Dimitri was a warrior forged in centuries of battle, his sword an extension of his will, his loyalty unshakable. Beside him, Morbius—the invincible King of Vampires—was the beacon of their strength. Together, they had carved their names into legend, undefeated, unstoppable. Dimitri, slicing through enemy ranks with relentless precision, stole fleeting glances at Morbius, drawing pride and resolve from the king's commanding presence. Every swing of his blade felt lighter, every shout from his men more fervent, as they fought toward certain victory.
But then, it happened.
Morbius froze.
Dimitri faltered, his heart pounding as he watched Belphegor—a demon lord who had never bested Morbius—strike a devastating blow. Morbius staggered, collapsing to the ground. Dimitri's breath caught. This was unthinkable. No power in the realms could overpower Morbius—let alone Belphegor.
And then Yama appeared, his dark silhouette radiating menace. Dimitri's blood ran cold. He could not face both demons and live. Not him, no vampire could apart from the man that has now been struck down.
"Retreat!" His voice cracked, raw with despair. Pain lanced through him as he choked out the command. The victorious cries of the vampire army fell silent, their formation unraveling in an instant. Where moments before they had stood on the peak of triumph, now chaos reigned. Vampires fled, their morale shattered, leaving the fields of battle drenched in blood and betrayal.
But why? Why had Morbius faltered? Why had he let Belphegor land that fatal strike?
Dimitri rallied his men, his voice a desperate roar over the cacophony of clashing steel and agonized screams. But the demons surged forward, relentless and bloodthirsty, driving the vampires toward the field's edge like prey in a hunt. Dimitri turned back, only to hear the anguished cry of a fallen soldier—a sound that tore through him like a blade.
Morbius, still alive but gravely wounded, lifted his head. His gaze swept across the battlefield, taking in the carnage. The sight of his scattered army—his loyal warriors maimed and dying—seared into his soul. With a guttural roar, he summoned the last of his strength. A swirling blue portal tore through the air, its light casting ghostly shadows over the broken battlefield.
Dimitri turned just in time to glimpse the portal's mysterious depths—a vast, dark expanse speckled with green and brown. Belphegor lunged, his claws reaching for Morbius, but the vampire king moved like a vengeful storm. With a single, fluid strike, his scythe carved through the air, severing Belphegor's head in one decisive blow.
For an instant, hope flickered in Dimitri's chest. But Morbius didn't stay. He stepped into the portal, vanishing as it snapped shut, leaving only silence and despair in his wake.
The battlefield lay in ruins. Morbius was gone, the dragon's life essence lost with him. All that remained were a handful of vampires and an endless tide of demons led by Yama, their eyes gleaming with the promise of annihilation. Dimitri glanced down, his boot brushing against Belphegor's severed head. It meant nothing now.
He gathered the remnants of his army, mounting their steeds in haste. They rode, the thunder of hooves drowned out by the howls of pursuing demons.
The horizon stretched before them, but Dimitri's heart was heavy. His men had seen the face of victory, only to have it ripped away. Tears burned in his eyes, though he could not tell if they came from grief or rage. Morbius, the invincible king, had faltered—not from weakness, but from something more damning. Dimitri remembered Belphegor's parting words to Morbius, uttered with a mocking grin:
"Love makes even the strongest men weak."
And in that moment, Dimitri understood. Their defeat was not from battle—it was from betrayal. Anger surged like a storm within him, his faith in the king he had revered for centuries shattered. As the horizon beckoned, Dimitri clenched his teeth, his heart burning with hate. Morbius had abandoned them, and for that, Dimitri vowed he would never forgive him.