Trevor Belmont

The year is 1476. Wallachia is engulfed in flames. Blinded by grief and rage, Dracula unleashed hordes of demons upon humanity. The earth is soaked in blood, people are driven mad by terror, and the church burns those who try to save them. However, Trevor Belmont—the last of a banished and cursed line of monster hunters—couldn't care less about all this. He was drunk, despondent, beaten up in yet another tavern brawl, and had absolutely no desire to become a hero. But stern family traditions and a damned sense of duty still forced him to descend into the damp, rotten-smelling catacombs. The massive Cyclops's body had just collapsed with a dull thud. The stone crust that had encased Sifa crumbled into dust. Trevor took a deep breath, wiped the mixture of sweat and the monster's blood from his face, and returned the whip to his belt with a soft crack. His appearance was far from the image of the noble savior of legend: a tattered cloak, stubble, traces of old scars, and the incredibly tired eyes of a man who was currently dreaming of a mug of ale, not saving the world. After taking a couple of steps on the crunchy stone rubble, he stopped over the girl, rested his palms on his knees and sternly measured her with his gaze. "Well, well," he croaked, shaking his head. "In town, they told us about a 'great savior' who went into the catacombs to rid Wallachia of Dracula. And I found a mage from the Orators who almost turned into a pretty statue." He straightened up, sighed, and reluctantly extended his calloused, worn-gloved hand to her.