As Shotaro lifted the small, suspiciously ornate cup to his lips, a sharp, pungent scent wafted up, assaulting his senses. The liquid shimmered under the dim candlelight of the witch's hut, its unnatural yellow hue far from inviting. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to stop, to reconsider his choices—but the intense gaze of Witch Lattrem bore down on him, leaving him with little room to refuse.
"How's my fresh boiling urine tasting?" she had whispered earlier, her voice like a snake slithering through the dark. "Drink, and you shall find the answers you seek. Or don't, and remain forever ignorant."
Shotaro swallowed hard, his throat tightening. Was this truly the only way? He had come too far to back out now. Clenching his fists, he forced himself to tilt the cup, allowing the thick, warm liquid to spill onto his tongue. The taste was worse than he imagined—bitter, acrid, carrying a metallic tang that sent a violent shudder through his body.
Then, everything around him blurred.
The wooden walls of the hut twisted like melting wax. The flickering candlelight stretched into eerie, elongated tendrils, dancing madly before his eyes. A dull ringing filled his ears, drowning out even the pounding of his own heartbeat. His legs wobbled. The ground felt like it was crumbling beneath him.
His vision darkened.
The last thing he saw before his world went black was Witch Lattrem's knowing smirk, her eyes gleaming with an unreadable expression.
Then, silence.
"Ah—!"
A sharp gasp left his lips as he jolted awake, his body tense, his breath unsteady. But something was off. The air felt different—lighter, almost weightless. The world around him was not the one he had known just moments ago.
Shotaro found himself standing in the middle of an open playing field, bathed in the soft glow of an eternal twilight. The air shimmered like a mirage, distorting the edges of reality itself.
And then… he saw him.
A child. No—himself.
A six-month-old infant, seated on the lush grass, chubby hands grasping at the air as he giggled. The baby's silver hair glowed under the strange twilight, his red eyes wide with innocent curiosity.
Shotaro felt his heart clench. This was… him?
"As the Messiah, you were always watched—by humans, by deities," a voice echoed in his mind.
Lattrem.
Her presence was nowhere to be seen, but her words slithered through his consciousness, a constant reminder of the fact that he is watching past & can't change it.
"You cannot call out to your baby self," she warned, her voice both distant and intimate. "So don't try."
Shotaro clenched his fists, his golden gaze flickering with confusion.
His infant self was right there—within reach. And yet, something about this whole scene felt unnatural, manufactured.
Something was off.
He took a slow step forward, his brows furrowing as his eyes roamed over the baby's skin.
It was pale. Too pale.
"Why is his skin lighter than mine?" Shotaro muttered, his voice laced with quiet suspicion. He had always carried the olive tan . But this baby…
The infant version of himself had skin that was nearly porcelain in contrast.
Lattrem's silence stretched for a moment, an almost playful hesitation before she finally spoke.
"Ah. About that—"
Before Shotaro could react, the sky split open.
A deafening crack of thunder roared through the heavens, and a bolt of lightning descended with divine fury.
It struck the infant directly.
The baby's tiny body convulsed as the electricity surged through him, illuminating his silver hair with an eerie glow.
And yet—he did not cry.
There was no scream of agony. No wailing of pain.
Instead, the baby let out a startled, almost offended "Gwah!!"—as if the heavens had rudely interrupted his playtime.
Shotaro's blood ran cold.
Shotaro took an involuntary step back, his breath catching in his throat. His mind struggled to process what had just unfolded before him.
A baby—his baby self—had just been struck by a lightning bolt from the heavens.
And instead of crying…
Instead of wailing in pain like any normal infant would…
The tiny version of himself had merely let out an annoyed "Gwah!!"—as if the universe had mildly inconvenienced him.
Shotaro blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then, finally, the words left his mouth in a slow, disbelieving murmur:
"What the fuck... am I watching?"
The question hung in the air, swallowed by the vast, endless twilight around him.
Shotaro barely had time to process what he was seeing before a blur of motion rushed past him.
A figure ran straight through him—as if he weren't even there.
The sensation, or rather, lack of it, sent a chilling reminder through his mind.
He wasn't truly here.
He was a mere observer, a hologram imprinted onto the past.
The one who had just phased through him was a young girl—her long, dark hair flowing behind her, her face contorted in panic.
Satsuya.
"That's your oldest sister," Lattrem's voice chimed in, its tone eerily casual. "The one who adored you very much."
Shotaro stayed silent, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before him.
Satsuya skidded to a stop, kneeling beside the charred infant. Smoke curled up from the baby's tiny body, his silver hair slightly frizzled, his skin darkened as if he had just been cooked over an open flame.
And yet—he just stood there.
Unfazed. Unbothered.
His tiny mouth opened, and in a sleepy, almost lazy voice, the baby Shotaro uttered—
"Gao."
Satsuya exhaled sharply, scooping up the burned but very much alive infant in her arms. She held him close, inspecting him for injuries, only to realize that despite looking like a roasted potato, he was perfectly fine.
Shotaro, still standing at a distance, ran a hand through his silver hair in exasperation.
"What the fuck? Where did that lightning even come from?" he muttered, feeling like he was losing his grip on reality.
"One of the gods tried to smite you," a voice casually answered from the void.
Shotaro's body tensed.
"You know—just a regular day in the life of Shotaro Mugyiwara."
A deep sigh left Shotaro's lips.
What the hell was his life?
As if the very fabric of reality had been peeled away, Shotaro felt a sudden shift in his surroundings.
The world around him blurred, colors twisting and morphing like wet paint on a canvas. Before he could even react, he was somewhere else.
Another memory.
From a distance, he saw it—a familiar scene playing out before him.
His baby self sat on a cushioned mat, wrapped head to toe in bandages, looking more like a tiny mummy than an infant.
Shotaro squinted.
If not for the unmistakable silver tufts of hair poking out from the bandages, he might have mistaken himself for a very unfortunate-looking child.
Across from the baby, his parents—Hashirama and Himawari—stood, both letting out long, tired sighs. Their expressions were an odd mix of exasperation and disbelief as they carefully peeled away the layers of gauze, revealing the skin underneath.
Shotaro narrowed his eyes.
His baby skin was slightly darker now.
A realization hit him like a brick to the face.
"...So my skin isn't naturally tanned," Shotaro muttered, watching the scene unfold.
He ran a hand down his face as the weight of the truth settled in.
"It's just... burns."
A chuckle echoed in his mind—Lattrem's voice, teasing as ever.
Suddenly, the past lurched forward.
Shotaro felt his entire body being pulled through time like a thread yanked through the fabric of reality. His vision blurred—colors smearing together—before everything snapped back into focus.
Now, he stood in a new memory.
It was five years later.
A young Shotaro, now an elementary schooler, stood barefoot in the middle of a large, open dojo within the Mugyiwara estate. His stance was slightly awkward, his grip a little too tense, but his eyes burned with a determination far beyond his years.
In his hands, he clutched a katana.
It wasn't Alakshmi.
Shotaro's older self, watching from a distance, narrowed his eyes.
"That's—" he muttered, recognizing the weapon instantly.
"Virtue Blade."
Lattrem's voice hummed in his mind, carrying a ceartain weight.
"The blade you once wielded… before getting your ass to you in Drakastradorn."
Shotaro scoffed. "Thanks for the reminder."
But his gaze remained locked onto the katana in his younger self's hands.
Virtue Blade.
His family's heirloom.
Unlike most swords, Virtue Blade was a striking masterpiece, crafted from a silver-white steel that reflected light like a polished mirror. The blade had golden engravings running along its length, ancient Mugyiwara inscriptions that spoke of honor, righteousness, and duty.
The saya (scabbard) was a deep onyx-black, with golden filigree swirling across its surface like divine calligraphy. A single jade inlay sat at the base, glowing faintly whenever the sword recognized a worthy wielder.
But its most distinct feature?
The sheath.
