At the rear entrance of the theater, Sherwin clutched his head in torment, his eyes squeezed shut as he emitted low groans. His cryptic bindings, momentarily beyond his control, were systematically shredded by the "Blood Curse" chains.
Since ascending to a "Second Generation Vampire," Benson's powers had amplified significantly. His deployment of the "Phantom Echo" struck directly at the soul, a force even Sherwin's "Agony of the Wolf" bestowed resilience couldn't withstand.
Reflecting on his choice to accept the "Exorcist's" proposition, Benson mused that it was perhaps the most astute decision of his life—far more engaging than endless overtime at the law firm. Seizing the moment while his adversary was vulnerable, Benson swung the "Book of Penance" once more, its metal-reinforced corner colliding with Sherwin's face.
Bang!
The impact sent Sherwin hurtling backward, the force of the blow resonating through the night air.
"Are you afraid?" Benson queried, discarding the now-damaged "Book of Penance." He advanced steadily, the "Blood Curse" chains around him morphing back into crimson script, which then coalesced around his right hand, forming a spectral, blood-red cross.
"Ugh..." Sherwin's eyes widened in shock. As he emerged from his pain-induced stupor, he was met with the looming figure of Benson, the massive cross emblem glowing ominously. Gritting his teeth, Sherwin raised his arms defensively.
Boom!
The ensuing collision sent Sherwin sprawling once more, crashing into a rusted streetlamp, snapping it in two. The spectral cross had embedded itself into his chest, siphoning his vitality and fear to bolster its own power.
With a guttural growl, Sherwin wrenched the cross from his torso, his complexion paling visibly.
"A mere mortal wound... is that all you've got?" he sneered.
Before he could finish his taunt, the theater's rear entrance erupted with chaotic footsteps, followed by a cacophony of gunfire. Recognizing Benson's silhouette, Constantine rallied the group, directing their fire toward Sherwin.
"There's a lone enemy here!" he shouted.
Embracing the ethos of "divine virtue," Constantine fired repeatedly, his bullets unerringly targeting Sherwin's face. The other members, wary of hitting Benson, spread out to encircle Sherwin, their shots less accurate but no less determined.
Though the physical damage was minimal, the psychological affront was palpable.
Sherwin's expression darkened, a surge of indescribable rage bubbling within. From the diminishing sounds within the theater, it was evident that the Silent Monks were facing defeat—a devastating blow to the resources he'd painstakingly amassed over years, now squandered in a single night.
These heretics were more formidable than he'd anticipated.
"Heh, if not for the supreme blessing granted by the 'Agony of the Wolf,' tonight might have ended differently..." Sherwin mused.
No longer holding back, he advanced toward Benson, ignoring the sporadic bullets. The cryptic bindings around him glowed a menacing red, the arcane symbols seemingly seared into his very flesh, his aura intensifying with each step.
His myriad crimson eyes fixated first on the theater's rooftop, then on Constantine, who was reloading his weapon.
Sensing the imminent danger, Constantine attempted to retreat into the crowd, only to realize that the others had dispersed, leaving him conspicuously exposed.
A cold sweat broke out as he scanned for Benson, relieved to see him stepping forward to confront the transformed Sherwin.
"Is this your true form?" Benson inquired, a hint of curiosity in his gaze. Recognizing the gravity of the moment, he raised his arms, summoning the "Blood Curse." Behind him, a colossal, crimson cross materialized, chains clanking ominously.
Opposite him, Sherwin's skin flushed a deep red. With a guttural growl, a blood-red line appeared down his forehead, his head splitting apart as he tore at his own chest, peeling back layers of skin.
Before his grotesque transformation could complete, Benson's chains shot forward from the crimson cross.
"When the sun cools and its brilliance fades, when yesterday turns to dust, perhaps then the 'Agony of the Wolf' will find rest," Sherwin intoned, his chest wound gushing blood that morphed into massive hands, seizing the approaching chains.
"We are but wandering flames, setting the world ablaze wherever we tread."
His conjoined arms separated with a sickening squelch, birthing a duplicate of himself, both entities sharing a singular consciousness.
Alternating verses, they continued their eerie chant in praise of the "Agony of the Wolf."
"Our greed knows no bounds!"
"Especially our thirst for destruction..."
"...and our eternal enmity toward existence itself."
"The pack remains silent, the flesh endures agony."
The blood pooling beneath them ignited into crimson flames. Sherwin inhaled deeply, his voice rising.
"We are born without blood or flesh, defined solely by three traits:
"—Destruction, destruction, and... destruction."
Benson now understood why these individuals were labeled "cultists." The macabre scene before him was enough to unnerve even the most steadfast, with their unsettling chants and the overwhelming stench of blood.
In contrast, the "vampire" blood seemed almost benign—it didn't induce such grotesque transformations and even remedied minor physical ailments.
Constantine, seasoned and unperturbed, recognized Sherwin's desperation. He motioned for the others to retreat into the theater.
"Let's fall back. No point in being cannon fodder," he urged in hushed tones.
A solitary retreat might be deemed cowardly, but a collective withdrawal was a "strategic repositioning."
The group, jolted into action, hastily followed Constantine back inside.
"Heh."
The two Sherwins paid no heed to the fleeing non-combatants, each gripping a "Blood Curse" chain, grinning malevolently as they closed in on Benson.
"Foolish heretic, what chance do you stand against me now? Twenty percent? Ten?" they mocked.
"I'd say... a hundred percent."
The tense atmosphere was pierced by a voice, barely concealing its excitement, emanating from the theater's rooftop.
Both Sherwins shuddered, their myriad crimson eyes snapping toward the source.
Two figures stood atop the theater. The foremost wore a wide-brimmed hat, his black trench coat billowing in the wind. The night seemed to swirl and churn behind him, his brass-hued eyes gleaming even across the distance.
A sudden paralysis gripped Sherwin, his body betraying him. The countless crimson eyes on his form fixated on the newcomer.
Tears of blood streamed down as an inhuman voice escaped his lips.
"...Monster."