Today's Deathwalkers had long since lost the edge and Battle Power they possessed a century ago. They had become immersed in lavish banquets and endless pleasures, while the fighting spirit and unyielding resolve once carved into their bones had long been buried beneath the dust of time. They had forgotten the noble mission of a SOLDIER.
The blazing fires of war no longer burned in their eyes. In their place were only emptiness and confusion, as though they were a group of soulless shells wandering through vampire territory.
Marcus stood atop the tower of an ancient castle, looking down at the land that had once belonged to him, now covered by Victor's shadow.
His gaze pierced through layer upon layer of darkness, trying to find a trace of familiar warmth within the silence. But all that answered him was endless indifference and estrangement.
His subordinates, the warriors who had once fought at his side, had either been marginalized by Victor through various means and stripped of their former status and power, or had quietly vanished, becoming sacrifices in the struggle for power.
At that moment, Marcus looked around and found it difficult to spot even one familiar face that could bring him comfort.
The root of it all was Victor's abyss-deep scheming.
Victor, that ambitious bastard, had spared no effort in pushing Marcus into the abyss of isolation and helplessness in order to weaken him and consolidate his own position.
This feeling of loneliness and helplessness filled him with an unprecedented desolation.
To weaken Marcus, Victor had deliberately created divisions and contradictions, leaving Marcus isolated and without support.
Victor knew very well that As long as Marcus lost the support of his subordinates, he would no longer be a threat.
Marcus had realized this as well, but he was powerless