Hours later, night had fallen over Nyxmoor, though the distinction between day and
night was moot in this forsaken town. Ever since Malek assumed Dracula's role, the sun
had ceased to rise, casting an eternal twilight over the land. Malek, ensconced in his
throne, drifted into a restless slumber, his mind plagued by the weight of his actions and
the sorrowful memories of his past.
A faint noise stirred him from his uneasy sleep. Groggily, he rose from his throne,
deciding to explore the castle in an attempt to tire himself back into slumber. The
corridors of the castle stretched out before him, a labyrinthine maze of shadows and
secrets. The walls seemed to pulse with a life of their own, the once-grand tapestries
now twisted and distorted, their figures writhing in silent agony.
Malek's footsteps echoed through the hallways, each step a hollow sound that
reverberated through the emptiness. The air was thick with an oppressive atmosphere,
as if the very stones of the castle were imbued with malevolent intent. His senses,
sharpened by years of survival, prickled with the sensation of being watched. He
glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, each time seeing nothing but the endless
corridors, yet the feeling of unseen eyes persisted.
As he wandered, the castle's architecture grew increasingly surreal. Doors appeared
and vanished, leading to rooms that seemed to defy the laws of physics. One moment he
found himself in a grand ballroom, the chandeliers flickering with ghostly light, the next
he was in a cramped, suffocating space where the walls pressed in on him from all
sides. It was as if the castle was alive, reshaping itself to reflect the turmoil within his
mind.
He passed through a library, its shelves lined with ancient tomes that whispered
secrets in forgotten languages. The books seemed to leer at him, their pages fluttering
as if caught in a nonexistent breeze. The eyes of painted portraits followed his every
move, their expressions shifting subtly as he passed by. Malek shook his head, trying to
dispel the growing sense of disorientation. The castle had always been a place of dark
magic, but tonight it felt particularly unhinged, as though it were feeding off his inner
turmoil.
Descending a spiral staircase, he entered a grand hall filled with mirrors. Each
reflection was a distorted mockery of himself, showing him not as he was, but as he
feared he might become. The reflections laughed silently, their mouths wide with a
mockery that stung deeper than any physical wound. He smashed one of the mirrors in
frustration, but instead of shattering, the glass melted and reformed, the mocking
laughter growing louder in his ears.
Malek's journey through the castle felt like a fever dream, each step plunging him
deeper into madness. The very air seemed to hum with a sinister energy, and shadows
danced at the edge of his vision, always just out of reach. He stumbled through a garden
where the flowers bloomed with eyes instead of petals, their gazes unblinking and
accusing. He wandered through a banquet hall where the long-abandoned feast rotted
eternally, the scent of decay mingling with phantom laughter.
Finally, exhausted and on the brink of despair, Malek found himself back at the throne
room. The familiar sight of his throne, now a symbol of his burdens, offered a strange
comfort. But as he approached, something caught his eye. There, in the middle of the
room, was a figure shrouded in darkness. His heart pounded in his chest as he drew
closer, the oppressive silence of the castle amplifying the sound of his breathing. The
figure did not move, yet he could feel its gaze piercing through him.
Malek stared at the shadowy figure, unsure if it was real or a figment of his exhausted
mind. The figure stood silent, unmoving. Malek, convinced it was an intruder, called out.
Receiving no response, he shouted, his voice echoing through the cavernous throne
room. The figure turned to face him, and in that moment, absolute terror gripped
Malek's heart—a sensation he had long forgotten.
The eyes that met his were not just demonic; they were something worse, far worse.
They bore a resemblance to Malek's own eyes, but these were windows to an abyss of
rage, hatred, pure evil, and insanity. The creature's gaze alone screamed of untold
horrors. As it began to extend its tentacles—dark, massive, and radiating fear—it
became clear that this entity was a master of fear manipulation, a power Malek himself
wielded against his enemies. Malek tried to prepare for an attack, but his powers failed
him. He felt weak, helpless, reminiscent of his childhood when Dracula's men had taken
him. This creature's power was unfathomable. As it approached, Malek's fear
intensified, and for the first time in his life, he ran.
The castle transformed into a nightmarish labyrinth as Malek fled. The hallways
stretched and twisted, the walls seemed to close in, and shadows danced at the edges of
his vision. His breathing grew ragged, each step a struggle as the oppressive weight of
fear bore down on him. The figure followed silently, its presence a constant reminder of
the inevitable doom that awaited him. It was like being stalked by a malevolent specter.
