Marvel: Impregnation System

Chapter 99: Chapter 97: Dracula’s Suffering



"FIND HIM, YOU FOOLISH IMBECILE! FIND HIM OR I'LL HAVE YOUR HEAD ON A SPIKE!" Dracula roared, his voice reverberating through the cold stone walls of his castle like thunder. The fury in his tone sent a shiver down the spines of his high-ranking vampires, who scurried away like frightened mice, desperate to escape the wrath of their lord.

As they fled, their cloaks billowing behind them, the air hung heavy with tension, the weight of Dracula's anger palpable.

Dracula remained on his deteriorated throne, a dark silhouette against the flickering torchlight, the very embodiment of power and menace.

His eyes glowed like embers, burning with a rage that threatened to consume him from within.

Each ragged breath he took felt like a tempest brewing, a storm waiting to break.

Dracula gripped the arms of the throne, knuckles white, as memories of that human slipping through his fingers reverberated through his mind, a phantom just beyond his grasp.

While Ricky reveled in his newfound strength, expanding his power and aides, Dracula languished in a pit of despair, his fate spiraling into darkness.

The three years following Ricky's eldritch summon had left him a shadow of his former self, his once-mighty presence now weakened by the cracking of his mana core.

Dracula's body, an imperfect vessel forged from ancient magic, now struggled to contain the vast reservoir of power that was slowly leaking away.

His mana core, once a wellspring of formidable energy, had become a cursed wound, a source of debilitating pain and frustration.

Each passing day felt like a reminder of his mortality, a stark contrast to the eternal night he once commanded.

Unlike the other vampires who roamed the night seeking to bolster their own powers, Dracula's pursuit was different.

He had devoted himself to harnessing the essence of Varnae, the ancient and terrible entity that had once bestowed upon him dominion over the shadows.

Varnae's power, though formidable, had come at a cost as Dracula had only scratched the surface of its true potential, tapping into a legacy that had been meant for him alone.

The core, once a bridge to that terrifying power, had turned into a shackle, binding him in a slow and agonizing decline.

Gazing out over his crumbling empire, Dracula felt the weight of his desperation settle heavily on his shoulders.

Dracula looked for cores, the vital essence that defined a vampire's power, but his search was in vain.

Dracula couldn't find a single being that possessed half the capacity of his own, which had once belonged to Abraham, now a mere echo of the strength it once held.

It was maddening, the thought of Ricky's core, the very essence he had foolishly allowed to slip through his fingers, somewhere out in the world lingering about with what should be his.

Ricky, the boy who had defied him, was now an enigma, an unexpected rival whose power could threaten to eclipse even his own.

The thought of it sent a shiver through Dracula's bones, igniting a spark of rage deep within him.

How could a mere fledgling hold such untapped potential?

At this point, Dracula was desperate to find Ricky and extract his core, his mind endlessly churning with dark schemes that were all in vain.

He could not allow Ricky to thrive unchecked and desperately needed that core, that power, to restore himself and reassert his dominance.

"Sire, is it possible that there could be a Van Helsing remaining-"

"I KILLED THEM ALL! I WATCHED AND WAITED FOR THEM TO BREED OUT A CORE FOR ME, AND ONCE I OBTAINED ABRAHAM'S CORE, I WIPED THEM OUT!" Dracula bellowed, the ferocity of his voice echoing through the stone walls of his castle, shaking Baron Blood to his very core.

The revelation hung in the air, thick with the weight of Dracula's madness as his eyes, once pools of dark ambition, now burned with the remnants of his shattered dreams.

The chilling truth spilled forth from his lips like poison: his entire purpose for keeping the Van Helsings alive had been a sinister scheme to exploit their rare core magic by letting them breed amongst themselves.

He had gone to great lengths to manipulate them, all while pretending to harbor a grudging respect for their lineage, scheming for the day when he could snatch the essence he desired.

The Van Helsings, with their rich bloodline, were a means to an end; a line of rare genetic inheritance that could breed a core powerful enough to hold his strength.

But in his relentless pursuit of power, he had acted rashly, snuffing out the very candles he had hoped to use to light his path once he thought their use was completely used.

Having outliers like the Van Helsings among the living had been a foolish risk which is why he killed them, but now he recognized a weakness that had led him to slaughter them all leaving him in the predicament he now faced.

