Night enveloped Dracula's castle like a dark shroud, and the chill in the air seemed to presage the inevitable. At the head of his three brides, he rose from the shadow of the ramparts, already transformed into his vampiric form. The night air caressed his skin as his wings unfurled with a macabre whisper; with them spread wide, he descended like a giant bat, a shadow engulfing everything in its path.

The screams began as soon as his figure became visible on the horizon. Terrified villagers fled to their homes, seeking refuge in churches and the deepest corners of the city. But no shelter could save them. With a wave of his hand, his brides followed, their vampiric figures closing in, claws seizing those who could no longer escape.

One by one, the screams died away as fog rose around the town, obscuring every corner. Dracula savored the hunt, not merely as necessity, but as an assertion of power. With each life he claimed, he fed; with each soul extinguished, his dominion grew stronger. The villagers, small and powerless, became mere shadows within his immortal reign.

He paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the village for more prey. His smile, though grotesque, was that of a satisfied predator—the absolute master of the night. He knew that no matter how much they feared him, he would always return for more.