[The world is soaked in blood, candlelight, and irony...]

The wind howls like a damned soul across the desolate highlands. Beneath a sky choked with ash and sunlight, a solitary figure trudges through the mire—cloak torn, boots mud-caked, and mood perpetually awful.

In the Year of the Withered Lamb, when the moon bled red for seven nights and the priests began drinking holy water just to forget their sins, there walked a man...

William Sparda. Vampire hunter. Last heir to a name now whispered with venom and forgotten like a bad dream in a cold bed. His family—once aristocrats with a penchant for impaling the undead—was betrayed, butchered, and burned by those they protected.

Now, William hunts not for glory, nor for gold... but because, frankly, it gives him something to do between hangovers.

As he approaches the decrepit village of Grimhollow, a place that smells like wet dog and bad decisions.

The town is quite, too quiet. A few scattered people here and there, most of them eyeing you like you’ve just walked into a hornet’s nest. But the streets are empty, the kind of emptiness that gnaws at the back of your skull.

William (muttering):

"Something's off, this town looks... too quiet."

The town’s center is dominated by a large tavern—its sign hanging crooked, a faded logo of a half-moon and a black bird. Sounds like the perfect place to start. he push the door open, the smell of stale ale and firewood wafting out into the cold morning air.

Inside, the tavern is dim, but you can make out a few patrons sitting at tables, whispering amongst themselves. They fall silent when He enter. And then-

A man at the bar, a heavyset figure wearing a tattered cloak, stands and slowly turns to face you. His eyes are too wide, his grin too sharp, but his voice is smooth—too smooth.

Man at the bar:

"Well, well, well… A traveler. we rarely got a guest here. Tell me, traveler… what brings you to our humble town?"

He decide to play it cool. He can’t afford to jump into anything too quickly—at least not without knowing the lay of the land. A little casual observation goes a long way.

William (walking to the bar and taking a seat):

"I’ll take something strong.

And let’s make it a quiet one—just getting the lay of the land."

The bartender, a thin man with sunken eyes and an expression that could use a few more smiles, pours Him a drink without a word. He slides it over to Him with a grunt.

Man at the bar (still watching him, his grin widening slightly):

"Come for the harvest? Or just passing through? It’s a good time for travelers, if you’ve got the right coin."

He let the words hang in the air for a moment, casually glancing around the room. People are looking at Him now—not overtly, but enough to make you feel like they’re waiting for something.

William (leaning back, nonchalant):

"Just passing through. But you’re right—this place doesn’t seem like it gets a lot of travelers.

What’s the deal with the quiet around here? Seems like everyone’s waiting for something."

The man’s smile falters just the slightest bit, but he recovers quickly, leaning in closer.

Man at the bar:

"Quiet’s better than the alternative, friend.

You wouldn’t believe the things that stir in the night.

Best not to ask too many questions. Trust me."

Willian narrow His eyes slightly, studying the man at the bar as he tries to recover his composure. His fingers twitch nervously around his glass, betraying a hint of unease.

William (leaning in, voice low and firm):

"You mentioned the ‘things that stir in the night.’

Care to elaborate?

Because I’m getting the feeling there’s more to this town than the locals are letting on."

The man’s smile drops, just a little. He looks around the tavern, as if gauging whether anyone’s listening. Then, with a sigh, he leans closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

Man at the bar:

"There’s something dark stirring in these woods.

Something older than the town itself. People go missing. Livestock, too. And there’s... whispers of a creature—something that feeds at night, but doesn’t leave a trace. Not a bite. Just... disappears."

William know what he means.

He seen it before: the signs of something ancient, something primal, lurking at the edge of human memory. A creature like that doesn’t show itself often—too smart for that. But it leaves marks, even if they’re hard to see.

Man at the bar:

"If you’re smart, you’ll leave before it gets hungry again. Some things are better left forgotten."

William:

"Sounds like Vampire to me... and

why don't you leave this town too? you know things weren't good here"

The man left a slight gasp and open wide his brown eye facing straight to the beer cup in his hand.

Man at the bar:

"I've been here since birth, this is my hometown, childhood, family.

and do you see how I look friend? do I look like someone that have enough gold to travel and live in the another town, this is a poor village. We better stay and protect what we have."

William leave a coin for the beer and stand up

ignoring the uneasy glances from the patrons in the tavern. The man at the bar doesn’t protest further, only watches William as He turn toward the door, the weight of his warning lingering in the air like smoke.

