Kami was smashed, beaten, bruised. No mortal being could hav withstood the punishment being delivered upon him, and yet he was far from dead. His brain reformed from the blood and gore, his muscles knitted themselves back together, his bones fused once more into their original form. His face rebuilt itself even as the minor damage dealt to his body by the rubble repaired itself. His acidic blood once more pumped through his veins, pressurized beyond any human norm. Perhaps his greatest defense, causing any wound inflicted to him to spray his attacker with liquid fire.

With the tremendous strength of an oldbood, the vampire fought it's way upwards through the rubble, pushng aside large boulders and steel beams to crawl to the top. The lack of air might have suffocated another being, but he was no other being. The burning in his chest, the blazing strikes of the rock like a hammer against his face, the continuous clawing at is skin and bones. They had been but the bite of a maggot compared to the fire he had emerged from. And now, he was freed from his tribulation. Emerging once more into the world, wreathed in his own sins, armed with only his dark devotion.

He emerged from the ground, fully reformed, ready to continue. He showed no sign of tiring, no sign of weakening, no sign even of having been damaged. As such was the true power of the vampire. The strength of an eternity, to outdo all others in time. For as they wasted movement and breath to face him, each beat of their heart brought them a second closer to their inevitable doom. They might flee, they might fight, but in the end, but one thing was certain. They were but breaths upon the wind of time, a string in the infinite lattice of life. He was the knife that cut, the eternal force of reckoning that would purge evil from this world. When they were long gone, he would remain.

His original prey appeared to have fled. He could track them, of course. Their scent was easily followed, even in the rain. However, he did not have time for such things. He would need to regain his full strengt. Once more he would become the face of slaughter. Once more, he would become the father of death.

Walking across the corpses, he dragged a fledgeling from the ground. Ripped apart, unable to die, he put it out of it's misery. He drained the poor creature dry, adding it's sin to his own. He did as such for some short time, finishing off those few that survived, torn and broken, among the rubble. Then, he once more donned his armour, the fiery torture once more embracing him. The blood in his veins burned away, his vision blurred, and he screamed silently within this self-imposed agony.

The armour-clad warrior strode away from the battlefield, ready to once more gather his troops under his command.