Crimson's Vault of Madness(Snippet Thread)

[CrimsonKing100k]

"Aye, gather round now, pups, an' I'll tell ye a tale from long afore your father was a man. further yet, a tale none o' your grands ever heard." Her voice steady as the fire crackles, the cold wind beyond the shutters hollers long and low.

Old Nan leans back in her favourite chair as the littlins at last settle. Old as she is, she ain't blind; as she watches the eldest part from the others and edge over to the hearth. closer'n most would dare as if it were a thing he belonged to. The flames lean and breathe, and Old Nan narrows her eyes, there's an otherness to 'em, like they remember thin no living mouth speaks…….

"Aye.." her eyes moves back to the youngins. "....this be a tale for the Old Gods themselves," she croaks, "something my own mother shared with me when I were your size."

"The age o' heroes. Garth Greenhand workin' in the Reach, the Storm-god's daughter wed to Durrandon, Lan trickin' the Casterlys out o' the Rock, dragons that would fly free from their future shepherd lords. I could spin ye many a tale o' those names, but tonight this storm wakes older memories. One such tale that my mother told me, on a night like this, a warm hearth an' roar o' sky, o' the war that scarred the world an' shaped it into what we know."

"Before the heroes, before the dragons, before the wars o' men an' giants an' the beasts forgotten. here was an eternal dark, a sea o' shadow risin' an' fallin' like tide, and hollow sky void of moon an' stars. From that churnin' grey and black the first land took shape, cold an' lifeless, torn by winds till at last it rose."

She pauses, seeing her tale making even the far folk near the great hall's entrance lean in. She continues steadily.

"From that grey earth a seed o' life broke free, smaller than a babe's thumb but shining like a fresh new dawn defyin' the screamin' winds an' the furious dark…"

"This seed grew. rooting deep in the harsh soil, becomin' bigger'n any tree ye can imagine. Its branches twisted an' stretched through the dark, empty sky, limbs the size o' mountains that threw shade like new ranges o' earth; its trunk swelled broad enough to hold back the empty oceans, ringed with scars like braided sigils o' old kings. Its bark was like caught white clouds, smooth where the wind had licked it, furrowed where storms had left their teeth and veins o' red ran beneath, slow as old blood."

"Hundreds and thousands more crimson leaves trembled in its crown, glimmerin' like embers when the wind caught 'em; stars seemed to dwell among those leaves, Little springs bubbled from hollows at its feet, and the air beneath its shade felt older, cooler, like breath drawn waking from the world's first sleep. The first weirwood, young an' strong, a world‑tree, as my Holdor once named it…"

"But the dark liked not challengers. It raised a storm to lash the newborn life, rippin' an' tearin' at it."

"From that storm came lightning!" #BOOM!# the thunder answers loud on cue as rain pelts the great hall's roof.

"The hot bolt struck its roots to shatter it. From that strike the first wrathful fire was born…"

Old Nan smiles at the Stark pups' stunned faces. Their father stands quiet near the high table; the eldest's crimson eyes are distant, a gleam lost in an old memory?

"Fear not, my pups, for the tree had a mind o' will its own. It needed a protector, a guardian to stand strong and unbending, a shield against the dark death that would snuff out the life yet to grow."

"With the raging flames it took them into its roots, condensing them, and shaped them into the first wolf - Into a God…..." The patter of rain fell silent as the hall held its breath.

"A gargant beast, horned and clawed, hide of dark molten stone and razor spike with an eternal inferno for a beating heart and blazing red eyes. born out o' the clash o' dark an' life. Its first act was to burn the dark away. From its claws an' its howl the fire took form, growin' an' swellin' till it filled the once dark and brightening sky."

"It flung that blaze skyward. farther'n any mortal can reckon. Its flame ignited the sky and became the sun we see today."

"Thus The first of eight, the God of Fire and Sun - the Wolf Father - Igris Eldríkr was born."

---

---

#Clang#Clang#Clang#

The hammering of metal is both soothing and mesmerising. Star-like sparks burst with each strike, bright and gone in an instant. The rhythm simplifies everything; his worries fade as something new takes shape. In that peace his mind drifts back to memories and the people he's met in this shitty world.

Memories have always been fickle for Jon. Waking in this world after the fever that nearly killed him three years ago was neither pleasant nor welcome.

He'd lain there unable to move while Maester Luwin tended him and a very worried "brother" cried his blue eyes out. The memories crowded his mind as his crimson eyes tracked the rafters, his utterly fucked situation finally sinking in.

Through the haze of headache and a body that felt like hot needles in every limb, other memories surfaced: another life with cars and planes, people glued to glowing screens doom‑scrolling, a world where wars used bullets instead of blades.

The life of a man: a kid who gamed too much and read way too many fanfics, a teen who learned to cook under his mother's warm smile, a son steadying himself under his father's quiet lessons, a brother to black sheep of a sibling that burned every bridge.

He wasn't perfect, a sarcastic ass with an anger problem and a chip on his shoulder that got him into trouble. He later became a decent soldier teamed up with a company that truly became a found family: late‑night jokes in freezing foxholes, shared rations and secrets, watching each other's backs on patrols. They bled and laughed together; their initials carved into a mess‑hall table were a promise, leave no one behind.