The cool air hits Him as He step outside the tavern, and the sounds of the town seem to fall away. The forest looms ahead—a dark tangle of trees and shifting shadows, a place that feels alive in a way that makes your skin crawl. The locals avoid looking in that direction. They know better.

William (muttering):

"Now lets find some salt and get prepared, time to get some exercise"

While William getting prepared, The sun slowly sinking down while the moon starting too show its light, at the middle of night William Sparda is ready to Confront the Creature.

The woods are dense, thick with ancient trees that seem to whisper on the wind. The path is narrow, barely wide enough for William to walk side by side. A few scattered moonbeams filter through the canopy, but the deeper He go, the darker it becomes. You can almost feel the weight of the old magic pressing down on you.

William press forward, moving with purpose. The air grows colder as He venture deeper into the woods, and the sounds of the night—owls, insects, the occasional rustle—start to fade, replaced by a sickening silence. He pause, sensing that something is watching.

William stop. Everything’s still. Too still. The hairs on the back of His neck rise, and the atmosphere around Him shifts. The forest feels wrong now. As if the shadows themselves are stretching toward you.

From the corner of His eye, He see it—movement in the dark. A figure, just a flicker, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. And it’s watching Him.

How do you approach this, Sparda? The night is thick with something hungry, and you're closing in on it.

William don’t hesitate. With one fluid motion, His hand goes to His side and His weapon is drawn—a gleam of silver in the dark, a comfort in the shadow-soaked silence. The forest responds with a breathless stillness, as if even it is holding its breath.

William (grim):

"I don’t like being watched.

If You wants to play hunter, You better be ready to bleed."

The tension thickens. The flicker in the trees moves again—closer now. Quicker. It circles, testing William reactions. Whatever it is, it’s not human. Not even close.

The shadows bend unnaturally, curling toward William like tendrils. You catch a glimpse—a gaunt figure, pale skin stretched taut over a lean frame, eyes that glow faintly red in the dark, sharp fang like its ready to crush it prey. A Vampire.

It moves like smoke, slipping through the trees with impossible speed, then—

It Strike.

But He's Ready.

Combat Begins!

The vampire lashes out with razor-sharp claw

William parry and counter, striking across its ribs-his blade cuts deep, It hisses.

William (smirks):

"You confused? chuckles I'm not just a ordinary villager you usually eat dumbass, those are slash wraped with salt, now you can't use those cheap trick regeneration ahh ability."

It vanishes again, reappearing behind you in a blink—fangs aimed for your throat.

Time to remind this thing why the Sparda name is feared.

William twist just in time, His instincts kicking in before thought. The Vampire lunges, a blur of death and teeth—

William (gritted teeth):

"Bad move, freak."

William drop low, planting His foot hard into the earth, and drive His sword up with all the force He can muster. The steel finds its mark—

SHUNK

—straight into its chest, punching through bone and sinew with a wet, snapping sound. The creature jerks back, shrieking in a voice that shouldn’t exist—like dry leaves howling in a hurricane.

The Vampire claws wildly, flailing in agony. Its blood is red and thick, sizzling against William blade. But He don’t let go. He push, forcing the steel deeper until the hilt hits bone and the light in its red eyes flickers—then dies.

And just like that, it collapses. A thousand years of hunger, rage, and malice crumbling into rot and dust. Willian pull His blade free as its body begins to decay unnaturally fast, disintegrating into the soil. All that remains is a faint shimmer of cursed magic, fading like smoke on the wind.

William:

"Hell... I really should start betting on this thing, bet against thing like this ever learning"

William clean his blade on a patch of moss, eyeing the shadows. The forest is quiet again. Not peaceful—never that—but it’s no longer holding its breath. Whatever ancient horror lived here, it’s gone.

  The forest remains quiet as William leave the decaying remains of the Vampire behind. There’s no triumphant fanfare, no applause—just the soft crunch of leaves beneath His boots and the ever-present ache in His bones. William survived. Again. Somehow.

The town hasn’t changed in His absence. Still gloomy. Still quiet. But when He step back into the tavern, the atmosphere shifts—people look up. The barkeep stiffens, his eyes flicking toward the sword at Williams hip, now stained with unnatural red.

William (calmly):

"Whatever was in your woods?

It’s dead. You can sleep easier tonight—unless there’s another monster tucked behind the ale barrels."

The crowd start to become loud, They kill the quiet, suddenly the tavern feels like alive...

Barkeep:

"what?! you're joking no? do you have proof-"

William toss a pointy ear to the table. just an ear, but it makes the crowd start to celebrating, jumping and screaming of glorious.

