Encounter

Madara looked down at the corpse and returned to the hunt. Over the next 100 years, he hunted silently. Vampires gave him the nickname "Van Helsing, the Vampire Hunter."

Over the centuries, as he hunted vampires, he became known for his fire and superhuman power—whether speed, strength, or his Sharingan. They believed him to be a descendant of Madara Uchiha, and he never corrected them, as it worked in his favor.

He continued the act of being a descendant, always using different identities every 80 years, hunting them. He had basically inherited the Van Helsing nickname. Every vampire who hears about Van Helsing—whether from books or movies in the future—would first think of Madara Uchiha's descendants, and in a flash...

763 years later...

London, England – Year 1663 AD

The night was beautiful, with stars scattered across the sky like clouds over the city.

The city was heavy with fog and the scent of coal smoke, lanterns flickering in the streets below—but they offered no real light.

Just a visual that enhanced the atmosphere into one of horror.

London, even in the dead of night, was never silent. Horses clopped down cobbled roads, carriages creaked, and the sickly moans of the diseased echoed from buildings.

But Madara walked without sound.

His boots, of this time, moved deliberately across wet stone and puddles. His transformed short black hair was tucked beneath a hood.

His black eyes roamed the alleys and gutters with quiet calculation, tracking something that reeked of blood, death, and confusion.

He moved with no particular destination in mind. He had arrived in the city a week ago, following rumors of unnatural killings—so cruel, people questioned if a human could be responsible.

Normally...

He wouldn't involve himself in such affairs. He had killed vampires for over 500 years, grown tired of it, and ended the hunt just 100 years ago. But rumors were already forming again—Where are the Van Helsings? Just the same. And Aro still respecting his "descendants."

Even when he was silent, even when he wore a different face, his name was forgotten in the hearts of new-generation vampires.

But he could not ignore the scent of death when it was fresh—and wrong.

Then he saw something. A streak of blood across the ground, still steaming. He paused, eyes narrowing.

And then he felt it. Not chakra—but something familiar.

A presence.

Newly born. Unstable. Agonized.

He followed it, his footsteps light as a feather.

The trail led to an alley between two half-collapsed buildings. Rats scattered from heaps of garbage. A broken window hung like a gaping mouth above.

And there, in the corner, huddled against the brick wall like a dying animal... was a young man.

Approximately early 20s. His hair was blond, his skin pale as frost. His clothes were torn, soaked with dirt and blood.

He didn't notice Madara at first. He was shivering, gasping—shaking slightly from unknown fear and confusion.

A dead dog lay beside him—its throat torn out, bite marks visible. The boy's mouth was red.

Then he lifted his head, and Madara saw his eyes.

Golden—but burning red at the edges. Unstable. Thirsty. Lost.

"Stay away," he said hoarsely, his voice cracking. "I'll—I'll hurt you."

Madara didn't move. He simply observed.

"I don't want to," the boy continued. "I didn't ask for this... God help me, I didn't want this."

Madara finally stepped forward, the fog curling around his boots.

"You're starving," he said calmly. "And you're not in control yet."

The boy's breath hitched. He pressed himself back against the wall, teeth bared."I killed a dog... and I drank from it... it was disgusting, but the thirst... it's still there. It's worse now... the pain in my throat."

"What's your name?" Madara asked.

"...Carlisle," he said after a moment. "Carlisle Cullen."

Madara's face remained neutral, but he knew who it was—from his memories. Not that he gave a damn how long it had been since he'd arrived here.

Madara nodded once. "First night?"

Carlisle didn't ask how he knew. He simply said, "Yes."

"Then you know I'm a monster."

"I do," Madara answered.

Madara stepped closer, unconcerned. Why would he be?

"You're not—yet. You're still asking the right questions."

Carlisle's voice cracked. "I want to die."

Madara crouched in front of him, his expression unreadable."You don't want to die. You want to resist what you've become."

Carlisle looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Blood under his fingernails."I'm afraid I can't."

Madara pulled a small flask from beneath his cloak and held it out.

"Drink."

Carlisle stared. "What is it?"

"Animal blood. Elk. Clean. Not diseased."

Carlisle recoiled slightly. "I tried... it doesn't help. Not enough."

Madara's voice remained cold and calm. "Then drink until it does."

Carlisle took the flask with shaky hands. He hesitated, then drank.

It wasn't pleasant.

It was cold... thick... and tasted wrong. But the moment it touched his throat, something dulled inside him.

Not quenched. Not cured. But softened.

