Late at night, a tall man walked into the Daily Mart Wimbrook location. White dress shirt, slacks — the kind of outfit you could find anywhere. But the store manager, Toby Ferguson, looked up from the register and let out a wry chuckle. [sarcastic] "Well, well. Welcome back, pork bun man." The man — Alucard — approached the display case without a word. Through the glass, rows of pork buns sat in neat lines, white steam rising from them. His burning crimson eyes narrowed slightly. [serious] "Fifteen. Wrap them all." Toby packed the buns into bags with practiced hands, an exasperated sigh escaping him. [sarcastic] "I doubled the order quantity, and still, every single time..." Alucard pulled bills from his coat pocket, then left the store without waiting for change. The automatic door slid shut, and the quiet of the deep night settled back over the shop. Toby looked at the empty display case and let out a small sigh. [whispers] "Gotta increase the order again tomorrow." Outside, Alucard walked the night road, cradling the bag in his arms. Twelve minutes on foot from the convenience store to the manor. English-garden-style hedges lined both sides of the paved path. Moonlight turned his long jet-black hair to silver. The warmth seeping through the bag spread from his fingertips up into his arms. (...Hmph.) Alucard muttered inwardly. (Live five hundred years, and boredom becomes more terrifying than anything else.) He is a vampire. A True Ancestor-class at that — the ultimate monster, centuries old, whom not even sunlight can kill. On his left hand, he wears a white glove, the mark of his servitude to the Hellsing family. Once, he fought Dr. Van Helsing in a death match. Now, he serves that man's descendants. But these past few years, there have been no enemies to fight. No vampire makers, no hordes of ghouls — they've all vanished completely. All that remains for him are nights that stretch on far too long. (This warmth is my only pleasure now.) Alucard clutched the bag tighter. Small wonder people said he always smelled of pork buns. His coat pocket always held a tiny soy sauce packet. The only thing that could fill the void called boredom was this combination of meat filling and sweet dough. He opened the bag and took one out. The steam dissolved softly into the night air. One bite, and the scalding meat juices flooded his mouth. "...Not bad." For a vampire who had lived five hundred years, this was the height of luxury. --- The next morning. The vast manor of the Hellsing Organization — located on the outskirts of London, this was the headquarters of the anti-monster extermination agency under direct Royal Charter. Twelve hectares of grounds. A main building three stories above ground and two below, flanked by training facilities and armories. In the training grounds, a blonde woman was field-stripping and cleaning a massive cannon. [gentle] "Peace really is wonderful, isn't it." Seras Victoria. Twenty-five years old. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was casually held back by a kitchen headband. Her crimson eyes had once been blue — proof that she had been turned into a vampire. Even so, she hoisted the Harkonnen — an anti-monster super-heavy cannon, 1.8 meters long and weighing sixty kilograms — with one hand and began polishing it meticulously with a cloth. She set it down on the ground with a heavy thud. The dry sound echoed through the training grounds. [gentle] "As long as no one dies, that's all that matters." She was a former police officer. A member of the Metropolitan Police D11 — the firearms unit. But in 1999, a vampire incident occurred in Cheddar, a small village near London. Eight hundred residents turned into ghouls in a single night — that accursed night. She was mortally wounded in the line of duty, and then — Alucard drank her blood. (Legally, I'm listed as killed in action, you know.) Officially dead. That's what she is now. Turned into a vampire, picked up by the Hellsing Organization, and now fighting monsters with the Harkonnen as her partner. (A former police officer, but a vampire... and yet I love peace more than anything... I'm just full of contradictions, aren't I.) Seras let out a small laugh. She stopped her hands and walked over to a small desk in the corner of the training grounds. A cup of tea sat there. The contents were a brown liquid — Assam tea leaves brewed into black tea, mixed with about thirty percent blood from a transfusion pack. Her own special morning cup. She wrapped both hands around the cup and took a gentle sip. [whispers] "I hope no one dies today, either." A vampire with monstrous strength who could wield a giant cannon one-handed, smiling as she held a teacup. That contrast was the very essence of Seras Victoria. She set the cup down and turned back to the Harkonnen. Once she finished today's field-stripping and cleaning, she'd go to the kitchen and try out a new cake recipe. How to get Master Alucard to eat something other than pork buns — that was her secret challenge lately. --- The kitchen. The forty-square-meter commercial kitchen was filled with the fragrance of black tea. Morning sunlight streamed through the window, casting a dull gleam on the polished sink. An elderly gentleman with neatly combed white hair tilted the teapot with an elegant motion. Walter C. Dornez. Seventy-three years old. A butler who had served the Bertram family for generations, he now single-handedly managed the Hellsing manor. His gentle brown eyes gazed steadily at the color of the tea. The faint citrus scent of his hair tonic mingled with the aroma of the tea. [gentle] "Lady Integra. Today's Darjeeling." The cup was offered to a woman in her twenties — Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing. The current head of the Hellsing