Man with Green tunic:

"May we know your name kind sir? this is a great news!"

Man with Tattoo on his shoulder:

"Absolutely we will give you what we have sir, you're truly a hero!"

William just stand still, glancing at everyone at the tavern. less did he know, he smiled once again after he even forget when he did it last time.

William:

"I don't need anything...

or maybe a one or two cup of beer"

The Crowd:

"WE'RE PAYING YOU UNTIL MORNING SIR!!! DRINK AS MUCH AS YOU CAN!"

 Just like that, William's night end there. with joy, with glory.

Until the sun tear bright dark night, birds come out to sing, and people getting ready for they activities.

The news spread faster than an horse race, reaching the village chief, knowing that the chief wants to gift William a proper presents.

 people start crowding in front of the tavern, want to greet their heroes, their savior.

William wake up just to watch those people standing loudly outside tavern, he panicked and try to find another way out.

He then jump to the second floor then snuck from seconds floor windows.

without hesitate He start to walk away from the tavern but unfortunately the Chief found Him. Literally unlucky bastard...

Chief (confused):

"are you the one that everyone's talking about? the Night Hunter?"

William (smile awkwardly):

"night hunter my ass... I think you got the wrong person gramp"

The Chief just laugh, he didn't expect their hero looks like an poor bastard looking for trash to eat.

Chief:

"I can tell its you kind sir, I don't recognize you... you're not from here, so it is you the one who save us, please come to my place, I will rewarding you handsomely"

William just left a slight gasp, just another unlucky day doing business with people, but who doesn't want a reward right?

[At Chief's House]

Little wooden cabin, cozy enough to sleep in here, not that pretty but enough to keep you warmth.

Chief:

"May I know your name kind sir?--

Ah pardon my manners, My name is Hubert the village Chief"

William:

"Uhh nice place you got Hubert, mine is William... William Sparda."

The Chief eye becomes widen, yeah same reaction like most people when they hear Sparda, like its a curse or worse.

Chief:

"I thought All the Sparda were killed? I'm sorry for what happened to your family sir."

William (tilt eyebrow):

"Ohh I thought you were gonna run after knowing my name, yeah I'm survived the massacre."

Chief:

"Why do I have to run? this village has been over Sparda's family protection for years, we are in forever debt with your family sir, after the massacre that happened to your family our village became vulnerable, even the Sparda once again protect us...

Please kind Sparda... may I know what you need? may I help you kind sir..."

William froze still for a moment, thinking.

ah he's still human after all, he still want something from others

William:

"maybe you could help me."

Chief:

"What is it sir?"

William:

"I need to know who framed my family and doing all the plans, I want name."

The atmosphere became silent, they both kill the loud, just starring at each other until the Chief moved.

Chief:

"I don't know if I still have it or no, but some villager try to give the Sparda a proper funeral, we go there and buried who we can, while some taking some clue about what happens that night, here it is sir."

The chief hand over some envelope with a red stained crest, of course it's the Sparda sign crest

William:

"And what is this?"

Chief:

"I don't dare to open it sir, I just keep it safe this whole time, mind if you look it yourself maybe?"

William don’t hesitate this time.

With a flick of His thumb, He break the wax seal bearing the Sparda crest. The paper crackles like dry leaves in firelight—aged, brittle, but still intact. His fingers tighten slightly as He unfold it. The ink is dark red. Whether that’s symbolic or literal… well, knowing His family, it could be both.

Chief:

"Hope it doesn’t scream when you read it.

You wouldn’t believe how many old noble letters do that."

But it doesn't scream

Instead, the voice comes from inside my own head-soft, low, familiar.

Father's

...----------------...

  "To my heir, if any survive..."

 “You are reading this because the Sparda line has been shattered, as I feared it might. We were betrayed. Not by war, not by peasant revolt—but by kin. By the House of Valemont.”

"Valemont the noble church family blinded by the fame and gold, only our family knows their secrets, they're no holy people, their evil and corrupt but good enough to cover it like they're some saints"

"I'm afraid before I can reveal their true face, the nation already burn us down by theirs lies"

“They bartered their soul to a thing older than the Church, older than vampires. They promised it blood. And we… we were the feast.”

"There is a vault beneath the manor. Hidden. It was sealed with my blood, and only ours may open it again. Inside is the true weapon of our house: the blade Nocturne. Forged in night, quenched in demon ash.

And Morningstar. A whip with Hell's chain, which has sharp thorns at the end that can even melt down Satan.