*HUFF*

"I already used the last of their flesh to create my holy immunity; I cannot salvage anything that is left." Dracula lamented, raking his fingers through his white hair as frustration seeped into every word.

The rhythmic tapping of his foot against the cold stone floor echoed his growing impatience, each sound a reminder of the precious seconds slipping through his grasp like grains of sand.

"Every second I waste is another tiny bit of power siphoning out of me." Dracula continued, his voice thick with irritation

"And another step further from completing my master plan." Dracula gripped the arms of his ornate throne, the creaking of the wood under his strain punctuating his mounting agitation as he cast a piercing gaze at Baron Blood.

The small crack had slowly been causing a greater rift within him both externally and

internally.

Over the course of three years, Dracula's core had leaked out one-fifth of his power, weakening him and leaving him desperate.

Each day, the fracture widened, a silent thief siphoning off his once-unstoppable strength, and with it, his confidence waned.

Everything was at stake; his very existence hinged on the raw, brutal power that had once

defined him.

Yet, as he grew weaker, so did his hold over the shadows and terrors he commanded.

The empire of fear he had meticulously built was beginning to tremble at the waning of his brute force.

Desperation clawed at him, twisting his thoughts into dark, chaotic spirals as he could feel the insidious whispers of doubt creeping in, threatening to unravel the carefully woven

tapestry of his plans.

Without power, he was just another name in a long history of fallen tyrants.

Rage flared within him, igniting a fierce resolve as he could not, would not, allow himself to

fade into obscurity.

Every ounce of energy he had left would be channeled into regaining what was lost.

The Black Knight was more than just a target; he was the key to restoring Dracula to his former glory and furthering it.

With each passing moment, the stakes rose higher, the pressure mounting like a thundercloud

ready to burst.

He had played this game of shadows for too long, and now the clock was ticking against him.

It was time to act, to reclaim his power, or risk losing everything he had fought to build.

The thought ignited a primal instinct within him; the instinct to dominate, to conquer, to rise from the ashes of weakness.

"How are the night raids progressing?" Dracula inquired, his voice heavy with a simmering

impatience.

It was the same question he had asked Baron Blood countless times over the last three years, each iteration growing more tense, more desperate.

"Sire, the night raids have failed as before." Baron Blood replied, his tone cautious, acutely aware of the dark cloud of fury hovering over his master.

"However, as I've reported previously, The Black Knight has not returned to the Vaticam-"

*BAM*

Dracula smashed his armchair into smithereens, the sound of splintering wood echoing through the grand hall like a thunderclap.

He was fed up with hearing the same incessant report for the last three years.

Each reiteration was a reminder of his failures, each word a hammer striking the anvil of his

mounting frustration.

Baron Blood flinched at the spectacle, knowing full well the tempest brewing within his

master.

He could see that Dracula's mental state had been deteriorating rapidly since they discovered Ricky was not hiding within the Vatican as they had hoped.

The news had come as a cruel blow, and every effort to locate even a single trace of Ricky had proven fruitless, driving the ancient vampire closer to the brink of madness.

"Leave me." Dracula ordered, his voice cold and final.

Baron Blood hesitated, wanting to refute the command, to voice his concerns, but the

moment he caught sight of his master's blood-red eyes, all thoughts of defiance fled.

There was an intensity in that gaze that promised wrath, an intensity that had brought countless foes to their knees.

"Now!" Dracula's voice thundered, slicing through the thick silence of the chamber.

The force of his command sent a shiver down Baron Blood's spine, and before he could utter another word, he vanished from the room, leaving the ancient vampire alone to contemplate

the spiraling chaos that surrounded him.

*Click*

*Click*

*Click*

The echo of heels clicking against the cold stone floor reverberated through the cavernous

halls of the castle, each step measured and unwavering.

The sound cut through the oppressive silence like a knife, heralding the arrival of a figure who

seemed to embody authority itself.

The double doors to the throne room creaked open, and in walked a man clad in a sharply tailored Nazi uniform, the insignia glinting ominously under the dim light.

He strode purposefully down the red carpet, his demeanor exuding confidence, until he halted before the visibly annoyed Dracula, who sat brooding on his shattered throne.