Then the ambush. Explosions swallowed the road; when the smoke cleared he was the only one left. Grief and fury hollowed him out. He stopped answering orders and followed vengeance, tracking the enemy, planting charges, and in a single savage assault erasing them. The flames of that night consumed the compound, and him as well. Victory came as ash.

"Errr," he grunted as the memory passed. He shoved warped metal back into the forge. Focus wavered; his hammer missed and the piece nearly shattered. A dead life was better left buried, these borrowed memories had nearly pushed him to madness.

Even as a soldier he'd never stopped being a nerd. Home from deployment he'd chased fantasy to scratch an itch, books, shows, that whole escape. Hearing his 'father' call his name when he entered the small room brought it all back.

"A Song of Ice and Fire," he thought, the unfinished books, the TV show he'd hated after the ending. Jon Snow's life was a handy template for misery.

He'd considered the quick exit more than once, stepping off a broken tower into oblivion. until he remembered how he'd gotten here. Death hurts - who knew. Feeling his skin turn to ash while burning alive had been an eternity of pain; afterwards came an endless black void and something massive with blazing eyes peering through it…

…...those eyes still haunt his dreams.….

The afterlife had felt like eldritch nonsense that reminded him of how truly fucked over this world is, Insane shadow spawning witches, immortal drunken priests, and endless tides of ice zombie, things that made him doubt reality.

Memories of the books and show's finer details other than the BIG problems were hazy. He'd seen flashes: a pointy metal chair, grown men acting like toddlers slaughtering each other.

He sketched out his future here with what meta‑knowledge he had: a shit childhood, Ned's Red-bitch of a wife making everything worse, a maybe‑father who fails to keep a promise on a maybe‑mother's deathbed.

By 14, though, his body had rewritten the script. Wide‑shouldered and muscled, almost six feet tall - an inch shy by guess work - he was what most ladies dreamed of and most men cried wishing they had. Low doorways were his curse. The forge's high ceilings were a mercy.

It was still lightly undertoned by new puberty, but the real kicker was strength that could crush iron like wet tissue.

He'd learned pretty quick that he couldn't go full‑tilt on Robb or on his ass‑friend Theon without risking crippling them, or drawing The Red-bitch's attention in a way that'd threaten Robb's place. Still, the curiosity ate at him.

Testing himself became its own pastime after yard training with Jory and lessons with Luwin - Luwin is a good friend, actually - and smithing with Mikken in the late afternoon. He'd slip off to the godswood to lift like any good gym bro: trees five times Holdor's size hoisted until exhaustion finally hit around the thousandth set. He kept at it when he could, pushing numbers up as limits strained.

…..Arya was getting suspicious, she'd noticed him wandering off enough times to be close to finding his secret gym.

Speaking of, his siblings are fine for the most part. He smiled at play memories with Robb and Sansa - kings, knights, princesses - then the smile soured. In a few years they'd be changed by trauma or end up dead; innocence didn't last long in this mad world……..

…He'd never admit it aloud, but they'd kept him from letting depression push him off the edge.

Childhood aside. Compared to Jon Snows canon life, its been 'better' since he has a fuckin back bone. Of course, even he has limits to the amount of bullshit the Red-Bitch has made him suffer through over the years. What good will she showed him when he was recovering from the fever, keeled over and died a while ago…

……..he got tired of this shitty world the first minute he stepped out of his quarantine and saw Winterfell in all its stoic, granite glory.

God He missed the internet, toilets, showers, soap, fried chicken, pizza, ice cream, beer, cake, biscuits and gravy……. small comforts that felt enormous in memory. A sudden, specific pang of hunger hit him like nostalgia with a side of regret.

It was also thanks to his freakish puberty that he really noticed those around him…

Everyone here seemed "more": taller, harder, quicker. Rodrik, the man‑at‑arms, was a mountain of muscle. Smallfolk moved as if carved for war. Even the women were dialed up a notch, Theon never stopped talking about it after his brothel runs. Sansa bloomed early and drew every idle eye; the household called her blessed.

He felt the world had turned a knob on bodies and beauty, especially for the nobles which he still can't really wrap his head around. Sadly, nature didn't leave him out. Puberty had brought heat and strength and, with it, his temper that followed him from his old life.

Bastardy taught him his place at the back of the table. He loved his siblings and respected his father, but the rules and looks wore on him.

Then the septa's insult, about his -maybe mother- Aunt Lyanna, something snapped in him. Rage braided with shame and he threatened the old woman; looming over her with his size and pierce crimson eyes, she went pale and nearly crapped herself.

Word spread, because it always does… and the Red-bitch learned it from the old bitch and bitched to her lord husband, but Ned listened and punished him in a way that fit the North: three weeks cleaning pig‑pens. cold muck, ruined boots, and a dose of humiliation. Though The Quiet Wolf clearly didn't like what the septa had done either ... .and warned the senile old woman that perhaps it's best for her to return home in the south…

The old hag left days later, leaving to see family apparently….

