Chapter 267
The air in Orario’s factory district, already thick with the scent of death and the acrid smell of blood, suddenly pulsed with an alien, suffocating heat.
The factory district didn’t just grow hot; it warped, shimmering like a mirage over a sun-baked desert, even though the sun had set many hours ago.
The source of this impossible heat was a creature standing amidst the wreckage of what was once a bustling district.
Draco, or what remained of the humanoid dragon-kin, had finally completed his stage three transformation.
He was no longer a bipedal being struggling with newfound power, but something more, primal, and terrifyingly magnificent.
Mors watched, his breath catching not in his throat, but in the deepest recesses of his warrior’s soul.
It was a morbid fascination, the kind a master smith feels upon seeing a legendary ore he thought existed only in fables.
The heat he felt radiating from Draco’s new form was a physical blow, a dense wall of energy that warped the air and turned the surrounding into sluggish molten rock.
It was viscous, glowing puddle of slag, bubbling lazily as if a piece of the planet’s core had broken through the surface.
Draco looked like a creature sculpted from volcanic fury and midnight stone.
Obsidian scales, each the size of a dinner plate, covered his body.
They weren't smooth; marred by jagged, crystalline protrusions that pulsed with an inner, molten light, they looked like the very heart of a volcano given form.
Two massive horns, curved and ridged like those of a colossal ram, swept back from his skull.
His body was a masterpiece of savage anatomy—a taut, muscular frame promising both immense strength and terrifying speed.
Claws thick as daggers tipped his powerful hands, and his feet were armed with hooked talons that dug deep into the softening ground, leaving steaming furrows.
An extra layer of smaller, interlocking scales fortified these lethal appendages, making them both weapons and shields.
But it was the head, the maw, that held Mors’s gaze.
It was a wedge of reptilian fury, from which flames licked intermittently at his lips with every breath.
Each exhalation was not a hiss, but a low, rumbling growl, like stones grinding together deep within the earth.
When the beast’s jaws parted slightly, Mors could see rows of teeth, sharp and numerous as a shark's, each one a gleaming white spear point against the blackness of its mouth.
Mors, his full plate armour – though bearing the gouges and scorch marks from his earlier, less demanding skirmish with Draco – still held up remarkably well, subconsciously tightened his grip on the silver spear held in his gauntleted hand.
It wasn’t a gesture born of fear, but of anticipation.
His blood quickened, a thrill coursing through his veins.
He hadn’t expected such an occurrence, such a dramatic evolution in a foe he had previously considered little more than a challenging warm-up.
But this… this was different.
This was a welcome development.
An opponent he had once deemed lesser than himself, a mere amusement, had suddenly erupted into something on par, if not greater, than his own considerable might.
The thought brought a wide, almost manic grin to his lips, momentarily hidden by the visor of his helmet.
“Hahahahahahahaha!” Mors’s laughter, deep and resonant, echoed off the remaining, barely standing structures, carrying an almost predatory mirth.
“To think that you can still entertain me further! I don’t know if you have lost your sense of reason and can understand me, or if you are still somewhere in there, boy, but the current you is far more glorious than the previous you!”
Draco didn’t respond with words, or rather, he couldn’t.
The beast was in absolute control now, a maelstrom of primal instincts unleashed.
Ninety percent of his former reason, his complex thoughts, had been willingly surrendered, traded for this raw, untamed power.
And the encroaching tide of transformation hadn’t ceased; it was still ongoing, a relentless surge attempting to push his very being towards the terrifying threshold of the next, even more devastating stage.
In response to Mors’s seemingly unintelligible, yet clearly taunting, ramblings, Draco took it as a direct provocation.
The molten crystals on his scales flared, pulsing with active intensity.
The ground beneath his talons groaned, a sickening slurping sound accompanying its rapid liquefaction.
Rooooaaaar!
Opening his massive maw, a gaping abyss rimmed with molten fire, Draco let out a bone-chilling roar.
It wasn’t merely a sound; it was a physical force, a concussive wave of pure, unadulterated bloodlust and draconic aura.
The entire factory district, became a suffocating vacuum, the air itself seeming to be sucked away, leaving a crushing pressure.
Birds, roosting on ruined structures around the outer edges of the district, exploded into frantic flight, their squawks drowned out by the sheer force of the pressure, but many didn’t make it far before their bodies ceased, creating a rain of dead bodies.
The ground trembled violently, and nearby dilapidated structures groaned, their foundations struggling against the assault.
Any lesser adventurers in the vicinity would have been paralyzed with terror, their wills shattered, or may have outright been killed.
But Mors, a level 7, merely adjusted his stance, his grin widening, a glint of challenge in his eyes.
The mini-dragon wasted no more time.
With a movement surprisingly fluid for his bulk, Draco surged forward, the ground beneath his talons groaning and then dissolving into shimmering slag.