The flicker of candlelight cast an eerie glow on the stranger's face, revealing a steely gaze that met the vampire's piercing stare with unflinching resolve.

"I must admit, Dracula, I am very disappointed." The man boldly proclaimed, his voice smooth and unwavering, showing no sign of trepidation in the face of the legendary vampire. Dracula paused, the laughter dying in his throat, replaced by a simmering curiosity.

"What?" Dracula asked, incredulity dripping from his tone. His amusement faded, replaced by a growing sense of irritation.

This audacity was not common among those who dared to stand before him, and he found it

both intriguing and infuriating.

In Dracula's eyes, he could squash the man before him within seconds, yet this mere human stood unflinching, clearly unimpressed by his imposing presence.

"In the last three years, I have not only strengthened the regime of my Feuer but bolstered Hydra's glory in the process. And yet, in that time, you've simply wasted away." The man gestured dismissively toward Dracula, who was now on his feet, a simmering rage coursing through him.

"YOU DARE!" Dracula thundered, his voice echoing throughout the grand hall, filled with centuries of darkness and dread but the man only scoffed, the sound dripping with contempt.

"Oh please, Dracula. You may be able to fool the other heads, but I am certain that you've grown weaker since the last time we spoke." His eyes gleamed with a knowing intensity, piercing through Dracula's carefully crafted facade and laying bare the vulnerabilities hidden

beneath.

"You're an abomination, but a weaker one at that." The man chuckled, a mocking grin

spreading across his face as he watched Dracula sink back into his throne, a hateful look creeping into his eyes.

"If this is about Hydra, I've upheld my end as a head, so there's no reason for your arrival in

the first place." Dracula gritted his teeth, revealing himself to be one of the heads of Hydra, his pride desperately clinging to the remnants of his former glory.

"It is not simply upholding your agreement to the organization, but what you bring to the table, as of now." The man replied, his tone shifting from jest to grave seriousness. "When you first joined, we all overlooked your clear lack of enthusiasm for our order, since

your overwhelming power made up the difference." The man surveyed Dracula with disdain,

his gaze cold and assessing.

"But things have changed."

Dracula scrunched his eyebrows, incredulity mingling with simmering rage at this man's foolish confidence.

How dare he question the strength that had once terrorized nations? Dracula's entire reasoning for joining their organization had been to harness its resources to

cure his imperfections, to reclaim the power that had once flowed through his master like an unstoppable tide.

"Nothing has changed; I am still the strongest-" Dracula began, but the man shook his head, cutting him off with a disdainful smirk.

"Back then, your bare minimum was enough. Now, it is not." The man replied, his tone

dripping with condescension.

"The regime and Hydra as a whole have bolstered to unfathomable degrees. Our forces have

made considerable strides, but all I see around your operation is stagnation." The man spread his hands wide, gesturing to the emptiness of Dracula's once-mighty realm, something within the ancient vampire snapped.

His eyes flared with fury, and the room seemed to darken with his growing wrath, bloodlust

slowly oozing from his body.

"Watch your next words carefully, Schmidt; it might be your last," Dracula hissed, the

menace in his voice echoing off the stone walls, his teeth bared like a predator revealing its fangs to the man before him known as Johann Schmidt.

Dracula felt the weight of centuries pressing down on him as he faced Johann Schmidt, the man who had cunningly maneuvered himself into the upper echelons of the Nazi regime. Schmidt was not the mere pawn he thought he would be; he was a rising star within Hydra, a force of ambition and intellect that rivaled even the most seasoned of his kind.

Years ago, when Dracula had first allied himself with Hydra, he had viewed Schmidt as just

another human, one among many, eager to embrace the darkness but naive to its true depths. But in the intervening years, he had watched Schmidt transform as the man had honed his skills, manipulating events and people with an ease that had initially surprised Dracula.

It was during the early days of his involvement that Schmidt had begun to make a name for

himself, a man driven by a singular desire: power.

The early thirties were a turbulent time in Germany, the ashes of the Great War still smoldering beneath the surface of a new regime.

As the Nazis began their ascent, Schmidt seized the moment, aligning himself with the

ambitious party members who saw in him a dangerous asset and clinging himself to the Fuer, Adolf Hitler.

Schmidt had a knack for rhetoric, a talent for persuasion that seemed to weave around his listeners like a silken thread.

