A soft breeze floated by the walking form of Seras Victoria. Thirty years had not dimmed her youth, nor left a mark on her girlish face. The breeze carried the dust of an old cathedral, the smell of gunpowder, and a feathering of ash from the burning pews and holy relics. As she reached the front of the altar, she paused under the shadow of a half-melted cross, the golden arms sagging into a tortured figure. Blackness flowed behind her, a long train that seemed to make the light of the flames licking the ceiling dimmer with its presence. She waited as her targets crept closer.

It had been a long 30 years with Hellsing, watching men come and go, Sir Integra age. Thirty years discovering her own power without the aura of her former master, the most powerful of their kind, the great Count. When he had returned, he had encountered what appeared to be the same fledgling he left; a woman—no, a girl—who was too innocent, too happy, too bright. It did not matter that she had finally become a formidable Nosferatu in her own right, and that she had been Hellsing's top agent for 30 years while her Master dealt with his demons. He saw the same creature. But she was not the same being, not anymore. With a free reign given to her on missions by Integra, she had reveled in death. There was nothing more amazing than the blood of enemies splattered across the floor, the walls, her face. The bitterness of another vampire's lifeblood on her lips and tongue was like the best brandy, and the Seras would get drunk on the sheer amount of it she could spill in a night, a week, a month. She went on missions alone, for that very reason. She needed no help; anything that would give her pause would wipe out any human soldiers without effort. By releasing herself in a glory of blood and fire, she could maintain her "normal" self in front of humans, and away from the field of battle. Alucard, whom she once needed so desperately to approve of her, had not seen this. Since his awakening, they were always sent on separate missions, and never once was there a mishap or failure—whether or not anyone believed it, Seras knew the student had almost reached the level of the teacher.

The shadows swirled behind her as flames reached the wide, carpeted aisle, and Seras could begin to hear the poor fools who desired immortality so much they would sell their humanity gather between the pews and behind her; every swish of fabric, every unnecessary, habitual breath of the recently undead, every scuff of a boot rang in her ears as would the opening notes of a Beethoven symphony. Armed with nothing but her hands, Seras knew she looked like a weak foe, but those present in the vaulted cathedral would soon know better. Her angelic face tilted up to take a better look at the deformed and defiled cross, and a small smile graced the finely-wrought features of the last Draculina, decendant of Vlad Dracul, Vlad the Impaler, the infamous Count Dracula. But when she turned, her feral grin was only that of Seras Victoria, creature of the night, Nosferatu.