The cloak had felt weightless, almost ethereal, like wearing mist or moonlight, but at the same time possessed an absurdly high tensile strength that had long since crossed the boundary of physics.
No ordinary material could withstand the implosion of a black hole pillar and emerge without so much as a tear; this one had done so effortlessly, reforming itself in the aftermath like liquid given purpose.
The cloak, more like a suit from the medieval era with a long, flowing robe-like pattern, felt like it was designed directly from blood.
Nay, it didn't feel like, it actually was made from blood.
Dracula, with his critical, godlike control over the substance, had created thin threads of blood in the nanoscale, each filament thinner than a human hair yet stronger than any known alloy, and woven them into his new outfit after the destruction of his last from the implosion.
