Chaos Demons

Dracula's descent toward the convoy was nothing short of theatrical. Cloak billowing like storm clouds, mist curling at his feet, he floated down with the same smug confidence he had carried through the portal.

But then—he felt it.

A shift. No, a weight.

The moment his crimson gaze locked on the three figures waiting by the convoy, the atmosphere changed. The mist clinging to him faltered.

The lead figure, a man standing just ahead of the other two, was dressed in flawless black, no armor, no weapons visible. Yet he stood there like a statue carved from reality itself, sharp features calm but unreadable. His eyes—icy silver, cold as death—cut straight through Dracula's presence, through his performance, without so much as a blink.

Song.

The Second in Command of the Phantoms.

Dracula's stride almost... almost hesitated.