Chapter 348
Creak!
The iron-wrought gates of Folkvagnr, the fortress-home of the Freya Familia, groaned under their own weight.
The sound was a jagged edge against the bustling of the evening, a metallic wail that announced the arrival of a storm.
Draco stood at the threshold.
His expression was a mask of tempered steel, neutral and unmoving, though his blood hummed with a predatory rhythm.
The cold winter wind of Orario rushed through the widening gap, biting at his face and whipping his dark cloak into a frenzied dance.
Beneath the heavy fabric, his tail rhythmically tapped against the frosted cobblestones…..a slow, hypnotic beat of anticipation that mirrored the pounding of his heart.
As the gates swung fully open, the atmosphere shifted.
It wasn’t just the cold anymore; it was a suffocating, physical weight.
It descended upon him like the foundations of a mountain being lowered onto his shoulders.
This was the collective aura of the strongest familia in the city….a concentration of killing intent and pride so thick it could have brought most adventurers to their knees.
Within the yard, the executives of the Freya Familia stood like living statues of war.
Their faces were a tapestry of intense, conflicting emotions.
Some wore sneers of pure vitriol, their eyes demanding to know what madness had possessed a Draco to darken their doorstep with a challenge.
Draco ignored them.
He didn’t spare a glance for the Gulliver brothers, who gripped their weapons with twitching fingers, nor for the white-haired knight Hedin, who watched with cold, analytical disdain.
He simply shrugged the crushing pressure off his shoulders as if it were nothing more than a light dusting of snow.
His gaze was a straight line, fixed solely on the titan at the far end of the yard.
Ottar.
The Warlord.
The only Level 7 in Orario.
The Boaz stood with a blank expression, a mountain of muscle and scars that seemed to absorb the light around him.
He didn’t radiate the same frantic hostility as his subordinates; he didn’t need to.
His mere existence was an ultimatum.
The Freya Familia was a chaotic, fractured entity, driven by a singular, obsessive devotion to their goddess.
They were impulsive, prideful, and notoriously violent, yet not one of them moved to intercept Draco.
It wasn’t out of respect for the rules of a duel, or, their captain, nor was it due to the fear Draco’s reputation…..though his recent feats had certainly carved his name into the city’s history.
The reason for their hesitation was far more poisonous.
They wanted to see Ottar fall.
In the twisted hierarchy of Folkvagnr, Ottar held the position they all craved: the closest seat to Freya.
Many of those watching secretly believed that if the "King" were to be humbled, he would finally fall out of favor with their goddess.
If his soul lost its luster, perhaps Freya’s silver eyes would finally turn to one of them.
They were vultures disguised as knights, waiting for a crack in the monolith.
Moreover, they watched with predatory intent, hoping to dissect Draco’s abilities.
If he beat Ottar, and then they beat Draco, wouldn’t that make them the new pinnacle?
Ottar, sensing the pathetic ambitions of his kin, gave an internal scoff that didn't reach his lips. He turned his back on the crowd, his heavy boots crunching on the snow.
He didn't say a word, merely beckoning Draco to follow him toward the massive training grounds in the rear of the estate.
‘I expected many things when I decided to enter the holy land of these simps,’ Draco thought, his pace steady as he followed the Boaz.
‘Violence, outrage, a dozen spears in my gut before I cleared the gate… but I didn’t expect them to be this… amicable.’
The thought trailed off as he realized "amicable" was the wrong word.
What he sensed wasn't peace; it was the hunger of a pack of hyenas watching two alpha lions prepare to tear each other apart.
They reached the training ground….a vast, circular arena of packed earth and reinforced stone, scarred by decades of high-level combat.
Ottar walked to the center and stopped.
He reached for the hilt of his weapon….a jet-black great-sword of monstrous proportions….and drove the tip into the ground.
He stood upright, his hands resting on the pommel, looking every bit the executioner.
Suddenly, the air began to vibrate.
Low at first, then rising into a hum that rattled the teeth of the weak members present.
Ottar was no longer suppressing his presence.
The full, terrifying might of a level seven began to bleed out of him…..a strength forged in the fires of war, honed against the likes of Zald, the glutton of the Zeus Familia.
Draco’s hands flexed.
His scales shivered beneath his cloths.
‘Heh. How exciting. His presence… it’s close to Zald’s.’
He gauged the man before him.
Ottar followed the path of Absolute Strength.
He was the ultimate wall, a fortress of physical endurance and raw power.
Draco, however, was a different breed.
His path was the all-rounder….a synthesis of might and magic.
Logically, the match was a suicide mission.
Draco was a maxed-out Level five.
Ottar was a Level seven.
In the world of the Falna, two levels was usually an insurmountable abyss.
Even if Draco’s base stats were "broken" and far exceeded the normal limits of each level, the qualitative evolution that came with a level up…..the vessel’s expansion…..was something that couldn't be ignored.
He had nearly died fighting the evilus champion, Mors, for this very reason.
Despite their stats being relatively close, there had been around, a three level gap.
But Draco wasn’t the same person he was back then.
And today, he didn't come to "spar."
He came to crush the King.
On the elevated stone walkways surrounding the arena, the atmosphere was electric.
