Julius

'Be the hunter—or be the prey. There is no third path.'

He is the quiet shadow in the Hall of Elders. The power struggles within the family, the clashes beyond its walls—these are but hollow echoes to him. His heart beats for the battlefield alone. To fight as a group is cowardice; victory requires neither schemes nor strategy. He needs no army, only his halberd and his resolve. Beneath the moonlight, he is the hunter, and his prey can only whisper prayers for mercy.

A painting hangs in the corridor outside the Ancestral Vault, its subject a shattered spear. The canvas is stained with brownish marks, yet it has never been entrusted to skilled artisans for restoration.

When I asked Elder Dalcaro about its origins, she explained that it was created during the bloodiest battle in Bloodborn history, meant to honor Julius, who fell in that conflict. But when I pressed her for more details, she abruptly fell silent, as though bound by an unseen command.

On a restless day, I passed the painting again and caught the faintest sound emanating from within.

Was it haunted? A trap? Unease gripped me as I drew closer, the clash of weapons and the scrape of armor resonating through my bones. The echoes swelled, forming vivid visions:

a battlefield cloaked in dust. In my hands, I held a blood-streaked spear. Behind me, the dead lay in countless numbers; before me, enemies surged like a ceaseless tide. A voice, calm yet brimming with fervor, whispered in my ears:

Go and claim our victory.

Was this a dream? Or had Sirene willed me to meet her fallen comrade-in-arms? The truth eluded me.

In that battle, my weapon shattered.

As I faltered, struggling against the tide of enemies, a spear suddenly materialized in my grasp. The moment I laid eyes upon it, I felt its eager anticipation—it yearned to fight alongside me.

Very well, I thought. Let us test your power.

The weapon seemed alive. Its razor-sharp edge tore through throats, its blunt grip crushed skulls, and its arcs were swift and merciless, painting the battlefield in blood. Yet, deep down, I knew—I had never been trained to fight like this.

All the strange occurrences began the moment I touched that painting. Perhaps the answers to this mystery lie there as well.

I scoured every corner for traces of Julius, but my search was fruitless. Only Van Helsing unearthed a tome from the Church's archives—a book titled 'The Blood-Stained Hammer.' Its pages spoke in cryptic tones of a Bathory elder who fell during the Church's crusade against the heretics centuries ago. His spear, the text claimed, shattered in a desperate battle against the Bell Ringer. Afterward, the heretics were utterly defeated, their existence wiped away.

I don't know what happened to Julius, who had been corresponding with me. I came to the painting at the entrance of the Ancestral Vault, but it showed no change. I tried speaking to the painting, but it gave no response.

In the many days that followed, I received no more letters from Julius. Yet around the castle, rumors began to spread—rumors of a spear that kills. Could this strange and ominous tale be tied to Julius's sudden disappearance?

As a reward for my long-standing patronage of the Puppet Association, Elder Bella unexpectedly and graciously shared a piece of intelligence with me.

Legend tells of an ancient ritual so abhorrent that even the Bloodborn, deemed it too brutal. This ritual demands a cursed spear, its blade soaked with the blood of 999 innocent souls, and the purest 'holy light'—a virtuous person of unshakable ideals. Through unspeakable torments, the ritual imprisons this person in a purgatory of agony, despair, and suffering. Their radiance is defiled, their ideals shattered, and their hope twisted into a cruel illusion. In the end, they are transformed into a mindless weapon, a 'weapon spirit' of unparalleled power.