It was an explosion of motion, not a clumsy charge.
Despite his large size – easily the dimensions of a small house – his stats were balanced, granting him an astonishing agility that defied his massive frame.
The first attack was a devastating tail swipe, a blur of obsidian scales and molten crystal.
The thick, spiked appendage lashed out, aimed not just to strike Mors, but to sweep away everything in its path.
Mors, anticipating the sheer force, didn't try to parry.
He ducked low, a practiced movement of a warrior who had faced titans.
The tail whistled over his helmet, the sheer wind pressure ruffling the fur lining his gorget, the tip kicking up a shower of incandescent rock fragments where it churned the newly liquefied ground.
Without a pause, Draco followed up with a furious claw attack.
The front limb, thick as a tree trunk, descended with crushing force, talons extended like obsidian blades, aiming to rend Mors in two.
Mors rolled, a surprisingly nimble maneuver for someone encased in full plated armour.
The talons gouged deep furrows into the molten ground, sending up geysers of bubbling magma.
The heat was becoming unbearable, even through the armour .
The floor was no longer solid; it was a shifting, viscous lake of fire, demanding constant vigilance from Mors to avoid sinking or being burned.
Draco pressed his advantage, roaring again, a sound that vibrated in Mors’s very bones.
He snapped his massive maw, flames flickering around his sharp teeth, trying to engulf Mors in a torrent of superheated air and fire.
Mors, agile as ever, twisted away, the heat scorching the air around him, making the metal of his gauntlets feel uncomfortably warm.
He thrust his spear forward, aiming for a weak point, a joint in the scales, but the tip merely scraped, throwing off a shower of sparks that were instantly swallowed by the overwhelming heat.
The mini-dragon was a whirlwind of destruction.
It moved with a primal, instinctual grace, each action a deadly dance of power.
It didn't think; it acted.
A powerful bash with its ram-like horns sent Mors stumbling back, the impact vibrating through his entire body even through the reinforced steel of his breastplate.
He recovered quickly, his eyes narrowing.
This was indeed a challenge.
The environment itself was becoming an active participant in the battle.
The ground beneath Draco was in a continuous state of flux, melting, bubbling, and reforming into brittle, cooling crusts only to melt again.
The air shimmered, distorting vision, and the metallic structures of the factory district began to glow orange, then red, warping and twisting like forgotten toys as the heat intensified.
Small explosions of superheated steam erupted from puddles of water, adding a thick, choking fog to the inferno.
Mors dodged a wide sweep of Draco’s tail, which shattered a reinforced pillar into dust and molten slag.
He parried a snapping bite, twisting his spear to deflect the massive jaws, the force of the bite nearly tearing the weapon from his grasp.
His initial physical attacks, delivered with the strength of a level 7 adventurer, were proving utterly ineffective.
His spear, usually capable of piercing thick monster hides, merely scraped the obsidian scales, leaving barely a mark.
He could feel the impact, the sheer physical power behind his thrusts, but it was like hitting a mountain of diamond.
“Incredible durability,” Mors muttered, his voice a low growl, barely audible above the infernal cacophony.
“My physical might alone won’t suffice against this… creature.”
Draco seemed to understand the sentiment, if not the words.
He reared back slightly and unleashed a torrent of fire.
It wasn’t a controlled stream; it was a wild, chaotic blast of liquid flame that turned the street into an instant river of fire.
Mors dove to the side, rolling behind the monolithic ruin of an unknown thick metal object.
The metal behemoth glowed white-hot almost instantly, the side facing Draco beginning to sag and melt like wax.
As Mors peeked from behind his rapidly liquefying cover, the beast stomped a massive foot onto the ground.
A shockwave of telluric energy radiated outwards.
The ground buckled and split.
A fissure of raw earth and stone erupted, snaking its way towards Mors.
He abandoned his cover, leaping from one solid-looking piece of metal to another, treating the battlefield like a treacherous swamp.
The current situation presented a new, exciting problem.
Mors had held back, savouring the challenge, but now, circumstances demanded a higher level of engagement.
He shifted his grip on the spear, his eyes locking onto Draco’s glowing form.
It was time to unveil more of his repertoire.
A faint, almost imperceptible hum began to emanate from Mors’s silver spear.
“Let’s see how you like this, you magnificent bastard!” Mors yelled, planting his feet on a metal beam.
He channeled his mana, focusing it down his arms and into the silver spear.
“Spark of the heavens, judgment of the storm, grant my steel thy thunderous form.
Pierce what resists! Shatter what holds fast! Volo Fulgur!"
As he spoke the incantation, his spear began to change.
Tiny, brilliant white sparks began to dance along the silver shaft, congregating at the spearhead.
The air hummed with power, and the scent of ozone intensified tenfold.
This was his weapon enchantment magic, a specialized art that imbued his spear with phenomenal penetrative power.
