Hellsing is an original work of Kouta Hirano and Dracula is a work of the late, great Bram Stoker

Part I: Defeated

Abraham Van Helsing clutched the wooden stake firmly in his right hand, and the iron hammer firmly in his left. He placed the the point of the stake over the vampire's heart and prepared to strike it with the hammer. Slowly, dliberately, he spoke, "All flesh is as grass, and all the comeliness thereof is the flower of field. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, but the word of our God shall abideth forever!"

The hammer came down fast and hard, driving the stake deep into the vampire's chest, puncturing its heart. Copious amounts of blood from its pierced heart welled and spurted up around the stake and gushed out of its gaping mouth. The vampire coughed and gagged, choking on its own life. It writhed in agony, its body shaking and quivering and twisting in wild contortions. Finally, it stopped moving and lay still in its coffin.

The vampire opened its eyes...

The vampire opened his eyes and saw his attacker standing before him. Blood was leaking from his mouth and nose. Having lost so much, his vision was blurred. All he could make out was the silhouette of a man. His red, gleaming eyes filled with tears—tears of blood—which spilled out and ran down his pale cheeks, leaving shimmering, crimson trails in their wake. His long, raven-black hair, once soft and silky smooth, was disheveled, and his clothes, once stately, were utterly ruined. Unable to bear the intense pain of the stake piercing his chest, which seized his mind in a viselike grip with every breath he took, and lacking the strength to assert himself, the vampire spoke softly, like a discomfited child, "Have I been...bested...sir?"

"Yes, you are bested," the man said. His voice was strong and firm, and carried with it the heavy burden of authority. If the vampire were a child, then this man was certainly a parent, or had been at one time in his life. He was certainly not English, as his compatriots were. His words were fringed with a foreign accent. German, the vampire thought. "This is not a nightmare you will be awaking from," he continued. Laying still had lessened the pain, and suddenly the vampire could see clearly again. The man before him was of medium weight, strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest. The head was noble, well-sized, and large behind the ears. His forehead was broad and fine, rising at first almost straight and then sloping back—such a forehead that the ashen hair could not possibly tumble over it, but fell naturally back and to the sides. The man's face was finely lined, the lips were tight and the mouth resolute. His chin was hard, square, and covered in a fine stubble. Big, ice blue eyes were set widely apart, their gaze stern, steady, and unwavering. The vampire thought his features distinctly indicative of thought and power, and decided that he must have been quite handsome in his youth.

So this was the man who had united his enemies under a common cause. This was the man who had equipped them and taught them how to hunt the night. This was the man who led them. This was the man who had pursued the vampire all the way across Europe, outwitting him at every turn. This was the man who had outmaneuvered his gypsies in a race against time, a race against the sunset, cornering them and beating them here, in one of the biggest, oldest graveyards in Transylvania, not far from the vampire's castle.

The vampire tilted his head westward. Even this slight movement made him wince. He lay still again, silent, contemplating these strange events. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the sun, dipping deep below the horizon, its downward way marked by myriad clouds of every evening color—flame, violet, blue, green, and all the tints of gold. They were receding. Already here and there were masses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes. The twinkling stars were just barely managing to peek through the widening abyss. This was supposed to be the moment of my triumph, he thought. Strange, and ironic, that things should turn out this way.

"Your castles are plundered, your dominions are in ruin, your servants destroyed," the man said. His words were true. The vampire's castles and domions had long since fallen into disrepair and his gypsies lay sprawled across the Transylvanian countryside, blood spilling forth from their broken bodies into growing puddles beneath them, sinking into the soil, saturating the earth. They had sworn him their allegiance and had been loyal to their deaths. Still, he found he could not weep for them. The man continued, "And the girl has fled this place forevermore" He paused, then said, "She will never be yours, Count!" The vampire winced again, but this time not from any physical ache. It was the thought, the memory of her, that was painful.

Abraham Van Helsing regarded the vampire keenly. Its red eyes, usually bright and gleaming, were dim and cloudy. It was dangerously close to its final death. Abraham clenched his fist tightly. He raised his arm, preparing to deliver the final blow. Indignantly, he brought his arm down.

The vampire's eyes widened, fearful of the incoming blow. He was too weak to move. There was nothing he could do to prevent it. When it hit, is was like nothing the vampire had ever experienced. The force of the blow was so powerful, the vampire was sent flying backward through the air. Torrents of blood spilt forth from every orifice of his body, particularly from the wound in his chest. He could hear a loud, terrible, agonizing scream, but was unsure from whom it had come—he could only assume it was himself. The pain was so excruciating it was almost exquisite, so punishing it was almost pleasurable. The vampire thought, for a moment, that if he were to die then, he would have been content. But the thought of bliss was fleeting, the pain was relentless, and the vampire wasn't ready to spend an eternity in Hell just yet.

No, the vampire thought. I am not ready to die, yet. I cannot. I will not.

Abraham Van Helsing stood up and rushed forward as the vampire fell through the air. Reaching out for it, he grabbed it by it by the collar of its shirt, where white, bloody flesh met white, bloody fabric. His grip was strong, firm and unyielding. The vampire's blood stained his gloves. He held it mere inches in front of his face and looked into its eyes. Their mingling gazes were like fire and ice, but the fire was burning out.

"You are judged and found wanting, Vampire-King!" he shouted. The vampire, this creature of darkness, the greatest of monsters, seemed so frail and childlike in his grasp. He shook the vampire frantically and, raising the tone of his voice to a from an angry shout to a deafening roar, repeated himself, "You have nothing! You are nothing!" Abraham could see his reflection in the vampire's eyes. Their red glow had all but disappeared.

Finally, the vampire closed his eyes and lost consciousness, the man's word's echoing in his mind...

"You are nothing."