He finished it and coughed.

"...That was revolting."

Madara nodded. "Good. You'll learn to hate it less."

Carlisle looked at him, confused. "Why are you helping me?"

"I wasn't planning to," Madara said truthfully. "I was walking around, searching for something, and found you by chance. I saw you hadn't fed on a person yet."

Carlisle looked away. "I almost did. A woman passed by earlier and I nearly lost control."

Madara studied him with his gaze. "But you didn't."

"I ran."

"You have to keep running," Madara said, "or learn how to fight it."

Carlisle looked at him with hollow eyes. "Is that how you did it?"

Madara gave no answer at first. Then he said,"I've resisted many hungers in my life"

There was a long silence between them.

Then Carlisle asked quietly, "What are you? You're not a vampire."

"No."

"But you're not human either."

"Not exactly."

"A sorcerer?"

Madara thought about that and said calmly,"Yes. Something like that."

Carlisle's head fell back against the wall. "I don't know how to live like this. I don't want to kill."

"Then don't," Madara said. "But understand—it will always be harder. Every village you pass, every heartbeat you hear, it will call to you like a siren. You'll suffer."

Carlisle nodded slowly. "But I won't become like them."

Madara stood up. "Then you're already stronger than most."

He turned to leave.

"Wait," Carlisle called. "Will I see you again?"

Madara paused.

"Maybe. In the future."

Madara didn't get far.

Only a few rooftops away, high above the gasping alleyways, he paused.

Carlisle Cullen.

Madara had met many who thirsted. Many who lied to themselves. But Carlisle hadn't. He was still trying to stand on principles—even while his body screamed for blood. Whether in the movie or reality—it was impressive.

He turned back.

Carlisle had not moved.

The flask still sat beside him, obviously drained. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't asleep—not with the hunger crawling under his skin like fire ants.

So when he heard footsteps, Carlisle's eyes snapped open.

"You came back."

"I changed my mind," Madara said. "Do you want my help?"

Carlisle tried to sit up straighter and said, "I can learn."

"You can," Madara agreed.

Carlisle hesitated. "Why help me?"

Madara's voice was calm."Because I can. And I want to. And you remind me of someone."

A long silence.

Then Carlisle stood, slowly and unsteadily. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere you won't hear any heartbeats except mine."

The Cottage in the Woods

The forest beyond London's filth was a different world—still choked with fog but silent.

They walked for hours in near total darkness.

Madara kept pace casually, untiredly ahead, while Carlisle followed.

By sunrise, they reached a ruined watchtower deep in the forest.

What remained had been rebuilt.

Stone layered with wood and fixed.

Madara pushed open the door. Inside, it was dim but dry. A fire was already lit. The air smelled of ash, herbs, and steel.

Carlisle stared. "You live here?"

"I pass through," Madara said. "I don't stay in one place long."

"Why not?"

"I outlive everything I get attached to."

Carlisle didn't know what to say to that, so he stayed quiet.

Madara motioned for him to sit near the warm fire.

He did—warily.

Madara retrieved a clay jar and poured blood into a shallow wooden bowl—animal again. Not fresh, but still warm nonetheless.

He set it in front of Carlisle.

"Drink. Slowly."

Carlisle obeyed. Every swallow burned slightly less than the last. When he finished, he sat back, breath steady for the first time in hours.

Madara sat across from him.

"Now the hard part begins," he said casually.

Days turned into weeks.

Madara taught without compassion—but not without care. He expected perfection. When Carlisle faltered, when he gripped the walls with shaking fingers, when he woke up hissing from dreams of blood—Madara simply stood and waited for him to master it again.

"No one can take your hunger from you," he said. "But you can choose how to carry it."

He taught him how to breathe—not for survival, but for control. How to stand still for hours, blindfolded, while the scent of fresh blood wafted from hanging cloth nearby.

At first, Carlisle failed. He snapped. Lunged. Clawed.

But over time, his mind began to catch up to his body. He stopped seeing people as prey. He started thinking before the thirst spoke.

Each time Carlisle resisted, Madara said only one word: "Good."And when he failed, Madara said: "Again."

There were no lectures—only repetition.

Sometimes Carlisle asked about Madara's past, where he came from, what kind of being he truly was. Madara rarely answered.

One evening, Carlisle asked,"How long have you lived? Like... a long time, right?"

Madara looked at him."Yes. For some time. Since I've been here, it's already about... 769 years."

Carlisle whistled lightly. "That's a long time."

Madara curtly nodded. "Hn.