Among the throngs of Freya’s warriors, two figures stood out, their presence distinctly more refined and composed.
Gareth and Riveria of the Loki Familia had arrived as "observers"…..a polite term for insurance policies meant to ensure the city didn't burn down during this "sparring match."
Gareth grunted, his arms crossed over his barrel chest.
"The air is gettin' thick, Riveria. I haven't felt a chill like this since we fought against the Gluton and Witch”
Riveria didn’t look away from the two men in the pit.
Her jade eyes were narrowed, scanning Draco.
"That boy is a lot much stronger than you can imagine, Gareth. Look at his posture. He isn’t bracing for a hit; he’s preparing to deliver one. He knows exactly what Ottar is."
"Aye," Gareth rumbled.
"But look at the Freya lot. They’re salivatin’."
"They are vultures," a cold voice interrupted.
Hedin, the white elf executive of Freya Familia, stepped up beside them, his gaze fixed on Draco with clinical interest.
"They hope for a miracle so they can scavenge the remains. But they fail to see the truth. That boy, Draco, doesn't feel like a challenger. He feels more like a predator who has outgrown his cage."
"And Ottar?" Riveria asked.
"Ottar is the cage," Hedin replied simply.
High above them, atop the Babel Tower, the goddess Freya leaned against the balcony of her private suite.
Her silver hair billowed in the high-altitude winds, her eyes locked onto the distant training ground.
A deep frown marred her transcendent beauty.
She wanted to be there.
She wanted to see the color of their souls as they collided.
However, at the base of the tower, blocking the path with a casual lean and a mischievous grin, stood the goddess Bahamut.
Bahamut had made it clear: if Freya interfered, if she used her Charm or her divine sight to tip the scales, the Bahamut Familia would consider it an act of war.
A war at this juncture would be catastrophic for the city’s stability, and while Bahamut was confident in Draco, she didn't want the Freya Familia’s impulsive "simps" turning a duel into a massacre.
So, the two goddesses engaged in a silent stalemate, their wills clashing over the rooftops of Orario.
………………………………………………
Back in the training ground, the wild winter breeze blew, carrying with it a black cloak which had been discarded, tossed carelessly aside.
Draco stood in the edge, his form now unburdened, his powerful muscles flexing visibly in preparation for battle.
With a surge of inner power, he activated his skill: Partial Dragon Transformation.
Immediately, his forearms elongated, thickening, his hands transforming into razor-sharp, obsidian claws.
His legs shifted, hardening into powerful, digitigrade talons that dug deep into the packed dirt of the training ground with an audible…..thunk.
Next, he activated an aspect of his ultimate skill: Earth Dragon Spirit Transformation. Immediately, his obsidian black scales began to shift, to change.
A deep, earthen brown bled into the midnight black, spreading rapidly across his entire body. The very ground beneath him began to rumble, a low, guttural growl emanating from the earth itself, as if an earthquake was taking place.
Snowflakes rose, swirling around his transformed form, obscuring him momentarily.
And once the transformation was complete….an act which took less than a second, a blink-and-you-missed-it surge of power….Draco took a casual step forward.
The rumbling ceased.
The earth fell still.
A suffocating silence, heavy and absolute, descended upon the entire area.
The gathered Freya familia members, even Riveria and Gareth, felt a chill steal into their bones. This wasn’t just physical power; it was something else.
Ottar, who had been quite all the while, a statue of composure, was the one who broke the silence.
He pulled his great sword from the ground, the deep thrum of its release echoing faintly, and placed it with one hand on his shoulder, its jet-black blade glinting ominously.
“Is this perhaps the power you used to destroy the factory district?” Ottar’s voice, a low rumble, seemed to shake the very air, devoid of inflection, yet demanding an answer.
Draco’s new form stood slightly taller, broader, his eyes now glowing with an inner, earthy light. “No,” he replied, his voice deeper, resonating with a gravelly undertone that carried across the vast training ground.
“That was a tantrum. This is control. You don’t need to worry about me erasing your home from the map, Warlord. I’ve refined the destruction.”
A chorus of curses and shouts erupted from the Freya familia members on the side.
“Arrogant brat!” Allen hissed, his hand gripping his spear so hard the shaft creaked.
“I’ll tear those scales off myself!”
“Quiet,” Hedin snapped, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
“Look at the ground.”
The spectators looked.
The training ground had indeed changed, but barely any of them could pinpoint what exactly had changed except the experienced mages.
Ottar on the other hand didn't look at the ground.
He only looked at Draco.
He saw the shift in the boy’s center of gravity, the way the air shimmered around his talons.
The level gap was there….vast and cold…but Draco was currently bypassing the laws of the Falna.
Ottar could feel something bubbling within himself, it was a very familiar emotion, one which he had only felt during his final battle with Zald.
However, the Warlord didn’t let this emotion sway him.
He shifted his stance and brought the great sword down from his shoulder, holding it with both hands now.
The tip pointed directly at Draco’s throat.
The air between them began to spark with static, the friction of two monstrous auras grinding against one another.
In this moment, he didn't care about the politics of the executives or the whims of the goddesses.
In this circle, there was only the blade and the beast.
Ottar’s eyes locked onto Draco’s, and he gave a singular, sharp nod.
“Come.”
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