Chapter 272
The city of Orario, a sprawling monument to ambition and glory, slowly began to exhale.
After the humiliating declaration of retreat from Olivas, a rather mediocre commander of the evilus, and Erebus’s ominous departure from the church, the various skirmishes that had plagued the streets seemed to finally be sputtering to a halt.
Weary adventurers, bruised but victorious, began to consolidate their positions, tending to the wounded and securing the defended territories.
A fragile, uneasy calm descended upon most districts, a silence broken only by distant wails and the crackle of smoldering embers.
But there was one exception, a district that no living soul, adventurer or evilus, dared to approach.
The factory district.
It was not merely a battleground; it was an active hellscape.
From miles away, one could feel the waves of unbearable heat radiating outward from the district’s core, a monstrous, churning inferno.
At its epicentre lay a vast, gaping crater, a maw of molten rock that pulsed with an angry, orange glow.
The viscous, incandescent liquid, hot enough to vaporize stone, cascaded downward like a river of fire, plummeting through a gaping hole that had pierced straight into the first floor of the city's dungeon below.
The air, thick with the stench of burning metal and pulverized stone, shimmered with convection currents.
Plumes of acrid, toxic smoke erupted from the burning structures that still stood, skeletal remains against the lurid backdrop, painting the night sky with deadly gases.
Ash and soot, like black snow, rained down intermittently, settling on every available surface, intensifying the macabre beauty of the destruction.
Even the distant constellations seemed muted through the lethal haze.
Hovering amidst this apocalyptic landscape, a living embodiment of the devastation, was the culprit: a creature of given terrifying form, a mini-dragon, or more specifically, Draco.
His obsidian scales reflected the hellish glow beneath, making him appear as if carved from solidified night and tempered in inferno.
He circled the molten crater, a silent, menacing sentinel over the chaos he had wrought.
Yet, despite the seemingly unbearable heat that would incinerate anything not attuned to such extremes, a faint stir at the edge of the infernal pool caught Draco’s reptilian eye.
A humanoid silhouette, agonizingly slow, began to crawl out from the superheated rock.
Around its body, something glowed with an internal, furious red – the remains of half-melted full plated armor.
As the figure moved, clumps of the molten metal, still radiating high temperatures, dropped to the ground, hissing on the cooler stones.
A sickening, sizzling sound of flesh burning covered the faint, muffled screams emanating from the crawler.
It was a sound of immense suffering, raw and visceral.
Each movement was deliberate, excruciating.
Bits and large pieces of torn, seared flesh stuck to the armor like glue as the person, with desperate, trembling hands, began to peel the monstrous shell from their body.
The back, in particular, seemed to cling, each tug ripping away more of the damaged skin.
When the horrifying task was finally done, what remained was a severely charred, naked figure.
It was hard, almost impossible, to make out any distinct features beneath the extensive, grisly burn wounds.
The flesh was blackened and peeling, blistered beyond recognition.
That the person could still draw breath, let alone move, was not just a miracle; it was show to an indomitable, almost insane will.
This person, seeming to defy all logic and medical possibility, was Mors, the Level 7 evilus champion.
He was the one who had taken the full brunt of Draco’s super breath attack.
In those precious, fleeting seconds before the concentrated plasma blast had detonated, Mors had used every ounce of his ingrained combat instinct, level and sheer desperation to run.
He hadn’t made it far, not nearly as far as he would have liked, but it was enough.
Enough to preserve his life, though barely a flicker in the face of oblivion.
The very air around him felt like a thousand burning needles, each breath an agony that tore through his lungs.
Everything hurt.
Every nerve ending screamed in protest, every charred inch of his skin pulsed with an excruciating, relentless fire.
And the heat, the constant, oppressive heat radiating from the molten core of the district, far from helping, only exacerbated his wounds.
It was a constant reminder of the hell he had just survived, and the one he was still enduring.
Taking a few strained, ragged breaths, each one a struggle against the pain and the taste of blood, Mors somehow managed to raise his head towards the swirling toxic sky.