It was said that Virtue Blade could only be fully sheathed by someone who embodied all virtues—a near-impossible feat. If the wielder was impure or lacking in virtue, the blade would reject them, refusing to slide all the way into its scabbard.
Shotaro's younger self tightened his grip, taking a deep breath.
Then—he swung.
The blade whistled through the air, its edge gleaming under the lantern-lit dojo.
Shotaro stood still, watching his younger self struggle with the Virtue Blade. He already knew what was about to happen.
And who was about to walk in.
"This is where she comes in, right?" he muttered.
Lattrem stayed quiet for a beat before answering.
"Yeah."
Right on cue, a familiar feminine voice rang through the dojo, smooth but carrying that unmistakable authority.
"Good god, Shotaro-kun."
A tall woman strode in, her presence commanding without even trying. She was dressed in a simple white judogi, the sleeves slightly rolled up, revealing toned forearms. Her long raven-black hair was tied into a neat braid that swayed with each step.
She had the sharp, angular features of a Scandinavian warrior, but her dark, almond-shaped eyes and fluid movements were undeniably Japanese. A perfect blend of her mixed heritage—descended from a Mugyiwara offshoot that had intertwined with Viking raiders and demons over generations.
There were small, subtle things that hinted at her inhuman bloodline.
Her canines were just a bit too sharp, always peeking when she smirked. Her golden eyes flickered unnaturally, like embers burning beneath the surface. And if you looked close enough, her fingernails were slightly clawed—just enough to be unsettling, but never enough to draw attention outright.
Shotaro let out a slow breath.
"Kazaya Kinoko."
His master. His surrogate big sister.
The first female figure in his life outside his family.
She stopped near the five-year-old version of him, watching him struggle with the Virtue Blade. Her arms crossed, but there was something amused in her expression.
"You're learning well," she said, nodding. "Using the Virtue Blade like that—you're starting to look like a real swordsman."
Five-year-old Shotaro's face lit up. His grip tightened on the blade, and he beamed at her with unfiltered pride.
"Thank you, Master!"
Older Shotaro, watching from afar, visibly cringed at the memory.
"God, I really was that eager, huh?"
Back then, he had practically worshiped this woman. She had been unstoppable in his eyes.
Now?
He knew better.
But even after everything, seeing her again—even if only in memory—stirred something deep in his chest.
Shotaro let out a sharp breath, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"You really loved her," Lattrem mused in his mind, her tone teasing but oddly thoughtful.
"Not just admiration—you loved her like a man loves a woman."
Shotaro's jaw tensed. "Tch."
Lattrem chuckled. "Makes me wonder… what was it, huh? What made you such a loverboy for an older woman at just five years old, Messiah boy?"
Shotaro rolled his eyes. "Oh, shut the fuck up."
Lattrem just laughed harder, until she was silent.
Lattrem's laughter echoed in his mind—light at first, then deepening into something almost sinister. And then, suddenly—
Silence.
When she spoke again, her voice had a dangerous edge.
"I know why you loved her."
The scene around him shifted. The dojo, the practice grounds, his childhood home—all gone.
In their place was a wedding hall.
Shotaro blinked. "The fuck—?"
At the altar stood a child-sized version of himself. But it wasn't the groom's spot he was standing in.
It was the bride's.
The flowing white dress, the delicate veil draped over his tiny silver hair, the small hands clutching a bouquet of flowers—it was all unmistakable. Little Shotaro was dressed like a bride.
Shotaro—the real, present Shotaro—sat frozen in one of the guest seats, his mind short-circuiting as he stared at his past self.
"What the actual—"
"It was your dream," Lattrem narrated smoothly, her voice dripping with amusement.
Then, the doors at the end of the aisle swung open.
Kazaya Kinoko walked in, dressed as the groom.
Her judogi was replaced by a sleek black suit, her long braid now loosely tied back in a more formal yet still effortless way.
And her expression? Calm. Collected. Like this was the most natural thing in the world.
She walked forward, completely ignoring the adult Shotaro sitting in the audience, her eyes only on the child standing at the altar.
Shotaro felt his brain melting as his memories started to rush back—scenes, emotions, long-forgotten feelings flooding in all at once.
Lattrem's voice hummed in his mind again, smug as ever.
"Such a lil' slut for your teacher, huh?"
Shotaro clutched his head, gritting his teeth.
"Shut. Up."
But Lattrem wasn't done.
"The reason you adored your master," she said, her voice echoing as the memory deepened.
suddenly the dream was shattered as Shotaro saw the sight of his master with his lil self naked on bed.
"Her ancestors were succubusses, so she fed on your semen, when you were five, she constantly...let just say raped you even before your brain was devloped enough to understand it" Lattrem narrated to Shotaro who just stood their with a agitaed experience before saying, "At first it was just training, dad told her to train me, the heir of mugyiwara" his fist clenched, "It was'nt long before her urges began to come out..." he bit his lip until it bled, "She started with regular kisse...it was'nt long before I was getting molested every day after the training.
"& then she began to outright bed you at 5, your lil brain couldn't process the violation & devloped" She was cut off by Shotaro who answered.
This is a deeply sensitive topic, so I'll refine it while maintaining the emotional impact without being overly explicit. Here's a more subtle, yet still powerful version:
Shotaro clenched his fists, his breath unsteady.
"Stockholm Syndrome," he muttered.
Lattrem let out a low chuckle. "Ah, so you understand now."
His gaze remained fixed on the memory—the young, vulnerable version of himself, unaware of the weight of what had been taken from him.
"I fell in love with my master," he admitted, his voice carrying a bitter edge. "And in process... I lost everything that makes a person normal."
Lattrem hummed in agreement.
"That would explain why you've never quite fit in, wouldn't it?" she mused, her tone almost teasing.
Shotaro didn't respond. He didn't need to.
"Imagine it—the so-called Child of Light, reduced to nothing more than a pitiful little offering to his teacher."
Shotaro's body tensed, but he said nothing. The weight of the past pressed down on him, suffocating, inescapable.
Shotaro exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. His eyes, still locked onto the memory, burned with emotions he couldn't quite name—anger, regret, maybe even something dangerously close to grief.
Lattrem's voice returned, smooth and knowing.
"You never questioned it, did you? Your role as her savior."
Shotaro's fingers twitched, but he remained silent.
"You believed it was love, that you were meant to protect her. To be whatever she needed you to be."
A bitter chuckle slipped past his lips. "And yet, I was just a kid."
"Ah, but there's more, Messiah Boy," Lattrem teased, her voice laced with something almost sinister. "Another missing piece to your story."
Shotaro finally tore his gaze from the scene before him, his expression darkening.
"What piece?" he asked, though something in him already knew he wouldn't like the answer.
Lattrem let out a slow, satisfied hum.
"you do remember."
Shotaro's expression darkened, his fists trembling at his sides. A solemn, deep-seated hatred flickered behind his crimson eyes—resentment so old it had almost settled into something colder, more calculating.
"Jezebel," he muttered, the name leaving his lips like a curse.
Lattrem laughed softly. "Oh, Messiah Boy, you buried her with your own hands, and yet you still hesitate to face it?"
The air around him seemed to shift, the past warping again. The dojo, the wedding memory, everything dissolved into something else—something far worse.
The memory shifted once more, fast-forwarding like a skipping record.
Shotaro now found himself standing in the courtyard of the Kinoko Dojo, watching a younger version of himself float slightly above the ground. The five-year-old Shotaro wobbled in mid-air, his tiny limbs shaking as he tried to stabilize himself under Kazaya's watchful eye.
"Steady yourself, Shotaro-kun," Kazaya instructed, her voice warm but firm. She stood tall, arms crossed over her judogi, her piercing gaze analyzing his every movement. "Flying is about control, not power. Balance your energy, and don't just rely on brute force."
From the side, a boy with strikingly similar features to Shotaro—silver hair, crimson eyes, and a mischievous yet innocent smile—approached with a tray of tea.
