The Dragon's wings beat the air with a thunderous rhythm as he hovered, the plaza trembling beneath its powerful presence. Razeth's expression shifted from surprise to grim determination. He steadied his stance, his spear gripped tightly in both hands. The blackened tip gleamed with a faint blueish tint—poison, ready to strike. Yet, despite his confidence, an undercurrent of unease coursed through him.
The Dragon, however, wasn't waiting for any declarations. With a deafening roar, it lunged at Razeth, the air around it distorting as its massive claws came crashing down. Razeth barely had time to react, dodging to the side with the agility of a snake. The ground shattered under the impact of the blow, cracks webbing out across the cobblestone.
The first clash came with a deafening roar, the Dragon's jaws snapping shut just shy of Razeth, who spun away with practiced speed, his spear lashing out in retaliation. The weapon met the Dragon's scales, slicing through its hide but finding no familiar spray of ichor. Instead, a thick, viscous liquid seeped from the wound, almost sluggish in its movement. Razeth frowned but didn't falter, his instincts telling him something was off.
The Dragon didn't stop, ignoring the wound as though it didn't matter. It lunged again, claws swiping down with a speed Razeth had barely seen from any beast. Was this what it meant to be of a higher race? He threw himself to the side, rolling to his feet, his mind racing. His spear was sharp, his strength unmatched, yet there was something unnatural about the way this Dragon's body reacted.
Was it magic? He knew little about such matters, aside from his own poison arts, but the way the blood sluggishly oozed from the Dragon's wounds was unlike anything Razeth had ever fought.
The next few exchanges confirmed his suspicion. Razeth drove his spear through the Dragon's flank, only to watch as it twisted its body with unnatural flexibility, yanking the weapon free with minimal damage. The creature's hide bore the marks of his attacks, yet the Dragon continued fighting with undiminished fury. Razeth didn't understand the specifics, but he could sense it now: this wasn't an ordinary creature. And there was something else—something he did understand. His poison, his venom, which normally should have seeped into any living body he wounded, had no effect.
Razeth struck again, this time aiming for the Dragon's throat, but it dodged, countering with a slash of its claws. The spear scraped against the scales, but the Dragon twisted faster than Razeth could react, landing a blow on his side. Razeth grunted in pain, skidding backward across the plaza.
The Dragon's eyes gleamed with predatory intent, the draconic aura emanating from it saturating the air, pressing down on Razeth like an immense weight. It felt as though every fiber of his being was screaming at him to submit, to kneel before the might of a true Dragon. Razeth's bloodline was strong—descended from a Progenitor—but even he couldn't entirely escape the natural hierarchy.
No, it was likely even worse than that. As a branch of reptiles, snakes were distantly related to Dragons. There might have been only a drop of draconic blood in his veins, but that was enough.
He spat blood, forcing his legs to keep moving, gritting his teeth as the Dragon approached. Its body may have been strange, but its aura was unmistakably genuine, and Razeth's instincts rebelled against standing his ground. His muscles tensed, his limbs moving sluggishly under the oppressive weight of the Dragon's presence.
Still, Razeth fought, refusing to yield. He had faced creatures stronger than himself before, but the Dragon's aura was different, making every movement feel like wading through quicksand. His strikes became slower, more desperate, while the Dragon's attacks became more confident, more precise.
The Dragon struck again, jaws wide. Razeth barely managed to deflect the attack with his spear, but the force sent him stumbling. He had strength, he had skill, but it was being choked out by the primal command to bow.
Razeth frowned deeply. His poison was doing nothing. No matter how many cuts he inflicted, the blood-wrought dragon barely faltered. The cuts didn't heal, but they also didn't bleed the way he expected. And more importantly, his venom didn't seem to be seeping into the dragon's veins at all. Razeth had used poisons on countless creatures, and each one had reacted—sometimes slower, sometimes faster—but they had always succumbed eventually.
Yet this Dragon was different. The poison had no effect on it, and that realization brought Razeth a grim understanding: this beast wasn't made of flesh and blood in the way he was used to. It wasn't that the Dragon was immune to damage—its wounds showed that much—but it wasn't susceptible to his venom. Razeth could wound the creature, but there would be no sudden collapse, no weakening over time as poison crippled its body. This creature, whatever it was, fought on as if the toxin simply didn't exist.
It was like fighting a ghost of flesh and blood—a creature that, while solid and real, didn't bend to the rules he had come to understand.
And yet, despite all this, Razeth knew he had the upper hand in sheer strength. His spear struck with bone-shattering force, his movements were precise, and when he landed blows, they hurt. But the weight of the Dragon's aura—the suffocating presence of a true Dragon—was turning the tide against him. His bloodline, rooted in the great serpents, couldn't shake the dominance of the draconic blood. It wasn't a matter of power; it was primal, deeply rooted in laws of nature that Razeth couldn't defy.
The Dragon let out a roar, its wings beating once to send him airborne, circling above Razeth like a bird of prey. Razeth raised his spear, ready for the next attack, but his body was betraying him, growing sluggish under the relentless pressure of the Dragon's presence.