His raw, blistered eyes, barely open slits in his ruined face, met with the detestable, predatory red reptilian gaze of Draco, hovering above.
The mini-dragon’s eyes seemed to regard him with an almost chilling indifference, a silent judgment that felt like mockery in his pitiful state.
A low, guttural sound, wet and broken, escaped Mors’s throat, distorted by the agony. “Hahaha… cough, cough!”
His laughter broke into a violent, rattling coughing fit, a spray of dark, arterial blood escaping his lips, adding a gruesome stain to the already ruined ground.
It burned, searing his throat even further.
“How the tables have turned, dragon-boy,” Mors rasped, his voice a raw, sandpaper whisper, laced with a bizarre blend of defiance and self-mockery.
“To think… I was the one who made you like this.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the thrill of combat, the calculated risks, the sheer power he had wielded against the creature now flying over him.
The creature he had once mocked, through his own taunts and strength, had forced its evolution into this devastating form.
The irony was a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth, mingling with the blood.
He, the architect of this monstrous transformation, now lay broken at its feet, utterly at its mercy.
………………………………………………………………..
After unleashing his super breath attack on Mors, Draco had remained suspended in the polluted night sky above the newly formed crater in the factory district.
He surveyed his handiwork with a deep sense of satisfaction, a primal jubilation echoing through his draconic form.
The sheer power, the raw destructive force he had just unleashed, surged through him, a temporary high that washed over the immense exhaustion.
The scent of superheated rock and the lingering taste of ionized air were his trophies.
However, his moment of triumphant reverie was abruptly interrupted.
A cold, thick wave of bloodlust, potent and unmistakable, slammed into his heightened senses, directed squarely at him.
It was a sensation he hadn't expected from a creature he believed to be utterly crushed.
A low rumble, deeper than the bubbling and sizzling of the molten rock, echoed in the backdrop of the inferno.
From beneath the swirling, molten pool, a spire of earth slowly rose, pushing up from the depths.
It was the only patch of solid land in what had become a churning sea of fire.
Even for a mini-dragon of his size, submerging in the molten pool would be catastrophic.
Fwoosh!
The sound of powerful, leathery wings parting the dense, toxic clouds echoed through the inferno, a sudden gust of superheated wind tearing at the debris.
Draco slowly began his descent, his form silhouetted against the lurid orange glow below.
His descent was not without effort; his muscles, though powerful, quivered with residual strain.
Thud!
The impact of his landing on the spire of earth was monumental.
His full weight, that of a true dragon though still in a 'mini' form compared to his true potential, caused the unstable structure to creak and groan in unseen places, sending tremors through the ground.
His sharp, obsidian claws and talons instinctively dug deep into the rock, leaving gaping gashes as they gripped tightly for balance.
After finally settling his form, a deep exhale of steam, hot enough to make the air visibly warp, escaped Draco’s nostrils, sounding like a whistling roar, drawn out and ragged.
The super breath attack had undoubtedly been the most powerful attack he could muster in his current stage three transformation.
It had been devastatingly effective, but also extremely draining, a magical and physical exertion that he knew he could not unleash a second time, not without dire consequences.
His stage three transformation, a temporary but immense surge of power and size, only lasted for a precious five minutes.
He had already wasted four of them in the battle and the subsequent attack, leaving him with mere seconds.
Added to the immense magical drain of the breath attack, he was mostly spent, his magical reserves alarmingly low.
Physically, too, he was utterly exhausted.
Moving such a large, powerful body to deal with a fast-moving, infuriatingly resilient opponent like Mors had been incredibly taxing.
Every muscle ached, every bone felt heavy.
Feeling his tense muscles finally begin to relax, even if only slightly, Draco raised his head.
His focus, sharp despite his exhaustion, found Mors.
The champion lay slumped at the edge of the molten lake, a truly sorry, broken state.
The sight of the defeated foe should have brought him satisfaction, a final release of the accumulated rage.
Yet, a strange sensation washed over him.