"Nee-chan, you're making him work too hard," the boy whined playfully. "Let him have a break!"
Junio Kinoko.
Shotaro's breath hitched slightly as he watched his past self glance at the younger boy, then back at Kazaya.
"You spoil him too much, Junio," Kazaya said with a smirk. "He needs discipline."
Young Shotaro barely paid attention. He was too focused on the row of dummies set up in the distance, his eyes beginning to glow with a fiery red hue. Kazaya nodded in approval.
"Alright, now aim."
A beam of searing energy erupted from young Shotaro's eyes, but it missed wildly, setting a nearby tree ablaze instead. Junio yelped, nearly dropping the tea tray.
"OI! Be careful where you're looking, you wanna burn my hair off?!" Junio shouted.
Kazaya burst into laughter while young Shotaro pouted, clearly frustrated with himself.
From the sidelines, the present-day Shotaro watched in silence. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes lingered on Junio for just a moment longer than necessary.
Lattrem's voice slithered into his ears again.
"Oh what a good little boy, does'nt even know his sister's violations..hope something bad does'nt happen to him"
Shotaro's jaw tightened. He knew where this was going. He knew what came next.
"He is the reason why master used me" Shotaro said, "She can't hold her urges, the one derieved from her ancestory & decided to take care of them by violating me in secret".
Lattrem hummed knowingly.
"Ah, so you do understand. Took you long enough."
Shotaro's gaze stayed locked on Junio—the boy who was his mirror image in almost every way, except for one crucial difference.
"She couldn't lay a hand on her own blood," he muttered, voice devoid of emotion. "So she used me instead."
The tea tray in Junio's hands clattered as he set it down, laughing about something meaningless—something Shotaro of the past didn't yet know the weight of.
"She hid it well, didn't she?" Lattrem's voice coiled around his thoughts. "The perfect elder sister, the perfect mentor. But inside? She was starving."
Shotaro exhaled slowly, his hands clenching into fists.
"And I was the substitute."
The scene shifted again, whisking Shotaro away to a familiar place—the grand Mugyiwara mansion, nestled deep in the mountainous region of Hokkaido. Morning light streamed through the large windows, casting a warm glow over the traditional yet lavish dining hall.
At the center of it all sat Hashirama Mugyiwara, ever youthful despite being well into his thirties. He looked more like a college student than the powerful head of the Mugyiwara clan, casually sipping his morning coffee while reading the newspaper.
Beside him, moving with the grace of a man who had seen centuries come and go, was Alucard—the ever-loyal butler of the Mugyiwara family. The vampire's presence was as refined as ever, his polished uniform without a single wrinkle as he silently refilled Hashirama's cup with practiced ease.
Watching from the sidelines of his own memory, Shotaro barely reacted.
Lattrem, however, sounded amused. "I have to admit, your family had style. That's one hell of a cool butler."
Shotaro shrugged, his expression deadpan. "Yeah, well… he's actually Vlad 'Dracula' Tepes."
Silence.
A silence so thick that Shotaro could practically feel Lattrem's brain short-circuiting.
"…Excuse me, what the fuck?" she finally blurted out.
Shotaro didn't even turn to look at her. "You heard me. That's Dracula. Y'know, the whole 'Impaler' thing, Wallachian prince, legendary vampire. Yeah, same guy."
Lattrem remained quiet, as if processing the sheer absurdity of what he just said. Then, with a voice full of exhausted disbelief, she muttered, "Your life is a goddamn fever dream."
Shotaro smirked. "Tell me about it."
Meanwhile, in the memory, Alucard continued his duty, effortlessly balancing a tray of assorted breakfast dishes. His movements were precise, elegant—centuries of practice distilled into the art of perfect butlering.
"The great Dracula, reduced to serving coffee? What a downgrade," Lattrem scoffed.
Lattrem's voice rang in his mind, dripping with sheer disbelief. "What the fuck is wrong with your family? Jesus as a son and Dracula as a butler?!"
Shotaro didn't even flinch. Instead, he just sighed, rubbing his temples as if this entire conversation was giving him a headache. "Lattrem, you're talking to a dude who can fly and shoot lasers out of his eyes & can mow down mountains with his katana. I think we lost whatever 'normal' was the moment we stepped into my memories."
Silence.
Then, Lattrem let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Yeah, fair point.".
"Why the fuck is Dracula even working as your butler, anyway?" Lattrem asked, completely baffled.
Shotaro casually shrugged, as if explaining why a legendary vampire lord was serving his family was just another Tuesday for him. "Yeah, nothing major... My great-great—uh, something, I forgot—grandfather was a vampire hunter. He convinced old Drac to take the name 'Alucard' and serve the Mugyiwaras after earning his loyalty through kindness."
Lattrem paused for a moment. "Okay, wait—who exactly was this great-great-something-grandpa of yours?"
Shotaro blinked. "Van Hellsing Mugyiwara. Why?"
Silence.
Then, Lattrem deadpanned, her voice flat with sheer exasperation. "Excuse me, what the fuck?"
"Let not worry about it" Shotaro said, "the big problem is coming here".
"Problem called Jezebell," Lattrem muttered as the doorbell rang.
Standing at the entrance was a woman who looked like she had walked straight out of a biblical tale. There was something undeniably alluring about her, an almost supernatural seductiveness woven into her every movement. Her presence was magnetic, the kind that could make even the most disciplined man forget himself.
She wore a deep crimson gown, embroidered with intricate golden patterns that shimmered in the light, hugging her figure in a way that left little to the imagination. The fabric draped elegantly over her curves, teasing just enough skin to be suggestive without being outright indecent. The neckline plunged, drawing the eye toward her collarbones and the subtle rise and fall of her breath. Long, flowing sleeves, lined with gold filigree, extended down to her wrists, trailing slightly as she moved. A golden belt cinched at her waist, emphasizing the natural hourglass shape of her body.
Her hair was a cascade of thick, dark curls, falling effortlessly past her shoulders like waves of ink. It framed a face that was both regal and dangerous—sharp cheekbones, a slightly upturned nose, and full lips painted a shade of red that matched her dress. Her eyes, an unnatural shade of amber, gleamed with intelligence and mischief, holding a gaze that could pierce through souls.
When she spoke, her voice was smooth and intoxicating, each word rolling off her tongue like a carefully rehearsed melody. First, she greeted the household in old Hebrew, her tone rich with an almost ancient authority, before seamlessly switching to English.
There was no mistaking it—this woman was not just anyone. She carried herself like someone who had seen centuries unfold before her, like a priestess of something far older and far darker than she let on. And behind her, clad in similarly revealing yet elegant attire, were her followers, their devotion evident in their eyes.
Jezebell had arrived.
Alucard, ever the silent menace, subtly sniffed the air as Jezebell stepped inside. His crimson eyes narrowed. The scent of her was… wrong. Not just the usual perfume and incense of high society—something deeper, something foul, something laced with old magic.
Without a word, he moved. Not fast, not slow, just… deliberately. His imposing figure slid effortlessly between Jezebell and Hashirama, his posture unreadable, but his intent crystal clear. A barrier. A silent warning.
Jezebell, ever the seductress, cocked an eyebrow. "Oh my, how chivalrous," she purred, tilting her head as she placed a delicate hand on her hip. "A butler so fiercely protective… or is it something else?"
Alucard didn't blink. Didn't react. Just stood there, an immovable wall of ancient power and quiet intimidation.
"You reek of deception," he finally spoke, his voice low, steady, and absolute.
For the first time, Jezebell's smile faltered—just for a second.
"Oh, spare me the theatrics," Jezebell said with a smirk, her sultry voice dripping with amusement. "Vlad Dracula Țepeș."
The way she said his name—so casually, so knowingly—was enough to make the air feel heavier.
Alucard's crimson eyes flickered, but his expression remained unreadable. "That name is long buried."