"Damn… you…" Razeth hissed through gritted teeth, every inch of his body screaming in protest. Even as his mind raged against the idea of submission, his bloodline couldn't escape the overwhelming force of a true Dragon's aura. He fought it, resisted it with all his might, but it was a losing battle. The longer this fight dragged on, the harder it became to resist the ancient command to submit.
The Dragon descended with a roar, claws outstretched. Razeth barely raised his spear in time, deflecting the blow, but the impact sent him reeling. The Dragon pressed the advantage, unleashing a flurry of slashes and bites that forced Razeth onto the defensive. He blocked, dodged, and countered where he could, but each exchange left him more drained, more battered.
The weight of the draconic aura grew heavier with each passing second, sapping his strength. His vision blurred at the edges, his movements slowing. He could win this, he knew it. But could he survive long enough to deliver the final blow?
Razeth roared in defiance, his muscles bulging as he forced his way through the suffocating aura. He would not bow. Not today.
The Dragon bared its fangs, circling again, preparing for another strike. The battle had turned into a test of endurance, and Razeth wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on. Though he had only suffered a few bruises so far, he had avoided the truly lethal attacks. One mistake, and he doubted he'd survive the Dragon's jaws.
If only it weren't for that cursed aura, forcing him to constantly focus on resisting. The oppressive weight was maddening. He was stronger, faster, and even armed, yet he couldn't gain the upper hand. It felt like he was fighting with both hands tied behind his back, blind in one eye.
Damn it, he wanted to retreat.
But this wasn't a fight he could escape. If he ran, the Dragon—being a flying beast—could easily catch him. And even if it didn't, none of his siblings could withstand this pressure. If he fled, it would be a massacre, and there'd be no explaining that failure to his father. The Progenitor wasn't merciful. He had no use for cowards or failures. Running meant death, but continuing like this didn't give him much better odds.
"Your will is weak," the Dragon said suddenly, its maw stretching into what resembled a grin. "You will die very soon."
Razeth gritted his teeth, tightening the hold on his spear. "I am Razeth, son of Shassra. May I know your name, ancestor?"
"You may not," the Dragon said, leisurely hovering in the air.
Razeth's frown deepened, but he didn't dare retort harshly. For now, the Dragon seemed in no rush to attack. This might be an opportunity—maybe he could avoid further conflict altogether.
"Mighty Dragon, is there any need for this fight? My tribe holds no grudge against yours. If you retreat, I will reward you generously, and you can avoid a conflict with my father..."
At his words, the Dragon chuckled deeply. "You are quite amusing, little snake," it said, its voice full of mirth.
"What's so amusing?" Razeth hissed through gritted teeth, unable to contain himself.
The Dragon's eyes gleamed with a vicious light, sending chills down Razeth's spine. "Tell me, little snake, if you step on an ant hill, are you worried about the insects holding a grudge? Would you be afraid if they mentioned the name of their ant queen?"
"You compare us to ants?" Razeth roared. "My father has lived for a thousand years and fears no one, not even your kind."
"A thousand years?" the Dragon said, its mirth returning. "I've taken naps longer than that…"
Razeth clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. Anger and rage clouded his mind, making it increasingly difficult to hold back. The Dragon clearly had no intention of resolving this peacefully, so why bother with niceties? The fight was still undecided, and he believed he had at least even odds if he went all out.
With his mind made up, Razeth took a step forward. However, he felt his legs buckle under him the next moment, making him fall to his knees. What was going on?
"You truly are amusing," the Dragon said, the mirth disappearing from its expression. "For someone familiar with the properties of poison, you are laughably bad at discovering its effects." The Dragon landed on the cobbled plaza with a loud thud, approaching slowly and deliberately. "With just a few words, you lose all restraint. Did you not feel my aura seeping into your bones, weakening your resistance?"
Razeth tried to lift his head to glare at the creature, but it remained bowed. No matter how much he struggled or how fiercely he raged inside, his body refused to move. At that moment, a deep, primal fear washed over him. He felt utterly helpless, unable to move a single muscle in front of this creature.
He was at its mercy.
A moment later, the beast's head loomed over him, its hot breath washing over the nape of his neck, the stench of blood overwhelming. The pressure intensified, making him feel like an insignificant speck of dirt, unworthy even of a glance from such a powerful being. He surrendered all notions of resistance, fully giving in to his primal instincts.
"You should feel honored," the Dragon whispered, its massive maw slowly opening. Moments later, darkness enveloped Razeth as his head disappeared inside the beast's mouth. His body trembled uncontrollably, fear so overwhelming that he could barely breathe. Then he heard the sound of its jaw slamming shut, and all thoughts ceased.
***
Khai'Zar stood still, slowly chewing the head of his defeated foe. The taste was horrible—sour and bland—but the rush of victory overshadowed the unpleasant meal.
"That was far too close," Khai'Zar murmured, craning his long neck to examine its body. The spots where it had been wounded began to melt, unable to maintain their form. "How embarrassing it would have been to lose. I wouldn't dare show my face again for another thousand years…"
It then chuckled, recalling the fight. "…For me to resort to such despicable tactics. That little brat must have rubbed off on me." Despite its words, there was a hint of warmth glinting in its golden eyes.
In the next moment, the spell that had created its body lost its last bit of strength, and his massive form returned to a liquid state, bathing half the plaza in a coat of red.