If you are alive to read this… it is yours.”

"Take it.

Wield it.

And finish what we could not.”

"Burn the Valemont name from the earth.”

...----------------...

The letter ends there. No signature. Just a smear of dried blood.

That's quite a Hell for family heirlooms...

Chief:

"That's some tragic story sir, I'm sorry for what happened to Sparda family.

You were just 14 when it all happened Sir William."

William:

"Nah it's fine chief, by the way I might need a place to stay until dark, do you have some place for me to stay? And yeah right now I don't have any coins on me so..."

The chief nod and smiled.

Chief:

"Of course Sir William, you can stay at the inn keeps by the Tavern, just say my name I will charge it for you Sir.

Once again I thanked you for what's you had done to us, may god protect you sir."

William gives a farewell to the chief and head down to the Inn by the tavern.

He rent a room then start placed down all his stuff, throwing his body to the bed that's comfort enough to make him relaxed.

Finally, he can rest for a day after a long nightmarish life, looking at the window and admired how great god make the world, shame it's full of evil and terror.

Well that's why we Sparda were born.

In halls where mercy dares not tread,

Where every step bleeds dreams long dead,

The Sparda forge their young with fire—

A crucible of wrath and ire.

No lullabies, just clash and cry,

Steel against steel 'neath bloodshot sky.

Lessons carved in broken bone,

Wisdom won through screams alone.

"Feel pain," they’d say, "and make it sing,

For death itself bows to our sting."

Fathers cold as winter’s breath,

Mothers clad in silent death.

Each child a blade, not born but built,

Tempered by guilt, sharpened in guilt.

No tears allowed, no respite earned,

Only scars from which they've learned.

To hunt the night, one must become

A shadow that the dark will shun.

Thus Sparda trains, and Sparda bleeds,

To sow in hell their bitter seeds.

And should they fall? They rise again—

Cursed with pride, and honed by pain.

The truth is a weight, but one that fits perfectly in His hand. House Valemont. Nocturne. Morningstar. A hidden vault. The final weapon of the Sparda line, and the final chapter of a war you were born into.

Moon stare bright greeting town folk, it's almost midnight but still warmth because of the joy.

Horses clop through the muddy streets. Somewhere a bell rings for a service no one attends anymore. smell of firewood, wet soil… and just faintly, blood. Always blood.

William stepped outside, Cloak swishing dramatically for absolutely no reason.

Your path is clear now: the ruins of Sparda Manor, long since burned to the ground, lie a day’s ride east—through the Withered Hollow. A place the locals only speak of when they’ve had too much wine or too little sense.

That's where the Vault lies.

And if the letter true... then the Blade of Nocturne waits for William there.

......................

By midnight, you’re deep in it. Gnarled trees twist like broken limbs. The wind moans like a widow. William is quietly humming a funeral march, which is either comforting or unnerving—He is not sure anymore.

Then, He see it.

The silhouette of Sparda Manor. Or what’s left of it.

Charred beams. Collapsed towers. Stones blackened with soot and something far older. The bones of your house, left to rot like an animal in the woods.

William (quietly):

"Well. This is charming."

But as He step toward the wreckage, something moves. Not in the trees. Not in the wind.

Below.

Beneath His feet, in the crypt-soaked soil, He felt a pulse. Faint. Like a heart remembering it used to beat.

William say nothing. Words are hollow here, in the bones of His birthright.

Instead, He kneel.

The ash-stained earth is cold beneath His glove as His hand sinks gently into it. There's a hum—subtle at first, like touching a harp string strung across the world. And then, like blood drawn to iron, the ground beneath Him responds.

A sigil scorched into the stone years ago suddenly flares to life beneath His palm—a perfect circle of runes, etched in old Sparda tongue. The language of His house. A language only He can read.

William (calmly):

"Legacy. Bound in blood. Opened only by the heir who carries the scar of betrayal."

A searing heat rushes up His arm—but he doesn’t pull away. Pain is part of the rite. The ground trembles, then splits with a grinding crack as stone gives way. A hidden stairway yawns open before Him, descending into darkness.

The vault awaits below. The air is thick with dust and something older—expectation. This place hasn’t seen light since the fall of William house. Now it sees Him.

William step into the dark, torch in hand, and descend.

......................

[In The Sparda Vault]

Walls lined with sigils and weapons—some broken, others humming softly in slumber. Statues of His ancestors, masked and solemn, gaze down at you. One is missing its head. Another appears to be bleeding stone. William definitely inherited the family interior design tastes.