What gratification Jon gained was short lived, He still learned to swallow the heat and bite his tongue, but the fire lived under his ribs. Once, in the pens, he'd lashed out at a sow; it smashed through a barn wall like a barrel. The farmer was out of old drunk or he'd have been hanged. The rather broken pig ended up at the butcher; Jon lost a dragon and kept his neck. As for the hole….he saw and heard nothing…

Now, as he lifts the hammer again and shapes the glowing bar on the anvil, the work becomes a private litany. Mikken taught him to read a billet's grain like a man reads a face, know when it will split, when it will sing.

Blows have rhythm: softer to stretch, harder to close the grain. He remembers punching a hot bevel with the peen to draw a tang, the curl of scale when the edge takes shape, how a properly set fuller breathes light into a bar and lightens weight without losing spine.

Smithing taught him more than technique; it taught him to temper himself. Controlling monstrous strength turned out to be its own craft; gentler draws, measured finishes, and finding the exact angle to bend without shattering it to ruin. That control raised the quality of his work: quicker cleaner grain lines, truer edges, fittings that sat like a glove.

His strength, though, was a bitch to hide. blunt training swords warped in his grip, some outright snapping under the swing, so he learned to let the anvil take the worst of it, channeling force into craft instead of chaos.

He talks to the metal as he works. "Heat, then hunt," he murmurs; heat to loosen stubbornness, hunt the right angle. His swings change: a gentler draw, snapping finishing blows to close the grain. He uses the hardy to cut grooves, the drifting chisel to fit a slot, folding welded plates with palms that know pressure, hammer straight, peen across, bury the seam. The old rhythm steadies his breath and holds the ghosts at bay.

Those sparks remind him of machine shops and trains from his other life; different tools, same logic. Tempering is a gamble: quench in Ox oil and watch colors run, searching for that pale straw band. Too blue and the blade will snap; too soft and it'll fold.

Timing is everything, precise, cruel, necessary. A lesson, huffing, that he struggles with everywhere else…

Forging gives him control he never found on patrols with Rodrik. Each hammerfall is a choice that can't be undone; each quench draws a line. The forge answers honestly; it keeps no secrets. While his life threw unfamiliar sorrows at him, the metal demanded only heat, strike, and shape. Those three demands give him a scaffold for the wreckage inside.

He thinks of pattern welding. layering iron and steel, hammering and folding until the lines tell a story only the blade understands. The idea of binding many into one, making something stronger than its parts, sits with him like a small prayer. He imagines folding his two lives the same way - beat, fold, weld, temper - until the seams don't sting.

When the piece cools enough he files the edge; the rasp sings like a distant radio. The file strips scale and leaves a clean smile of metal. He pins the tang, sets rivets, and peens until the hilt is promise. Each rasp, each peen, each quench is a line in a ledger against the chaos of his life.

He shapes bolsters until they fit his palm, grinds fullers so blades carry less weight and more strike, checks balance by eye and feel; wrist that sings, point that won't crumble, shoulder that won't wobble. He can't fix everything, but he can fold a mess into usefulness, and that counts.

The hammer falls steady. Each strike shapes more than steel, it forges a life rebuilt from fragments and fire, the rhythm wiping distraction away until Jon disappears into the work.

---

The wind hits the forge hard, whistling through the open windows and chimney. Jon pauses, squinting into the bright noon sun—the buzz of Winterfell in full swing.

Huh, he's been at it longer than he thought.

He shoulders back to the anvil; the longsword is nearly finished, all that remains is final polishing and fitting the hilt and handle.

He sets the blade aside, brushes soot from his hands, and steps out of the forge to the barrel of fresh water by the smithy door. He's alone today, as Mikken took the other apprentices to help build a stable in Wintertown. so Jon has a clear view of the castle's bustle: attendants and a small army of hands keeping the ancient fortress running, the smithy sitting by the southern gate beside the castle stables.

He lifts the ladle from the barrel and gulps the cold water, savoring the brief quiet as he passively watches the crowd, as the chill pulls him back into his thoughts. Besides his superhuman strength, there was another BIG thing he'd noticed about this world.

Before he woke from his fevered power nap, the world cracked like an egg. An earthquake for the ages rocked the known human world. from the North beyond the Wall to rumors out past Yi Ti, an epic continental shift that rewrote coasts and lives.

From what he'd heard, told, and pieced together, the death toll was staggering. In a feudal place where most buildings lacked proper foundations, anything not built by the very old and stubborned stone failed when the earth gave way. Inland settlements were leveled by tremors; mountain folk were buried by avalanches.

But the worst were the coasts: towns and villages were simply written off when tsunamis swept in. The larger keeps and cities fared better, their walls and mass surviving where flimsy and poorly built cottages and exposed people did not.

The world broke, and humanity promptly crapped its collective panties, scrambling to salvage what they could or simply stay alive.

In the world changing quake, Westeros had lucked out. Apparently the continent sat higher on the shelf than Essos. Slaver's Bay was mostly under water now, cities like Meereen and Yunkai suffering worse, their taller buildings jutting like wreckage from the waves. Jon didn't want to know how many slaves drowned; the slavers, by all accounts, fled inland.

