Rain drummed against the old brick walls like the heartbeat of the city itself. London breathed around him—alive, ancient, and dangerous. The fog twisted like living beasts, brushing against Alucard's small form as though testing him, sniffing at him, trying to decide whether he belonged. Every droplet of water on the cobblestones seemed alive, reflecting the dim glow of the gas lamps in tiny, trembling worlds. The city itself pulsed with life and magic, a predator wrapped in fog and shadow.
The man in the trench coat flicked ash from his cigarette, the ember briefly illuminating his face. Sharp cheekbones, tired eyes, a scratch of stubble. A man who'd seen too much and trusted too little.
John Constantine.
Even without knowing the name, Alucard felt the weight of him—like the air bent slightly around his presence. Something primal stirred in him, an instinct that told him this man was dangerous—but in a way that might save him.
"Well, you're quiet. That's new. Usually, the little monsters scream," Constantine said, voice rough, carrying the faint hint of amusement.
Alucard didn't answer at first. Words felt small, fragile compared to the storm of new sensations ripping through him. His senses were ablaze: he could hear the hum of streetlamps, the flutter of distant wings, the slow pulse of the man's heartbeat. He smelled iron in the fog, wet stone, the faint tang of magic dripping from unseen cracks in the city's fabric.
This world was full of noise. Noise… and power.
Alucard finally looked up, red eyes scanning the man's face. "Where am I?"
Constantine snorted. "London. Obviously. But not the part tourists see. You're in the gutters of the magical underground, kid."
He exhaled smoke, curling unnaturally into the fog as if the mist tried to claim it. "And you're a fresh little vampire spawn dropped into the worst neighborhood possible. Brilliant."
Alucard's brows knitted. Fresh…? Weak…? The words scraped against some deep, stubborn core inside him, a memory of the hero he admired—the power, the elegance of Alucard, his dream of strength.
"I'm not weak," he muttered. His voice was low, but fierce.
Constantine raised an eyebrow. "You can barely stand without wobbling. Try again, Dracula Jr."
Alucard clenched his fists. Shadows flinched around him, flickering like they wanted to obey, but they trembled—thin, weak, unshaped. They slipped through his fingers like smoke in the wind.
Constantine crouched until his eyes met Alucard's. "…Huh. So you do have some bite."
He straightened, voice sharp. "Listen closely. You're a trembling fledgling—strong potential, zero power. London will eat you alive unless someone teaches you not to die."
Alucard met his gaze. "Teach me."
Constantine laughed, a cold, humorless sound. "Not how this works, kid."
He flicked his cigarette away, the ember skittering across the wet ground like a fallen star. "Magic's messy. Bloody dangerous. And I'm not a babysitter."
He turned, coat flaring as he began to walk away.
Something inside Alucard stirred—something ancient and insistent. He took a step forward. Then another. A small, instinctive voice whispered in his mind: Don't let him leave. Don't let this chance slip away.
"I need to grow stronger," he said, voice firm despite the tremor in his limbs.
Constantine paused mid-step. The cigarette hung loosely from his fingers. "And if you walk off now," Alucard continued, "I won't live long enough to take my first real breath."
A beat of silence.
Constantine exhaled through his nose, annoyed but curious. "You talk too mature for a brat."
He turned, coat swaying. "Fine. You want a test? First lesson starts now."
Alucard's small frame tensed with anticipation.
Constantine snapped his fingers. The fog behind Alucard twisted violently—shaping itself. Two red pinpoints flared in the darkness.
A creature crawled forth—long limbs, twisted joints, pale skin stretched too thin, teeth jagged like broken glass. A nightmare forged of shadow and filth.
A Fog Wretch.
Its head snapped toward Alucard, hissing, drool steaming in the rain.
"Lesson one," Constantine said calmly. "Survive."
The wretch lunged. Alucard barely dodged, rolling across wet concrete. Bones rattled, joints ached, limbs unsteady. Panic clawed at him—but instinct screamed louder: move, fight, live.
A spark pulsed in his chest—a cold flame, unfamiliar but potent. Desperate, he threw his hand forward. A thin wisp of shadow appeared. Tiny. Laughable. But it existed.
The wretch tore through it as though it were smoke. Alucard stumbled backward, chest heaving, rain mixing with sweat.
Constantine's hands were in his pockets, his eyes assessing. "You're not fighting with power. You're fighting with panic. Shadows answer emotion, not fear."
The wretch lunged again. Claws scraping stone. Alucard's hands trembled. He closed his eyes.
He pictured the towers of his imagination. The storm. The shadows he had drawn for years in his notebooks. The endless battles where he had been unstoppable.
I want to matter.
His eyes snapped open. They glowed faintly red. A shadow blade, thin and wavering, formed in his hand.
He slashed upward.
It passed through the wretch's jaw. The creature screeched, recoiling. Not dead. Not close. But staggered.
"Good," Constantine muttered. "Again."
The wretch leapt once more. Shadows clashed, claws swiped, stone splintered. Alucard pushed harder. The blade flickered, reshaped itself.
A second strike—this time across its chest. Mist erupted. The wretch screeched and dissolved into nothingness.
Silence settled like rain-soaked snow.
Alucard collapsed to his knees, exhausted. His shadow blade collapsed, dripping into darkness. Every muscle ached. Every breath burned. Yet a thrill ran through him—the intoxicating knowledge that he could shape this world, even just a little.
Constantine crouched beside him. "You didn't die. That's a start."
Alucard dared a shaky smile. "I'll get stronger."
"You better. London's full of things way nastier than that," Constantine said. "And those were just practice."
He gestured to a narrow alley ahead. "Come on. You're staying with me for now. Don't touch anything in my house, or I'll throw you back into whatever sewer you crawled out of."
Alucard followed, small, weak, but reborn.
For the first time, a spark of true purpose flared in his chest.
The shadows whispered behind him: Rise.
And he would.