"This wyrmling is no match for me!" Gindu roared across the battlefield, his voice booming like thunder as he clashed against a smaller Dragonkin.
Around him lay a chaotic sprawl of bodies—Beastkin, Dragonkin, ogres, and even giants.
Blood soaked the dirt, its coppery stench mixing with the charred scent of magic and the metallic tang of steel. The ground squelched beneath his feet with each step, half-dried blood making the surface tacky.
Amid the chaos, Gindu steadily pressed toward the front lines where the giants fought, eager to surround himself with worthy opponents.
His azure scales gleamed like polished sapphires in the fractured light, razor-sharp and honed to a deadly edge. The scales clinked softly against each other as he moved, a sound barely audible in the din of battle.
Gindu readied himself to finish the skirmish. His current opponent was fast—frustratingly so—but lacked the strength to pose a real threat. Dodging Gindu's attacks with ease, the yellow-scaled Dragonkin moved like a flicker of wind, but each failed strike only deepened Gindu's annoyance.
Being toyed with by someone too weak to wound him was an insult.
The Dragonkin leapt back, sword raised for a counterstrike—but then his foot slipped.
"A wyrmling who can't even stay on his feet? Must be trembling in fear of my power!" Gindu jeered, laughing heartily, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest.
Unbeknownst to him, the stumble wasn't fear—it was Llarm's wind that had caught the Dragonkin off guard. But Gindu didn't care. He needed no reason beyond his ego.
He closed the distance instantly. With one clean motion, his sharpened blue scales slashed across the Dragonkin's neck, ending the fight in a crimson spray that spattered warm droplets across Gindu's face. The distinct metallic smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils.
Pathetic wyrmling, Gindu thought, shaking his head in mild disgust.
He paused to survey the battlefield.
The sky above was a smoky curtain, pulsing with flashes of raw, wild magic—fire, water, lightning, sand, even molten lava streaked through the clouds like falling stars. The air crackled with energy, making the scales along his spine tingle. Gindu almost found himself gawking at the beauty of it all, mesmerized by the sheer chaos.
'What am I doing? I've got wyrmlings to slaughter!' he snapped inwardly, tearing his eyes from the sky.
"I wonder where that human ran off to," Gindu muttered aloud, his voice rougher than usual from roaring in battle. "I must thank him later."
It was a strange thing to say. Gindu hated humans. His blood boiled just thinking of them. His great-grandparents—born in an age long past—had been among the first Dragonkin enslaved by mankind. That wound still bled in his family's memory, and he had vowed never to forgive them. The very word "human" tasted bitter on his tongue.
But Lucy…
Lucy had done something no wyrmling should've been able to do.
During a brutal fight with a particularly strong Dragonkin, Gindu caught sight of Eri collapsed on the ground. Her short brown hair was caked with blood, clumping into dark crimson chunks. Her chest was ripped open, a gaping wound spilling her life into the dirt. The sight of her lifeblood seeping into the thirsty earth sent a chill down his spine.
The sight nearly broke him.
Rage surged through Gindu, hot as magma beneath his scales. He honed his scales once more, desperate to end his battle—but his opponent refused to die. Every strike was met with resistance, the clang of impact jarring his arm. Every step toward Eri was blocked, his path constantly diverted.
The enemy attacked from Gindu's blind side, but he didn't care. His only thought was of reaching her.
Then, through the storm of blood and chaos, he saw it.
The heads piled around her.
The bodies split open, innards glistening wetly in the magical light.
And at the center of it all… the human.
Lucy stood over Eri's fallen form—alone, blood-soaked, victorious. The human's cloak was so thoroughly drenched that it clung to his frame, dripping with each subtle movement.
The moment Gindu first laid eyes on Eri, he knew she was the one.
Call it dragon instinct, call it fate, or even something absurd like love—but whatever it was, it gripped him with the strength of a mountain chain.
When he saw her crumpled on the battlefield, her body broken and bloodied on the obsidian ground, something ancient stirred in his chest.
The feeling was suffocating, squeezing his lungs until he could barely breathe. His legs had nearly buckled. His rage had almost burst from his throat in a roar that would have shaken the very foundations of the earth.
That was why he needed to thank the human.
"Not a bad wyrmling at all," Gindu muttered under his breath, his eyes scanning the chaos beyond the smoke.
The battlefield was choked with ash and blood, spells still painting the sky with unnatural color—bursts of crimson light as bright as the setting sun, jagged streaks of lightning that left purple afterimages in his vision, rolling clouds of ice and flame that hissed and sizzled as they collided. Then, through the blur of movement, he saw him.