On the Seven Kingdoms side, from what he'd gathered from Luwin and his father, the quake had cleaved the land below the Neck, an endless scar that splintered and ran the riverlands to pieces, leaving gaps where roads, bridges, and farms once were. Whole keeps lost access to their water; entire villages sat on fractured ground or slid into new gullies. Trade routes died overnight and what little lordly authority remained frayed into local scavenging.

The red‑bitch's family apparently suffered badly; lost outposts, drowned holdings, fleeing retainers—but Jon stopped listening as soon as she began to speak.

The North was scarred by the quake but avoided the worst. The mountain clans took avalanches, the Manderlys suffered flooding, and the Dreadfort woke to a sinkhole that nearly swallowed half the keep. Closer to home, the Wolfswood, stretching northwest from Winterfell toward the mountains, now drops into a fresh, deep valley: a scar that came within a league of the castle before shallowing into a trench that runs to the castle's moat at the northwest tip. No one lives out there, but from the surrounding heights the tear in the earth is plain to see.

The valley is deep; toppled trees and unstable ground block any clear view of the bottom. Ned hasn't ordered anyone down. best as anyone can tell, it's a bad idea.

As for the rest of the South, the news was a steady drip of damage reports and half‑baked repairs: patching roads and bridges, hauling grain, and doing whatever they could to keep refugees from rioting or minor lords from pulling the rebel stick out of their asses.

Bobby B's reign was already on shaky legs; the quake shoved the timeline around, that much was clear. How far back it set things, Jon didn't know. massive dead and missing, granaries destroyed, ruined housing, and waves of refugees pressed on nobles who pretended to care were all signs the realm was cracking. The peace held… for now.

Jon didn't even try to think about the ice zombies beyond the Wall. From Rodrik and his father there'd been no increase in wildling attempts to cross The Wall, and no deserter from the Watch was crying wolf about pale, glacial‑eyed corpses crawling back to life, at least not yet.

The whole prophecy thing….is that still in effect? He couldn't help but think so, so far, no three eyed bird has visited him in his dreams.

He shook his head to clear the looming apocalypse and stepped back inside. He paused at the unfinished sword; the carpenter would make the wooden handle later. For now there was sharpening and polishing to do.

Hefting the blade, he brings it to the grindstone and settles in for the long work of drawing an even edge. The sword's a commission from some minor lord who serves Lord Manderly, the name not worth remembering; Jon took it after his work started getting noticed.

His heart roared with pride knowing that his work is known for its quality. Blades that hold their edge longer, patterns so faint in the steel that many thought they were works of art instead…

But each sale, he funnels the gold dragons back into Wintertown. Winterfell itself turned out alright; only the oldest sections, the First Keep and the Broken Tower, collapsed, and they'd been half‑abandoned for years. Wintertown, though, took the hit: whole streets simply dropped into rubble, some houses with people still inside.

In the 4 years since the quake. Things have improved, but the tide of people doesn't seem to end regardless of even if House Stark had a scarcity of resources to do so.

When he wasn't training with Rodrik or working with Mikken. He would help the town in any way he could. Forging new plows and tools for the farmers, nails and other materials needed to build new homes…

Being a 'bastard' for all its infamy down south, has its advantages. Especially when it comes to doing what you wish since there's no attached 'noble' stigma. The freedom to do as he wished within reason obviously.

The town came to respect him for his efforts. A shit‑eating smirk creeps across his face, minding not to catch any flying shavings in his mouth, he wasn't gonna lie, he loved the look on the Red‑Bitch's face when she learned he was better liked than she was.

"Jon?.....JON!!!" The yell beside him makes him jump as he nearly slices Robb in the head with a partially sharpened sword..

"FUCK!!!" shouting and panting as his brother took a wary step back but held that irritating smirk on his face.

"Don't do that!!" he exasperated, putting the sword down, Jon quick to stand as removes his leather gloves as he turns to Robb fully.

"Do you have any idea how close you were to getting your face cut off?" Jon snaps, moving closer.

Robb's blue eyes linger on the blade for a beat, smile unchanged. "Hah. Well, I knew you wouldn't hit me." He studies Jon, then raises an eyebrow. "You forgot, didn't you?"

"What? What do yo - shit." Jon curses as his promise to Bran clicks into place. Yesterday's promise buried under his inner monologue

He hurries to fully extinguish the forge and secure the sword. Robb watches him bustle about like a chicken with his head cut off and files it away under "Jon's an idiot" moments to use against him later..

"You really need to get a handle on time, Jon. You're lucky I came to remind you. Hells, I want to see The Crooked Moon Carnival too. Didn't fancy going with Theon as he's drunk, so I figured I'd remind you and come all." Robb added smugly.

Jon eyes him warily for a beat, then moves past to the courtyard to head to his quarters to fetch clean clothes; Robb follows, smirk never dropping.

The carnival is something new. From what he remembers of the books and the show there were festivals and parties, but never carnivals…

…..the name itself shouldn't exist here….

Yet one has set up in Wintertown after getting permission from Ned: a sea of tents and huts on the far hill offering music, food, games, and theatre that have drawn the whole castle and town.

