10 Chapter 10

As the echoes of battle faded into the distance, leaving behind a haunting silence broken only by the occasional moan of the wounded and dying, Atlas wasted no time in seizing the opportunity presented by the aftermath of the carnage. With a grim determination etched upon his pale features, he set to work harnessing the death energy that hung heavy in the air.

Approaching the fallen soldiers, Atlas drew upon the dark magic coursing through his veins, his hands glowing with eerie crimson light as he conjured forth great caldrons from the earth itself. With swift, precise movements, he directed streams of blood from the fallen into the waiting vessels, the liquid pooling and swirling within as it was ready to be refined into the potent elixir known as blood wine.

As the caldrons filled with the crimson liquid, Atlas turned his attention to the fallen corpses scattered across the battlefield. Drawing upon the necromantic energies suffusing the air, he raised his hands skyward, his voice ringing out in a dark incantation that echoed through the desolate landscape. Using the AI chip to help guide the magic, skeletal warriors began to rise, their bones clattering as they assembled into ranks under Atlas's command. With each passing moment, more and more undead soldiers emerged from the ground, their hollow eye sockets glowing with malevolent light as they awaited their master's orders.

But Atlas was not content with mere foot soldiers. Drawing upon the latent energies of death that permeated the battlefield, he reached deeper into the darkness, summoning forth the spirits of fallen knights and their steeds.

With a surge of dark energy, the fallen mounts rose once more, their skeletal forms wreathed in shadows as they galloped across the blood-stained earth. Behind them rode the spectres of fallen knights, their ethereal forms clad in tattered armour and wielding spectral weapons.

These dark knights, born from death and fuelled by the vengeful spirits of the fallen, would serve as formidable additions to Atlas's growing army of the undead. While Atlas only managed to summon three, they were a formidable force that put him equivalent to power to many of the vampire knights.

With his forces assembled, Atlas wasted no time in setting them to work. The undead horde, now numbering more than four hundred strong, began to scour the battlefield, looting the fallen for weapons, armour, and any other valuables they could find.

Under Atlas's command, the undead worked with ruthless efficiency, stripping the corpses of their belongings and gathering them into great piles to be sorted and distributed among the ranks.

As the moon cast its cold light over the scene of desolation, Atlas stood amidst the chaos, his eyes gleaming with a mix of satisfaction and hunger. With each passing moment, his power grew, fuelled by the death and destruction that surrounded him.

And as he surveyed the fruits of his labour, Atlas knew that he was one step closer to realizing his ambitions of greatness in this world of shadows and death.

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Vlad von Carstein stood tall and imposing at the head of the line of prisoners, his crimson eyes ablaze with the flickering light of the dying fires. The wounded and bloodied captives knelt before him, their faces contorted in fear and desperation as they awaited their fate.

With a voice that carried the weight of centuries of malice and power, Vlad addressed the trembling prisoners, his words ringing out like a death knell in the still night air.

"Remember my promise, mortals?" he intoned, his voice booming with an otherworldly resonance that sent shivers down the spines of all who heard it. "I offered clemency to those who surrendered, but it seems many of you chose to defy me instead."

A chorus of desperate cries and pleas for mercy rose from the assembled prisoners, their voices echoing off the blood-soaked ground. Some begged for forgiveness, while others simply wept in silent resignation, knowing that their fate was sealed.

Vlad's lips curled into a cold smile as he surveyed the broken and defeated humans before him. "Too late, I'm afraid," he said, his tone dripping with malice. "You had your chance to surrender, but now you must face the consequences of your defiance."

With a silent signal to his subordinates, Vlad indicated that it was time to mete out justice to the prisoners. Among those standing at his side was Atlas, his expression unreadable as he prepared to carry out his master's orders.

Without hesitation, Vlad's minions moved forward, their weapons glinting in the dim light as they advanced upon the prisoners. With cold efficiency, they began to dispatch the captives, their blows swift and merciless as they struck down those who had dared to oppose their master.

The air was thick with the sound of steel meeting flesh, the screams of the dying mingling with the triumphant shouts of Vlad's followers. Blood flowed freely upon the ground, staining the earth crimson as the lifeblood of the fallen spilled forth in a torrent of death and despair.

As the last of the prisoners fell beneath the onslaught of Vlad's minions, a grim silence descended upon the battlefield, broken only by the soft sound of the wind rustling through the trees. Vlad stood amidst the carnage, his gaze cold and unforgiving as he surveyed the aftermath of his wrath.

For those who had defied him, there would be no mercy. Only death, and the eternal servitude that awaited them in the cold embrace of the grave. And as the night stretched on into eternity, Vlad von Carstein remained the undisputed master of all he surveyed, his power unchallenged and his reign of terror unending.

As Vlad stood poised to give the command for the march to the next battle, a sudden eruption of chaos shattered the tense silence that hung over the battlefield. Hans Schliffen, Ottilia's general, his eyes blazing with rage and madness, broke free from the magical restraints that bound him.

With a wild cry of defiance, Schliffen lunged forward, seizing Vlad's own enchanted sword from its scabbard in a swift and fluid motion. Before anyone could react, the blade arced through the air, its razor-sharp edge slicing cleanly through the count's neck.

A stunned hush fell over the assembled vampires and their undead legions as Vlad's head tumbled to the ground, his lifeless eyes staring blankly into the abyss. The silence was broken only by the sickening thud of his severed head hitting the blood-soaked earth.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still as the enormity of what had just occurred sunk in. Then, like a pack of rabid wolves descending upon their prey, Vlad's most loyal followers, led by Konrad von Carstein, fell upon Schliffen with savage fury.

In a frenzied blur of motion, they tore the hapless general limb from limb, their inhuman strength and bloodlust driving them to acts of unspeakable violence. The air was thick with the sound of tearing flesh and bone as the once-proud leader of Ottilia's army met his grisly end at the hands of the vampires.

As the dust settled and the echoes of the frenzied violence faded into the night, a heavy pall of uncertainty hung over the battlefield. With the death of Vlad von Carstein, the balance of power had shifted, leaving the fate of the coming war hanging in the balance.