces of stale bread to the others.
Beside him stood a girl with golden hair tied in a ssy braid — Cassandra. Her clothes were just as ragged, but her eyes burned with warmth. She tore her piece of bread in half and offered it to the youngest child nearby.
The boy — young Dracula — snapped at her.
"Stop doing that! You barely eat as it is. What good are you to anyone if you collapse?"
Cassandra only smiled faintly. "They need it more than ."
Dracula scowled, fists clenched. But in the end, he shoved his own portion into her hands. "Fine. But don't you dare give this one away."
The mory blurred, fragnts missing. Like watching a cracked mirror.
I found myself muttering, "This… is Dracula? The sa guy who can make piss myself by just looking at ?"
The voice echoed again, like Dracula himself was reading:
"She was always like that. Always giving, even when she had nothing. I hated it. Not her, but the way she thought she could just… disappear into sacrifice. So I decided if she was going to give, then I would take. I would take as much as I could, so she wouldn't have to."
The scene shifted.
The sa boy now sneaking through back alleys, clutching a stolen loaf. Church bells tolled in the distance.The moonlights Shadows stretched long across the cobblestones. His breathing was ragged, his legs bruised.
Behind him, priests in brown robes shouted, "Thief! Catch him!"
But he was fast. He darted through holes in fences, clambered over roofs, ducked into gutters. Finally, he collapsed in the orphanage doorway, chest heaving, clothes torn.
The kids rushed him, cheering, their eyes lighting up at the bread.
Cassandra frowned and crossed her arms. "You're going to get yourself killed one day."
Dracula smirked, blood dripping from a cut on his cheek. "Not today."
I muttered, "Huh. Guess even Dracula was a street rat once. Makes feel a little better about faceplanting into a glass door."
But the voice ca again, sharper now.
"Value is not decided by birth. Not by wealth. It is decided by what you can endure, and what you can bring to others. That is what I learned then."
I frowned. "Value, huh… So he got that philosophy from Cassandra?"
The journal pulsed, flipping ahead on its own. More words bled through.
"Date: 9.2.232. Cassandra was beaten again. I can't forgive them. I took a knife this ti."
my head start to hurt as the world changed around
We were in a churchyard, moonlight spilling through shattered glass windows. The cracked statues of saints lood, their faces eroded, their eyes empty sockets staring judgnt.
Cassandra sat huddled against a wall, her lip split, her cheek swollen. Her golden braid was half torn apart, strands falling loose around her face. She tried to hide her trembling with a stubborn smile, but her hands shook.
A younger Dracula — maybe twelve, maybe thirteen — stood in front of her. His fists were balled, a chipped kitchen knife clutched in one hand. His eyes glowed faintly red, not yet supernatural, but already burning with sothing crueler than a child should carry.
From the shadows erged three older boys, smug, broad-shouldered, ard with sticks. Their laughter echoed like jackals.
"Well, well. The thief boy thinks he's a knight."
Dracula said nothing. His body was taut, trembling not with fear, but with a rage so sharp it cut the air.
The first bully swung. Dracula ducked. The knife flashed.
The boy howled, clutching his arm as crimson sprayed across the church's stones.
The second charged. Dracula ramd his shoulder into the boy's gut, drove him to the ground, and pressed the blade against his throat. His eyes locked on Cassandra, then back to his target.
"Don't touch her again," he hissed.
The third ran.
When it was done, Dracula stood over them, chest heaving, knife dripping. He looked like a wolf cub that had just bitten its first throat — shocked at what he'd done, terrified… and exhilarated.
Cassandra grabbed his wrist. "What have you done?"
He yanked free, voice cracking, "I did what you wouldn't! They were hurting you! I won't let anyone hurt you again!"
Her eyes softened, though tears slipped free. "…Drac…"
The mory blurred, saring like wet ink, until only his voice remained.
"That was the first ti I understood. rcy is a weakness that can only exist if soone else is willing to be cruel for you. Cassandra gave. I took. That is how we survived."
I staggered, my stomach twisting.
I muttered, "Damn… first blood at thirteen. Figures. No wonder you turned into a psycho king. That was your bedti story, wasn't it?"
But even as I said it, part of felt… unsettled.
