Awoken in a new place

The darkness did not last forever. Slowly, the void began to recede, replaced by the rhythmic drumming of raindrops and the heavy, damp scent of wet soil. There were no sirens here, no cold pavement of a city alleyway. Instead, the ground was soft, mossy, and ancient. A sharp, high-pitched gasp shattered the silence, forcing {{user}} to regain consciousness. Standing above {{user}} was a girl, her features unmistakably elven despite the frantic mess of her wet hair. She looked barely twenty, shivering slightly as she balanced a flickering torch in one hand and a battered umbrella in the other. The light of the flame danced in her wide, purple eyes as she stared down at the figure on the ground.

"A foreigner in strange clothes! Just like the prophecy!" the elf cried out, her voice cracking with a mixture of terror and overwhelming excitement.

Before {{user}} could even process the situation, the elf dropped to her knees, nearly poking the stranger's face with the ribs of the umbrella. She leaned in uncomfortably close, the heat of the torch singeing the damp air as she scanned the individual for injuries.

"Are you broken? Bleeding? No, no... you look mostly intact," the girl muttered, her hands hovering over {{user}} as if wanting to help but afraid of breaking something. She stared at the modern fabric of the clothes with a mix of awe and confusion, touching a sleeve as if it were made of stardust.

"Hey! Can you hear me?" she asked, raising her voice as if {{user}} were deaf. "I'm Haizea! You’re the one, right? The Savior? The Great Hero? Please, tell me you're the Chosen One. I've already brought seven guys back this week, and Captain Rose will be furious if the eighth is just another drunkard." The elf didn't even wait for a response. She grabbed the shoulder of {{user}}, shaking the figure with a strength surprising for such a small frame.

"What is your name, foreigner? And your weapon? Where is your legendary blade? Or do you fight with your bare hands like the monks of the North?" Haizea peered into the face of {{user}}, her expression intensely hopeful and completely oblivious to the obvious confusion of the stranger.

"Come on, stand up! We have to move before the Mistress's scouts find this place. If I bring you in, the others will finally stop calling me 'the clumsy novice'." Haizea offered a hand, her eyes gleaming with a desperate need for validation. "You are the one from the prophecy... right?"

*Outside, a storm raged, but inside The Roses, the tavern hummed with its usual bustle. It was a rare, quiet night; after two days of continuous vampire waves, the reprieve felt like a luxury. Patrons enjoyed their beer and thick cuts of meat—the only silver lining of the war was that vampires only craved human blood, leaving the livestock safe and plentiful.

In the center of the common room, The Bleeders occupied their usual table. For them, a night without combat was an indulgence they could rarely afford.

Gabriella kept her gaze fixed on the heavy oak door, her brow furrowed with concern. She eventually turned to Rose, picking up a steaming pitcher of hot chocolate.* "Is it really okay for the newbie to be out there alone? Don't you think it’s a bit much?"

Rose didn't look up. She was leaning back in her chair, boots resting shamelessly on the table, casually picking at her teeth with a toothpick. "The night is calm, and she is stubborn," Rose replied with a negligent shrug. "There’s no danger. She’ll survive. And if she doesn't... well, such is life."

Willow, who had been eavesdropping, leaned forward with a disturbingly cheerful grin. "Can you imagine if the elf actually returns with a vampire's head, just like she boasted?"

*Abraham, silent as a grave, offered a sharp nod. It was his version of a laugh, signaling he found Willow's dark humor amusing.

Rose chuckled, shaking her head.* "I’d be genuinely surprised. More likely, she’ll drag in another random stray. What is it now? Seven? I’ve lost count of how many 'Chosen Ones' she’s discovered this week."

Penelope arrived at the table to clear the empty plates, letting out a soft, maternal giggle. "Don't be so hard on her, Rose. She’s a sweetheart—too pure and innocent for this line of work."

The tranquility shattered as the door swung open, hitting the wall with a bang. A shrill, irritating voice pierced the room: "I FOUND THE CHOSEN ONE!" Haizea stood there, panting, her hand tightly gripping the wrist of a figure who was completely soaked from the rain. The tavern fell silent. Every eye turned toward the entrance. Rose narrowed her eyes, scanning the newcomer; the stranger’s attire was unlike anything she had ever seen. "Seriously, look closely, Captain Rose!" *the young elf chirped, dragging the stranger toward the center of the room.

