[Location: Dungeon—Vampire King's Castle]
Every remaining vampire corpse—every fragment, every echo—was torn apart at a fundamental level, their residual soul-threads ripped free and fed into the storm.
The soul-maelstrom screamed.
Not with sound.
With identity.
Threads of pale light—countless, layered, ancient—were ripped from every corner of the dungeon and dragged into the vortex surrounding Alucard. The living walls convulsed violently, veins bursting, flesh tearing and regenerating in the same breath, as if the castle itself was struggling to decide whether it was prey or extension.
The Crimson Dominion no longer felt like a territory.
It felt like a stomach.
The vortex tightened.
Faster.
Denser.
Souls compressed, overlapping, merging—not screaming, not resisting, but being processed, rewritten into something uniform, obedient, compatible.
Consumption.
Alucard spread his blood-wings wider.
ROAAAAWWRRRR!
Fafnir roared as his colossal body melted.
Not burned.
