The spectral plains began to shift as Constantine’s presence grew stronger, the phantoms no longer attacking out of hunger but fleeing in fear. He pursued them relentlessly, his steps silent and his movements precise. Each one he caught added to his power, their forms dissolving into him as their anguished cries faded into silence.

His cold aura expanded with each kill, the temperature of the spectral realm dropping to an unnatural chill. The air itself seemed to resist him, the faint glow of the plains dimming as his power consumed the essence of those who dared to challenge him.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

As he moved deeper into the plains, he encountered stronger phantoms—spirits of warriors who had died violent deaths, their forms brimming with latent power. They came at him with weapons forged from their memories, their strikes imbued with desperation.

Constantine faced them with grim determination. He wielded ectoplasm like a weapon, shaping it into jagged spikes and tendrils that tore through his enemies. The shadows at his feet rose like living things, dragging the warriors down as he drained them. Their weapons shattered against his ghostly form, their resistance only fueling his hunger.