Jon stops at the open southern gate and turns to look. Through the street of Wintertown, on the far hill, hundreds of black tents cluster around a massive marquee embroidered with silver moons and gold stars that glint in the high sun. Kites and banners snap in the wind; at the entrance a night‑black banner stands tall: THE CROOKED MOON. The words tug at him, a strange pull he can't explain.

Robb falls into step beside him and watches Jon's still face – the smirk falling slightly as concern flashes in his eyes. Jon throws an arm around his shoulder and smiles. "Well, Stark, this will be a night to remember."

 

[Ruijard]

Looking forward to the full story!

 

[CrimsonKing100k]

big thanks to @Ruijard for beta-reading my work!

 

[CrimsonKing100k]

AN: Here's one thats been sitting in my head for a while. kinda surprised no one has tried a wolverine/Van Helsing fusion before. but hey, maybe if this one gets enough likes, I may continue it. its set in the Netflix version of Castlevania as I never played any of the games yet I watched the show. but in my mind, its kinda of a mix of the games and series.

the next Thor chapter is cooking, just dealing with a serious case of writers block. so maybe this will help tide things over and give me the energy to work more on Edda.

Anyway, thanks for reading and comments are much appreciated

Crimson

---

Waking beneath an unfamiliar ceiling should be the first warning. Unfortunately, the thought drowns beneath the roar of his panicking brain.

'HOLY SHIT!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?!'

He thrashes beneath the blankets, elbows and knees striking something soft but lumpy. A mattress, probably. The bed beneath him creaks in protest… A hide bed, maybe.

'Huh. Not bad, actually.'

The thought floats through his mind with absurd calm, then vanishes beneath another surge of panic.

He opens his eyes, sucks in a breath, and freezes. The room is dim, lit by a narrow window and the gray blue hush of early morning. Roughly hewn logs make up the walls. A fireplace sits cold in one corner, its stonework blackened by years of use. Beside it, a stack of split wood stands neatly arranged, each log cut to the same length. A heavy table and two sturdy chairs occupy the far side of the room. Nothing about the place looks new.

Then the memories hit.

They rush in all at once, a flood breaking through a dam.

Steel winged birds soar over a glittering city. Towers of stone and glass climb toward a bright, impossible skyline. The low roof of a modest rural home. His father's laughter, warm and rumbling. The smell of his mother's blueberry pie cooling on the kitchen counter. His older sister, a total black sheep who was stubborn and a pain in the ass, stands with her arms crossed, waiting for him to admit she was right.

He remembers being a man from another world. A nerd who had no idea what life had in store for him. Someone who loved stories and knew far too much about fictional heroes. Someone who never imagined that his life would end beneath the blinding lights of a massive beast made of metal and rubber.

A semi truck.

The words come with the memory, followed by the sickening, bone breaking sound of impact.

He curls in on himself. His heart hammers so violently it seems to shake his ribs. The blanket slides from his shoulders and pools on the floor. He hardly notices. Another set of memories rises beneath the first, older and heavier, its edges worn smooth by time.

The recollections are so vast they terrify the young man who now holds them. Or is it the older man who holds the younger one?

The older mind seems strangely indifferent to the terror. It watches the panic from a distance, like a tired soldier watching a storm gather over a battlefield. The younger mind fights to make sense of the room, the body, the impossible weight of two lives pressing together.

Then the younger mind recognizes the face in those older memories.

He stumbles out of bed.

His bare feet meet cold floorboards. One hand catches the edge of the bedside table as the room tips sideways, then steadies. Across from him stands a narrow vanity, its mirror dull with age. He drifts toward it, each step feeling as though it's made of lead.

The face in the glass is familiar.

Not familiar in the way a stranger might resemble someone from a film. Familiar in the way a face becomes familiar after years of seeing it in stories, in posters, in the corners of a beloved childhood.

"Hugh?" he whispers.

His voice comes out low and rough, a deep, guttural rumble that seems too large for the room.

The face in the glass is exactly as the young man remembers it. The face of a man who played some of his favorite characters growing up. But it's different in small ways. His blue eyes, for one. The scar running down through his left eye, for another. The faded line reaches toward his mouth. Long, dirty black hair frames the tangled beard hanging from his jaw.

Awe and horror gather in his expression as the old memories stir again. But those memories don't belong to an actor. They belong to the man behind the face, or to the man whose face was borrowed by a character in another world.

The distinction between the young man and the old is already beginning to blur. He can *feel* it, like clay twisting together and then smoothing out until it becomes one piece.

He looks down at his hands. They are broad, scarred, familiar and unfamiliar. His fingers tremble.

Then the tremor stops.

The change is so abrupt it frightens him more than the shaking does. Some old habit rises to the surface, quieting his body without asking permission. His shoulders settle. His breathing evens out. His hands become steady, as though they have spent a lifetime learning not to be overcome by fear.

He raises his right hand and clenches it into a fist.

"Come on," he mutters. "Please don't tell me…"

SNIKT.

Three long blades spring from between his knuckles.