His draconic body, still brimming with the residual energy of the transformation, yearned to ascend to a higher state, to push past its current limitations, to evolve further.
It craved more power, more destruction.
But mentally, his logical mind, the part of him that was still truly 'Draco,' identified that the target of his primal rage was no longer a threat.
Mors was annihilated, broken beyond repair.
There was no need for squeezing greater power out of his exhausted form.
All he needed to do was a light, almost casual smack, and Mors would die.
However, his mind and body had entered a state of dissonance.
His primal instincts screamed for more power, for complete obliteration, while his returning conscious mind recognized the futility of it.
The conflict was jarring, a battle within himself.
With the transformation time ticking down to the absolute last 33 seconds of stage three, feeling the immense power of his current form begin to ebb, Draco forced his body to act, to override the conflicting desires.
He needed to end this.
Letting out a low, rumbling growl, a sound of deep exhaustion mixed with a lingering predatory instinct, Draco pushed his body from the rock spire.
With a single, surprisingly light flap of his wings, he propelled himself forward, landing with a soft thud directly in front of Mors, who remained kneeling, or rather, slumped, at the very edge of the molten lake.
The heat intensified dramatically around Mors, yet the man didn't move.
Mors, through the haze of agony and near-death, could feel the immense presence before him. He knew, with an absolute certainty that chilled him more than any pain, that things were about to end for real this time.
There would be no more miracles, no more last-ditch efforts.
His life was about to be snuffed out.
He lifted his head once more, his ruined eyes meeting Draco’s.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his blistered lips.
“Do it, you beautiful creature,” Mors rasped, his voice barely audible above the infernal roar of the district.
He closed his eyes, not flinching, not begging, simply awaiting the inevitable.
The raw, primal beauty of the dragon, the sheer destructive force it embodied, was the last thing he saw, a fitting end for a champion of evilus.
However, as he waited for the final, merciful blow…………….. it never came.
The pressure of Draco’s presence remained, but the crushing impact, the ripping of flesh, the end—it didn't happen.
A shadow fell over him, deeper than Draco’s.
A figure stood in front of him, blocking his view of the dragon.
A strong hand, surprisingly gentle given its power, gripped him.
He knew that touch, that scent.
He never thought he would be saved again, not by him.
“M…my…lord…” Mors barely managed to stammer, his voice a tremor of disbelief and pain.
Before he could utter another word, a powerful surge of force, not the crushing blow of a beast, but a perfectly aimed humanoid strike, sent him flying like a rag doll.
He sailed through the air, away from the molten fury, away from Draco, and landed in a crumpled heap, the impact jarring his already shattered body, but strangely, not worsening his burns.
“What a foolish child, running off to die on your own,” a deep, resonant voice, filled with both exasperation and a strange undertone of concern, echoed through the burning district.
It was Falazure, the evil dragon god, and Mors's patron god.
He stood tall, his dark clothes unblemished by the surrounding chaos, his presence radiating an ancient, chilling power that seemed to quell even the inferno’s roar.
He turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the scene.
“Sigh… what happened to the feisty brat all those years ago? You used to be far more clever than this in your suicidal tendencies.”
Before Falazure could say more, another voice, clear and melodic yet carrying an equally powerful gravitas, cut through the air.
This voice, however, held a distinct edge of annoyance.
“Are you always like this, Falazure? No wonder that child turned out to be shitty like you,” a female figure hovered over Falazure, her form shimmering with silver light, contrasting sharply with the hellish landscape.
This was Bahamut.
Her eyes, the colour of blood, fixed on Draco, who was still locked in his stage three transformation, an imposing figure of raw fury.
Falazure, ignoring Bahamut's jab, merely chuckled, his gaze now fixed on Draco, who, despite his exhaustion, was still radiating intense magical energy, his red eyes burning with a lingering, untamed rage.
“Enough about me, Bahamut. Do something about your own child. He looks like he’s about to tear me to pieces, and I’ve quite had enough of rampaging whelps for one night.”
A/N: Feel free to read ahead on pat3on and donate.