He saved it for foes with unnatural defences, and it had never failed him.
Draco paused for a barest fraction of a second, his reptilian eyes narrowing at the new phenomenon.
The instincts that governed him recognized the threat of a different kind of energy.
He answered with a roar and charged again, but this time Mors met him with newfound confidence.
Instead of deflecting, Mors thrust.
The lightning-wreathed spearhead met Draco’s charging shoulder.
This time, the result was different.
There was no screech of metal on scale.
There was a deafening boom of thunder.
The lightning aura exploded on impact, and the spearhead, propelled by both Mors’s strength and the focused electrical charge, punched through the outer obsidian scale.
It sank four inches deep into the dense muscle beneath.
For the first time, Draco screamed.
It was a sound of pure agony and outrage, high-pitched and piercing.
Red, steaming ichor, thick as tar, welled from the wound.
Pain.
He felt pain.
This infuriated him beyond measure.
The beast went berserk.
It forgot tactical charges and went into a frenzy of pure destruction.
Claws, teeth, horns, and tail became a continuous, overlapping storm of attacks.
It slammed its body into buildings, bringing them down in avalanches of brick and steel, trying to bury Mors in the rubble.
It unleashed blasts of elemental fury—a jet of high-pressure water from its maw that could strip paint from steel, a howling gale of wind that threatened to tear Mors from his feet, and a continuous belching of fire that set the entire district ablaze.
Mors was now on the back foot again, but it was a different kind of retreat.
He was a silver blur amidst the chaos, his lightning-spear flashing as he parried, dodged, and occasionally landed another shallow, painful jab.
But Draco's sheer speed and the multi-pronged nature of his assault were taking their toll.
A sweeping claw caught Mors on the pauldron, ripping the plate of steel clean off and sending it spinning into the molten sludge below.
His armour was failing piece by piece, and his stamina was not infinite.
Draco was an engine of rage, and he was fighting on his home turf of elemental chaos.
Mors knew he had to play more of his cards.
It was risky.
It required concentration he could ill-afford to spare.
But he had no choice.
He needed to be faster.
He began to chant.
But he didn't stop moving, utilizing a skill called concurrent chanting.
While his body performed the deadly dance of survival—ducking under a snapping jaw, twisting away from a talon, parrying a tail-lash—his mind and mouth were engaged in a separate, complex task.
A low, rapid stream of words flowed from his lips, almost too quiet to be heard over the cacophony of the battle.
"Wind that weaves through the silent peak, grant my step the speed I seek…”
‘Dodge’
“…arrow’s flight and falcon’s dive, let my fleeting form be alive…”
‘Parry.’
“…light’s first touch on morning dew, make my every motion new…”
‘Leap.’
“…from the fleeting shadows, I take my grace! Let the world blur, let my steps fly! Aether Celeritas!”
The final word was spoken as he vaulted over a collapsing wall.
A visible shimmer enveloped his body, like heat haze on a summer road.
To Mors, the world suddenly shifted.
The raging, impossibly fast mini-dragon now seemed to be moving through water.
The frenzied swipes of its claws became telegraphed, the blasts of its breath traceable.
He was now faster.
With a surge of renewed vigour, Mors became a phantom.
He weaved through Draco’s assault not just by reacting, but by anticipating.
He was no longer a hornet stinging a bull; he was the ghost of a hornet, an untouchable sliver of silver and lightning.
He darted in, his spear stabbing into the joints of Draco’s limbs, the soft flesh under his jaw, the sensitive area around his eyes.
Each strike was a thunderclap, a fresh jolt of agony that sent red ichor spraying.
He scored a dozen hits in the time it took Draco to complete a single attack, a silver blur leaving trails of lightning in his wake.
Draco’s roars of rage turned into bellows of pure frustration.
This… this insect!
This tiny, gleaming pest that he could not crush, could not burn, could not touch!
It danced around him, inflicting a thousand tiny tortures.
The last vestiges of Draco’s reason were screaming, drowning in the tidal wave of primal draconic fury.
The beast within knew this dance on the ground was a losing proposition.
Its instincts, screamed for an undeniable solution.
One that prey could not escape.
With a final, earth-shattering roar of utter exasperation, Draco began to act.
With a powerful surge of his powerful muscles, Draco leaped.
His powerful legs coiled, pushing off from the liquefying ground, sending up a colossal spray of molten rock.
Its leathery wings, previously tucked close to its muscular body, unfurled with a snap, catching the superheated air.
With a beat of its wings, a downwash of air like a physical blow slammed into the ground, kicking up another tidal wave of molten rock and debris.
Mors was thrown back, forced to anchor himself by stabbing his spear deep into the ground.
Draco ascended, rising above the hells-cape he had created.
He was a black silhouette against the eerie glow of the burning city, a demon ascending to its throne.
