The earth now trembled continuously, convulsed by successive explosions and the incessant pounding of combat. The sky itself seemed to scream, torn by salvos of pure magic and waves of incandescent mana. The battlefield had become a true storm of destruction, where each second could seal the fate of an empire.
The Chinese defense lines were beginning to crumble, exhausted soldiers, covered in dust and blood, gradually losing ground to the inexorable push of the draconic legions. Their formations were broken, their officers panicked.
- "General Wei, the northern line has just collapsed!" cried a young officer, his voice trembling with urgency.
Wei Shun, his face hard and impenetrable despite the sweat streaming down his forehead, quickly barked his orders:
- "Activate the reserves immediately! Deploy the S-rank hunters, this is our last card to play."
The armored doors of the bunkers opened immediately. Six silhouettes emerged, clad in light armor adorned with ancestral symbols. These men and women had the proud bearing of elite warriors: sculpted bodies, sharp gazes, an aura of raw power emanating from them. They walked calmly toward the front, their presence alone galvanizing the surviving human troops.
These S-rank hunters advanced without haste, but with absolute determination. The air around them began to vibrate gently as their mana, dense as ancestral Ki, awakened in every fiber of their being.
The first among them, a man with a stern face named Li Jian, slowly raised his fist. The mana around him instantly exploded into a golden aura, concentrated, compact, ready to be unleashed. His strikes were capable of shattering metal, rupturing internal organs even through the thickest armor, and his attacks could project this destructive energy at a distance.
At the other end of the battlefield, at the draconic command post, Varnor Ignivara observed this new arrival with cold, almost detached interest.
- "There’s finally their ultimate defense," he murmured calmly, eyes narrowed.
Syléane nodded, ready to act immediately.
- "Should we send our fighters?"
Varnor briefly turned his eyes to her, before fixing his gaze on the battlefield again.
- "Yes. Send the young heirs. Belgaroth, Eryndor, and Azalys. It’s time they prove their worth."
- "At your command, Father," Syléane replied, quickly activating a communication crystal.
A few seconds later, three silhouettes launched from the Ignivara mothership, slicing through the sky at lightning speed. Belgaroth led this trio, clad in dark scarlet armor, his gaze inflamed with intense hatred, his scales gleaming with reddish energy, announcing his determination to reclaim his honor.
Face to face, human hunters and draconic heirs slowed down, observing each other for a suspended moment, charged with extreme tension.
Then, without warning, both groups launched themselves at each other in an apocalyptic crash.
Belgaroth struck Li Jian with brutal violence. The impact sent out a shockwave that instantly fractured the ground beneath their feet. The human hunter absorbed the blow, immediately retaliating with a punch charged with concentrated mana. The attack pierced through the draconic armor, inflicting lightning pain on the red dragon who stepped back, stunned by his opponent’s strength.
- "Miserable human..." growled Belgaroth, his flaming claws clenching with intense fury.
But Li Jian didn’t respond. His mana exploded around him in an even more powerful golden aura. In an instant, he unleashed a series of rapid, invisible strikes, each projecting a wave of mana capable of causing internal damage at a distance. Belgaroth deployed his own defensive mana, forming a barrier to absorb part of the impact, but each blow tore from him a growl of mixed pain and rage.
Beside them, Eryndor Ignivara faced two other S-rank hunters simultaneously. His black wings beating, he danced in the air, skillfully dodging mana-charged attacks, retaliating with balls of blackish fire that exploded, tearing through the air with corrosive flames. His opponents responded by projecting their ancestral Ki in ranged strikes, destabilizing his trajectories and forcing him to adopt a temporarily defensive posture.
Azalys, meanwhile, faced a human huntress with a fast and precise style, a woman named Ming Yue. Their movements were so rapid that human soldiers and dragons only glimpsed intersecting light trails in the air. Each impact was accompanied by a mana blast that split the air and earth below, creating deep craters with every strike landed.
Belgaroth, despite the pain, let out a terrible roar. His aura exploded violently around him, literally setting the sky ablaze. His right arm was covered in liquid flames, and he charged toward Li Jian with lightning speed, delivering a destructive strike capable of instantly carbonizing any matter. But the human struck back head-on, his energy-charged fist piercing through the torrent of fire, striking directly at the dragon’s ribs.
