The battlefield was a maelstrom of carnage. The Sultan’s angels cut down vampires and phantoms alike, their divine wrath turning the tide in favor of the Ottomans. Dracula fought with ferocity, but his body bore the marks of countless wounds, his movements slower, more desperate.
The Sultan advanced toward Dracula, his holy blade raised. “This is your end, Nauthizia Drăculea!” he declared, his voice filled with righteous fury.
Before the Sultan could strike, Constantine appeared beside Dracula, his spectral form wavering but defiant. “Not yet,” he rasped, summoning the remaining phantoms to his side.
Together, Dracula and Constantine faced the Sultan and his angels, their combined power a last stand against overwhelming odds. Dracula lunged at the Sultan, their blades clashing in a deafening cacophony of steel and fire. Constantine unleashed a storm of shadows, his phantoms and his self swarming the angels, their ectoplasmic forms intertwining with holy light in a battle of wills.
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Despite their efforts, the angels began to overwhelm them. One angel drove its blade deep into Dracula’s side, the holy fire searing his flesh. Constantine was struck down moments later, his form dissipating into a faint wisp as an angel’s sword sliced through him.
With a final, furious roar, Dracula unleashed his full power. Shadows erupted from his body, enveloping the battlefield in impenetrable darkness. The angels faltered, their light dimming as Dracula’s darkness consumed them. The Sultan’s soldiers broke ranks, their cries of terror lost in the abyss.
Dracula emerged from the shadows, his eyes blazing. He seized the Sultan, his iron claws rending the man’s armor. “You will die as all tyrants do,” Dracula hissed before sinking his fangs into the Sultan’s neck.
The Sultan’s lifeblood spilled onto the frozen ground, his body crumpling as Dracula released him. The remaining angels vanished, their light extinguished with their mortal charge gone.
As the battlefield fell silent, Dracula stood alone, bloodied but unbowed. Constantine’s spectral presence lingered faintly in the air, a reminder of the sacrifice that had secured their victory.
“Wallachia is free,” Dracula declared, his voice carrying over the field. “But the price has been paid in blood and shadow.”
The vampires and surviving phantoms gathered around him, their cries of triumph mingling with the howling wind. The night had claimed its victory, but the scars it left would linger forever.