I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter Thirty-Five: The Myth Becomes Real
Richard's Perspective
The ancient ruins were collapsing all around me, the air thick with centuries of dust and the sharp tang of fear. Every step I took sent loose stones skittering across the cracked floor, their echoes bouncing off the broken pillars and shattered archways like the relentless ticking of a doomsday clock. Each breath I drew was ragged, a harsh rasp in my ears, reminding me with cruel clarity that time was running out—faster than my old body could keep up.
I moved as quickly as I could, slipping through the long shadows cast by the sunlight filtering through the ruined ceiling. The stone columns loomed like silent sentinels, half-swallowed by the creeping vines of ages past. I weaved between them, dodging heaps of ancient rubble, doing my best to stay one step ahead. But my pursuers were not merely fast—they were utterly relentless. Eleven of them now, their numbers have fallen but that did little to stop them. They shrieked and howled, their cries echoing off the stones like the death throes of beasts, their clawed hands raking at the air, hungry for my flesh.
Despite the ache in my joints and the heaviness in my limbs, I refused to give in. Age had slowed me, yes, but it hadn't broken me. Not yet. I still had fight left in me.
I pivoted sharply around a crumbling wall, my back pressed to the cool stone as I drew an arrow from my quiver. With a practiced motion, I nocked it, drew the string taut, and let it fly. The arrow found its mark with a sickening thud, burying itself deep in the eye socket of the nearest cultist. The creature dropped without a sound. I drew again, my fingers moving on instinct, and sent another arrow into the chest of a second pursuer—a perfect shot, right where a human heart would be. The cultist convulsed violently, its mouth open in a silent scream, before collapsing in a cloud of dust.
But the others still didn't falter. Their pace only quickened, their hunger sharpened by the deaths of their kin. I could feel my strength ebbing, my breaths coming shorter and sharper, my vision narrowing at the edges. I was running out of time, and out of options.
They were gaining on me now, their monstrous forms blurring as they closed in. My knees screamed in protest, my lungs burned with every gasp, but I pressed on. I had to. There was no other choice. I needed to buy just a little more time.
Because Lucas was coming. I could feel it in my bones, as sure as I felt the pain in my hip and the blood on my hands. I just had to hold on. Just a little longer.
Then, in the space of a single heartbeat, they were upon me.
I dropped my bow, letting it clatter to the stones, and drew my dagger—a silver blade, etched with runes and sigils meant to destroy and banish. It was small, but quick, perfect for fighting in close quarters. I fought like a cornered animal, every move fueled by desperation and the hard-earned instincts of a thousand battles. I ducked beneath a swinging claw, slashed at the tendons of another's leg, spun on my heels and shoved a cultist into a teetering column. The stone groaned and then collapsed, burying the creature beneath tons of ancient masonry.
I fought with everything I had—every trick, every ounce of training, every scrap of experience I'd gathered over a lifetime. My muscles screamed, my joints ached, but I didn't stop.
Then, inevitably, came the mistake.
One of them lunged low, its claws aiming for my leg. I twisted, barely dodging, but my foot caught on a chunk of rubble and I went down hard. Pain exploded through my hip, sharp and blinding, but I couldn't afford to dwell on it.
A second cultist was already on top of me. Its claws slashed down, cutting deep into my side and pinning me to the cold stone floor. I gasped, the world spinning, my hand reaching for my dagger—but it was knocked aside, clattering out of reach.
Lucas. Charging through ruins from the far side, his eyes wide with terror and determination, his mouth open in a silent shout.
But he was too far away. Too late.
The cultists sensed him too. Eight of them turned as one, their needle-like teeth bared in wicked grins, their claws raised in anticipation. One of them lifted its hand, ready to finish me off.
I closed my eyes, bracing for the end.
And then the world changed.
It wasn't a sound that shattered the air—it was a force, a presence, a tidal wave of something ancient and unstoppable. It wasn't wind, or heat, or lightning, but something deeper, older, more primal. The very air seemed to pulse, vibrating with raw power.
The cultists froze mid-attack, their claws suspended in the air, their shrieks cut off as if the world itself had silenced them. Time seemed to stop.
I forced my eyes open, and I felt it—a presence so immense it pressed down on my chest, making it hard to breathe.
I looked past the cultists, and I saw him.
But he was no longer just a boy, no longer the prodigy I'd tried to protect. His eyes glowed a deep, impossible red—not with anger, not with pain, but with something far greater.
This was not the power that was passed down, or the stolen strength of a usurper. This was something pure, something earned. Power born of integrity, of will, of the kind of strength that could only come from within.
My breath caught in my throat. The myth—the story we'd all whispered about, the legend we'd dismissed as impossible—stood before me, real and undeniable. The cultists trembled, paralyzed by the weight of his presence.
I lay there, bleeding, my body broken—but it wasn't pain that overwhelmed me. It was awe.
The myth had become flesh.
And its name was Lucas.