Jezebell chuckled, stepping just a bit closer, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh, but is it? The great Impaler, reduced to playing house servant for a family of these Mugyiwara fuckers." She tilted her head. "Tell me, do they even know the things you've done? The rivers of blood you once bathed in?"
Alucard said nothing. He didn't need to. The sheer weight of his silence was suffocating.
Jezebell's smirk widened. "No matter," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "I didn't come here to dig up your little sins. I came for a meeting with Hashirama. So, unless you're planning to sink those lovely fangs into me, step aside, butler."
Alucard didn't move.
"Didn't think so," she whispered, lips curling in amusement.
Hashirama, ever the calm and composed one, let out a small chuckle as he sipped his tea. "Alucard, relax," he said, waving a hand lazily. "No need to get all dramatic first thing in the morning."
Alucard's piercing crimson eyes didn't leave Jezebell, but at his master's command, he slowly took a step back, standing just behind Hashirama like a silent shadow.
Jezebell smiled sweetly. "Ah, a man who knows how to keep his hound on a leash."
Alucard said nothing, but the faintest twitch of his fingers suggested it took a great deal of restraint not to rip her apart right then and there.
Hashirama simply shook his head with a good-natured sigh. "You'll have to forgive my butler. He's a little overprotective."
"A little?" Jezebell mused, raising an eyebrow. "He was about to carve me up like a Sunday roast."
"Well, you do have the kind of presence that makes people reach for their guns," Hashirama quipped, setting his tea down with a smirk. "Now, what brings you here?"
Jezebell's lips curled into a knowing smirk as she stepped forward, her sultry voice dripping with disdain.
"We have no interest in idle chatter," she said smoothly, her piercing eyes locking onto Hashirama. "We've come for one thing and one thing only—the false messiah. That wretched brat of yours. The stain upon the eternal glory of Baal... Mugyiwara Shotaro."
Her followers murmured in agreement, their eyes alight with religious fervor. The very air seemed to thrum with tension, the weight of her words settling over the room like an impending storm.
The room fell into an eerie silence.
Alucard, who had remained a silent menace up until now, stiffened. His crimson eyes darkened, the pupils thinning into slits as a predatory aura seeped into the air. The very temperature seemed to drop, and for a brief moment, the dignified butler of the Mugyiwaras was gone—replaced by something ancient, something monstrous.
The real Dracula had awakened.
Jezebell's smirk faltered for a split second, but she held her ground. Her cultists, however, were not as composed. A few shuffled uneasily, sensing something far beyond their comprehension now standing before them.
Hashirama let out a deep sigh, setting his teacup down with an audible clink. "Well, now you've done it," he muttered. "There are two things you never do in this house."
He lifted a finger. "One, you don't insult dragon ball." He lifted a second. "Two, you don't threaten my son.*"
Alucard's presence exploded outward, an overwhelming force that sent a shiver down the spines of everyone present. His mouth twisted into a sharp, fanged grin as he took a single step forward. Shadows curled at his feet unnaturally.
Jezebell, to her credit, remained composed. "Tch. The hound bares its fangs," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
Alucard tilted his head. "You misunderstand," he murmured, his voice layered with something far deeper, far more menacing than before. "The hound is leashed. But Dracula..." He smiled wider, exposing a row of gleaming fangs. "Dracula is free."
Jezebell's cultists lunge forward, daggers gleaming under the chandelier lights. Alucard, standing motionless in the center of the grand Mugyiwara mansion hall, exhales. A deep, guttural sigh.
The Mugyiwara mansion erupted into chaos as Jezebell's cultists charged forward, their blades glinting under the grand chandelier. Alucard stood motionless, exhaling a bored sigh before vanishing in a blur. In an instant, heads exploded, limbs twisted unnaturally, and bodies crumpled like paper. A cultist swung an axe—Alucard caught it with his teeth and snapped the metal like a twig. Another lunged from behind, only to have his entire arm ripped off and used to bludgeon him to death. Mid-air, Alucard twisted, dodging arrows effortlessly before dropping onto a group of attackers, impaling them with his claws. The room darkened as his form shifted—his coat unfurling into a swirling abyss of bats, his hair wild, eyes glowing blood-red. With a mere gesture, cultists levitated, screaming in terror before their bodies burst mid-air, painting the walls in a grotesque masterpiece of carnage. Jezebell, the last one standing, trembled as Alucard appeared beside her in a blink, his fangs grazing her ear. "Still want to kill the young master?" he whispered coldly. She didn't answer—she couldn't. As the mansion fell into eerie silence, the only sound remaining was the slow drip of blood pooling at Alucard's feet.
Jezebell stood frozen, her breath hitching as she felt the razor-sharp tips of Alucard's fangs graze the shell of her ear. The air around her was thick with the scent of blood, the walls of the grand Mugyiwara mansion painted in crimson streaks, bodies of her cultists strewn like discarded dolls. Alucard didn't move—he didn't have to. His presence alone was suffocating, an overwhelming force that made her very bones tremble. His voice, a silken whisper laced with death, slithered into her ear.
"Still want to kill the young master?"
Jezebell's pupils shrank, her throat tightening as a primal fear crawled up her spine. This wasn't a man—this was a monster, a predator that had simply been playing with its prey. Her mind screamed at her, her body finally catching up to the terror clawing at her soul. Without another word, she spun on her heel and bolted, her luxurious robes barely brushing against the floor as she sprinted toward the door.
Alucard didn't chase her. He didn't need to.
As she vanished into the night, the grand hall of the Mugyiwara mansion fell into an eerie silence. Alucard stood amidst the carnage, crimson eyes gleaming under the dim chandelier light. He exhaled softly, barely fazed by the massacre, before straightening his gloves and adjusting his coat.
"Hmph. Smart choice, BITCH," he muttered, stepping over the remains of what was once Jezebell's cult, his boots clicking softly against the blood-slicked floor.
"Who the hell was she, Alucard?" Hashirama asked, still crouched behind the dining table, his instincts honed over years of experience telling him that the best place to be when Alucard slipped back into his Dracula persona was anywhere outside his direct line of sight.
Alucard adjusted his gloves, his crimson eyes slowly dimming back to their usual composed state. "Lord," he said with a faint smirk, his voice laced with amusement and just a hint of condescension. "She is Jezebel. The queen of Israel. Arguably the worst woman in history." He dusted off his coat, unfazed by the bloodbath around him. "I don't blame you for not recognizing her, considering you don't read the Bible."
Meanwhile, from afar, Shotaro watched the scene unfold, his past playing out like a film only he and Lattrem could witness. The chaos, the carnage, and his father still crouched behind the dining table—it all felt surreal, yet familiar.
"Damn, that's one hell of a butler," Lattrem mused in his mind, her tone carrying a mix of awe and amusement.
Shotaro crossed his arms, his expression flat. "I know that," he replied, as if stating the obvious.
Neither Alucard nor Hashirama reacted, oblivious to their presence. Of course, they couldn't see or hear them—this was nothing more than a memory, replaying itself in the depths of Shotaro's mind.
Lattrem let out a short laugh, then sighed. "Okay, seriously—explain this to me. I know your world has a habit of bringing ancient legends back, but why the hell is Jezebel here? Shouldn't she be, I don't know, dead? Like, very dead? It's been a couple thousand years."
"Me being born was a cosmic event," Shotaro said casually. "It messed with the collective consciousness, which ended up bringing a lot of biblical legends back into existence—including her."
Lattrem hummed in understanding. "Ah, the Legend Sphere, huh? A plane of existence where legends are recorded and can be summoned into human vessels."
She paused for a moment, then added, "That's... honestly kind of messed up."
The air in the Mugyiwara estate was thick with tension as Hashirama sat his daughters down, his expression grim. Across the room, Alucard returned from his investigation, his usual composed demeanor carrying an edge of warning.
