I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
________________________________________
Chapter Thirty-Six: Leaves in the Storm
Richard's Perspective
The atmosphere around us didn't merely change—it transformed into a violent tempest. The very air seemed to howl with a ferocity that set every nerve on edge, as if nature itself was warning of the chaos to come.
But this movement was unlike anything I had ever witnessed before. It wasn't the hurried, desperate sprint of a man or even the primal rush of a werewolf in battle. No, this was something altogether different—something far more terrifying and awe-inspiring.
He didn't run or dash across the room. Instead, he vanished as if swallowed by the shadows themselves, disappearing from sight in an instant.
One moment, I was surrounded by eight cultists—grotesque, twisted figures with claws dripping with dark ichor and jaws stretched wide in snarls. These were not mere men; they were monsters, abominations born from stolen life and dark rituals, their presence suffocating the chamber with menace.
And then, in the blink of an eye, carnage erupted.
He reappeared behind the first cultist, and before the creature could even turn, Lucas's claws sliced through its midsection. The sound was wet and final—a body torn as easily as parchment. Blood sprayed the stones, and the cultist's lifeless form crumpled, its death so swift it could barely register what had happened.
The remaining cultists barely had time to react.
The second one lunged at him with a screech, claws outstretched, but Lucas caught it effortlessly mid-air. With a twist, he spun the cultist around, using its momentum against it. Muscle and bone tore apart under his grip, fragments scattering across the floor like debris in a hurricane. The force of the motion sent a shockwave through the chamber, rattling loose dust from the ceiling.
His eyes, glowing a fierce red, locked onto the third cultist with unyielding focus. Without moving his feet, he flicked his wrist, and arcs of crackling lightning surged from his claws, piercing the cultist's chest, illuminating the chamber in a flash. The smell of ozone and burning flesh filled the air as the creature convulsed, then collapsed in a smoking heap.
A fourth cultist lunged from the side, claws poised to rake across Lucas's back. But Lucas ducked, impossibly fast, and in one fluid motion, wrapped his arm around its throat. He lifted the creature and slammed it down onto the stone floor with a deafening crunch. The impact was so forceful that the stone cracked beneath them. The cultist's body went limp, its neck at an unnatural angle.
A primal roar erupted from Lucas's throat, shaking the chamber as if the very foundations trembled under his power.
The cultists tried to regroup, but it was a futile gesture. Two of them charged in tandem, foolishly believing their numbers could overwhelm him. Lucas spun like a cyclone of wrath, his claws flashing with deadly precision, lightning trailing every movement. The cultists' attacks met nothing but air and, in return, their bodies were shredded, collapsing in a heap.
The final three cultists didn't even dare to attack. They turned and ran, stumbling over the bodies of their fallen comrades.
Lucas did not pursue them.
He simply moved with a terrifying grace and lethal efficiency—and they perished without a sound.
It was effortless. Silent. Swift.
Silence fell by the time the last body hit the cold stone floor, broken only by the echo of heavy breathing and the soft patter of dust settling through the sunlight. The floor was littered with the remains of the cultists, their once-menacing forms reduced to stillness. The air crackled with the fading energy of Lucas's power, and the chamber—moments after a scene of slaughter—was now a testament to his unrestrained might.
And standing in the very center of it all was Lucas.
His chest rose and fell steadily, his shoulders squared with unyielding strength. Though his eyes remained a fierce red, their glow had dimmed slightly, replaced by a burning resolve that radiated from his very being.
This was the boy I had raised. The pup I had trained through countless trials.
He was the Alpha this world did not yet realize it desperately needed.
I exhaled deeply, suddenly aware that I had been holding my breath the entire time.
Lucas turned to face me, the blood and ash clinging to his form dissipating like mist in the morning sun.
"Richard," he said, his voice low but steady, filled with a calm authority that steadied my shaking heart.
Without hesitation, he ran to my side.
He knelt beside me, concern etching deep lines across his face. His claws retracted as he placed a firm hand on my shoulder, and I felt a subtle current pass between us—his instincts sharpening, his senses scanning me thoroughly.
"You're okay," he said, his voice a soothing balm. "We're done. It's over."
I managed a small, weary smile. "For you… it's just beginning."
He helped me sit up, steadying me with a strength that belied his youth.
A flicker in his eyes—a shadow of worry that sharpened into something more acute.
He looked down at my side, where the wound still bled faintly.
Then back up at me, his gaze searching.
"Why aren't you healing?" he asked, voice tight with concern.
No words were necessary.
We both understood the grim truth.
The claw that had pinned me had struck too deep, too true. The damage took what little time I had left.
And this time, my body could not fix itself.