The battlefield was drenched in blood, the screams of dying demons tore through the night as Morbius and his warriors carved through them like reapers in a field. Every swing of his blade was precise, deadly, and unstoppable. The demons fell in waves, their numbers dwindling with every heartbeat. Victory seemed inevitable.
Far behind the fray, Yama sat on a jagged stone, his shoulders slumped, his golden eyes dimmed with doubt. His rebellion had felt righteous once, a cause worth sacrificing for. But now, as he watched Morbius's merciless advance, the cracks in his resolve widened. He had known the vampire lord was powerful—but this? This was something else entirely.
His despair was interrupted by a wave of pungent, nauseating stench that clawed at his nostrils. The air grew heavy with its toxicity, and Yama's stomach churned violently. He gagged, eyes watering, as the grotesque familiarity of the smell hit him.
"No... not now," Yama whispered, dreading what was coming. Against his better judgment, he turned slowly.
A figure emerged from the shadows. If it could even be called a figure. Belphegor—the abomination—smiled, his lips curling into a grotesque grin that made Yama's skin crawl. His toad-like face was covered in warts and boils, his oily, mottled brown skin glistening with a filth that seemed alive. Blackened patches marred his flesh like scars of corruption, and his stench was suffocating.
"Aah" Yama choked out, immediately regretting screaming. The moment his mouth opened, the foul odor seeped in, coating his tongue like rot. He almost wretched again, wishing he could tear his senses from his body.
Belphegor chuckled, a sound as slimy as his appearance. "We should initiate Plan B," he said, his words dripping with dark delight.
Yama's fists clenched, and for a fleeting moment, he imagined crushing Belphegor's wretched skull. But the thought of touching that slimy, diseased skin made his stomach turn. Instead, he exhaled sharply, forcing his disgust down.
"Do it," Yama spat, the words bitter in his mouth.
Belphegor's grin widened impossibly, his yellowed teeth glinting in the dim light. His gleaming eyes turned to the battlefield, where Morbius was a whirlwind of death, his sword hacking through demon after demon. Each strike was a symphony of fury, the screams of the fallen demons rising like a twisted chorus of despair. The tide of the battle seemed irrevocably decided.
Victory was within Morbius's grasp. He could feel it, taste it—a sweet, intoxicating triumph.
But then, like a dagger through the heart, a whisper sliced through the chaos.
"Lyra's life hangs in the balance."
Morbius froze mid-swing, his breath catching in his throat. His chest tightened, and his mind spun. And then, the stench hit him. That awful, unforgettable stench.
From the shadows, Belphegor stepped forward, his vile presence casting a pall over the battlefield. His grin was wide and knowing, his eyes gleaming with malevolence.
"Your love for Lyra will destroy you, Morbius," Belphegor hissed, his voice dripping with venom.
Morbius's grip on his blade faltered. His mind betrayed him, flooding with memories of Lyra's laughter, her touch, her warmth. She was his anchor, his reason to fight—but now she was his undoing.
"No…" The word barely escaped his lips, his voice cracked and broken.
Belphegor lunged with calculated precision, striking Morbius down before he could recover. The vampire lord fell to his knees, his strength sapped, his resolve shattered. Dark tendrils of magic coiled around him, binding him. Normally, such magic would have been useless against him, but Morbius's heart and mind were in disarray.
"Lyra will suffer endlessly unless you surrender," Belphegor taunted, his grin stretching wider, his tone triumphant.
Morbius struggled, but his body betrayed him. The words cut deeper than any blade, and his spirit faltered.
Yama approached slowly, his steps heavy with reluctance. He glanced at Morbius, regret flickering in his eyes, but Belphegor's presence silenced any hesitations. Together, they loomed over the defeated vampire, their shadows stretching across the blood-soaked ground.
The demons rallied behind them, their victory cries rising as they surged forward, overwhelming what remained of Morbius's forces.
"You should have known," Belphegor sneered, his voice like poison. "Love makes even the strongest men weak."
Yama's expression hardened as he spoke, his voice cold and final. "Your weakness has sealed your fate, Morbius. The demons will rule this realm."