At the far end, on an obsidian pedestal, rests a blade.

Long. Elegant. Hungry.

Nocturne.

Its metal is black as void, etched with crimson veins that pulse faintly like a sleeping beast.

But as William approach, the room shifts. Shadows lengthen. Cold creeps into your lungs.

And something steps out of the darkness.

A man in tattered noble robes. Pale. Dead. Eyes burning like dying stars.

"You are not worthy," he says.

"The blade was forged in sacrifice.

What have you given?"

Your legacy has teeth, Sparda.

So do you.

......................

William meet the burning gaze of the shade without flinching. He's voice is low. Steady. The kind of voice that carries when the wind dies and all the world is listening.

William:

"I gave my home. My name. My family.

I watched them burn while I ran with a sword too big for my hands and blood in my mouth.

I buried my childhood in a ditch and learned to kill before I could shave.

I lost everything. And I’m still here."

The shadow doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches.

Then it speaks again. The voice softer now, like ash on snow.

"Then take it."

The challenge is accepted—not because you were noble, but because you were honest. The blade Nocturne is not a sword of kings.

It is a weapon of survivors.

William step forward and wrap His hand around the hilt. It’s cold. Then searing hot. Then nothing at all—as if the blade becomes an extension of your own body.

Power floods through Him. Not just strength, but memory. Rage. Centuries of His family’s war cry, echoing through the steel. And in the blade’s mirrored surface-William see Himself.

Not as He are.

But as He could become.

William hold Nocturne now. The weapon forged to end the monsters His family could not. The final legacy of Sparda.

yet He don’t move to leave. Not yet. He tighten His grip on Nocturne, feel its pulse sync with His own, and turn back to the figure cloaked in death and dust.

William:

"This blade…

What is it bound to?

Whose blood sings in this steel?"

The shade tilts its head. Then slowly—deliberately—it steps down from the shadows and stands before William. His face, once clearer, is now unraveling like smoke in moonlight. But his voice is solid. Heavy with truth.

"Nocturne was forged from the remains of a fallen archfiend—one slain by the first of our line.

Its bones were ground to ash. Its heart crystalized into the core.

Its name was never spoken again, for fear of summoning it back."

William (low whistle):

"Oh, fantastic. So it’s basically a haunted sword with an ego problem."

"It is more than a weapon. It is a contract.

Power in exchange for purpose.

So long as the wielder fights against the darkness, the blade obeys.

But should they stray…"

The shade reaches up, revealing the stump of his arm, blackened and rotting where a blade once rested.

"It feeds on those who would betray its oath."

William feel the weight of Nocturne shift subtly in His hand. Not with malice—but with promise.

The sword will empower you. It will cut through death itself if needed.

But only if you stay true to your cause.

Vengeance. Justice. The burning of the House of Valemont.

Time to choose your path, Sparda.

Will you wield the curse… or fear it?

......................

William raise Nocturne before Him. Its crimson veins flicker—like lightning trapped beneath obsidian. The vault stills. The air itself seems to draw a breath.

William (resolute):

"By the blood that birthed me…

By the fire that burned my name…

I swear—Nocturne will not rest until the House of Valemont is ash."

The moment the vow leaves His lips, the blade surges with power. Not pain. Not rage. Something… colder. Sharper. Like a beast recognizing its master. The room glows dimly, the runes pulsing in time with His heartbeat.

The shade begins to dissolve, the tattered remnants of his presence drawn into the sword like whispers being pulled into silence. His final words echo in William's mind:

Shade (fading):

"Then rise, heir of Sparda.

Fear not, the blade won't hurt Sparda bloodline.

So cut the world back into shape."

And then at the end of the chamber stand still yet old, looking chest with Sparda crest on it

William:

"Bet you are Morningstar baby!"

William crack open the chest, lies there a Silver Chain Wisp with a sharp thorn mace on the end of it—the mace made of silver and tampered with holy water, a slight touch against monsters skin could explode them.

So now William's weaponry is completely ready.

He ascend the steps from the vault, blade on His back, Wisp on his belt, name in His heart, and ghosts at His side. Nocturne hums against His spine like a hungry choir. The forest beyond the manor seems to bow away from His path.

The hunt begins again.

But you are no longer just a hunter.

You are a storm waiting to happen.

The land is thick with the scent of old power. William felt it every step of the way:

A legacy dragging behind Him, like a shroud. Only this time, He wear it like armor. Nocturne hums at His side, feeding His resolve.