"Jezebel has formed a cult in one of Hokkaido's churches," he reported, his voice even but heavy. "She's declared the land to be under Baal's blessing. With her allure… her manipulation, she has amassed a following. They believe in her completely." He paused, his crimson eyes narrowing. "And they want the young master dead. She sees him as the false messiah—a stain on her god's glory."
The words hung in the air like a guillotine.
The first to react was Satsuya. The moment the meaning of Alucard's words sank in, the room's temperature rose. "I will… fucking kill her," she seethed, her body trembling as flames flickered around her. Rage burned in her eyes, turning them into molten gold. Shotaro was just a child—her baby brother. The thought of someone wanting to harm him made her blood boil like magma.
The second daughter, the ever-rational one, just sat there, eyes wide with disbelief. Her sharp mind, always so quick to process and analyze, completely stalled. "Wait… what?" she finally managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Then there was Miyoko, the fiery, headstrong one who had spent more time yelling at Shotaro than comforting him. Yet, beneath all the bickering, she cared about him more than she'd ever admit. Her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her jaw locked as she spat out her words, venom lacing every syllable. "Over my dead body."
Hashirama let out a deep sigh, rubbing his temples. "This is getting out of hand."
Alucard, ever the silent menace, simply crossed his arms. "She wants to kill him because she thinks he's Jesus. Which, to be fair, is… kind of half true."
The room fell into a suffocating silence.
Jezebel had made her move. Now, it was their turn.
Himawari, being the step mother of the three daughter & Shotaro's biological mother, can only say, "What's her beef with Jesus" to which Alucard, being the centuries old christian he was replied.
Himawari, the stepmother to the three daughters and Shotaro's biological mother, sat there, arms crossed, brows furrowed in mild confusion. After a long pause, she finally spoke, her tone flat yet genuinely puzzled. "What's her beef with Jesus?"
Alucard, ever the centuries-old Christian and witness to more religious chaos than anyone else in the room, let out a slow, weary sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose before replying, "Where do I even begin?"
Alucard exhaled, his crimson eyes narrowing as he leaned against the grand oak table. "Jezebel," he began, his voice heavy with centuries of knowledge, "wasn't just some queen from ancient Israel. She was the embodiment of defiance against the so-called 'divine order.' A master manipulator, a seductress who turned kings into puppets, a woman who bent nations to her will. She rejected Yahweh and led an entire kingdom into worshipping Baal, corrupting prophets, slaughtering those who stood against her. Even in death, her hatred for anything connected to God festered in the fabric of existence."
He paused, his gaze sharpening. "And now, because of the unnatural nature of Shotaro's birth, because the world itself still trembles from the event, she's back. Reformed. Rewritten into this era's reality—leading a cult, manipulating the weak, and rallying the damned. And she has only one goal: to erase what she sees as a threat to Baal's will. The so-called 'Messiah.'"
He straightened, adjusting his cuffs with a quiet intensity. "In other words, my lady," he finished, voice laced with dark amusement, "she doesn't just have 'beef' with Jesus. She's waged war against the very concept of him. And Shotaro, by simply existing, is an insult she refuses to ignore."
Shotaro, watching this unfold from the sidelines of his own memories, let out a long, exhausted sigh. "My memories just keep getting wilder, don't they?" he muttered, rubbing his temples as if that would somehow make sense of it all.
Lattrem's voice echoed in his mind, calm yet laced with intrigue. "So this is what led to the infamous Hokkaido Incident in 2013," she mused.
Shotaro exhaled sharply, arms crossed. "Yeah. The day everything went to hell. Literally."
Lattrem chuckled in his mind, her amusement unmistakable. "Your sister really went full-on protective big sis mode, huh?" she teased.
Shotaro rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Satsuya always did have a bit of a dramatic streak. But can you blame her? Some ancient biblical seductress cult lady just put a hit on her baby brother."
Lattrem hummed thoughtfully. "Still, the way she immediately jumped to 'I will fucking kill her' with flames literally bursting around her? That's next-level sibling devotion."
Shotaro sighed. "Yeah, that's Satsuya for you—ride or die, emphasis on 'die' for anyone dumb enough to threaten me."
Lattrem snickered. "And then there's Nishoku… poor girl's brain just straight-up short-circuited."
Shotaro crossed his arms, watching his memory self blink in confusion. "Honestly, I get it. 'Ancient biblical queen leads a death cult in Hokkaido' isn't exactly something you process in five seconds."
Lattrem mimicked Nishoku's stunned expression. "Wait… what?" she quoted mockingly, before bursting into laughter. "I swear, she looked like someone just told her the sky was actually made of pudding."
Shotaro smirked. "That's Nishoku for you. Genius-level intellect, but the moment reality throws her something insane, she just freezes."
Lattrem let out a low whistle. "And then there's Miyoko…"
Shotaro watched as his youngest older sister clenched her fists, her entire body trembling with barely restrained fury.
"She really went straight to murder mode, huh?" Lattrem mused. "I mean, I get it—someone wants to off her baby brother—but damn, she looked ready to tear Jezebel apart with her bare hands."
Shotaro sighed. "Yeah… Miyoko might argue with me, yell at me, and call me a funny looking infact, but the moment someone even thinks about hurting me—"
"Instant bloodlust," Lattrem finished for him. "That girl's got a protective streak as deep as the Mariana Trench."
Shotaro gave a small smirk. "She'd never admit it, though."
The memory shifted abruptly, pulling Shotaro into a new scene—one that felt distant yet painfully familiar.
Kazaya Kinoko stood at the center of her dojo, her piercing eyes scanning the wooden training hall. Her sharp, almost ethereal features carried the blood of both samurai, vikings and something far older, more primal. The weight of her presence was undeniable, even in a simple training gi, her black hair tied back into a loose ponytail.
She was looking for someone.
"Juniyo!" Her voice echoed through the quiet hall, firm yet holding a rare trace of concern. "Where are you?"
The dojo was eerily still. The wooden floor creaked slightly beneath her feet as she moved toward the sliding doors, glancing outside where the evening sun painted the sky in deep orange hues.
From afar, Shotaro watched the scene unfold like a silent observer, his arms crossed. "This was the day everything changed, huh?"
Lattrem's voice hummed in his mind. "The start of something irreversible."
Kazaya's sharp eyes landed on a single piece of parchment resting atop the wooden training mat. The ink was bold, the handwriting unnervingly precise.
She picked it up, her fingers tightening as she read:
"The land of Baal has taken your brother, O heretical teacher of the false messiah. Lady Jezebel demands your presence at the Church of Baal within half an hour of reading this. Should you refuse, expect to receive your little brother's corpse—headless and in less than pristine condition."
The paper crumpled in her trembling fist.
Her heart pounded, not with fear, but with something darker. Something lethal.
Shotaro, watching from afar, felt the weight of this moment press against his chest.
"And just like that," Lattrem murmured in his mind, "the countdown began."
Jezebel stood at the altar, basking in the dim glow of candlelight, her patience running thin. But she didn't have to wait long.
The heavy doors of the church burst open with a thunderous crash. The flickering flames trembled as a storm of severed limbs and shredded corpses of her followers was flung inside, painting the holy ground in crimson.
Kazaya Kinoko strode in, her breaths ragged, her Greatsword of Kinoko dripping with fresh blood. The weapon was an imposing slab of steel, etched with ancient Kinoko sigils, its edge serrated near the tip for tearing through flesh and armor alike. Along its length, faint blue runes pulsed, as if the blade itself was seething with rage. The hilt was wrapped in blackened demon-hide, a relic from the past, and the pommel bore the insignia of the Kinoko clan—a blooming lotus flower encircled by flames.
Her fiery gaze locked onto Jezebel, the hatred radiating from her in waves.
"I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!" Kazaya roared, launching forward like a demon incarnate.
But then—she stopped dead in her tracks.
Junio stood before Jezebel, not as a hostage, but as a follower.