Organization. She sat deep in the sofa, a Montecristo No. 2 cigar clenched between her teeth, a wall of bookshelves at her back. [cold] "Ah." The hand that accepted the cup had neatly trimmed nails and fingertips faintly smudged with cigar ash. She took a sip of tea and exhaled purple smoke toward the ceiling. [serious] "There have been far too few incidents to report lately." [gentle] "Is that not a good thing?" [cold] "It's boring. What do I have, besides fighting?" Walter gave a wry smile and straightened the cups on the tray. He was once a combat butler known by the moniker "The Angel of Death." In 1944, at the age of fourteen, he single-handedly thwarted a Nazi supernatural weapons project — a living legend. He had sliced enemies apart with ultra-fine wire and taken countless lives with his own hands. (Back then, I never imagined a day would come when I'd be brewing tea in a kitchen.) Walter murmured inwardly. The fingers of his right hand unconsciously traced the motions of manipulating wire. He caught himself and stopped. (But now... I believe this peace in the kitchen is the peace of the world itself.) [gentle] "Perhaps a vacation, once in a while?" Integra furrowed her brow, cigar still in her mouth. [cold] "What is a 'vacation.' Explain it to me." [gentle] "...No, forgive me." He let out a small sigh. The head of the house, it seemed, could not comprehend any concept outside of battle. Just then, footsteps echoed from the hallway. One of the combat operatives. [excited] "Lady Integra! The mail! Please, look at this!" What was presented was a single letter. The wax seal bore the emblem of the Vatican's Iscariot — Section XIII, the Papal Special Affairs Bureau. The shadow agency of the Catholic Church, named after Judas the betrayer. A longtime rival of the Hellsing Organization, clashing over jurisdiction for years — in short, their sworn enemy. Integra broke the seal and scanned the letter. Her expression grew visibly stern. [serious] "...I see." [gentle] "Who is it from?" Integra tossed the letter onto the table. She crushed her cigar into the ashtray, extinguishing it. [cold] "Alexander Anderson. He says he wishes to join us for a tea party this coming Sunday. He'll bring cookies as a gift, apparently." Walter's hands stopped dead for just an instant. His brown eyes narrowed sharply, a keen light flickering deep within. But immediately, he wore a gentle smile. [gentle] "That regenerator, is it..." His voice even sounded somewhat amused. Regenerator — a Vatican super-soldier with fragments of holy relics embedded in his body. Possessing astonishing regenerative abilities, he could restore severed limbs in a matter of seconds. And Anderson was the sworn enemy who had once fought Alucard to a standstill. [excited] "What does this mean?! Why is that berserker coming to a tea party?!" The murmurs of other operatives could be heard from the hallway. At that moment — leisurely footsteps echoed up from the basement stairs. [laughing] "Interesting." The Alucard who appeared was not in his usual crimson long coat, but still in last night's white dress shirt. In his hand, a bag of pork buns. His jet-black hair was slightly disheveled. But those burning crimson eyes were unmistakably laughing. [excited] "Anderson is coming? The most interesting thing in five hundred years! That priest — he was still alive!" His voice rang through the kitchen. His usual bored demeanor was nowhere to be found; his eyes sparkled like a boy's. At that moment, Seras burst in from the training grounds. [scared] "Master Alucard! What do we do?! We don't have enough cake! Do you think the Father likes sweets?!" In her hand, she still clutched the cloth she'd been polishing the Harkonnen with moments ago. She was in a complete state of panic. [laughing] "Just put out some pork buns." [angry] "That would make it seem like you and the Father have the exact same level of taste, Master Alucard! No, we have to give him proper hospitality!" Walter quietly raised a hand. [gentle] "Miss Seras, please calm down." So saying, he calmly took hold of the mop leaning against the wall. The motion was sharp and efficient — the same movement he once used to ready his wire. [serious] "First, we must begin with preparing the tea service and cleaning. As the butler of Hellsing, it is my pride to entertain a guest from Iscariot flawlessly." With a single sweep across the floor, the mop's movement carried a hint of killing intent. Or perhaps it just made the floor very clean. Integra lit a new cigar and inhaled deeply. Purple smoke swirled in the morning light. [cold] "Listen well, all of you." The room fell utterly silent. [serious] "A tea party is a new form of warfare. The selection of tea leaves, the arrangement of the tea service, the flavor of the confections — all of it is a battlefield. I will not permit any act that sullies the name of Hellsing before a mere Iscariot priest. In the name of Hellsing, achieve victory in this tea party." Her tone was solemn, as if issuing orders for battle. Alucard grinned. His vertically slit pupils glowed red. [laughing] "In other words, this is a war to protect my pork buns." [angry] "No, it isn't! You're interpreting that way too broadly!" Seras's retort echoed through the kitchen. The door of Refrigerator C — the dedicated fridge stocked with over thirty of Alucard's pork buns — trembled slightly. No, that was just imagination. Walter quietly slipped the key ring for all the refrigerators into his pocket. The proof of a neutral party, held by him alone. And so, the countdown began — toward a quiet, absurd day shared by the world's most terrifying vampire and the Vatican's fanatical priest. A battle where black tea would fly instead of bullets, and cookies instead of scripture, was about to begin.