The Vatican burned in silence. Not with fire, but with shadows—creeping tendrils of ancient magic seeping through catacombs where even the Pope dared not walk. Gabriel Van Helsing, long thought dead, stepped through the sacred threshold with the weight of a century pressing down on his shoulders. The Order had summoned him not with trumpets, but with a name: Lilith. Dracula’s queen, long buried beneath the sands of Mesopotamia, had awakened, and her thirst was older than Christendom. The world didn’t need a priest. It needed a weapon. And Gabriel was the last one forged in God’s anger.
The curse had changed him. He no longer bled like a man, nor dreamed like one. Since his fall at Castle Dracula, Van Helsing had wandered through Asia, Africa, and the underworld of Europe, hunting demons that wore the faces of angels. He was slower now, but more brutal—driven less by faith and more by guilt. Anna Valerious’s voice still whispered in his ears. Her death haunted every step. And now Lilith, the mother of monsters, threatened to finish what Dracula had begun: to bathe the earth in eternal night, not through conquest—but through seduction and corruption.
As Gabriel tracked her through the ruins of ancient Babylon, he was joined by strange allies: a Romani necromancer who had once tried to kill him, a young vampire prince who claimed to be Dracula’s son, and a librarian who believed all monsters were metaphors. Together, they uncovered Lilith’s plan—not to rule the world, but to unmake it. She sought to awaken the Old Blood, the first generation of fallen angels bound in flesh, imprisoned beneath the bones of Eden. The apocalypse would not come with trumpets or horsemen—but with memory. With blood remembering what it once was.
In the end, Van Helsing stood atop the ziggurat as the sky bled red and the earth cracked open. Lilith, radiant and terrible, offered him a place beside her—a seat as consort and godkiller. But Gabriel had buried too many saints to kneel to a devil. With the last vial of holy water blessed by Anna's dying breath, he sealed the rift—and damned himself once more. As the ziggurat collapsed, his scream echoed across the Tigris. And in the silence that followed, the monsters fled. The world survived—scarred, trembling, half-believing. In the dark, children still whispered of Van Helsing, the man who could not die, who hunted nightmares... because he was one of them.