They didn't just hear him; they felt his voice resonate with their very being. Schmidt stirred their ambitions, ignited their fears, and in doing so, he positioned himself as

a vital part of the regime's future.

Dracula had initially underestimated him, dismissing the human as just another opportunist vying for attention.

Yet, over time, Schmidt had proven to be anything but ordinary as he had a chilling vision for Hydra, a vision that aligned eerily well with the dark aspirations of the Nazi Party. Underneath his suave exterior lay a mind that craved not just power but the kind of legacy that

would echo through history.

"Dracula, everyone knows you joined our organization to cure your weakness." Schmidt

stated bluntly, his voice dripping with condescension as he turned on his heel, clearly unperturbed by the vampire's fury.

"Remember, Dracula." Schimdt continued, his tone laced with a chilling finality. "There will be no place for you within the organization if you continue to stagnate amidst the growing war ahead." Schmidt paused at the imposing double doors, the shadows playing across his features, before glancing back at the seething figure seated on the throne.

"If a head is cut off, two more shall take its place." Schmidt's voice, cool and confident, reverberated through the air, a warning wrapped in the guise of inevitability.

With those chilling words hanging in the silence, Dracula's gaze locked onto Schmidt's, his

crimson eyes burning with an intensity that could turn stone to ash.

The implication was clear: the organization would not hesitate to discard him if he failed to

rise to the occasion.

There was no mercy for the weak, no patience for the faltering as Schmidt's presence had shifted the balance, introducing a new brand of ambition that threatened to eclipse the old. The doors swung shut behind Schmidt, sealing him away from the shadows of his castle.

*RUMBLE*

The very air around Dracula vibrated with his unrestrained fury, the ground beneath him trembling as if the castle itself were succumbing to his wrath.

Yet amidst this chaotic energy, a melodic voice broke through, soft and soothing. "Father, if I may." The voice chimed, cutting through the tension like a gentle breeze.

As the furious vampire turned his gaze to the source of the voice, the storm within him began

to settle beneath the surface of his rage.

There stood a beautiful and ethereal figure, her face a perfect blend of striking allure and

haunting intensity.

Pale, porcelain-like skin gives her an ethereal quality, while her high cheekbones and sharply

defined jawline lend an air of aristocratic grace.

Her eyes, a deep and mesmerizing shade of crimson, seem to pierce through the soul,

reflecting centuries of wisdom and darkness.

Her hair is a cascade of midnight black, flowing in silky waves down her back, shimmering

with an almost unnatural luster.

It framed her face like a dark halo, adding to her otherworldly allure and when she moved, her

hair seemed to ripple like a living shadow, enhancing her mysterious presence.

Her lips are a vivid contrast to her pale skin, painted a deep, blood-red hue that hints at her

vampiric nature.

When she smiles, which is rare and often unsettling, her fangs are revealed as sharp, gleaming, and deadly, a reminder of her true lineage.

Her attire is as captivating as her appearance as she favors elegant, gothic-style clothing that

emphasizes her slender, yet strong figure.

Flowing black gowns, intricate lace, and velvet fabrics adorn her, often accented with dark red

or deep purple.

"Lilith, I am not in the mood to converse at the moment." Dracula replied, raising his hand as

if to ward off her words.

His frustration simmered just below the surface, but he held back his ire, knowing well that

his daughter was not the one to blame, yet.

"Father, I only wish to seek out that wretched human who has brought you to this state."

Lilith declared, her crimson eyes glinting with an ambition that sparkled dangerously in the

dim light of the throne room.

Dracula shook his head, dismissing the thought even as the flicker of interest ignited withinn/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

him.

"If I cannot even dare to find his trail, how can I expect you too-" "All I am asking for is the chance to find him. I wish to prove myself to you once and for all,"

Lilith said, her voice steady and resolute while Dracula considered her proposal, weighing the

potential risks against the dwindling options he had left.

"Very well," he replied at last, his voice a low growl, "but do not engage with the Black Knight. It could spell your doom." Dracula granted his permission, and Lilith's face lit up as

she bowed deeply before turning away, a bright yet dark smile illuminating her features. would never dream of it." Lilith assured him, her confidence a sharp contrast to the tension

"I

in the air, as she departed to embark on her mission.

"Until now."