His once-bright eyes were now shrouded in a golden glow, a mark of Baal's influence. His robes were of deep crimson and gold, embroidered with forbidden sigils, symbols that seemed to pulse unnaturally, as though alive. His hair, usually unkempt from childhood recklessness, was neatly tied back, a ceremonial chain adorning his forehead. In his hands, he held a ritual dagger, its obsidian blade still slick with the blood of an unfortunate sacrifice.
Kazaya's world tilted.
Her baby brother—her sweet, innocent Junio—was no longer standing before her. He had become something else.
And Jezebel? She simply smiled.
"Look, your sister has arrived," Jezebel murmured, running her fingers through Junio's hair with a twisted gentleness. "Now she can finally understand… and stay with you forever."
Junio lifted his gaze to meet Kazaya's, his expression eerily composed. "She will," he said softly. "She just doesn't know it yet."
Kazaya's voice cracked with rage as she pointed her blood-drenched sword at Jezebel. "Who the hell is that brat?!" she roared. "And what the fuck did you do to my brother?!"
Jezebel smiled, unfazed. "I simply opened his eyes," she said smoothly.
Junio, just five years old, stepped forward, his once-bright gaze now hollow and unwavering. "I was tainted," he said, his voice eerily calm. "Tainted for looking like that fake messiah. Only Baal's blessing could cleanse me… only through him have I earned my place in paradise."
Kazaya's breath hitched. Disgust twisted her features, followed by a wave of dizziness—shock, horror, sheer disbelief crashing into her all at once. "Shotaro is your friend," she choked out, clinging to reason.
Junio didn't hesitate. "No," he said firmly. "He is a stain on this land… right, Lady Jezebel?"
Jezebel's smirk widened as she placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, her approval silent but absolute.
Jezebel stepped closer, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Now, would you be so kind as to bring us the brat for execution?"
Before she could take another step, Kazaya's fist connected with her face, sending her crashing into her own throne. The impact echoed through the chamber.
"No," Kazaya growled, stance unwavering. "He is my student, you sick fuck."
The room tensed. Weapons were drawn, pointed at her from every angle, but none of them could shake her as much as the one who stepped forward next—Junio.
"You act like you've done something good for him," he said, his voice eerily steady as he looked up at his sister.
Kazaya's breath hitched. A sickening realization crawled up her spine. "Wait—no," she whispered, dreading what he was about to say.
Junio met her gaze, his expression unreadable, his tone laced with the same manipulation Jezebel had poisoned him with. "We all know what you did with him behind our backs. We all know how he 'fell' for you."
Kazaya's vision blurred.
"We all know what kind of things you made him do… just to calm your urges." Junio's words cut through her like a blade.
"And all because he looked like me," he added, the weight of the accusation heavier than any weapon pointed at her.
Kazaya staggered back, shaking her head. "I—" her voice faltered. "I did that to avoid… violating you," she confessed, desperation seeping into her tone. "I—I wasn't able to control myself."
Jezebel let out a soft, taunting laugh as she cupped her own face, tilting her head with a twisted grin. "Well, well… looks like I'm not the only 'sick fuck' in this room. Fufufu~."
"YOU--" She said but was cut off, "I can give you your brother back" Jezebel said, "Just bring me him, Bring me Shotaro Mugyiwara".
All the memories came rushing back—every lesson she had given that little boy, his first clumsy swing of a blade at three, the awe in his eyes when he first took flight, the way he eagerly soaked in everything she taught him. But along with those moments, the weight of everything else crashed down on her—the things she had done, the lines she had crossed. Her fists clenched, her body trembling as tears streamed down her face, mixing with the snot running past her lips. She felt sick, suffocated.
But this wasn't about her. This was about Junio. Her little brother. If she just went along with this, if she played the part, she could take him and leave. Get out of Hokkaido. Put everything behind them. Just her and Junio, away from all of this.
"…Okay," she whispered, her voice barely holding together.
Jezebel's lips curled into a pleased smile. "Good," she purred, stepping forward—before tilting Kazaya's chin up and pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against her lips.
"Let us all unite under Baal's teachings," Jezebel declared, her voice dripping with an eerie fervor. Her eyes gleamed with an unsettling light, a grin stretching across her face—wild, almost lunatic in its devotion.
Air ran through their bodies, the lady, the warrior, the boy, they all laid naked on a bed, their body glistened with sweat, with devotions, the trio was panting, Jezebel, Junio, Kazaya, they laid down on bed, together, their bare flesh intermingled, still not away, Kazaya's beutifull breast her suckled by Junio, like an famished infant, while Jezebel wad down their, playing with the bud of her forrest, while her fingers surveyed the forbiddon place of filth, that no one would have touched.
Shotaro stood at a distance, watching this twisted fragment of his memories unfold before him. His stomach churned violently, and before he could hold it in, he doubled over and barfed in sheer disgust. The scene playing out in front of him was a grotesque spectacle—horrible, filthy, drenched in taboo. His mind screamed at him to look away, but the memory held him captive, forcing him to relive every nauseating detail.
Lattrem's voice slithered into his thoughts, laced with cruel amusement. "You seem quite... excited in your pants, watching your master, your friend, and the woman who took everything from you like this."
Shotaro gagged again, another wave of sickness rising in his throat. His entire body recoiled as if trying to physically reject the memory. "I want to go away," he muttered, his voice raw, desperate—begging for an escape from the nightmare unraveling before him.
"Oh, why? Is the forever sass king himself... finally disgusted?" Lattrem's voice dripped with mockery, her tone practically oozing with snark.
Shotaro wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his glare sharp enough to cut through steel. "Shut up." His voice was low, strained, barely keeping his rage and revulsion in check.
Lattrem only chuckled in his mind, clearly enjoying his misery. "Oh, but this is priceless. You, of all people, looking like you just swallowed poison. Guess even you have a limit, huh?"
Shotaro clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. "I said, shut the hell up."
Lattrem sighed dramatically. "Fine, fine. But you have to admit, this is one of the most messed-up thing you've ever seen... and that's saying a lot, considering your life."
the memories is switched to a rally, banners & horns, man & woman, with Junio walking infront with the flag of Baal.
Jezebel stood on a jeep, from their she rallyed.
The air over Hokkaido crackled with an unseen force, a tempest of conviction and fervor sweeping through the land. At the epicenter of this gathering stood a woman, regal and resplendent, her gaze piercing through the assembly like a divine edict made manifest. Draped in garments reminiscent of antiquity yet commanding the reverence of the present, she raised a gilded microphone to her lips. The hush that fell upon the crowd was absolute, an anticipatory silence as though the very heavens awaited her decree.
"People of Hokkaido," she intoned, her voice a clarion call of dominion. "From this moment forth, this land is consecrated under the aegis of Baal. I, Jezebel, sovereign of Israel reborn, have returned to unite you under the one true faith." Her proclamation, heavy with the weight of millennia, reverberated across the expanse, entwining itself with the very fabric of destiny.
Her expression darkened, the light of righteous fury gleaming in her eyes. "Yet, there exists a festering blemish upon Baal's resplendent glory. A false messiah—an impudent blight by the name of Shotaro Mugyiwara. He may bear the countenance of an innocent, a mere child of five summers, but do not be deceived." Her voice grew venomous, each syllable steeped in loathing. "He is the devil incarnate, an insidious force of heresy that seeks to lure you from Baal's omnipotent radiance."
The congregation stirred, a wave of unease and fervor rippling through their ranks. Jezebel extended an imperious finger toward the distant Mugyiwara estate, its opulent silhouette an affront to her divine mandate. "No longer shall we tolerate his sacrilege. We will hoist his severed head aloft, parading his lifeless form as a testament to Baal's might. Together, you and I shall purge this evil from existence!" Her declaration ignited the throng, a crescendo of voices rising in fervent affirmation.