Everywhere Malek turned, the figure was there, closing the distance effortlessly. He
stumbled through rooms that had no doors, corridors that led nowhere. His heart
pounded, his vision blurred. He could hear his own frantic heartbeat, the only sound in
the otherwise silent castle. He could feel the creature's eyes on him, unblinking,
unyielding. The air grew colder, thicker, suffocating him with every breath.
The figure never rushed, never hurried. It followed with a deliberate, terrifying calm, its
presence an omnipresent threat. Malek felt his strength waning, his legs heavy with
exhaustion. He could no longer run, his body betraying him as fatigue set in.
Desperation clawed at him, and he realized with dawning horror that he could not
escape.
The figure caught up to him effortlessly, its tentacles pinning him to the ground. Malek
struggled, but the creature's strength was overwhelming. One tentacle wrapped around
his throat, choking him, while others slashed at his flesh like knives. The pain was
excruciating, each cut searing through him. The creature's face came into view, its
mouth stretching into a grotesque, ear-to-ear smile filled with sharp, red teeth. Its eyes,
wide and crimson, bore into him with malevolent glee.
Malek was paralyzed by fear and pain. He could not scream, could not move. The
creature's dark matter enveloped him, an indescribable mass of pure malevolence. It
continued to choke him, the pressure unbearable, and Malek's vision began to darken.
He was dying, and all he could think of were the terrible things he had done, the pain of
his past. The creature laughed at him, mocking his thoughts, humiliating him. It spoke in
a voice that defied description, a sound that resonated with pure terror.
Malek, once the great and fearful Nosferatu, was on the brink of death, overwhelmed
by a force far beyond his understanding. In that moment, he felt the shame and pathos
of his existence. The creature reveled in his torment, its laughter echoing through his
mind as he faced what seemed to be his pathetic and ignoble end.
Malek jolted awake, gasping for air, his body trembling. His eyes darted around the
dimly lit throne room, struggling to distinguish reality from the lingering shadows of his
nightmare. He found himself staring into the horrified eyes of Carmilla, who had been
frantically shaking him, he had slept on his throne.
"Malek, what happened?" she asked, her voice quivering with fear.
Malek attempted to respond, but his voice was gone. He could only manage hoarse,
desperate gasps, his throat burning with each breath, he was paralyzed. His body was
covered in wounds, blood seeping through his clothes, and he felt an overwhelming
sense of panic. Carmilla had never seen him like this before—so vulnerable, so terrified,
Malek could not heal his wounds as if something was disabling his powers.
Carmilla tried to steady him. "Who did this to you?" she demanded, but her question
only heightened his panic. He struggled to speak, to warn her, but his voice failed him.
His heart pounded violently in his chest, and he felt paralyzed by fear.
In his frenzied state, Malek's eyes caught sight of the shadowy figure, its demonic red
eyes glowing with malevolence, standing silently behind Carmilla with its twisted smile.
He wanted to scream, to warn her, but all he could manage were ragged breaths.
Carmilla, sensing his distress, turned around quickly, but saw nothing. "There's nothing
there," she assured him, though she could feel the cold grip of fear tightening around
her heart. She tried to calm him, whispering soothing words, but Malek's terror was
contagious.
He tried again to speak, but instead, he coughed violently, spewing lots of blood onto
the floor. Carmilla's horror deepened. She had never seen Malek so helpless, so
consumed by fear. She knelt beside him, supporting his weight as he struggled to stay
upright.
"Come on, get up," she said, her voice trembling. "Don't worry, I will take care of you."
With great effort, she helped Malek to his feet, guiding him towards a room next to the
garden. It was a small space filled with plants she had cultivated for their medicinal
properties—bloodroot, blackleaf, and nightbloom, herbs known for their healing
capabilities.
Malek collapsed onto the bed, his skin pale, and clammy. Carmilla worked quickly,
cleaning his wounds and applying poultices made from the herbs. The bloodroot helped
to clot his bleeding wounds, the blackleaf soothed his bruised skin, and the nightbloom
eased his nausea.
As she tended to him, memories flooded her mind—memories of the first time she had
found him, a wounded child in the dungeon. The castle, which had been a place of pain
for Malek in his youth, had become his home and now, once again, a place of suffering.
It was as if he could never escape the chains of his past, forever bound to this prison.
