"We are at a disadvantage in this battle," Lucifer said quietly, materializing beside Baal in a ripple of dark wings and colder shadow.
"Those two complement each other perfectly," he added.
Baal's third eye narrowed, still glowing with residual wrath.
The severed hand had already regenerated, flesh knitting together in dark, steaming threads, bones snapping back into place with faint, wet cracks.
The pain had been nothing more than a brief inconvenience; the humiliation lingered far longer, a slow-burning ember in his chest that refused to die.
"Our structure is crumbling," Zeus muttered, voice rough with barely-contained fury.
Lightning still crackled erratically around him.
From the very beginning of the battle to this ragged, blood-soaked moment, they had failed to gain even the slightest advantage.
Dracula's blood essence slipped through every defense, impossible to prevent, impossible to counter without collateral devastation.
