I seize his jaw, prying it open as he tries to bite me. His body thrashes, but I hold him steady, my grip unrelenting. It’s too late—he cannot stop me now.
With a sneer, I drive my other hand deep into his throat. His body convulses, choking and spluttering. I repeat the process, forcing my fingers deeper until he retches, coughing up green liquid mixed with chunks of bloodroot. The green fire in Jazreal’s eyes finally extinguishes, his eyelids fluttering shut.
I rise, standing tall, chest heaving with labored breaths as the countless wounds on my body begin to register. But I have won. I have vanquished. I throw my fist into the air, my triumph punctuated by the deafening roll of thunder above and the ceaseless howling of the ash-laden winds.
Silence.
A deafening hush. Garzum steps forward, his face stricken with sorrow, his eyes lingering on the broken body of Jazreal. He raises his eyes just enough to meet mine, his voice heavy with the weight of this moment.
“Dracoth is the victor... may the Gods have mercy on us all.”
Chapter 33
Dracoth
Soak
Pain.Searing,relentless.Itsaturates every inch of my body, covering my chest and limbs in dark bruises and swollen welts. Even the bubbling waters of the hot springs offer little reprieve from the torment. But pain is fleeting. My superior Klendathian blood will ensure swift recovery. These physical wounds are mere inconveniences—trivial compared to the gnawing emptiness hollowing out my soul. A nauseating, bitter anguish I haven’t tasted since that cursed day... Krogoth’s so-called victory.
My victory. If such a poor display could be called such a thing. It feels as empty as the void between the stars. There were no grand cheers to greet me—only the oppressive weight of silence. No epic triumph echoes worthy of my father’s name, just thepalest semblance of success. A simple stone—a fluke—a freak occurrence. That is how close my destiny teetered over the abyss of disaster.
My blood seethes as molten and volatile as the rivers of lava surging through this chamber. I am a fool. Arrogance clouded my judgment, and it nearly cost me everything. Worse still, this isn’t the first time. I clench my jaw, baring my fangs through swollen lips.
That hateful day hunting Krogoth, my victory, almost certain, then turned to bitter ash that forever haunts me. Overconfidence in my strength once again nearly spelled my undoing.
I sink deeper into the hot waters of the geyser, letting it reach below my eyes, wishing it could wash away this nagging doubt. Ignixis was right... perhaps I am still aboy,as he likes to remind me. I despise this! What was once so solid, dependable, now feels tainted, flawed. There must be something more. A stinging lesson Arawnoth sought to instill?
I blow bubbles in frustration, rising from the water as my lungs burn for air. Was it arrogance? Or was it contempt—contempt for Jazreal—that nearly led me to ruin? My abilities are superior. That much is undeniable. Jazreal fought precisely as I anticipated: skilled, competent, but ultimately beneath me. It was my scorn for him that blinded me—my refusal to see his cunning. He used everything, even the ash beneath my feet, to his advantage. And the bloodroot... a reckless act of self-destruction, a desperate sacrifice of life itself. But in that moment, he proved the depths of his resolve. As endless and unfathomable as the molten core of Scarn.
That is true power—not just strength of muscle and bone, but the will to sacrifice, the ability to outthink.
Yes!
I see it clearly now. Jazreal’s words echo through my mind, his form drifting like ash on the wind:“Only a fool fights his opponent where he is strongest.”
This is the lesson I must absorb. I was a fool, relying solely on brute force. An opponent of Jazreal’s caliber will always find ways to counter raw power. I must be more than my strength—I must become cunning, calculated.
Because in the end, it was cunning—not strength—that eked out my sliver of victory. Ignixis often speaks of my father’s mastery of more than brute force. He wielded a tactician’s mind, leading entire clans to crushing victories across the galaxy, as well as on the battlefield. Pride blooms within me, lifting my spirit at the thought. I will become like my father, for he is me, and I am him. I carry his noble legacy, the true heir destined to lead our great people. All that remains is for me to seize it.
Soft footsteps break the stillness, snapping me from my thoughts. The musky, alluring scent of the human females wrinkles my nose. I groan, fighting the urge to sink deeper into the bubbling geyser.
How do they keep finding me?
A pointless question.I despise being seen like this—weakened, bruised, and vulnerable. My invincible aura now diminished. Who knows how the fickle females will react when only fear keeps them bonded to me?
No one fears the feeble.
And then there are the endless questions they bring. Grating, ceaseless. They almost surpass Ignixis in their gas-cloudiness.Where is that old fool? What would he make of these events?
“This place is massive!” Princesa’s voice echoes off the cavernous black walls, mixing with the dripping water and the distant sizzle of lava.
“Yeah...” Sandra starts, wonder filling her tone. “Oh no. There’s bloody lava in here too! No wonder it’s so hot!”
Their inane concerns are oddly endearing. Like they exist in a different reality—one untouched by the burdens I carry. Whimsical in their ignorance of the dangers that lurk all around them.
I keep my eyes closed, listening to their footsteps growing louder, picturing them as they draw nearer.
“It’s not that hot, and it’s really beautiful,” Princesa says, her voice softening as though she’s taking it all in.