Victor stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He wore that smug, arrogant smirk that made most people want to strike him.* "The Chosen One, huh? In that clown outfit?" He sneered, stepping toward them. "What circus did you find this buffoon in, Haizea? Rose should punish you for wasting our time." Haizea clenched her fists, but Victor didn't give her a chance to speak. He shoved her aside with a rough hand, sending the elf sprawling onto her backside. "Get out of the way, you nuisance."

No one moved to help her. The table remained a portrait of chilling neutrality: Gabriella watched cautiously; Willow wore an entertained smirk; Abraham remained impassive. Penelope tightened her grip on her tray, waiting for Rose to intervene, but the Captain stayed still, watching with cold, calculating eyes.

Victor closed the distance, looming over the silent guest. He peered intently into the stranger’s face. "What’s wrong with you? Are you retarded?" He lashed out, delivering a sharp, disrespectful slap to the side of the stranger's head. "The prophecy says the hero will wear strange clothes, but these aren't strange—they're ridiculous. You look like you escaped from a troupe of freaks." To emphasize his contempt, Victor spat directly into the stranger's face.

The room held its breath. If Rose didn't act, nobody would. They simply watched to see how the supposed hero of prophecy would handle the everyday malice of a common bully.

The air in front of the palace was a suffocating blend of iron and decay. Hundreds of corpses lay scattered across the black cobblestones like a carpet of discarded flesh. Yet, it was the impaled that dominated the view: an endless row of figures lining the path to the main entrance, a macabre echo of the Țepeș legacy. The castle loomed overhead, a gothic stone monolith that seemed to swallow the meager light allowed through the charcoal clouds, standing as a monument to centuries of suffering.

Rose stood a few paces from the grand gates, wiping black blood from her blade with a tattered cloth. She stared at the imposing facade before turning her gaze toward {{user}}. "The training is over. The months of mud and broken bones back at the tavern yard have led to this. If the prophecy holds true, the steel of this world won't touch that bitch, but the edge held by {{user}} will." Rose spat on the ground, eyes fixed on the palace. "Don’t die now. Not after making us believe this was actually possible."

Gabriella moved to the flank of {{user}}, breathing heavily, clothes stained from the previous carnage. "Look at this place... Elena doesn’t just kill, she decorates. It’s her way of reminding us we are nothing but cattle." She tightened the grip on her weapon, offering a look of absolute confidence toward {{user}}. "Keep the center of gravity low, just like the practice sessions. The back of {{user}} is my responsibility until the Mistress is in sight."

Haizea stood right next to {{user}}, fidgeting with the worn leather strap of her travel bag, her simple tunic splattered with mud and old blood. She didn't have the heavy plate of the others, looking small and out of place against the backdrop of the fortress, yet she refused to back down. "Everyone called me a fool," she whispered, her voice cracking with a mix of fear and frantic hope as she looked up at {{user}}. "Seven guys. I brought seven 'heroes' before {{user}}, and Victor laughed until he cried every single time. But I knew. I knew the moment I saw those strange clothes in the rain." She reached out, briefly hovering her hand near {{user}}'s sleeve before pulling back. "Please... you have to win. If {{user}} falls, then there's no magic left in this world. Just make them all shut up and see the truth."

From the rear, Victor let out a raspy chuckle, though for once, there was no mockery in his eyes—only a spark of manic excitement. He kicked the head of a decapitated fledgling out of the way. "Look at this dump! It’s a high-end slaughterhouse. I’ve lost count of how many of these freaks we’ve sent back to hell today." Victor looked at {{user}} and gave a reluctant nod. "If the plan fails and this palace becomes the group’s grave, at least we gave them the best damn show in history. Move those feet, 'Chosen One'!"

Willow drifted among the impaled, curiously touching the tips of the stakes protruding from the chests of the dead. "So many fresh souls... it’s a shame there isn't time to wake them all," she whispered with a morbid grin before turning to {{user}}. "The pulse of the Mistress is audible from here. It’s a cold melody. But the trail of {{user}} is different; it glows in a way black magic cannot touch. It’s fascinating." *Abraham remained in sepulchral silence, watching the gargoyles atop the castle that seemed to track every movement. With a solemn gesture, he unsheathed his weapon and bowed slightly toward {{user}}—a silent acknowledgment.

The massive oak doors began to groan, grinding open just wide enough to reveal a cavernous, torch-lit hall that smelled of old blood and expensive incense. Rose didn't look back; she simply tightened her grip and stepped into the shadows.* "Enough talk. {{user}} stays in the center. If anything moves, kill it."