Reincarnated with a lucky draw system

"Dracula," intoned a voice, resonant and synthetic, broadcasting from concealed amplifiers embedded across the ravaged terrain. "The hour of your demise has arrived." Stepping forth from the swirling dust clouds was Nexus, the unchallenged monarch of mechanical domains, his chassis an exquisite amalgamation of hyper-alloys, quantum processors, and adaptive nanotechnology, ocular sensors pulsing with data streams. At his side materialized Cronos, sovereign of the necrotic realms, his skeletal visage shrouded in billowing cloaks of shadow essence, wielding a scythe forged from condensed oblivion that hungered for life forces. Their arrival had been facilitated by Hermes, the elusive messenger deity, who dissolved into the ether the moment his conveyance concluded—ever evasive, prioritizing self-preservation.

Dracula wasted no breath on retorts; dialogue was superfluous in the face of annihilation. Deprived of his blood manipulation, unable to conjure crimson storms or essence-infused armaments, he reverted to his primogenitor essence: unadulterated physical prowess, vampiric agility refined through countless eons of conflict. He surged forward like a unleashed tempest, his initial strike a monumental fist impacting Nexus's torso with seismic force, buckling reinforced plating and eliciting cascades of electrical discharges that illuminated the desolate landscape.

Nexus responded with mechanical alacrity, appendages reconfiguring into serrated vibro-blades that hummed with ultrasonic vibrations, slashing arcs capable of bisecting asteroids. Integrated emitters unleashed volleys of plasma bolts, superheated projectiles streaking toward Dracula with unerring accuracy, compelling him to execute acrobatic evasions—somersaulting over craters, utilizing debris as improvised shields. Cronos amplified the assault, his scythe sweeping in broad crescents that propagated waves of entropic decay, corroding matter on contact and instilling debilitating weakness in any entity ensnared.

The engagement escalated into a symphony of destruction, the planet's surface transforming into a scarred arena of perpetual warfare. Dracula seized an errant drone from mid-air, wielding it as a makeshift flail to pulverize a cluster of skeletal warriors advancing under Cronos's command, their bony frames shattering into dust clouds. He propelled himself skyward to evade a colossus's earth-shattering stomp, which rent fissures miles long, then descended with a devastating aerial kick that imploded the giant's central processor, triggering a chain reaction explosion that bathed the battlefield in fiery radiance. Yet, the opposition adapted relentlessly—Nexus's systems recalibrating in real-time, forecasting Dracula's trajectories with predictive algorithms, countering with targeted electromagnetic pulses that momentarily disrupted his neural impulses, inducing fleeting paralysis.

Cronos invoked necromantic surges, resurrecting fallen automatons as hybrid abominations—mech-zombies lurching with fused circuitry and rotting sinew, their attacks a grotesque blend of laser fire and clawing grasps. Liches, ancient undead mages, materialized from ethereal portals, channeling bolts of soul-eroding arcana that gnawed at Dracula's resilience, forcing him to channel raw willpower to shrug off the spectral agony. Ghoul variants, twisted parodies of vampiric kin, swarmed in feral packs, their fangs dripping with corrupting ichor designed to accelerate the bloodsuckers' drain.

The ordeal spanned three interminable days, each segment a chapter of escalating brutality. The inaugural day witnessed Dracula dismantling initial waves of drones and skeletons, his claws eviscerating reinforced hulls with surgical ferocity, but the parasites' incessant siphoning eroded his endurance, rendering each exertion more laborious. By twilight, the terrain was littered with metallic detritus and osseous fragments, acrid smoke mingling with necrotic fumes.

The second day elevated to personal duels; atop a improvised pinnacle formed from piled wreckage, Dracula grappled with Cronos in a visceral melee. Punches resonated like thunderclaps, fracturing ethereal ribs, while the undead king's curses inflicted accelerated aging, wrinkling Dracula's immortal skin and stiffening joints—yet he persevered, countering with headbutts and grapples that dispersed necrotic mists, his roars defying the encroaching fatigue.

The third day heralded Nexus's metamorphosis: assimilating surrounding debris, he expanded into a titanic mech colossus, dominating the horizon with artillery barrages of missiles and energy cascades. Dracula ascended the behemoth like a primordial predator scaling prey, infiltrating armored seams, sabotaging vital conduits with targeted strikes. Sparks flew as systems failed sequentially, the giant toppling in slow motion amid quakes that reshaped continents.

As the fourth dawn crested, resolution arrived. Dracula clutched Cronos's pulverized cranium, the king's essence unraveling in a final, despairing shriek. His heel ground into Nexus's deactivated form, circuits flickering their last. Breath ragged, lesions marring his frame without a hint of regeneration, Dracula scanned the horizon, sensing the inbound deluge. "Approach, then," he intoned lowly, voice a gravelly echo of defiance. "Unveil your full arsenal."

The sovereigns materialized en masse, their arrivals heralded by reality-warping phenomena—thunderous booms, infernal portals, rune-etched gateways. Baal directed from a vantage, his tactical acumen weaving the assault's threads, but the vanguard ignited with Zeus's cataclysmic lightning tempests, forking bolts each potent enough to annihilate worlds, scorching the air with ozone tang. Lucifer unleashed chains forged from hellfire, whipping tendrils that sought to ensnare and incinerate. Odin's runes materialized as binding sigils, attempting to rewrite Dracula's destiny into one of subjugation.

Seraphel commanded celestial phalanxes, their lances of divine luminescence piercing shadows with purifying zeal. The Primordial Dragon exhaled breaths of stellar plasma, rivers of flame hot as supernovae cores. Mephistopheles conjured labyrinthine illusions, duplicating the battlefield into deceptive mirages where foes multiplied endlessly.

Yet, the onslaught transcended mere sovereigns; legions from disparate universal races converged, unified against the crimson threat. Celestial seraphim from luminous higher planes descended in radiant flocks, their wings razor-edged, projecting beams of concentrated starlight that vaporized swaths of ground. Void walkers, enigmatic shades birthed in lightless abysses, phased through dimensions, extending tendrils of non-existence to engulf Dracula, dragging fragments of his essence into nullity.

Elemental titans lumbered forth: fire lords embodying volcanic fury, each footfall birthing magma pools, hurling pyroclastic barrages; ice behemoths from frozen nebulae, exhaling blizzards that encased in crystalline prisons, their strikes shattering with glacial force. Arcane sorcerers from secluded mystic enclaves wove incantations of deconstruction, spells unraveling molecular bonds, seeking to disperse Dracula's form into atomic chaos.

Bio-engineered chimeras, amalgamations of draconic might and insectoid agility, surged in coordinated swarms—scales impervious to strikes, stingers injecting neurotoxins calibrated to paralyze vampiric neurology, wings buzzing with supersonic evasion. Astral nomads, ethereal wanderers of star lanes, manipulated gravity wells to crush or hurl, their forms shimmering with cosmic dust. Shadow weavers from darkened realms spun veils of obscurity, blinding and disorienting while siphoning ambient life.