Yama nearly fell off his horse as clarity returned to him, his mind racing.
"What the fuck is he doing here? He was supposed to be—ugh—dammit! Stupid demons! Turn around, you worthless pigs!" he bellowed, his frustration cutting through the cacophony of battle.
It wasn't as if Yama hadn't accounted for this possibility. He had a Plan B—but even thinking about it made his chest tighten. Unlike the vampires, whose armies moved with disciplined precision, the demons were a disorganized horse. They charged like wild beasts, driven more by bloodlust than any semblance of strategy. And now, they were paying for it.
The rider atop the dragon dismounted with deliberate slowness, a sight so commanding it drew the attention of friend and foe alike. Every movement radiated a calm, unshakable authority, as if the chaos around him was nothing but a distant murmur.
He descended with an air of practiced grace, his aura chilling enough to freeze the blood of anyone who dared meet his gaze.
This was no ordinary vampire. This was a king—a legend forged in countless battles over millennia. This was Morbius, Emperor of the Vampires, the very embodiment of their pride and power.
He wore a flowing purple robe that shimmered in the moonlight, and in his hand, he carried a wicked, double-edged scythe. His long silver hair danced in the cool night breeze, catching the light as he floated toward the fray. Yes, floated—his feet barely touched the blood-soaked ground, heightening the surreal terror he inspired.
The demons were rooted in place, their courage sapped by the overwhelming presence of the vampire king. Morbius seemed both corporeal and spectral, an impossible vision of dread.
As he glided forward, his face turned into the moonlight, and his glowing crimson eyes burned with an unholy intensity.
"WHAT ARE YOU IDIOTS WAITING FOR?!" Yama's voice cracked with desperation, the fear leaking into his tone.
"HACK HIM DOWN! THROW EVERYTHING YOU HAVE AT HIM! BRING ME HIS HEAD, AND LYRA IS YOURS!"
The mention of Lyra stopped Morbius in his tracks. His glowing eyes narrowed, and his lips curled back to reveal his fangs, glistening in the pale light. A wrathful growl escaped him, the sound primal and laced with pain. His grip on the scythe tightened, and in one fluid motion, he raised it high, poised to unleash a slaughter.
The demons hesitated no longer. With a collective roar, they surged toward him in a desperate bid to overwhelm the unshakable force before them. But they didn't stand a chance.
Morbius moved like a specter of death. A thrust to the front, a slash to the left, a jab to the right, and a spinning arc of his scythe—all of it executed with deadly precision. Every swing reaped a fresh crop of lives, the demons falling like wheat before a harvester.
Blood—thick, orange, and unnatural—splattered across the field, yet not a drop clung to Morbius. The liquid slid off him as if even it dared not mar his presence.
In an instant, he vanished, reappearing behind a demon whose head left its shoulders before it could react. With a sharp twist, the scythe detached, transforming into two deadly sickles. Morbius twirled them with effortless grace, his movements so fluid and cool that even Yama found himself frozen, unable to tear his eyes away.
The vampire king was a blur, moving with speeds that left afterimages shimmering across the battlefield. To the demons, he was everywhere and nowhere at once, an unstoppable storm of destruction.
The vampires roared in wild, bloodthirsty triumph, their cheers filling the night as their king single - handedly turned the tides of this battle they had almost lost.