“*Sigh. When do you plan on getting rid of that cape? It doesn’t suit you, at all.”

“Someone special gave this to me. So, I’ll wear it until I die. Besides, it makes me look super.”

“No, it makes you look ridiculous.”

“…Y’know, now that I get a good look at you, you’re pretty trashed. And to think, that was just a fraction of her true strength. How scary." The speaker leaned back, a smirk playing on their lips as they surveyed the aftermath of the encounter. Specifically, his eyes lingered on his brother’s severed limb.

“You speak as if she’s still with us. Unfortunately, superhero, she’s long gone.”

“Hm. A shame. I’d love to have sparred her at her full power… Well, I’ll have to make do with you...”

Out of nowhere, a small transparent screen flickered to life in front of Dracula. The panel, almost like it came straight out a video game, read in bold letters:

"Death Match

Rules:

The fight will be one-on-one.

No outside interference allowed.

The use of Empower and Devour are prohibited.

Royal Flush is also off-limits.

And of course, this will be a standard battle to the death.

Are you ready to face Frankenstein?"

Strangely, a comically oversized chicken image was stamped in the corner of the screen, its cartoonish features adding an absurdity to the serious tone of the message.

"…Don't keep me hanging, big guy. Sign the contract." Frankenstein urged.

A giggle escaped Dracula's lips, as if he were amused by a child's antics. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on him; here he was, an Angel, beaten, tattered and even missing an arm, now being prompted to sign a contract by a digital interface adorned with a cartoon chicken. "As tempting as that sounds, we both know I wouldn't stand a chance against you in a fair fight... So, no." His voice was steady, but there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes, a hint that he might not be entirely serious about backing down.

With that, the screen, reminiscent of a video game interface, lit up, and from it emerged a rather large chicken, sporting sunglasses and a flamboyant tie. The chicken strutted forward with an air of confidence, its beak opening wide as it announced:

“I shall referee this fight.”

Then, without missing a beat, it waddled off to safe distance as it watched the two combatants. Or I suppose “refed” the two combatants?

Dracula's attention had drifted to the chicken, still chuckling at the ridiculousness of his situation. However, his amusement was abruptly interrupted by the lengthy and irritating shout of his brother.

“A whopping total of five ultra, hyper, eccentric divine fists!”

Even though the attack originated from his right fist, the vision of five golden strikes hurtled toward Dracula with alarming speed.

You might recall that angels possess a minor healing factor, capable of regenerating a lost limb in mere minutes. However, this only applies to attack fired through the “Physical Essence”. There are two types of attacks that can hinder or at least delay the healing process: Attacks fired though the “Spiritual Essence” and attacks fired through the “Celestial Essence”.

The “Divine Fist” belongs to the ladder, propelled by Celestial Essence.

Now, five of these lethal strikes loomed over him, threatening his very existence. Strangely, in the face of impending peril, a serene calm enveloped him, his thoughts as tranquil as a sunlit meadow swaying gently in the breeze, accompanied by the cheerful chirping of birds. It was then that he decided to take a gamble.

Dracula's “confiscation” had two essential requirements.

First, he must have been attacked by the individual from whom he intends to confiscate. The number of attacks must match the number of items he can seize.

Second, he must consume the starlites of that individual, with the quantity directly influencing the potency of his command, making it increasingly difficult for them to resist.

Thus, he staked everything on what could only be described as suicide. If he could take the first blow and then drink the starlites from the subsequent four, maybe, just maybe, he could turn the tide. That was his best chance. No. That was his only choice.

The initial strike felt like shrapnel tearing through his right chest, a jarring sensation that sent shockwaves through his body. But this was no time to faulter.

As he consumed the starlites from the second blow, he felt as if it were possible. This reckless gamble of a plan might just pay off.

The third strike came barreling toward him, a golden fist that glimmered with divine wrath. With a swift motion, Dracula displayed his canines, and as the fist connected, he focused intently, drawing in the starlites that accompanied it. The energy flowed into him like a river, filling the void left by the previous attacks.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Yet, the last two strikes were still looming, and he could feel the weight of their impending doom. The fourth fist struck him low, slamming into his abdomen with a force that knocked the breath from his lungs. He gasped, but even as pain radiated through him, he concentrated on the starlites, willing them to come to him. The fifth blow came drilled into his upper thigh, not quite as painful as the previous one but still a powerful force. But that hardly mattered right now. He’d done it. He’d actually done it.

His eyes burned with a burning fire, blending perfectly with his crimson eyes.

(With this little of his starlites, I can just barely command him. But that brief moment is all I need.)

“I confiscate… your ability to move.”

It was only a fleeting moment, too short to even call it a second. But it was enough. Just enough for him to reach him. Unfortunately, the effects of the Kata strikes still lingered so, he wouldn’t be able to use his Empower. Truth be told, it was a miracle he even used it just now. But it was that miracle that allowed this opportunity.

“Divine Fist!!” He roared, a last battle cry as he mustered the remnants of his energy to fire a punch laced with godly power. But then...

The sound of a loud whistle came crashing down from their right.

“CHICKIN PENATLY!!” Came a loud voice from the same direction. Dracula turned to see the comically large chicken, flailing around with a whistle in its beak. “THE COMBATANT, DRACULA DECLINED THE CONTRACT AND YET HAS DECIDED TO PHYSICALLY ATTACK FRANKENSTEIN!! THEREFORE, HE IS A CHICKEN!!”

“What a ruckus that one is. Though I can’t say I don’t love this part.”