Hovering a thousand feet above the inferno of the factory district, Draco’s frustration coalesced into a singular, terrible purpose: Annihilation.
He tilted his head back, and his jaws began to open.
And open.
And open.
They unhinged to an impossible, unnatural degree, wider than his own skull.
Deep within his throat, a star was being born.
A swirling vortex of impossible magic energy beginning to coalesce.
Roiling, incandescent fire was compressed into a searing core.
Arcs of furious, white-hot lightning crackled and chained around it.
And binding it all together was a maelstrom of cyclonic wind, a focusing lens for the raw power within.
The sound was a high-pitched, soul-tearing whine that drowned out the roar of the fires below, a sound that promised oblivion.
Down below, Mors looked up, his eyes narrowing.
He felt the sheer density of the mana gathering in the sky, and cold, true fear finally touched his heart.
This wasn't an attack.
It was an extinction-level event.
He couldn’t dodge it.
He couldn’t block it.
It would scour the entire district, and him with it, from the face of the world.
He had one chance.
He ripped his spear from the ground, the lightning aura flaring back to life with a final, defiant crackle.
He channeled every ounce of his strength, every drop of his mana, into his arms, into the spear.
His muscles screamed, his armour groaned under the strain.
This would be one of the greatest feat of strength in his life.
With a primal yell that mirrored the beast’s in the sky, he threw.
The silver spear became a meteor.
It flew straight and true, a bolt of lightning ascending to challenge the heavens.
It crossed the thousand-foot distance in the blink of an eye, aimed directly at the center of Draco's chest.
It struck home.
There was a clash, louder and more final than any before.
The spear, carrying the hopes and the full power of a Level 7 adventurer, impacted the obsidian scales over Draco's heart, missing the soft spot by a few inches……
And it bounced off.
The spear was sent tumbling end over end back towards the earth, its lightning aura extinguished.
It hadn't even left a proper crack.
Draco, who had been charging the attack with his eyes closed in concentration, slowly opened them.
He looked down at the falling spear, then at the insignificant armoured figure below.
And for the first time, a truly sentient expression crossed his draconic features.
A wide, toothy grin of absolute triumph and contempt.
He had tanked it.
He had taken the best his foe had to offer, and it was nothing.
The whine in his throat reached its crescendo.
The light became impossibly bright, a sun born in the dead of night.
Then, he unleashed it.
A torrent of pure, incandescent energy erupted from his maw.
It wasn't a beam; it was a wave, a wide flood of destruction that encompassed a quarter of the factory district.
The light was so bright it bleached all colour from the world, turning everything to stark white and absolute black.
The roar of its release was a physical wall of sound that flattened anything still standing.
The wave of light and power struck the ground.
There was no explosion, no impact crater in the traditional sense.
There was only erasure.
Metal didn't melt; it vaporized.
Stone didn't turn to lava; it was instantly sublimated into glowing gas.
The very earth was scoured away, layer by layer, in a silent, terrifying spectacle of unmaking.
A vast, circular portion of the factory district simply ceased to be, replaced by a perfectly smooth, concave bowl of glowing, molten rock.
The attack was so impossibly intense, its energy so dense, that it didn't stop at the surface.
It burned downwards, melting through bedrock and sub-levels as if they were mist, until it punched through the ceiling of the first floor of the, sprawling dungeon that lay hidden beneath the city.
A new, gaping skylight of incandescent magma now illuminated the corridors of the subterranean world.
Across the entire city of Orario, the fighting stopped.
The desperate clashes between adventurers and the forces of the evilus ground to a halt.
Every combatant, friend and foe alike, turned their heads as one, their eyes drawn to the new, malevolent star that had appeared in the sky.
They stared in silent awe and horror at the hovering, draconic figure, silhouetted against the glow of the absolute destruction he had wrought.
Draco surveyed his work.
The molten crater, the vanquished foe, the silent city now held captive by his presence.
He threw his head back and let out a roar not of rage or frustration, but of pure, unadulterated victory.
The sound washed over the city, a proclamation of his ascendance.
To punctuate his triumph, he unleashed a plume of conventional fire high into the night sky, a volcanic eruption that served as his victory banner.
He was the king.
He was the apex.
He was absolute.
However… down in the center of the newly formed lava lake, something stirred.
The discarded, dented helm of a Level 7 adventurer bobbed to the surface, its visor glowing with a faint, vengeful light.
Victory was never so simple.
A/N: I don’t know what I was doing at the point when I wrote this ?. I feel like I might have made a mistake pushing Draco this far, the side effects when the transformation ends might as well cripple him, it isn't even the end of the war?.
Well might have to pull off some crazy plot armour for him to still participate, we are already in too deep, might maybe go all the way to stage four ?.
Ugh writing the aftermath of the war is going to be a pain too……sorry for ranting…and thanks for the continued support.
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