Dracula, wrenching himself free from the impaling trident and bident with a guttural growl, unleashed a violent wave of mingled blood and water that surged outward like a tidal fury, shoving his assailants back and granting him a fleeting moment to catch his breath, his chest heaving under the strain.
"I will not give you the satisfaction of resting. Not after killing so many of our people," Seraphim whispered to Dracula, his voice laced with venomous resolve, the words cutting through the din like a sharpened blade.
The archangel's hatred burned fiercer than any other, a seething inferno fueled by losses that scarred his immortal soul.
No one harbored a deeper desire for Dracula's demise than he did now, his gaze locked on the enemy with unblinking intensity.
It was an ability that rendered him utterly invincible to any attack or force for precisely one second, a fleeting heartbeat of absolute invulnerability.
