Just for him to be blinded for a whole minute, and before he opened his eyes, he was already falling into what seemed like a decrepit 1475 town. "Oh magic, slow down my fall," he chanted as a small amount of mana was consumed, but in return, his descent was slowed. He landed gracefully before looking around and immediately could tell something was off. "Either I am in a completely different world, or I am back in time," he thought as he started to walk around. Immediately, he noticed the strange wary looks, like he was suddenly going to turn into a monster. "Hm, curious," he thought as he walked around for quite a bit before stumbling into a bar or an inn.
As he entered, he thought, "The best source of information in the early ages was definitely the bars," he thought proudly as he opened the inn's door, only to be surprised by an ongoing conversation. "Look, I have been herding sheep since I was four, and I could tell if my sheep was in love with you." This sentence alone took Levi aback as he saw two fat middle-aged men talking while holding wooden jugs filled with a very strong alcohol or ale, as it was called. "Bestiality on the go," he thought as he turned to the side to another patron in the inn—a tall, stocky man with fair skin, short dark brown hair, and blue eyes. He had a scar over his right eye and a shadow of a beard on his face. His attire included a long sheep's wool coat over a black and gray uniform with yellow details featuring the Belmont symbol. The man was downing whatever was in his cup like there was no tomorrow before he noticed Levi looking at him. "What are you looking at? And why are you dressed like a French nobleman?" he asked, but Levi sighed as he said, "You can't talk about the way I dress with your sense of fashion," eliciting a response from the man, who drunkenly replied, "I am Trevor fucking B-," he stopped himself as everyone else was looking at him, waiting, which he decided to not say otherwise. before he hiccuped as one of the patrons said, "Hey, bard, you seem new to Wallachia?" to which Levi nodded.
"Yeah, just arrived now" he said making the other fat man snort, "why come to this cursed town anyways, night creatures are going to wipe it out anyways" he said as levi gave hima curios look as the other fat man said, "well either fucking way, why dont you play a sad song or us, eally set the mood" he said which levi liked as he though, "eh might as well"
Levi took a moment, glancing at the worn faces around him before reaching into his coat. With a smooth motion, he pulled out his guitar, the wood polished and darkened by time and use. He strummed a few test chords, letting the rich, warm tones settle into the air. The inn grew quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fire and the murmurs of men nursing their drinks. Then, he began to play, fingers dancing over the strings with practiced ease.
"I fell by the wayside like everyone else I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, but I was just kidding myself Our every moment, I start to replace 'Cause now that they're gone All I hear are the words that I needed to say"
His voice was steady, low at first, weaving through the melody like a whisper in the wind. Patrons who had been minding their own business turned their heads, eyes drawn to him despite themselves. A few of them furrowed their brows, the language unfamiliar, but the raw emotion in his voice transcended words. The fat man who had first spoken took a long sip of his ale, gaze fixed on Levi with something between curiosity and melancholy.
"When you hurt under the surface Like troubled water running cold Well, time can heal, but this won't"
As he played, the song built, and with it, so did the presence of those listening. More patrons filtered in, drawn by the unfamiliar tune. A barmaid, young and fair, stopped mid-step, the tray in her hands trembling slightly. A grizzled man with a thick beard leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against his mug in rhythm with the song. Even Trevor Belmont, who had been lazily nursing his drink, lifted his head, his bleary eyes sharpening as he listened.
"So, before you go Was there something I could've said to make your heart beat better? If only I'd have known you had a storm to weather"
The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows on the wooden beams above. Levi's voice carried through the inn, soft yet commanding, a lament that seemed to seep into the bones of the weary travelers and hunters gathered there. Some of the men exchanged glances, their expressions darkening. They understood loss, even if they didn't grasp every word. The way his voice cracked ever so slightly at the edges, the way his fingers plucked the strings with a mix of gentleness and precision—it was the sound of regret, of something lost that could never be reclaimed.
"So, before you go Was there something I could've said to make it all stop hurting? It kills me how your mind can make you feel so worthless So, before you go"
A hush had fallen over the inn now. A woman near the back wiped her hands on her apron, swallowing hard as if remembering something distant. The innkeeper himself had stopped pouring drinks, his large hands resting on the bar, eyes distant. A younger boy, no older than fifteen, sat on the floor near the hearth, his wide-eyed expression fixed on Levi as if he were witnessing something rare, something precious.
"Would we be better off by now If I'd have let my walls come down? Maybe, I guess we'll never know You know, you know"
By the time he reached the final verse, his voice had softened into something almost fragile, barely a breath above a whisper. A few men sat in silence, their tankards untouched. Someone let out a quiet sigh, heavy with the weight of their own burdens. Even Trevor, who had spent most of the night in drunken indifference, seemed uncharacteristically still, his usual arrogance tempered by something more reflective.
As Levi struck the last chord, the final note hanging in the air, there was a moment where no one moved. Then, a slow, scattered applause began—nothing rowdy, just a few claps, nods of appreciation, acknowledgments from men who had no words to say but felt the song in their own way. The fat man who had asked for the song let out a deep breath, shaking his head as he downed the rest of his drink. "That," he muttered, voice gruff but quiet, "was a damn sad song." as another voice
The door slammed open, letting in a gust of cold wind as a middle-aged man with greasy blond hair stumbled inside. His face was ruddy, his eyes wide with alarm as he made his way straight to the counter. "An ale, please," he muttered, rubbing his arms for warmth before suddenly snapping his head up, his voice rising. "Jesus fucking Christ, the whores are coming."
The entire room tensed for a brief moment before the barman, without a word, poured a mug of ale and slid it across the counter. The man snatched it up with shaking hands, downing half of it in one go before slamming it back onto the wooden surface. "They said the horde is heading our way before it goes to Greist." A heavy silence fell over the patrons until the first fat man let out a bitter laugh, slamming his own mug onto the table with force.
"It's always the same," he spat. "The fucking great house of Greist, Dracula, and then there's the Belmonts. Those fucking black magic-wielding bastards." His voice grew louder with every word, his cheeks red with anger and ale. "They bring nothing but ruin. Nothing but—"
Trevor, who had been sitting lazily at his table, groaned as he got to his feet, dragging himself toward the counter. "Another fucking ale, please." The barman sighed, already anticipating the answer before he said, "Not unless I see some coin around here."
Trevor patted himself down with exaggerated frustration, searching his waist for his coin purse. The barman, however, turned toward Levi, giving him a nod. "Except for yours. Yours is free." Levi tipped his hat, giving a small nod in return.
Trevor continued his search, grumbling under his breath when, for a brief moment, something became visible beneath his coat. "The hell is that?" the fat man suddenly asked, eyes narrowing. Trevor sighed. "It's nothing. An old shirt." The fat man wasn't convinced. He staggered forward and, before Trevor could react, grabbed the edge of his coat, forcefully yanking it open.
A crest—embroidered, aged but still unmistakable—caught the firelight. The House of Belmont. The air in the bar turned thick with tension. No one spoke, but every pair of eyes fixed on Trevor with unfiltered hostility. "I know that crest," the fat man growled, his hands curling into fists. "That's the House of Belmont."