The frozen plains outside the Sultan’s encampment stretched like an endless graveyard under the blood moon. Dracula’s forces, a coalition of vampires and spectral warriors led by Constantine, waited in tense silence. On the horizon, the glittering banners of the Sultan’s army came into view, their golden sigils shining with divine promise.
The Sultan rode at the head of his forces, his white stallion a stark contrast against the sea of steel and banners behind him. Beside him marched his secret weapon—angels. These warriors of heaven glowed with unearthly light, their armor radiant, their swords gleaming with holy fire. They moved with an unnatural grace, their very presence lifting the spirits of the Ottoman soldiers and striking dread into the hearts of their enemies.
Dracula stood at the forefront of his army, his glowing crimson eyes narrowing as he took in the celestial reinforcements. Beside him, Constantine hovered, his spectral form flickering with unease.
“Angels,” Constantine muttered, his voice a spectral hiss. “The Sultan calls on Allah Himself to strike us down.”
Dracula’s lips curled into a smirk, though there was no mirth in it. “Let them come. Heaven’s warriors are no more invincible than mortal men.”
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The Sultan raised his sword high, its edge shimmering with holy inscriptions. His voice boomed across the battlefield. “Dracula! You call yourself the ruler of Wallachia, but you are nothing more than a demon masquerading as a king. Today, we end your blasphemy!”
Dracula stepped forward, his voice carrying effortlessly over the plain. “You call me a demon, yet you march with the angels of your foreign god. Wallachia is mine, Sultan, and tonight, you will learn the cost of trespassing into my domain.”
The Sultan’s sword dropped, signaling his forces to charge.
The battlefield erupted into chaos as the Sultan’s forces surged forward. Vamps met them head-on, their inhuman speed and strength cutting through mortal soldiers with terrifying ease. But the angels descended like a storm, their swords cleaving through the undead with precision.
Dracula moved like a shadow among his enemies, his claws rending armor and flesh alike. He faced no mortal that could match him until an angel stepped into his path. This warrior, his form wrapped in blinding light, struck without hesitation, his flaming sword cutting through the air toward Dracula.
The vampire lord dodged, the holy blade missing him by inches but searing the air around him. He retaliated with claws and fangs, but the angel parried effortlessly, his movements impossibly fast.
“You are a creature of the abyss,” the angel intoned, his voice resonating with heavenly power. “You will find no mercy here.”
Dracula smirked, his fangs glinting. “Good. I have no use for mercy.”
The two clashed in a deadly dance, the angel’s strikes scorching Dracula’s flesh even when deflected. Dracula’s counterattacks tore into the angel’s armor but failed to halt his relentless assault. Blood dripped from the vampire lord’s wounds, staining the frost beneath him, yet he fought on, his movements growing more feral with each passing moment.