anwhile, across the vast, scorched courtyard, the primary battle raged between King Drakovitch and the other Princess of the Gigante, Gin.
Gin was a frenzied dance of shifting tal. She tapped into the heavy gems accessories adorning all over her body, her magic vibrating through them to reshape her limbs. One second, her right arm was a sharp blade; the next, it was a heavy, silver weighted flail. She cycled through materials and weapon types with masterful speed, trying to find a single weakness in the King’s guard.
Drakovitch, however, was clearly suffering from the toxin. His movents were sluggish, his breath labored. He could no longer dance around her strikes with his usual predatory grace. He was forced onto the defensive, crossing his massive arms to block her relentless onslaught.
Yet, despite the weakening poison and the constant clanging of her weapons against his flesh, his Dragon Skin held. Even in his diminished state, his natural armor was so dense that her shifting blades could only leave white shallow marks on his dark scales.
Gin’s eyes blazed with a manic fury.
"Why... won’t... you... break!"
Gin’s voice was a jagged rasp of frustration. Her arms shifted again, the heavy silver and gold of her jewelry liquefying and re-forming into twin massive maces. She brought them down in a dual strike that shattered the earth, the shockwave rippling through the palace foundations.
Drakovitch took the blow directly on his forearms. His boots sank inches into the solid stone, but he didn’t buckle. He looked up at her, his silver eyes tracking the frantic rise and fall of her chest.
"The mothers in the Grand Nursery said the sa. After I handled three hundred plus won a day in a bed... they all wondered when I would finally break."
Gin’s face went from a pale obsidian to a burning violet. A strange, unwanted heat flared in her gut at his words and a humiliating, involuntary spark of arousal.
"Shut up! Just die!"
She scread, her strikes becoming faster, more desperate. She was moving with everything she had, her body slick with her sweat. Every ti she swung, droplets of that concentrated curse splashed against his skin, his face, and his chest. He was breathing it in. He had drunk it in his wine. By all laws of the Gigante, his body should have soft as paper minutes ago.
"This is impossible...!"
But as she watched her shifting blades and heavy maces bounce off his matte scales, her frustration turned to genuine terror.
"You’ve taken enough sweat to fell any man! I’ve pushed myself to the limit, coating you in my own essence... every second you breathe this air, you should be weakening! Why... why can’t I pierce you?!"
Drakovitch caught the blade with his bare hand, the edge hissing against his palm.
"You put a weakening spell in my wine. The demigods put a golden scar of death on my chest. And now your sweat tries to drown my heart. But a man with a mission does not fall so easily."
He leaned forward, his heat radiating against her despite the cold toxin in his veins.
"I have children to create, Gin. I have a race to rebuild. My heart is too full of purpose to be weakened by a little poison... and besides, my next mother is right here in front of . Would you be interested not just in creating weapons in your body, but a child too—"
"SHUT YOUR DISGUSTING MOUTH!"
Gin shrieked, cutting him off before he could finish the invitation.
Her heart hamred against her ribs not just from the exertion of the fight, but from a treacherous... spark of arousal that flared at his sheer, arrogant dominance.
The thought of her—a Princess of the Gigante—being spoken to like a re prize for his ’Restoration’ made her blood boil with a mixture of lethal intent and a humiliating, internal heat.
To hide the fact that she was visibly trembling from the psychological impact of his words, she kicked off his chest, leaping a great distance away to create space.
She landed in a low crouch, her breath coming in ragged, steaming gasps. She cast a swift, desperate glance toward Shuna, who was still locked in a brutal, high speed fistfight with Draculeus. Seeing her sister in arms still standing gave her a montary surge of clarity through the fog of her sha.
"I am the end of your lineage, not the start of it! You think you can talk your way into my head? You’re dying, Drakovitch! I don’t care how much ’purpose’ you have—your heart will stop tonight. And as for ..."
She bared her teeth, her arms shifting back to original.
"I won’t be dead until I’ve carved that ’purpose’ right out of your chest!"
She planted her feet, the ground cracking beneath her as she unleashed her ultimate refinent:
"I’m done playing with you, Dragon King. It’s ti to end this farce! GIANT’S ABSOLUTE TRANSMUTATION: WITCHBLADE!"
Both of her arms transford into massive, otherworldly blades. They weren’t just tal or stone; they were crystalline, glowing with a sickly violet and red hue. The air around the blades began to distort, hissing as if the weapons themselves were hungry for the space they occupied.
Drakovitch stood his ground, his silver eyes widening as he sensed the shift in the atmosphere. The "Witchblade" didn’t just carry physical weight—it carried a conceptual sharpness designed to bypass his dragon skin.
Despite the poison sluggishly moving through his veins, a genuine amusent flared in his chest. He could feel the sheer killing intent radiating from her, a power that finally matched the legendary status of the Princess of the Gigante.
"Beautiful. "
Gin’s breath hitched, her montum faltering for just a fraction of a second as his words struck her unexpectedly.
"H-he... says my blade is beautiful?"
An unwanted mory clawed its way to the surface of her mind. She saw the cold, disapproving face of the one she had always feared most... her brother.
"A jagged, twisted thing. An abomination of our lineage. A ’Witchblade’ is not the gift of a Princess; it is the deformity of a monster. It is ugly, Gin. Hide it."
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