Malek fainted from the pain and exhaustion, his body going limp. Carmilla stayed by his
side, determined to watch over him through the night. She wondered what could have
inflicted such harm on a powerful Nosferatu like Malek. The question gnawed at her,
filling her with dread. She pushed the thought aside, focusing on keeping him stable.
"Stay strong, Malek," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I won't let anything happen to
you. You're not alone."
Malek drifted into a restless sleep, his body weak and battered, and soon found himself
back in the clutches of the shadow entity. The oppressive darkness wrapped around
him, its tendrils caressing his skin with a touch that burned like ice. He was once again a
helpless victim in the monster's game, at its mercy and forced to play by its cruel rules.
The entity loomed over him, its eyes glowing with unholy malice. Just as it was about to
strike, a blinding light pierced the darkness, and Malek felt himself being pulled away.
He was swept into a luminous zone, far from the entity's grasp. As the light enveloped
him, he found himself standing before a mysterious woman. Her presence was calming,
and she exuded a warmth that was almost palpable.
"Who are you?" Malek asked, his voice trembling with both relief and confusion.
"I am the one who has been taking care of your brother," the woman replied, her voice
soothing and calm.
Malek frowned. "I don't remember having a brother."
The woman's eyes widened in shock. "How do you not remember your own blood?" she
asked, incredulous.
Malek shook his head, a pained expression crossing his face. "So much time has passed.
I don't even remember my own mother's face."
The woman sighed, understanding dawning in her eyes. "My brother kidnapped you
when you were just a child," she said, her voice laced with bitterness.
Malek's heart skipped a beat. "Who is your brother?" he asked, dreading the answer.
"Vladimir Anderson, or as you know him, Dracula," she replied, the name hanging
heavily in the air.
Malek's eyes widened in shock. "What is your name?" he asked, his voice barely above a
whisper.
"Mary Anderson, an orphanage owner in life," she answered.
Malek was taken aback. "What do you mean 'in life'?" he asked.
Mary gave a sad smile. "I am already dead, and yes, no heaven or hell yet, it is not the
time of judgement" she explained.
Malek felt a chill run down his spine. "Am I dead?" he asked, his voice shaking.
"No," Mary replied. "You are dreaming. This is the dream realm, where the dead can
wander as well."
Malek's mind reeled with this new information. "What is the dream realm?" he asked.
"Are there other realms? And what was that shadow thing?"
Mary nodded, her expression serious. "The world contains multiple realms. There is the
material realm, which is the realm of humans and other creatures, including the infinite
space and galaxies. Then there is the dream realm, or the realm of specters, where the
dead can choose to go except for the damned, and where we all go when we sleep. It is
infinite in size. The underworld is the realm where demons exist. It is not hell, but rather
an alive abyss, also infinite in size. Your father, Azazel, is preventing it from merging
with the human world and other realms. You are not making it easy on him by opening
portals to the underworld. There is also the realm of light, where angels live, also
infinite in size. The multiverse is self-explanatory and is beyond infinite. Finally, there is
the life core, where the Creator exists who you will be meeting."
Malek's mind spun with the sheer scope of what Mary was describing. "The Creator
wants to see me?" he asked, his voice filled with a mixture of shock and nervousness.
Mary nodded. "Yes, she gave me the task of getting you to her, the Creator will explain
what the shadow entity is to you. She knows it well."
"She?" Malek asked, surprised.
Mary took Malek's hand and began to lead him through the dream realm and other
realms. The journey was surreal, a fever dream of impossible landscapes and bizarre,
shifting forms. They walked through fields of luminous flowers that whispered secrets
as they passed, over rivers of liquid light that flowed upwards into the sky, and under
archways made of pure starlight that twisted and writhed as if alive. The air was thick
with the scent of dreams, a heady mix of sweetness and mystery.
They traversed endless corridors that spiraled into infinity, each step feeling both
weightless and heavy. Time seemed to lose meaning, stretching and compressing in
unpredictable ways. Malek felt as if he was walking through a painting, each scene more
fantastical and strange than the last. He saw cities made of crystal, floating islands with
waterfalls cascading into the void, and forests where the trees sang haunting melodies.
Eventually, they arrived at a massive gate, pulsating with a radiant energy that seemed
to hum with the essence of life itself. Mary turned to Malek, her expression tender and
filled with hope.
"Good luck," she said softly. "The Creator awaits you."
Malek watched as Mary faded into the light, leaving him alone before the gate. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, ready to face whatever awaited him beyond.