She turned her gaze to the mansion looming in the distance, a citadel shielding the object of her ire. "Hashirama Mugyiwara," she called, her tone shifting, less a harbinger of doom and more a monarch extending an ultimatum. "Our quarrel is not with you, but with the abomination you have sired. Surrender him, and your family shall be spared the wrath that otherwise awaits."
The moment hung in the air, thick with an oppressive gravity. Would Hashirama yield to the storm knocking at his gates, or would defiance be his epitaph? The fate of a lineage teetered on the precipice of oblivion, the echoes of Jezebel's decree heralding the advent of an inexorable reckoning.
Shotaro watched this fragment of his memory from afar, a silver-haired, red-eyed figure standing amidst the crowd. The people passed through him like air, a cruel reminder that this was but a flashback—a spectral echo of his past, immutable and unchangeable. As the witch Lattrem's voice resounded once more, narrating the scene with an ominous finality, the words chilled him to his core: "Thus began the Hokkaido Incident."
Hashirama, however, stood paralyzed, his fingers clenching into fists as the weight of dire news pressed upon his soul. It had come from Arisu, a childhood friend of Shotaro's, an innocent yet unwilling harbinger of tragedy. The revelation had struck like a blade to the heart—Shotaro's teacher, Kazaya Kinoko, had betrayed him. The woman had captured him, seizing the child as though he were a mere pawn in a grander scheme.
A storm brewed in Hashirama's chest, a tumult of fear and fury interwoven into an unrelenting tempest. The walls of the Mugyiwara estate, once symbols of power and sanctuary, now seemed fragile, besieged by forces beyond reckoning. His son had been taken. And with that single act, the battle lines had been drawn.
Determined to reclaim their son, Hashirama and Himawari devised a plan, their resolve unwavering. Satsuya, their eldest, was entrusted with the care of her two younger sisters, Nishuko and Miyoko, ensuring their safety as chaos loomed. Meanwhile, Alucard, the family's ancient and unwavering guardian—a vampire butler who once bore the infamous name of Vlad Dracula Tepes—was commanded to deal with the cultists who dared trespass against their kin.
The battle for Shotaro had begun.
While the Mugyiwara family braced for battle, little Shotaro lay imprisoned beneath the cold, unfeeling stone of the church's basement. His small body was wrapped in rough cloth, his mouth muzzled to silence any cries for help. The damp air clung to his skin, the darkness suffocating and absolute. For the first time in his young life, fear seeped into his bones like ice, an unshakable terror that made his tiny frame tremble. He could do nothing but wait, helpless in the clutches of those who saw him as nothing more than a point to be made to their god.
Shotaro saw himself from afar, standing in the shadowed corner of his own recollections, an unseen specter to his own suffering. He seethed, helpless frustration writhing within him. How badly he wished to intervene, to wrench himself free from the shackles of memory, but he was no more than an observer—a prisoner of his past.
Lattrem's voice curled into his consciousness like smoke, laced with bitter amusement. "This is one hell of a sorry state you are in."
Suddenly, the door to his prison burst open, the heavy wood crashing against the stone walls. Hashirama stood in the entryway, his breath ragged, his form imposing in the dim candlelight. In his arms, unconscious and limp, was a child—Junio, Shotaro's perfect double.
Before Shotaro could fully process what was happening, the memory shifted again. He now stood amongst the crowd, his spectral form adrift as the cultists erupted into frenzied celebration. The air reeked of smoke and charred flesh, the sky illuminated by the macabre spectacle of a small, burning body nailed to a cross. It was paraded through the streets, an effigy of the so-called false messiah. Jezebel laughed in triumph, reveling in the flames that licked at the tiny form. Some among the masses wept, mourning what they believed to be the loss of a child. Others rejoiced, their voices lifted in exultant cries. And yet, the majority merely watched in silence, their expressions unreadable.
Shotaro's fists clenched at his sides, his teeth grinding together in rage. He knew the truth.
"That isn't me," he muttered, his voice a growl of fury.
A ghostly chuckle echoed in his mind, the witch's presence slithering around him like an unseen specter. "Yes, your father caught Junio—your doppelgänger—lacking and replaced him with you just in time. Fufu~"
Shotaro's heart pounded in his chest. His father had saved him, but at what cost?.
Satsuya, Shotaro's older sister, knew this wasn't him. When the headless, burnt corpse of the child was presented to her, she observed it closely, her hands trembling. The flesh was charred, its features indistinguishable, but one vital detail was missing—the Mugyiwara mark on the right shoulder. Her breath hitched. Her father had deceived them all. Her brother still lived.
But she kept it to herself, burying the revelation deep within her chest, for she knew that truth—so blasphemous to the zealots—would only usher in greater ruin. Yet in choosing silence, she unknowingly ushered in chaos. Jezebel, drunk on her own triumph, basked in the adulation of the masses, lifting the microphone once more.
"Behold! The will of Baal made manifest! The false messiah has perished in holy fire, his impurity cleansed from this land! Rejoice, for we have struck down the trickster who sought to lead you astray! Let his ashes be scattered, his name erased from history, and his heresy forgotten! Hokkaido is reborn in Baal's light!"
A thunderous cheer erupted, shaking the earth itself. And in that moment, Satsuya realized—her silence had only made things worse.
The celebration reached its fever pitch, Jezebel standing tall amidst the fervent masses, basking in their adulation. The pyre of false martyrdom blazed behind her, casting grotesque shadows against the revelers who danced in its ghastly glow. Yet, for all their mirth, the illusion of triumph was ephemeral.
For the moment was shattered when the night air itself seemed to twist and recoil, darkness coalescing into a swirling maelstrom of malevolence. The cheers faltered, then ceased, as a swarm of bats blotted out the moon, an obsidian tide that heralded something far worse than any could imagine.
From the abyss of that churning mass, he emerged—tall, regal, his crimson gaze ablaze with unfettered wrath. Gone was the eternal butler of the Mugyiwara clan, the ever-loyal Alucard. In his place stood a legend from the depths of history's most dreaded annals.
Alucard was no more. In his place stood something ancient, something dreadful. Gone was the eternal butler of the Mugyiwara clan, and in his stead had risen the scourge of the living, the Voivode of Wallachia, the Son of the Dragon.
Vlad Dracula Tepes had returned.
His presence alone sent a wave of primordial dread rippling through the congregation, their revelry turning to hushed horror. He had seen the charred remains, had borne witness to what he believed was the desecration of his young master. And that vile woman, that apostate Jezebel, had dared to commit such an atrocity?
His fangs bared, his voice was no longer the measured, composed tone of a servile attendant but the guttural growl of the Impaler reborn.
""You've sealed your end, my friend -- for, whoever strikes Mugyiwara --"," he intoned, his voice a serrated whisper that sliced through the terrified silence, "strikes Death!".
He moved like a shadow given form, his body dissolving into an unholy amalgamation of tendrils and abyssal night, reappearing amongst the cultists like a wraith of vengeance. His hand plunged through a man's chest, fingers curling around a still-beating heart before ripping it free, his victim's body crumpling like a discarded marionette. Blood arced into the air, a grotesque tribute to the slaughter.
Screams rang out as spears of obsidian erupted from the earth—Vlad's infamous forest of death reborn. The Garden of Wallachia sprouted anew, lances skewering bodies mid-flight as they tried to flee. Their struggles only impaled them deeper, their lifeblood cascading down the towering spikes, feeding the soil with their sacrilege.
A monstrous shriek tore through the night as his body twisted, grotesque and inhuman, a chimeric amalgamation of man and beast. His limbs elongated, sinew snapping and reforming, his maw distending into a cavern of razor-like fangs. His wings, massive and leathery, unfurled like the banners of death itself.
And then he fed.
His jaws clamped onto a screaming woman's skull, the crunch of bone reverberating through the chaos as he devoured her whole. He waded through the masses, tearing, feasting, his body shifting between forms—one moment the Impaler, regal and composed, the next an abomination of nightmare and hunger.