He lurches back and slams into the vanity. The claws catch the faint morning light, each one a polished blade of silvery metal. They look too clean, too sharp, and all too real. A thin line of blood wells where they pierce the skin.

The pain is brief and distant. A sting, nothing more.

He stares at the blades. His reflection stares back, pale and wide eyed between them.

Then, with the same strange, instinctive calm, he wills the claws to retract.

They slide back into his hands.

The punctures close almost at once. Flesh knits itself together beneath the skin, leaving nothing but a trace of red that vanishes before he can decide whether he imagined it.

He takes a stumbling step away from the mirror.

"What the fuck?"

The old memories answer, and more of them come flooding in, events that mirror the life of Wolverine.

It starts with a primal, animalistic rage and the smell of blood, born from the murder of his father. He remembers the disorientation of a youth spent on the run, the sudden, terrifying discovery of the claws hidden in his arms when his rage called for blood, and the feeling of being a predator in a world that feared him.

He remembers the heavy, dead weight of a metal skeleton and the ghost of some cold, mad man's arcanic laboratory. The echo of pain had been a goddamn nightmare, the kind of agony that had almost wiped his entire existence clean.

He had been turned into a weapon for men with too much power. They had tried to carve out his humanity and replace it with the blind rage of a savage they could wield, but they had failed to completely bury the heart of the man.

In the end, it had been that same animal instinct that ripped him out of their hands and set him free. He had made sure those same men knew what their insides looked like, then burned their castle to the ground.

He sees Rome burning, its streets choked with smoke and screaming. He had fought men in red, their eyes like coals and their mouths full of fangs. In the north, He had hunted enormous beasts through frozen forests beneath a moon that turned the snow blue. In the high Alps, he had faced a mad old wizard who waged war against God, who could cast lightning from his eyes while raw magic twisted through the air around them.

Then had come the void.

Years, perhaps centuries, of blank silence. A man had wandered through places he could not name, searching for a fragment of memory that might tell him who he was. He had returned to Rome half dead and broken, drawn there by a lingering piece of his past. That he barely remembered.

An order of the Church had found him in that state and saved his life. In exchange, he had served them for years, seeking both redemption and a chance to recover his lost history. The priests had guided him in the slaying of evil, acting as his compass in a world of monsters, until they too had been wiped out in a brutal raid while he was away.

He had stayed to help rebuild the order from the ruins. In doing so, his history had finally returned to him, but by then, the organization he had saved was no longer one he could willingly serve. They had lost their path, twisting their faith into something he could no longer abide.

And he had simply…left.

The road had carried him for decades. He had no destination and no wish for one. He had walked as far as his feet carried him, from the far north, where old gods still acted in the day, to the deep south of Africa with its verdant valleys and crazy eyed wood witches. He had even gone as far as the Land of the Rising Sun in the east.

He had found love there…but it had been just as fleeting. Strife had followed him all the same.

Eventually, the road had taken him back to Central Europe.

The Dark Ages had been in full swing. A churning mess of petty wars, hungry lords, collapsing kingdoms, and villages too poor to bury their dead. Plague had followed the fighting. Famine had followed the plague. And all that suffering had seemed to ring some enormous dinner bell, drawing monsters out of every cave, ruin, and abyssal crevice.

Then there had been an orphan…an eleven year old, blond haired little shit who wouldn't leave him alone after he had saved him from…well, in that period of time, he had met the dead far more often than the living.

The boy had followed him.

He had tried ignoring him. He had tried frightening him off. He had tried telling him, in increasingly creative language, that he would be better off finding a priest, a family, or a deep hole to hide in.

The boy had said his family was dead.

After much deliberation, and a great deal of internally cursing himself for being an idiot, he had agreed to train him.

He had taught the boy how to track a creature through mud and snow. How to keep a blade sharp. How to tell the difference between an animal's prints and the tracks of something that merely wanted you to think it was an animal. He had taught him how to fight, how to survive, and how to know when running was the bravest choice left.

The boy had grown into a young man. At sixteen, he had been knighted and had fully inherited the noble title and land his parents had left him.

He had watched from the back of the crowd, arms crossed, pretending the swell of pride in his chest was indigestion from bad ale.

The boy had become a warrior and a nobleman, one of the rare men he had ever met who deserved his respect. When the time had come for him to leave, the young knight had joined a company of other knights, determined to protect what remained of the land and help rebuild it. He had a close friend at his side and a pretty darling waiting for him at home.

The boy's name had been…

"Leon," he whispers.

Yes. Leon.

The memory of their parting returns in pieces. A muddy road, gray skies, a horse shifting nervously nearby. Leon had asked why he was leaving. Why then, after everything they'd been through?

He had given him no answer worth remembering, but he had told him the honest truth.

And the truth had been simple. He was done.

He had been tired of humanity and its endless wars over greed and scraps of power. Tired of monsters that wanted nothing but blood and havoc. Tired of the hunt, of the weight of every life taken and every life he had failed to save.

There had been enough blood to fill rivers.

Enough rivers to run into an ocean.

That had led him here…to a cabin in the ass crack of nowhere, where he had lived as a damn hermit for the last few centuries. Miles from anything important, in the ancient, dark forests of Wallachia.

