The village square lay still beneath the waxing moon, its silence broken only by the faint rustling of the winter wind. The air was heavy with the weight of those gathered—both living and spectral. At the center stood Dracula, his imposing figure shrouded in his black cloak, but it was not he who commanded attention tonight.

Constantine, his ghostly form glowing faintly in the moonlight, hovered before the crowd of translucent figures. These were not the living but the restless souls of Wallachia’s dead, clinging to the mortal plane with desperate yearning. Their ethereal forms shimmered with an eerie light, their hollow eyes fixed on Constantine, who radiated an unearthly power.

“You linger here,” Constantine’s voice rang out, cold and commanding, “clinging to the pain of your deaths, unable to let go. Many of you have wasted centuries skulking in the shadows, afraid to grasp the power that is yours by right.”

A phantom stepped forward, her form flickering like a dying flame. “And what power is that, Constantine? We are nothing but remnants—memories adrift in the wind.”

Constantine’s gaze hardened, and his form seemed to expand, tendrils of shadow curling around him. “You are more than memories. I was once like you—lost, fragmented. But I found strength. The Ottomans took my life, but in death, I have claimed power they cannot fathom. You can do the same.”

Murmurs rippled through the spectral crowd, a mix of hope and fear.

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“Power comes at a price,” another ghost said, his form coalescing into that of a long-dead soldier. “What would you have us do, Constantine?”

Constantine stepped closer, his spectral presence oppressive yet magnetic. “Follow me into Ottoman lands. There, we will find others like us—wandering spirits clinging to their deaths. We will consume them, take their essence, and grow stronger. With each soul devoured, we will forge ourselves into weapons—shadows, mist, electricity, wielders of steel. Together, we will become an army of ghosts.”

A ripple of unease passed through the crowd.

“Cannibalize our own?” the soldier whispered.

Constantine’s expression was merciless. “Would you rather linger here, powerless, while the Ottomans destroy what is left of Wallachia? Or will you rise above your fear and become something they cannot kill?”

The ghostly woman stepped forward again, her translucent form trembling. “And what of the living? What of those who wish to fight alongside us?”

Constantine’s gaze flickered briefly to Dracula, who stood watching in silence, his crimson eyes gleaming. “The living will have their part to play. Let them drink of Dracula’s curse and wield the strength of blood. But the dead...” His voice dropped, cold and sharp. “The dead are mine.”

Dracula smiled faintly, a gesture of approval, but said nothing.

The spectral crowd surged, their forms solidifying as their resolve grew.

“I will follow you,” the soldier said, stepping forward. “For Wallachia.”

“And I,” the woman added. “For my children, who still live under Ottoman rule.”

One by one, the ghosts pledged themselves to Constantine, their ethereal voices rising in a haunting chorus.

Constantine turned, his form towering over them. “Then prepare yourselves. We leave at dawn to hunt the hunters. Wallachia will no longer weep for her dead. She will fight with them.”

The ghosts howled in unison, a chilling sound that echoed through the village and beyond, as Constantine led them into the night.