Ancient blood a forbidden ritual

Lucian's death, so brutal and final, was a crack in Dracula's millennia-old facade. The Prince of the Night, in the midst of his evolved fury, paused for an almost imperceptible instant, a sigh of eternity in the heart of the battle. He cut his way through the shattered remains of the Blood Faeries to the remains of his faithful warrior. The shadows that were now their wings folded back slightly, like a bird of prey in mourning.

He knelt beside Lucian's broken body, the snow of his hair contrasting with the dark blood staining the earth. With a gentleness that belied his monstrous transformation, he touched what remained of his Punisher's face.

"My faithful Lucian..." Dracula's voice was a low murmur, an echo of forgotten graves and loyalties that transcended life and death. "Rest. Your service was blameless." He raised his head, and his eyes, now abysses of starry night with a crimson core, fixed on the enemy horde. "I swear to you by the eternal night and the blood that binds us, your death... will not be in vain."

In that instant, as the promise echoed through the physical and ethereal planes, Dracula felt a deeper shift within him. It wasn't just the chaotic power of Sorcha's blood; it was something older, darker, a reservoir of his own primordial essence that pain and fury had unlocked. A force he had kept chained for centuries, fearing its devouring nature.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached into the folds of his battle-torn coat and pulled out a small, blackened, almost black silver flask, engraved with twisting runes that seemed to absorb the meager light. An artifact he hadn't touched in ages, reserved for the final apocalypse, for utter despair.

For this... he thought, his mind a maelstrom of cold grief and implacable resolve. For moments like this... when all hope is lost and only annihilation remains... or the ultimate curse.

He uncorked the flask. An incredibly potent and ancient scent filled the air around him, making even the nearby Blood Faeries hesitate. It wasn't just the metallic scent of blood; it was laced with the perfume of long-extinct herbs, the dust of gems ground beneath forgotten moons, and a whisper of something terrible and vast, like the blood of a dead god.

Dracula drank deeply.

The energy that coursed through him was like a black sun exploding in his veins. His shadow wings expanded even further, becoming more solid, almost metallic, each edge sharp as a guillotine. His eyes no longer merely burned; they seemed to contain the fury of collapsing stars. The force that flooded him was overwhelming, almost unbearable, a "damned force" that threatened to consume him as much as his enemies.

With a speed that defied perception, he moved toward Malakor, who continued to struggle like a Chaos beast, on the verge of losing control. Dracula seized him with relentless strength, ignoring the lightning and dark fire that crackled around the vampire-mage. He brought the flask to his lips.

"Drink, Chaos neophyte!" Dracula commanded, his voice now with a bone-rattling resonance. "Drink and feel the true weight of our curse... and its ultimate power!"

Malakor, in the throes of his frenzy, instinctively drank. The ritualized blood mingled with his already volatile essence. His roar became a howl that rent the night sky as his Chaotic power magnified and focused into a singularity of pure destruction.

Then Dracula moved among his most hard-pressed Punishers, those still resisting, offering the flask to the most loyal, the most desperate. "Brothers!" his voice thundered. "The night is darker than ever! Drink from the Cup of Despair and Final Power! Fight like the damned we are, and drag our enemies with us into the abyss!"

Those Punishers who drank felt the same surge of overwhelming power. Their forms grew slightly more monstrous, their shadows deeper, their eyes burning with a hellish light. Their attacks, already lethal, became unstoppable, each blow imbued with this new and terrible energy. They moved with a coordinated fury, not like disciplined warriors, but like a pack of primordial predators unleashed.

But the "damned force" was overwhelming them. They were losing control, tactical coldness replaced by a thirst for destruction almost as great as their bloodlust. Power came with a terrible price: a loss of self, a descent into pure bestiality.

From the command center, Merlin and Aria watched in horror and awe. "By all the forgotten gods!" Merlin exclaimed. "He's unleashed... the Elder Blood! A forbidden ritual, thought lost, that pushes a vampire beyond his limits!"

"at the cost of their very essence!"

Sorcha, pale and trembling, recognized the nature of the power Dracula had summoned. It was a blood magic far older and more dangerous than her own.

The Cthulhu-controlled Blood Faeries, once a relentless tide, now visibly retreated before the onslaught of these vampires imbued with a cursed force. The battlefield around Dracula and his empowered Punishers became a slaughterhouse.

The tide, for a bloody and terrible instant, seemed to turn. But the cost was clear. Dracula and his people were gaining ground, yes, but they were becoming something they themselves would not recognize, consumed by a power that threatened to devour their souls as much as their enemies. Despair had given way to apocalyptic fury.