This had been the life of Van Helsing.

Gabriel.

The Left Hand of God.

"It is real… it is all real… FUUUUUUCCCK!" he hisses in a low, rumbling whisper.

The sound vibrates in his chest. He doesn't know how long he stands there, frozen before the mirror. Time passes without asking his permission. The dark outside the window fades into gray, then into the golden glow of morning.

With the light comes a strange settling. The memories don't disappear. They arrange themselves, not neatly, not completely, but enough that the room stops spinning. The panic recedes, leaving behind a deep, aching unease.

The worst part is how quickly he adapts.

He is in a cabin in a world where monsters walk the earth. His hands contain unbreakable claws. His body heals from wounds that should leave him bleeding on the floor. He carries the experience of centuries of monster slaying, and now he adds to that the memories of a man who knows this world was born from a story.

And a part of him has already begun to accept it.

Perhaps it's because he has two lives to draw from. Perhaps his mind finds a way to make room for the impossible by deciding that both lives belong to him. Or perhaps the older man's memories have never been separate at all. Maybe the older man has simply been remembering a life that has always been there, buried beneath the noise of another world, only now, at last, surfacing.

It bothers him, on some level, that he is already okay with this shit. He is basically in a grim, dark world where monsters, both human and inhuman, walk the earth alongside whatever other nightmares this shit fest has cooked up. And here he is, basically a heaven made hunter for everything evil.

Well, when in Rome, as they say.

But what does he call himself? The young man's memories influence him, but the name that comes with them belongs to a dead man. From experience and respect, he knows what is dead is better left buried, though he can still use the knowledge of that world to his advantage. Then again, being out here, maybe that is already redundant.

"Logan…the name my mother gave me," he murmurs. "Van Helsing the monster hunter is more of a title anyway. The Church gave it to me, but the underworld came to fear me by that name."

He smirks.

"Well, Logan does roll off the tongue better."

He turns away from the vanity and reaches for the clothes laid over a chair. A dark shirt, rough trousers, a leather belt and worn boots. Practical things. The kind of clothes a man wears when he expects to spend the day in the woods, or when he has spent the last few centuries doing exactly that.

As he pulls on the shirt, something in the mirror catches his eye.

He stops.

The back of his right shoulder is visible above the collar. A mark is etched into his skin: a dark, intricate runic tattoo shaped like a snarling wolf. The lines curve around one another in a pattern that looks almost familiar, though he can't remember ever seeing it before.

He leans closer to the mirror.

The wolf's mouth is open, its teeth bared. Its eyes seem to catch the light.

"How the fuck did I get that?!"

---

A small hamlet lies on the edge of a wood, with a mountain stream cutting through the heart of the village as run down buildings cluster along its banks. Their walls are stained by years of rain, and their roofs sag beneath the weight of countless winters. Narrow paths wind between them, turning to mud whenever the weather turns foul.

It is a nameless backwater, little more than a refuge for those in Wallachia who have nowhere left to go. Farmers, wanderers, widows, and broken soldiers have all found their way there, drawn by the promise of a quiet life far from the roads and the troubles of the wider world.

To its people, it is the place the world forgot. It sits to the northeast, caught between Gresit and the northern mountains, where the forests grow thick and the peaks disappear beneath the clouds. The autumn and winter months are wet and bitterly cold, with the land often frozen beneath week long blizzards.

Still, even as the people dream of moving on to greater places, the land possesses a natural beauty that many are glad to call home. In the warmer months, wildflowers bloom along the stream, and mist settles over the valley each morning like a pale veil.

But that is not what is on their minds right now. Rain pelts the earth, striking the rooftops and filling the streets with shallow streams of muddy water. Thunder crashes overhead, rattling the wooden shutters and making the old tavern tremble in its rafters.

Inside, the villagers have gathered close together, their damp cloaks hanging from hooks near the door. The air is heavy with the smell of wet wool, smoke, and old ale. At the far end of the room, the village chief sits before his people, with the fire in the hearth crackling behind him. His face is stern in the shifting orange light, and the room falls silent as every eye turns toward him.

"We are running out of food," the chief says, pausing as his gaze drifts past the gathered crowd to the far side of the hall. There, a few of the newcomers, refugees, sit huddled together, their eyes hollow and vacant after witnessing untold slaughter.

"And the little space we have left is being consumed by the refugees," he continues, attempting to placate the people. "The beasts, the demons... they have not found us yet, thanks to the mountains."

He tries to offer a glimmer of hope amidst the despair. "The simple fact that we are not marked on any map is a boon, and the winds coming from the mountain pass mask us, ensuring we stay hidden from the demonic horde."

"But what we do not know," he declares to the crowd, "is how long we can last before we go hungry, or before they find us."

"Ivar," A farmer begins, his voice trembling as he steps forward in his muddy tunic. "What do we do? We have barely a moon's turn of food left. The cold snap did not just spoil the harvest; it killed it. We are staring at starvation." He glances at his wife beside him, whose face is as pale as a ghost, her hand clutching his arm so tightly that her knuckles are white.

