Anyone would think rebirth would be a terrifying experience, but whether due to the mental buffers they'd installed or simply sheer excitement, for him, it wasn't.
Walking across an endless plain of untouched earth and grass helped him relax. With a clear mind, he took a moment to assess his situation.
First: he had no name. He needed one.
Who would've thought? Not every day you get to choose your name from scratch.
As he kept walking, he felt the breeze on his face. He examined his hands—large, masculine, with strong, robust arms. Muscular. He felt powerful. He also had basic sword training, likely one of the perks he'd chosen. He knew how to move, had good footwork, and an instinctive grasp of his new abilities.
He smiled when, after stopping to focus, his surroundings suddenly shifted.
The sky darkened, and everything around him took on a gloomy hue—except for one thing: living beings.
He could see what looked like circulatory systems moving through the grass, beneath the soil, in the birds overhead. It was incredible. Intoxicating.
He looked up and spotted an eagle circling above.
Then he remembered: a dragon egg was among his belongings.
One that would belong to him.
He could fly. Though his powers let him float or transform into a bat or wolf, he couldn't travel very fast or high. Not a problem. He had all the time in the world.
But every man had dreamed of riding a dragon. It was practically in their DNA.
"Dragon…" he murmured.
Alucard's original family, curiously, had ties to dragons.
His father was Vlad Dracula—Son of the Dragon. A man who loved so fiercely he burned the world to avenge his wife.
That, he respected.
He knew that even if he lived centuries and lay with thousands of women, he'd only ever love one. And when that happened, he'd let the world burn for her.
"In honor of the man who fathered this body, in honor of the man who lived, killed, and died for love… I'll name myself Vlad Drakul."
Instantly, his name updated in the system.
He felt the weight of the moment.
Just as he savored his new name, a sound in the distance caught his attention.
Horses and men, over half a kilometer away. Vlad could only smile. His heightened senses were a marvel—the clatter of hooves rang clearly across the plain.
He stood still, eyes fixed on the dust cloud rising on the horizon. Soon, he made them out: sun-darkened men clad in leather and light fabrics, braided hair falling down their backs.
Dothraki.
At least a dozen, advancing in loose formation. They weren't charging yet, but they rode with confidence. They'd seen him.
Vlad didn't move.
He knew how Dothraki operated. So he sighed. Less than a day in this world, and already he'd have to kill.
The first rider halted his horse a few meters away. A tall, muscular man, bare-chested with scars crisscrossing his skin. A curved arakh hung at his hip, a sneer on his lips. The others encircled him, forming a loose ring.
The leader studied him, then spat.
Vlad was tall, lean, and unnaturally pale, with sharp features that might've been handsome if not for the glacial aura around him. His silver hair—long, straight as silk—cascaded over his broad shoulders. His near-aristocratic bearing clashed wildly with his simple tunic and sandals.
—You are a man without a khalasar. Alone. Look at that hair, that white skin… A bed slave, surely,— the leader said in a guttural tongue.
The others laughed.
Vlad tilted his head slightly, not understanding the words but weighing whether to kill them. Not a trace of fear showed on his face.
The leader frowned.
—All men without a khalasar are slaves —he insisted. —Fight or run. If you run, you'll be our slave. If you fight…—He bared his teeth. —You'll still be our slave.
He spoke again, but Vlad didn't comprehend.
—We can avoid this— Vlad said calmly.
The Dothraki exchanged confused glances at his foreign speech. Then, as if rehearsed, they drew their arakhs in unison.
—Can't be avoided—Vlad sighed.
The leader struck first. His horse surged forward, arakh slicing toward Vlad's neck. Vlad sidestepped. The blade whistled through empty air. The rider wheeled his mount around.
The others didn't wait.
A second arakh swung down. Vlad caught it barehanded. The Dothraki yelled as his weapon froze mid-air. With a sharp tug, Vlad yanked him from his saddle and slammed him into the dirt.
Silence.
For a moment, the riders hesitated. Vlad watched them, expression serene.
The leader cursed and barked an order.
With a war cry, the Dothraki charged as one.
Vlad smiled. His first battle in this world—and he wanted to test himself.
The first attacker swung diagonally. Too slow.
Vlad dissolved into mist.
The blade cut nothing. The rider blinked, baffled, just as Vlad rematerialized behind him. A precise strike to the nape dropped him unconscious before he hit the ground.
Another Dothraki thrust a spear. Vlad pivoted, snapping the shaft mid-motion. He grabbed the warrior by the throat and hurled him into his own horse like a battering ram.
He moved among them like a shadow—inhumanly fast, lethally precise.
An arakh flew—Vlad was already elsewhere. A fist shattered ribs. A kick toppled a horse. He didn't kill. Just disabled them, until only one remained:
The leader.
Vlad approached with the calm of a predator stalking prey. The Dothraki gripped his arakh, knuckles white. He was afraid.
—Demon—he growled, voice thick with terror.
Vlad only smiled.
The leader roared, launching a final attack. Vlad waited until the last instant. Then—with impossible speed—he caught him mid-air by the throat.
The horse galloped on. The rider didn't. The Dothraki kicked, clawing at Vlad's arm. Useless.
Vlad's smile widened, fangs glinting.
—Sorry. But I need to learn your language.
The leader spat at his face. Vlad dodged, disgusted.
—Actually, not that sorry.
He tilted his head and sank his fangs into the man's neck. One of vampirism's many gifts: learning through blood. A single taste could extract essence—knowledge, memories, everything.
—The blood is lives—Dracula had once said. How right he was.
The flavor of hot blood exploded in his mouth, intoxicating as the finest wine or rarest delicacy. Now he understood addicts. Luckily, the euphoria was controllable—like savoring a exquisite meal, not heroin's oblivion.
The leader thrashed, cursing, until his body went limp. Vlad drank him dry. When he dropped the corpse, dust still hung in the air.