Because wasn't that the sa advice my "guard" had given before I was thrown into this nightmare?
Humans are the most terrifying thing in a nightmare. If it's your life or theirs, only one of you has a family back ho.
"Date: 6.23.235. Today I helped Cassandra with her shopping."
The scene dragged in again.
Cassandra was maybe fourteen now, taller, her braid neater despite the sa ragged clothes. She carried herself with dignity that didn't fit her station.
Dracula — still thin, but sharper, harder — stood with her in a market square. His stolen loaf was gone; instead, he held a sack of onions, potatoes, whatever scraps he'd bartered for with stolen coins.
The rchants whispered behind their stalls. "That boy… red eyes. Cursed eyes. Marked."
He ignored them, jaw tight, but Cassandra's hand slipped into his.
"Don't listen," she whispered.
He didn't reply. But he squeezed her hand tighter.
"It never mattered to her. My eyes, my hunger, my temper. She stayed. Always stubborn, always giving. And I kept taking."
"Date: 12.1.240. I finally decided to enlist in the Beast gods Army. They gave a uniform. I will miss the orphanage. But I have to do this. I need to make enough money to support them all."
The scene swapped completely
Rows of boys stood in brown military uniforms, the fabric rough and plain, a bleeding moon stitched on their sleeves. They were children pretending to be n, most of them gaunt, wide-eyed, already broken.
Dracula was among them, shoulders squared, eyes burning.
The commander walked the line — a man with skin pale as bone, veins like ink across his arms, eyes glowing faintly with red light. He stopped at Dracula, looked him up and down, and grunted.
"This one will last. Maybe."
Dracula didn't flinch.
Cassandra was gone. The orphanage was gone. All that remained was value.
"Value is not comfort. Value is not kindness. Value is the weight you can bear for others, even if it crushes you. That is why I joined. To carry their weight."
"Date: 4.2.241. The soldiers here are weaker than I expected. I wasn't expecting anyone to be on my level, but I'm still shocked these n are considered warriors."
It was a barren training yard at dusk. Rows of recruits gasped for breath, their wooden practice swords drooping like dead branches. So collapsed into the dirt, groaning.
Dracula stood apart. His strikes were clean, sharp, relentless. Sweat poured down his face, but his movents didn't falter. Every ti the training master barked an order, he executed it twice as fast, twice as brutally.
The man beside him — a broad, sluggish boy — fell to his knees, coughing. Dracula's lip curled.
"Pathetic."
The boy shot him a glare. "Easy for you to say, freak. You've got noble blood in your veins."
Dracula's hand lashed out. A crack echoed as he slapped the boy across the face.
"You think blood makes the blade cut?" he spat. "It's will. And you have none."
The others whispered. So mocked. So feared. But all of them stared.
When the training ended, they were husks. He was steel.
"I learned quickly that soldiers are not warriors. Most n fight because they are forced to. Because they must. Not because they choose to. I chose. That was the difference."
The entry bled into another.
"Date: 7.19.241. First skirmish today. I killed five n. I thought it would feel heavier. It did not."
The battlefield stank of iron and blood. n scread, clashing steel against steel.
Dracula moved like a scythe through wheat. His borrowed blade was chipped, his armor too large, yet nothing slowed him.
The first enemy lunged — he slit his throat.
The second raised a spear — he drove the sword through his chest.
The third, the fourth, the fifth — all fell.
He didn't stumble. He didn't shake. His hands were steady, his eyes cold.
Around him, his fellow soldiers hesitated, quaking at the blood pooling beneath their boots. Dracula barked at them:
"Move! Or die useless!"
Sothing in his tone broke them from their fear. They surged forward, following his lead.
By the end, the ground was littered with corpses. And Dracula, drenched in blood, stood unflinching.
Back in the void, I muttered, "You… you really didn't care. Five lives, ten lives, a hundred… just numbers to you, weren't they?"
Yet even as I said it, my chest tightened. Because he was right, wasn't he? Soldiers fought because they had no choice. He fought because he chose to. That was what made him terrifying.
The book shuddered. Another entry surfaced.
"Date: 8.21.248. We finally won a battle against the War God's army. The troops' morale was low, but this victory has lifted them. Especially since this victory in war allowed to reach my Supremacy."