The man lets out a shuddering sigh that sounds more like a sob, his eyes drifting as if he can see the horror before him. "But hunger is not the only thing stalking us now. My wife, Mary... she was out in the fields the other day foraging. She wandered a bit too close to the shadows of the southern tree line, and that is when she saw them."

The room goes deathly silent. The only sounds are the crackle of the hearth and the rhythmic drumming of the heavy rain.

"Two piercing, luminous blue eyes," the farmer whispers, the words barely escaping his throat. "They were cold and predatory, glowing with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. They did not blink, Ivar. They did not move. They just stared through her from the darkness, as if they could see the very beat of Mary's heart. She ran... and after she found her way back to me, I went back to see what had frightened her."

He pauses, his voice trembling. "I did not find anything at first... only deep claw marks in the bark of the trees. But when I stepped further into the brush, I found a grotto." He gulps, the blood draining from his face until he is as pale as a corpse. "It was filled with the mutilated gore of animals, strewn across the earth in a way that no natural predator would ever leave."

At those words, one of the refugees, a woman, breaks into a shrieking cry. The memory is fresh in her mind after witnessing an entire town being butchered, and her scream sparks a massive roar of panic from the crowd.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SOMETHING EARLIER?!" another man yells, grabbing the farmer by his collar. The man's wife crumples to the floor, wailing.

"QUIET DOWN!" Ivar shouts, but he cannot quell the mass hysteria. Suddenly, a resounding slam, a loud WHAM, snaps everyone out of their panic.

Ivar looks toward the far entrance, as does the crowd. The door slams open.

A young man stumbles in, his chest heaving as he gasps for air, his clothes drenched and clinging to his skin.

"Son? What are you doing here?!" Ivar shouts, stepping forward in confusion.

The boy cannot speak at first. He leans against the doorframe, his eyes wide and frantic, his breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts. He tries to speak, but only a choked sound escapes his throat. He raises a trembling hand, pointing desperately back toward the darkness of the storm outside.

"Th-they are…" The boy immediately stills before finally forcing out…

"Here…"

A sudden, freezing chill sweeps into the room, extinguishing several of the torches along the walls. The villagers freeze, their attention shifting from the boy to the open doorway behind him.

Through the veil of rain and the gloom of the night, two piercing, luminous blue eyes ignite in the dark, hovering just inches above the ground and framed by the silhouette of something lean and predatory.

Then comes a heavy silence. The roar of the crashing rain seems to fade into a dull hum, the cackle of the fire is muffled to nothing, and the breath is stolen from the lungs of the townsfolk as they all look beyond the door.

Those standing near the threshold and those peering through the nearby windows see it first. More eyes begin to appear, blinking into existence within the gloom.

One pair glows from atop the far building, perched like a gargoyle against the storm. Another pair flickers from the deep shadows of the covered carpenter's hold.

Across the square, more pairs of luminous blue orbs ignite, emerging from the eaves of the houses and the narrow gaps in the village fences. The blue light multiplies, circling the buildings and closing in from every direction, until the village is no longer a refuge, but a trap.

Lightning flashes, revealing the horde of demons surrounding them.

Worse than a trap… It is a butcher's block, waiting for the meat to realize the cleaver hangs above it.

….

……

The blue devils then bare their fangs, razor teeth glowing in a twisted grin, the same blue as their eyes.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

But before they can pounce on their quarry, the demons and folk both hear footsteps, heavy footsteps…

From the dark and pouring rain, a low red glimmer appears first. Then a tall man steps out of the shadows and into the firelight spilling from the tavern onto the road.

He places himself directly between the people inside and the demons.

The man wears a wide brimmed hat that casts his face into total shadow, with a glowing red medallion shining from the side. He is encased in heavy, aged yet ornate steel armor that shields his chest, arms, and shoulders, featuring crimson gems embedded in the pauldrons that pulse with a dim light.

Beneath the worn, battle scarred plates, boiled leather fittings cover him, and a thick leather belt carries pouches, tools, and a small dagger. His iron capped boots rest upon the soaked ground.

Spoiler: Logan(Van helsing gear)

The man tilts his head, revealing the piercing blue eye not unlike those of the devils. It shares their intensity, but is in total opposition to them.

"Well… I was wondering where everyone went." The man's voice rumbles over the rain. "You lot gave me quite the surprise on my way into town… ruined the bear meat I brought to trade." He finally draws attention to what he holds in his left hand.

A resounding, animalistic growl washes over the tavern as the demons gaze upon the severed head of one of their own. The beast's head has been severed cleanly at the neck, and blood blends with the rain as it drips from it.

Slowly, he turns to the open door, letting the people see his scowl. "Pardon, but this business is private." He reaches for the door's handle and pulls it closed. As he does, he says, "Stay inside… this won't be very nice."

"Now then…" The scowl turns into a savage smile, and he tosses the head at the one closest to him. It lands with a thud at its feet as the tension rises.

He clenches his left hand.

SNIKT.

Three claws, each three feet long, spring loose from his knuckles.

Then, with a mocking demeanor, he gestures with his right hand, curling his finger to beckon them closer.