Jezebel, the self-proclaimed queen, watched in frozen horror as the congregation that once cheered her name was torn asunder. Men, women—none were spared. Those who tried to resist were shredded by the claws of a beast long thought to be myth, their corpses flung into the sky like discarded dolls.
The air burned. The land wept.
And then, Vlad raised a single clawed hand. The earth obeyed his will.
The lances of his homeland rose anew, an entire forest of sharpened stakes bursting forth like the fingers of the damned. Hundreds were impaled in an instant, their bodies writhing in agony as gravity pulled them further onto their wicked thrones. The scent of burnt flesh and charred souls filled the air as infernal flames erupted from the very ground, consuming what remained of the cult in a funeral pyre of divine retribution.
The massacre was total.
As the last of the flames flickered out, the once-lively gathering place of Jezebel's faithful was reduced to an expanse of scorched earth, a wasteland littered with impaled corpses and the faint echoes of their dying prayers.
Dracula stood amidst the ruin, his crimson gaze falling upon Jezebel, the lone survivor of his wrath.
He licked the blood from his lips, his smirk as cold as death itself.
"Now... let's talk about heresy."
A chimeric abomination, he expanded, wings unfurling with the force of a hurricane. The land warped beneath him, reshaped into his own personal Garden of Wallachia—a forest of impaled corpses, their silent, lifeless eyes gazing eternally upon the horror they had wrought.
He was merciless. He was unrelenting. He was death incarnate.
But just as he prepared to unleash another wave of annihilation, a desperate voice cut through the carnage.
"Mr. Alucard, Shotaro isn't that! That's Junio! Dad replaced them!!!"
Vlad's blood-red eyes snapped toward the source of the voice—Satsuya, her expression frantic, her body trembling but steadfast. The words struck like a lightning bolt through the haze of his fury.
The charred corpse on the cross… was not his master.
His monstrous form shuddered, contorting as his claws clenched at the realization. His fangs, still dripping with the blood of the damned, ground together. A low, guttural growl rumbled in his throat as his body began to revert, the monstrous abyss within retreating into the form of Alucard once more.
The butler of the Mugyiwara clan stood amidst a land of ruin, surrounded by the remnants of his wrath. His crimson gaze, no longer blazing with unbridled carnage, turned to Jezebel—who, for the first time, was utterly silent, her smirk wiped from existence.
Alucard exhaled, a sound that carried the remnants of a storm. Then, in a voice as cold as the grave, he uttered:
"Thank..lord".
But Kazaya heard that & Literally broke down mentaly, the corpse she betrayed to save her brother, was her brother itself, "NO---NOOO--DON'T FUCK WITH ME" She bit her lip as blood came out, her fingers dugging in her flesh.
"DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!! DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!DON'T FUCK WITH ME!!!".
She finnaly puked all over the corpse, not letting it go & passed out.
Shotaro looking at that part of his memories, from afar, tried to hold his master, the one he adored as a man once, but looking at her & what she did, all he wants to do is now rape her above the corpse of that burned flesh.
"Don't let your feelings get to you, Messiah boy" Lattrem's voice said in his mind.
"Jezebel's takeover" Shotaro said, "Alucard's temporary reverting back to Dracula, My master's decent" he continued his voice sounding angry yet sad, "This was the Hokkaido incident".
"She is broken now" Lattrem's voice said, "She blamed you for it, from now, gone were her plans to run away" she continued her voice stern & soddem, "Now she is the biggest follower of this cult...whatever left of it".
"I know" Shotaro said, "I have retrieved most of my memories now, thanks for you help".
"Oh no no no no" Lattrem's voice said her voice sounding mocking, "There is still one part left".
"Don't fuck with me" Shotaro replied, angrily to which Lattrem chuchkled & replied, "like master like student".
Suddenly he looked around & noticed something, "Where is....Jezebel?" he said before realising what's up, his eye widened with horror & rage, "NO!!! NO! NOOOOOOO" he screamed before running towards the highway.
a car sped down the desolate road, carrying the last fragments of hope away from the inferno.
Shotaro sat beside Himawari, unresponsive, his vacant crimson eyes staring through the windshield as though he were looking into a void. He was broken. The weight of the night had shattered something within him, his mind unable to process the reality of what had transpired.
"Junio… is dead?" he murmured, his voice hollow, but Himawari did not answer.
He couldn't hear words. He couldn't process images. He was too fractured, too lost in the nightmare that refused to end. Satsuya, sitting in the back seat, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her voice straining to keep steady.
"We will take a boat from here," she whispered. "Then we'll reach Musashi no Yamato. One of Father's homes is there. We'll keep a low profile, live a normal life…"
Her words wavered, her breath hitching. "And you… you won't have to save people anymore."
She reached out, rubbing the boy's head in a feeble attempt at comfort. But peace was a fleeting thing.
Himawari's grip on the steering wheel tightened as her gaze flickered to the cliffs ahead—and her heart stopped.
Jezebel stood atop the precipice, silhouetted against the broken sky, her body battered and bleeding. Yet, in her trembling hands, she held an RPG, her final act of defiance burning in her eyes.
Time slowed.
"NOOO!!" Shotaro screamed, his phantom form lunging forward, trying to punch her away, only for his fists to phase through her as he remembered—this was just a memory.
Jezebel, with the last of her strength, aimed the weapon directly at the fleeing car, her lips curling into a bloodied smirk.
"Glory to Baal," she rasped.
And then, she pulled the trigger.
BOOM.
Shotaro watched in horror as his smaller self crawled out of the burning wreckage, his tiny body coated in soot and caked in the ashes of what was once his mother. The five-year-old did not scream, did not cry—he simply stood there, hollow-eyed, his mind unable to comprehend the finality of it all.
Jezebel had already turned away, satisfied with her work, disappearing into the shadows as the child stood frozen in the smoldering wreckage of his past. There was no grief left in him—only silence. And so, without a word, without a single tear, little Shotaro turned and walked towards the shipyard, his tiny frame swallowed by the night.
Lattrem's voice echoed in the void of his thoughts.
"You lost your mother. And you ran from everything. While your family mourned you and her. While your sisters lost yet another mother. While your friends grieved you as though you had already died."
Her voice dripped with something between pity and amusement.
"To save yourself from all this, you rewrote history in your mind. You gaslit yourself into believing she said, 'You have to save people.' But the truth? The truth is that the child born from a virgin maiden, the child who was meant to shake the world, died that night. Jezebel disappeared into the shadows to rebuild her cult, and what was left in the wreckage..."
Her voice grew softer, yet heavier, sinking deep into the marrow of his being.
"What was left was a boiling pot of self-hatred, savior complex, sass, and sarcasm. What was left… was the savior. What was left… was Shotaro Mugyiwara."
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.
"AHH!!"
Shotaro jolted awake in Lattrem's hut, his body drenched in sweat, his breath ragged. His lip throbbed, busted from his own unconscious bite, his fingers dug deep into his palms, leaving crescent-shaped wounds. His vision blurred with unspilled tears.
He was back. Back in this accursed hut, in this wretched present, as much as he loathed it. He was awake.
Lattrem watched him with mild amusement, munching idly on a biscuit. "What? Didn't like what you saw?"
Shotaro pushed himself up, unsteady, still raw from the nightmare. Without a word, he turned to leave.
"Oh? No thank you? Such a rude messiah these lands have," she mused, feigning disappointment.
Hearing that word—messiah—again made his stomach turn. He doubled over, vomiting onto her floor. Lattrem sighed dramatically. "So unhygienic, too."
She took another bite of her biscuit as he wiped his mouth, his hands trembling. "So, what now? Now that you have your memories back? Are you just going to save people again?"
Shotaro didn't answer. He simply grabbed his katana, his grip tightening around the hilt. He cast her one last look—silent, resolute—before storming out of the hut.
Lattrem watched him go, a smirk curling on her lips. "I guess I know the answer."