The scene burned into existence.
A battlefield stretched for miles. Corpses piled like broken walls. The air was thick with the stench of rot and fire.
Dracula strode through it, clad in blackened armor, cape shredded, a blood-red tachi in his grip. His movents were heavier now, deliberate, practiced. His hair reached his shoulders, matted with sweat and gore.
Hundreds had fallen before him, yet his strength hadn't waned.
At last, the enemy line broke. The survivors scattered. Silence fell.
Dracula planted his blade into the ground, tore off his ruined cape, and tied it around the hilt. Raising it high, he let the wind catch it — black and crimson against the blood-soaked sky.
His soldiers roared. Their despair turned to frenzy.
They weren't following a commander. They were following him.
"That was the mont. The mont I beca more than a soldier. I beca a banner. A force. Supremacy is not simply strength. It is the power to make others move when they would rather die in the mud."
"Date: 6.7.249. We were saved by the moon God's reinforcents at the nick of ti. The battle against the other gods continues. We managed to take the capital of the Sun God's domain. But the victory ca at a cost."
The Sun God's capital burned, its ivory towers cracked, its golden dos shattered. Flas climbed high, so bright that they drowned the shadows. Statues of radiant warriors toppled, breaking into jagged fragnts that glittered in the inferno.
Dracula strode through it all, black armor sared with blood, his crimson blade dripping. His soldiers staggered behind him, fewer than half of those who had begun the siege. Their eyes were hollow.
Yet they looked at him — always him.
The enemy had been shattered by the beast God's reinforcents, but the survivors whispered that Dracula had fought like a demon even before they arrived.
He had cut down generals. Burned banners. Shattered gates with strikes that should have been impossible.
But the cost…
The streets were clogged with corpses. His soldiers. The Sun God's followers. Innocents. Thousands who had burned alive when the shadows clashed with fla.
Dracula paused in the ruins of a once-proud hall, blood still dripping from his fingers.
Behind him, a lieutenant stumbled forward. His face was half-burned, eyes glassy.
"My lord… we… we won."
Dracula didn't respond at first. He looked at the golden walls, now blackened, and muttered, almost too low to hear:
"Victory always tastes like ash."
The lieutenant collapsed dead at his feet.
The journal's voice carved through the silence.
"The beast God praised for this. But I felt no glory. Cassandra was not there. And without her presence, even victory felt empty."
I jolted, leaning closer to the book. "Cassandra again… but what was she to you?"
The next lines refused to appear. I turned the page, only to find… blankness. A gap, jagged like torn flesh.
"Not again," I muttered. Whole chunks of his story were missing, like the journal itself didn't want to see the truth. Or maybe… he didn't want it preserved.
At last, more ink bled across the page.
"Date: 2.3.250. My soldiers revere . My enemies fear . Yet I am alone among the masses. The higher I climb, the further I drift from them. They look at and do not see a man. They see sothing else."
Another battlefield appeared.
Dracula stood on a mound of corpses. His cape was torn, his blade jagged, yet he shone like a black star against the chaos.
Around him, his n cheered with broken voices. They lifted their weapons, crying his na. But when they looked at him, their eyes were strange — not comrades' eyes, but the eyes of n staring at a creature beyond them.
Fear. Awe. Devotion. Disgust.
All tangled.
Dracula's jaw tightened. His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his blade.
"Do they love ? Or do they simply need ?"
He didn't speak it aloud, but I felt it through the echo of his thoughts.
The void swallowed the battlefield. The library returned.
I sat there, heart thundering, fingers clenched tight.
"He was becoming… untouchable. Not just powerful. Alone."
The journal pulsed. More words surfaced.
"Date: 10.14.250. They whisper titles for now. They say I am the Blood Reaver. The Banner of Shadows. They call hero. They call monster. Neither matters. Only Cassandra's silence weighs on . She has not answered my letters in months."
My chest tightened. Cassandra again. Always her.
The next page bled but instead of words, I saw half-ford letters, broken runes, like a puzzle missing half its pieces. No matter how hard I focused, they wouldn't form.
I snarled
"Why can't I see it?! What are you hiding from , old man?"
The library rumbled, shelves shivering, as though warning not to dig too deep
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