Percieval was already bloodied, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Just monts before, he had thrown himself into the path of a stray bolt of lightning, shielding his grandson—Arteé. The impact had charred his skin and cracked his ribs, leaving him staggered.
He looked back at the trembling Arteé and then up at the oncoming storm.
"Is this the ’glorious victory’ you wanted?! You talk of Valhalla, but there is no honor in a slaughter fueled by treachery."
He braced his legs, his muscles screaming in protest as he prepared to et the blow.
"If this is where I fall, I will do it as a wall!"
Now, as the Giant’s lightning-enhanced fist fell like a falling star, Percieval looked up. He was weakened and his black blade was still out of reach. With Arteé trembling behind him, the old warrior braced his broken body, preparing to face a blow that threatened to erase them both from the earth.
Then, just centiters from impact, the montum vanished.
The massive fist did not crush them; it slumped down, suddenly hollow and heavy, as if the very life and energy powering the blow had been seeped out in a single heartbeat. The lightning flickered and died, leaving only a cold, nerveless mass of flesh and bone.
Percieval blinked, his eyes tracing the arm upward. There, standing calmly atop the Giant’s massive forearm, was Morgant.
He looked as elegant as ever, his posture unbothered by the chaos of the battlefield. In his hand, he held his signature black fan, its ribs gleaming. With a single, fluid motion, he had applied the sa terrifying technique shared with the King—he had severed every major muscle and nerve cord that allowed the arm to function.
Morgant looked down at the bloodied Percieval, snapping his fan shut.
"A wall, Percieval? Really? You are from the House of Citrineclaw, not the Crimsonscale. Your blood doesn’t grant you skin like dragon scales. You actually thought you could block a falling mountain with those brittle, old bones? Your age isn’t a badge of honor anymore; it’s just a liability that almost turned your grandson into a sar on the pavent."
Percieval’s brief flicker of gratitude vanished instantly, replaced by a surging heat in his chest.
"You arrogant, preening vulture! Where were you? You’re the only House Leader who was not helping! If I’m a liability, at least I was standing here while you were hiding!"
Morgant didn’t even look at him, his eyes fixed on the struggling Giant.
"I had more important matters to attend to than watching you play hero... Things that actually determine the survival of this kingdom. We will discuss the details of my ’absence’ once we have ended this stupidity."
The Giant let out a confused, guttural groan above them. She pulled at her limb, but the arm hung uselessly—a massive, nerve dead mountain of at that no longer obeyed her will. She looked at Morgant, her eyes wide with the realization that her "True Form" had been dismantled by a few flicks of a fan.
Suddenly, a blur of motion caught the corner of Percieval’s eye. Sliding through the mud, dodging arcing bolts of lightning with desperate agility, was a young boy. It was Sairant. Against all odds, he was still alive, and he was dragging a massive, heavy weight behind him.
With a final, sliding lunge, Sairant delivered the weapon to the old master’s feet. Percieval didn’t waste a second. He grabbed the familiar cold steel and let out a grunt as he equipped it.
The weapon was the embodint of his legend: the Great Dragon Nail. It was a pair of massive, over engineered gauntlets,each bearing its nasake: a single, colossal spike designed to mimic the devastating piercing force of a dragon’s claw.
As he locked his Black Blade into his arms, Percieval’s fighting style shifted into sothing terrifying. Despite his age and broken ribs, he dropped to all fours, using the oversized gauntlets like a silverback gorilla to propel himself forward with explosive, heavy leaps. He blurred across the muddy courtyard, dodging lightning by re inches.
A massive cheer erupted, montarily drowning out the thunder.
"He’s doing it! The Great Dragon Nail is active!"
Standing in the mud, protected by the very path his grandfather was clearing, Arteé watched with a complex mix of emotions.
"Grandfather... he is truly... unelegant."
To Arteé, who had been raised on stories of noble knights and refined duels, seeing the head of his house run on all fours like a wild animal was a shock to the system. There was no poetry in Percieval’s movent... It was ugly, it was dirty, and it was the most beautiful thing the boy had ever seen.
Percieval propelled himself, his massive black gauntlets cratering the mud with every stride. He close the distance to the fifty ter titan in seconds.
The Giantess looked down, her eyes widening as she tried to track the low profile, bestial movent of the old man. She swung her massive, lightning clad fist in a sweeping arc ant to level the entire courtyard.
"You crawl in the dirt like a beast—a true lizard! Is this the dignity of your ’Seven Houses’? To die like one!?"
Percieval didn’t slow down. He dug the Great Dragon Nail into the stone, pivoting his entire weight to slide under the colossal swing. The wind from her fist nearly blew him away, but he anchored himself with the sheer weight of his gauntlets.
"Dignity doesn’t win wars, girl! And a lizard is exactly what you need to tear a monster’s throat out!"
With a roar, he leaped. He used the Giantess’s own leg as a ramp, sprinting up her thigh with his gorilla like gait. The Giantess gasped, swatting at him with her other hand, but Percieval was already at her torso.
"What are you? No re human moves with such weight... you fight like the primordial blooded!"
Percieval reached her chest, locking his feet into the gaps of her armor. He pulled his right arm back, and instead of the usual orange glow of the Citrineclaw, a terrifying, absolute cold began to bleed from the Great Dragon Nail. The rain around them froze instantly into jagged needles of ice.
"I’ll put the grounded, into GROUNDEAD! Dragon Secondary Art: Cocytus Talon!"
User Comments
0 comments from readers