Hank was breathing heavily, his massive arms shaking from the strain of holding the line. Beside him, Cassandra’s movents had slowed, her lethal sting replaced by heavy, sluggish lunges.
Even Killian, with his sharpened animalistic instincts, found himself unable to track the Gigante’ movents, his Wyrmutt whimpering in confusion. Forsha swung her staff with trembling hands, only managing to crack a wooden table, while Arteé’s once-calculated strikes went wide, missing by a second.
Percieval caught it all as he dove to avoid a crackling bolt of lightning. His breath ca in ragged gulps, his chest feeling as though it were filled with lead. He looked at the three Gigante standing in the center of the hall. They were drenched in sweat, their dark skin shining like polished glass under the flickering chandeliers.
The realization hit him.
"The sweat... no... In Gigante culture, sweat isn’t just exhaustion. It is proof of battle. It is their power pushed to the absolute limit."
He watched a bead of moisture drip from the fire caster’s brow and hiss as it hit the floor.
"Their sweat... it carries a curse for their enemies. "
He looked at his own hands.
"It seeps into the skin. It weakens the blood of anyone who touches it. But... we just started. Why are we weakening so fast?"
Arteé’s hand trembled as he gripped his sword, the blade he had used to barely graze the Gigante’s skin. He looked toward the long banquet tables, his analytical mind finally piercing through the fog of the battle. He saw the spilled wine staining the white linens like blood, the empty silver goblets, and the half-eaten roasted ats.
His eyes widened behind his cracked glasses, the realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow. He turned toward the Legend, his voice cracking with pure terror.
"Grandpa! The beverages! It wasn’t just the battle! They didn’t just fight us—they fed us!"
He pointed a shaking finger at the overturned pitchers.
"They put their concentrated sweat into the wine and the water! We’ve been drinking their essence all night! Every toast, every sip... we were inviting the curse into our very veins!"
The three Gigante laughed in unison, the sound echoing through the electric cage.
"Took you long enough, little lizard. By the ti your Black Blades arrive, you won’t even have the strength to lift them."
Her smile sharpened, cruel and confident.
"Do not worry, though, your lives will not be wasted. We needed them to go back."
From the palace garden. Dust still hung in the air from the earlier crash. Broken stone spread across the ground. From the center of the crater, Draculues slowly began to rise. His body creaked as he pushed himself up from the fractured stone.
Across from him, Shuna stood calmly, brushing a strand of her pink hair behind her ear as if nothing had happened. She tilted her head and smirked.
"Took quite a fall there, Dragon. I do love watching you all... fall."
Draculues growled under his breath and lifted his head, locking eyes with her. His muscles tensed as he forced himself upright. But the mont his face turned fully toward her—
Flick.
Shuna casually snapped her finger. A crushing invisible force slamd down.
BOOM!
Draculues was driven straight back into the ground, the courtyard exploding with shattered stone as his body smashed into the crater again.
Shuna rested a hand on her hip, amused.
"Oh? Getting up already?" she teased lightly.
Draculues coughed, trying to push himself up again, his arms trembling violently against the weight crushing his body.
"How...? How are you doing this...?"
He tried to rise once more but his body refused to obey. All it took was the movent of her finger. Shuna lazily twirled that sa finger in the air, as if playing with a puppet.
"Honestly. I’m barely trying."
She gave another tiny flick. The invisible pressure increased. Draculues’ arms buckled again as the ground beneath him cracked deeper.
"Why is a Dragon King having so much trouble standing up... from just my fingers?"
She tilted her head slightly, watching him struggle like a pinned beast.
"Unlike you white blooded scum, we don’t need to drink the blood of our Primordial just to gain power."
Her eyes glowed faintly.
"You lizards crawl over each other for a drop of your dragon’s blood... hoping it will make you strong enough to matter."
She lifted one finger slowly. Another wave of pressure pressed down on him, grinding him deeper into the shattered stone.
"But we Gigante? We are tied to the primal forces that shaped this world. Each one of us is born a warrior. Born with the strength of the earth itself flowing through our veins."
She looked down at him like a disappointed teacher.
"Unlike you. You are manufactured."
A pause.
"Created in batches. Just like your Primordial Dragon."
Her smile sharpened.
"An artificial god. A fake Primordial."
She took a slow step forward, the invisible pressure still crushing Draculues into the fractured courtyard.
"Do you even understand what a Primordial truly is? The Primordials are the first entities to exist. They were there before the world took its first breath... before mountains rose... before oceans filled the earth."
She lifted her chin slightly.
"They are the originals. The ones who shaped creation itself. Everything that exists in this world traces back to them. But your dragon?"
A small laugh escaped her.
"It was created. Manufactured. A mockery of the true Primordials."
She spread her arms slightly, as if presenting the absurdity of it.
"And yet you Dragonborn walk around calling yourselves the strongest primordial blooded race."
Her laughter echoed across the ruined courtyard.
"The strongest? You slaughtered other primordial bloodlines. You wiped out an entire race of Demigods."
Her eyes sharpened with fury.
"Those weren’t victories. They were atrocities."
She pointed down at him.
"To the other Primordial bloodlines... your entire race is cursed."
A pause. Then her voice dropped to a low, venomous whisper.
"An abomination."
User Comments
0 comments from readers