Both adversaries were brutally repelled by the shock, each sustaining visible wounds, but neither truly weakened.
The battle between these titans was tearing reality itself apart: the ground exploded into a thousand pieces, the sky vibrated under the supernatural pressure of their opposing powers. Waves of mana and energy extended for hundreds of meters, annihilating everything in their path. The soldiers, both human and dragon, were forced to retreat, unable to remain close to such an extreme combat.
Varnor and Syléane Ignivara still observed, impassive, while the explosions intensified. The patriarch wasn’t smiling, but his gaze shone with absolute confidence:
- "These humans possess respectable strength," he said slowly. "But against us, their power remains limited."
Syléane slowly nodded:
- "Our young heirs will hold their ranks. Victory remains certain."
Patriarch Ignivara calmly acquiesced, his gaze fixed on Belgaroth who, though wounded, was beginning to regain the advantage over Li Jian, exploiting a flaw in the human defenses. The fight would continue, fierce and brutal, but a cold certainty already crossed the patriarch’s mind:
- "This war is already won," he murmured.
While chaos devoured the battlefield on the horizon, Mordred moved silently, his gaze burning with cold determination fixed on his objective: the Ignivara mothership.
Around him, the camp was filled with tensions and orders shouted by dragon officers trying to manage the growing intensity of the clashes. Mordred, in his draconic humanoid form, advanced calmly, avoiding gazes, perfectly blended into the mass of warriors running in all directions, too busy with the war to worry about an isolated soldier.
Suddenly, his attention was caught by a distinctive silhouette quickly crossing the camp. A dragon, visibly young, wearing a particular uniform in dark colors, marked with emblems specific to House Ignivara. The messenger. He carried several magical scrolls, probably loaded with precious strategic information about the ongoing battle.
Mordred sketched a discreet, almost predatory smile. This was exactly what he needed.
The messenger was rushing, his rapid pace betraying the extreme urgency of his mission. Mordred slowly pivoted, subtly modifying his trajectory to intercept him without arousing the slightest suspicion. His steps were precise, calculated, his movements like those of a predator patiently hunting its prey.
The messenger, unconscious of the danger, suddenly entered a narrow alley between two immense command tents. Mordred imperceptibly accelerated, his breathing instinctively regulating, each of his muscles ready for action.
Then, in the shadow of a metal pylon, he struck with supernatural speed.
His hand, enveloped in a violet glow charged with his skill acquired from the colosseum medusae, crackling with poison and electricity, silently closed around the messenger’s throat. A brief, silent, brutal shock.
The dragon opened his eyes wide, surprised, unable to emit the slightest cry. His pupils immediately dilated, his half-open mouth trembling with intense but mute pain. The paralyzing toxin inherited from the colosseum monsters was already infiltrating him deeply, blocking his muscles, brutally interrupting his heart rhythm.
The messenger collapsed limply against Mordred, already lifeless, before even touching the ground.
Mordred, with a precise and rapid gesture, dragged him into the shadow between the two tents, out of sight of any potential observer. With cold and mechanical efficiency, he quickly removed the corpse’s uniform, discarded his own clothes worn by combat, then donned the draconic uniform with remarkable fluidity.
Once dressed, Mordred briefly closed his eyes, concentrating his mana. Immediately, new dark scales, perfectly similar to those of a noble dragon from the Ignivara family, appeared on his body, covering his arms, his neck, his cheeks. Two small black horns slowly formed on his forehead, confirming his new identity.
He carefully adjusted the magical scrolls recovered from the corpse to his belt, thus creating a perfect illusion of the messenger he had just assassinated.
Mordred observed his reflection for a moment in the metallic surface of an armored vehicle parked nearby, checking every detail, every feature, every aspect of his new appearance. Satisfied, he displayed a discreet, almost cruel smile, perfectly suited to his role.
He finally turned toward the colossal Ignivara mothership, reigning at the center of the camp. Its dark contours stood out against the sky blazing with clashes, its oppressive aura, an undeniable sign of absolute draconic power.
Mordred slowly straightened his shoulders, displaying glacial confidence, then headed with calm and assured steps toward the mothership, perfectly immersed in his new role. Each of his steps brought him closer to the very heart of the draconic hierarchy. Where his true enemies were.
He advanced toward the immense dark structure, a discreet and dangerous smile on his lips.