Elsewhere on the battlefield, Constantine commanded his spectral army against the angels. His ghosts moved like a tide, their ectoplasmic weapons slicing through flesh and steel, but the celestial warriors fought back with devastating power. Each swing of an angel’s blade dissipated multiple phantoms, their screams echoing into the void.

Constantine himself faced two angels, their luminous forms towering over his shadowy figure. Their blades struck him simultaneously, their holy light tearing through his spectral essence. He howled, his form flickering and destabilizing, but he retaliated with raw force. Tendrils of shadow lashed out, coiling around one angel and dragging it into the ground.

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The second angel pressed the attack, its blade slicing through Constantine’s torso. The ghost staggered, his form rippling like water, but he surged forward, plunging his ectoplasmic claws into the angel’s chest. The holy warrior cried out, its light dimming as Constantine drained its essence, consuming its power to stabilize himself.

But even as he stood victorious, Constantine was visibly weakened. “Dracula,” he whispered, his voice carried on the spectral wind. “We’re losing.”