The human.
And what he saw made his blood run hot, a rushing torrent in his ears.
"He's fighting a general?" Gindu choked out, his voice cracking with disbelief. For a brief moment, the jittery, unsure version of himself resurfaced—an echo of a time when he lacked purpose.
But he bared his fangs and shook his head hard enough to rattle his skull, the movement sending tiny tremors down his spine.
"Of course he is. I wouldn't expect anything less from that little wyrmling!" he roared with a grin, allowing the laugh to carry his nerves away on the wind.
Then a thought rose from the pit of his chest—unwelcome and unshakable.
'I can't let that human outshine me… not after what he did for Eri.'
He clenched his jaw until it ached, swallowed hard, the sound audible even to himself, and turned his gaze to another battlefield.
Three rings of war had formed across the scorched land, carved by combat and the chaos of divine forces.
The first circle was a swirling maelstrom of Lucy, Tara, and Fenara, surrounded by Beastkin, elves, and Dragonkin. Sparks of light and shadow danced around them like fireflies made of raw magic, each tiny flash accompanied by a sizzling sound when they touched flesh.
The second was a thunderous war zone of giants and ogres, their roars echoing through the valley like rolling thunder, their swings shaking the very stones beneath them. Each impact sent tremors through the ground that Gindu could feel through the soles of his feet.
And the third—his destination—was the eye of a storm.
Dragonkin.
In its center, two titans clashed: one clad in deep, molten crimson, fire trailing his every strike like comet tails—the chosen general of Seraphine. The other shimmered like a dawn sun, every movement traced in radiant gold that hurt the eyes to look at directly—the general of Ithriel's children.
And Gindu ran straight toward them.
He didn't allow his mind to interfere. Thoughts meant doubt. Doubt meant hesitation, and hesitation meant death.
So he ran.
Through mangled corpses and shattered weapons, he sprinted—blue scales glinting beneath the flickering light of war.
He hurdled the fallen Beastkin. He ducked a berserker's wild swing, feeling the air displacement ruffle the scales on his crest.
He narrowly avoided a blast of lightning that singed the air inches from his face, leaving the acrid smell of ozone burning his nostrils. Ash and blood clung to his feet, making each step slick on the obsidian floor, the surface treacherous as an iced-over lake.
But still, he ran.
The air grew thicker the closer he got, charged with power, the kind of ancient magic that cracked the sky and shook the mountains. The pressure made his ears pop and his lungs strain for breath.
As he neared, the twin dragons' battle came into focus. Each strike split the air with a sound like reality itself tearing apart. Each roar drowned out the sounds of dying men, the vibrations rattling Gindu's teeth in his skull.
The shockwaves battered Gindu's body with every step. His knees trembled, teeth clenched until his jaw ached, scales flaring to absorb the pressure. Even still, he marched forward.
'Wyrmlings… he sneered to himself. Wyrmlings can push me back?'
But bravado could only carry him so far.
He took another step—and stumbled slightly. His muscles strained to keep him upright, fibers burning with the effort. Every breath was a struggle against the weight of their divine battle, the air itself seeming to resist entering his lungs.
That's when he saw him.
An old elf stood like a stone in the middle of the road.
His short grey hair was swept back, and a red tribal tattoo spiraled down the side of his face—intricate, ancient symbols that glowed faintly in the flickering light, pulsing in rhythm with the battle around them. The blood and dust didn't touch him. He was perfectly still, not even his clothes stirring in the breeze that carried the stench of death.
With one hand raised, the elf blocked his path.
"I can't let you pass," he said dryly, his voice quiet but firm, as if the world had to obey it. Despite the chaos and noise surrounding them, his words carried clearly to Gindu's ears.
Gindu blinked, confused. There was no pressure radiating from the elf. No aura of divine strength. He felt... ordinary.
A mistake.
"I decide what I do, wyrmling!" Gindu snapped, roaring, spittle flying from his jaws.
But before he could finish the sentence—
The elf disappeared.
And reappeared—right in front of him.
"I really can't let you pass," he said again, even drier than before, his expression unchanged as if he were discussing the weather.
And then the punch landed.
It wasn't just a strike—it was a landslide.
A thunderclap in the shape of a fist.
Gindu's vision went white, a ringing silence filling his ears. His body lifted off the ground and hurtled backward, smashing through bodies and armor before skidding across the blood-soaked obsidian like a broken spear. The taste of copper flooded his mouth as his own blood welled from between his teeth.
He groaned, the battlefield spinning around him, sounds warping and distorting as he struggled to remain conscious.
'What… was that?'