"Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do."

He never believed those words — they were never true. They knew exactly what they were doing. They always did. They were fully aware of the evil they caused.

His wife, the woman who brought light even to the darkest heart, was a victim of the most abominable cruelty. The purest, kindest, and most generous soul he had ever known, attacked by human hands filled with fear and hatred — by those who should have sought healing, but chose destruction instead.

She only wanted to help. She just wanted to ease the suffering of a sick city, tormented by an invisible plague that mercilessly claimed lives. She carried medicines, words of comfort, hope — a balm for the desperate. But ignorance and despair transformed the inhabitants into monsters crueler than any creature of the night.

The attack was brutal.

They dragged her through muddy streets, spat curses like venom, and when the rough hands closed around her, it was as if they tore the very life from him. Every scream, every blow, every look of contempt was a blade piercing his immortal soul.

Now she lay there, barely alive, wrapped in cold sheets, her body marked by wounds and her spirit on the brink of surrender. The light he loved so much was about to be extinguished.

And he, Dracula, lord of shadows, was powerless before the fragile humanity he never fully understood. But that powerlessness would not last.

In the grand hall of his ancient castle, the walls echoed with the distant thunder, while rain lashed the stained glass windows, as if the very sky mourned the injustice. The air was heavy, filled with the scent of damp stone, aged wood, and a subtle trace of incense he could never again smell without remembering his wife.

He stood motionless, an imposing figure against the backdrop of the stormy night. His black cloak spread around him like a living shadow, his red eyes burning with a fury as old as time. His face, stern and marked by grief, was the image of desolation.

Every muscle in his body vibrated with almost unbearable tension. Inside him, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions fought to break free — pain, rage, disgust, and the unwavering determination for vengeance.

He knew he could not restore his wife to her former self, but he could promise that those responsible for her suffering would feel his wrath.

No human who dared raise a hand against what he loved would escape the justice of his claws.

His thoughts were a tempest of dark plans. He pictured the faces of those who caused so much pain, imagined their downfall, their punishment — each one transformed into a lesson of the terror a monster can impose.

Dracula closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the smile she had given him, the light in her eyes now fading slowly. He promised himself that nothing, no one, would take her from him again.

A contained roar broke the silence of the room as he clenched his fists, feeling claws extend beneath his skin. The revenge would not be swift, nor easy. It would be a slow, relentless shadow creeping toward the last of the guilty. They would know true fear — not the fear of death, but the fear of eternal judgment. And in that moment, Dracula made his choice.

He would no longer be a mere witness to destruction.

He would be the executioner.

Vengeance would be his crusade.

And the world would know true terror when darkness descended to reclaim what was taken from it.