The self-proclaimed superhero smirked with a malevolent glint in his eyes, standing unfazed by Dracula’s attack.

Suddenly, a massive cage began to close in around them, sealing off the outside world. Oddly enough, even with the towering walls and a solid ceiling, the interior radiated an almost blinding brightness, casting shadows only from the spectators in the stands who cheered and reveled in the spectacle of the duel. As for what that looked like…

Well. Picture a hundred people roaring as they finally witness an intense match, they waited years for. Now picture those people… as chickens. Talking chickens.

As for whether or not they were actually chickens, well they seemed close enough.

As Dracula basked in the chants of the spectators cheering him on, he couldn’t bring himself to feel excitement. Honestly, excitement was the furthest thing from his mind.

(What the hell is this?!) he wondered, confused by the sudden shift in scene. These people -if they can even be called that- weren’t around them a second ago. So, where the hell did they come from? That question swirled in Dracula's mind, leaving him disoriented and unaware that he was encircled in a ring, his arms encased in soft, cushion-like gloves that felt strangely comforting.

"Listen up. This guy's got a knack for striking hard and fast, so the instant that bell rings, you better be ready to counter." Advised a diminutive figure in front of him. The speaker was an elderly chicken, perhaps fifty in bird years? Either way, he addressed Dracula with an air of familiarity, as if they were old friends sharing a crucial secret. No, not quite. It was more like a coach sharing the game plan with his team. But who the hell was this? “Alright. That’s time. Get out there and show him why you’re the man.”

Without giving it much though, he found himself stepping back into the ring, facing off against the only familiar face in this strange domain. Frankenstein, except he didn’t have any gloves. Just his bare fist. Was that perhaps the “Chicken Penalty?”

> "Ladies and Gentlecocks, the fight of our lives is about to begin!!" bellowed one of the three chickens seated as judges, his voice booming through the microphone. "Will Frankenstein's flawless record of 98 victories and 0 losses finally be shattered? Or will this just be another notch in his belt?"

“I want a clean fight, boys. No dirty tricks.”

You may have already guessed but that didn’t come from Frankenstein. That came from the chicken whom they saw earlier. The one who came flying out of the screen display.

*DING!! *DING!! *DING!!

And with that, the fight was on, the crowed roaring as they watched the fight of a century.

*WHAM!

Or not.

> "I don't believe it folks! With a single strike to the face, Dracula has been sent flying into the corner!! Is this it? Is he finished?

"Come on, man! You've got more heart than this!" urged his overly enthusiastic coach. "Did all that blood, sweat, and tears you poured into your training mean nothing? Of course not! Now get out there and prove it to the world!"

(What is happening here? This ridiculous farm animal is spouting nonsense! How am I supposed to win this fight? A fair match against Frankenstein, the fighter known for his unmatched prowess in one-on-one combat?! Even Nana couldn’t take him! Or that insufferable wretch Victor!)

“How long do you plan on resting? Of course, I don’t plan to hit you while you aren’t defending yourself. I’m a superhero after all.”

“Superhero my ass. We both know this isn’t fair…”

(Wait a minute. I absorbed two of his blows, which means I still have one more confiscation left.)

With a surge of newfound determination, Dracula straightened himself and proclaimed: "How about I… level the playing field a bit… by confiscating your sense of time."

Initially, he considered taking away Frankenstein's ability to move but sensed that would be futile. Instead, he opted for this tactic. Even if his opponent resisted, the distortion of time would make him seem much quicker than he truly was. Though, with the limited starlites he had consumed, the effect would only last a fleeting moment.

But just then, an alarming sound pierced the air, one that was almost traumatic… A whistle. "CHICKEN PENALTY!! THE USE OF EMPOWER IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED!!"

As those words echoed, Dracula's empowerment shattered like fragile glass, leaving him completely defenseless. Soon, a comedic hat, the shape of a chicken, appeared above his head. He found that with it, he couldn’t move a single inch.

*WHAM!!

A second strike landed on his right cheek, as Frankenstein unleashed a barrage of blows. The scene was nothing short of a brutal onslaught, yet the crowd's cheers only grew louder, drowning out the chaos.

The sheer ecstasy radiated from Frankenstein's face, almost tangible in the air around him. His eyes sparkled with an intensity that could only come from a deep-seated love for the sport, a passion that eclipsed all else. Boxing was not merely a pastime for him; it was a lifeline, a dance of power and precision that allowed him to channel his soul into something beautiful. The rhythmic thud of gloves meeting flesh, the roar of the crowd, the adrenaline coursing through his veins. These were the moments that made him feel alive. Though in this case, he didn’t have any gloves.

By the way, if you’re wondering, saving others was a close second on his list. Though I question if it was actually “close” or if that’s just what he told people.

As the punches rained down, a singular thought flickered through Dracula's mind, a desperate plea for the one who had brought him into existence, the figure he revered as his "Father." The memories of his creation flooded back, followed by the times he spent in heaven as a child.

(Please, father… Save me from this brute.)

The words echoed in his mind, a haunting refrain that underscored his vulnerability in the face of Frankenstein's exuberance. He felt like a marionette, strings pulled taut by the whims of fate, caught in a battle that was as much about survival as it was about pride.

Then, as if a divine miracle, the very world answered his plea.

*Boom!

The impact shattered the arena, transporting them back to their original setting.

*BOOM!

Another impact followed, even more intense than the first. The very air crackled with energy, and both Frankenstein and Dracula instinctively looked skyward, bracing themselves for what was to come. They sensed something monumental approaching, a force that strangely mimicked the presence of their father.

*BOOM!

He arrived.