Chapter Nine: So the Fool Was Me All Along

Twang—the instant the vampire lunged, Van Helsing’s crossbow sang, the arrow flashing through the air with a steely whistle. The vampire under attack made no attempt to dodge; in his perception, the arrow carried no silver, and thus posed no threat.

“Brazen enough to take an arcane shot head-on? It seems you’ve truly forgotten me.” There was a complex timbre in Van Helsing’s voice as he glanced at the other four vampires. To take his arcane shot without dodging—even a count would not escape unscathed.

Arcane Shot? The viscount was still puzzled when the arrow tip at his chest suddenly erupted in blue light. The arcane energy within dazzled his senses, rendering him unable to vaporize or transform into a bat. He was pinned to the ground, then exploded into a cloud of ash.

His final thought was a bitter realization: The joke was on him all along.

This all transpired in a flash. The other vampires had no time to react to their companion’s death before Van Helsing’s right hand swept to his waist, drawing a silver sword as if from thin air.

As a monster hunter, Van Helsing was not only a deadeye and a master tracker, but also a swordsman of the highest order. Swordlight flickered, and before him the vampire was hewn into pieces, each fragment disintegrating into ash under the combined force of silver and raw energy.

Having effortlessly dispatched the two vampires attacking him, Van Helsing crossed his arms and turned toward Blade. Blade’s situation was far less favorable; the combined assault of three viscounts was pushing him past his limits.

It was then that the embattled vampires noticed the deaths of their two comrades at Van Helsing’s hand. Barely a dozen seconds had passed since the attack began, yet their confidence shattered. Panic set in, and they turned to flee.

Blade wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip by. He struck out with his sword, intent on pursuit. The vampire he targeted, realizing escape was impossible, spun to fight desperately—if he could tear Blade’s heart out, smash his skull, even Blade would be finished.

A sharp whistle pierced the air. Suddenly, a small blue bird, wings aflutter, appeared on Blade’s shoulder, conjuring a one-way shield. The viscount’s desperate counterattack crashed harmlessly against the shield, and Blade dispatched his foe with ease.

He then glanced at the older man he had begun to underestimate.

Van Helsing now held a longbow he seemed to have produced from nowhere, two arrows nocked and ready.

Multishot. Shocking Shot.

Both arrows flew simultaneously, striking the two fleeing vampires with unerring accuracy. This time, though, when they were pinned to the ground, they didn’t die instantly but struggled in vain.

Van Helsing shook his head, finished them off with two swings of his silver sword, and turned to Blade. “Hey, kid, aren’t you going to buy me a drink? I’m not familiar with the area. Surely you wouldn’t leave an old man here all alone?”

Blade nodded. “Sir, please follow me.”

As they left the nightclub, Van Helsing glanced up at the only surviving security camera. With his right hand, he traced a gesture across his throat. “Dracula, I’ve returned. This time, I will truly end you!”

The prologue ended perfectly. Yang Qiu let out a breath of relief. He had crafted an entire backstory for Van Helsing, making him fundamentally different from Pike. With such a rich background, Van Helsing could be considered a complete character—one with his own interests and aversions, his own beliefs and convictions, even without Yang Qiu’s intervention.

Such characters were never easy to write, so Yang Qiu only set a general direction and some behavioral guidelines for each scene; the rest, he left to Van Helsing’s own development.

He glanced at his script. There was a gap between the prologue and the first act, intended to give Van Helsing time to acclimate to this world and to hunt for clues about Dracula.

To eradicate vampires, that tenacious blight upon humanity, in one fell swoop was unrealistic. It would require time, patience, and careful effort. Yang Qiu possessed both in abundance, and his power grew by the day. The era when vampires would be erased from the Earth was not far off.

In Blade’s secret refuge, Van Helsing dropped into the sofa with a satisfied wriggle. He’d never sat on anything so comfortable before.

“Mr. Van Helsing, what did you mean by your last words as we left?” Blade asked, pouring a cup of coffee.

Van Helsing took a sip, then spat it out at once. “This stuff is bitter?”

He pushed the coffee aside, shaking his head with a sigh. “You truly haven’t heard of me?”

Blade shook his head. He’d just checked—the internet yielded no trace of anyone named Van Helsing.

“Time truly is the most fearsome force of all,” Van Helsing mused. “But do you know of the Ark?”

Blade’s eyes lit up. Could God truly exist? Was Van Helsing perhaps a man of faith?

“Don’t misunderstand,” Van Helsing added quickly. “I’ve never gotten along with God or the Church. The Ark I used was only a replica, but it did see me through over a century.”

He began to tell his tale. “I was born in 1880. My mother and father both died at the hands of vampires; only I escaped. Later, I joined an organization—it may still exist, and if I contact them, I’ll introduce you.

“In any case, after a period of training, I graduated and became a monster hunter by profession. To be honest, unlike other monster hunters, I dedicated myself almost entirely to hunting vampires—driven by hatred.

“Eventually, by a stroke of fate, I found Dracula’s lair while he was grievously wounded. I drove my arrow deep into his heart. I thought Dracula was dead and gone from this world, but a fellow hunter shared a prophecy with me: Dracula still lived.

“I myself was mortally wounded at the time, not long for this world. But I had made a few friends over the years. One of them managed to acquire a replica of the Ark for me. With the energy in my body, it sustained me, slowly healing my wounds. When I finally crawled out, more than a century had passed. By then, Dracula had become a vampire prince. It’s almost laughable.”

Hatred flashed in Van Helsing’s eyes.

“But time is merciless. Now, I can barely contend with a marquis-level vampire—assuming they don’t use your era’s firearms.”

Blade listened, unsure what to say. He’d crossed swords with a marquis once and had nearly been killed—only a fluke had saved him. Yet here was Van Helsing, after more than a century, still stronger than Blade himself. The comparison left Blade feeling distinctly inadequate.