The night explodes with fierce collisions of power.
Veyra'el dives through the darkness, his six black wings leaving trails of shimmering silver light in their wake. Mike meets him head-on, a streak of crimson fire tearing across the savanna. When they collide, the sound is deafening, a single shockwave that rips the grass flat for a mile around and sends dirt spiraling into the sky like smoke.
Mike twists, using the new flexibility of his compact draconic form. His tail snaps around like a whip, slamming into the Watcher's side and hurling him through a grove of acacia trees. The impact detonates bark and dust in all directions. Before the debris even settles, Veyra'el bursts out again, his expression finally shifting from calm curiosity to irritation.
"You fight like an animal," he says. His voice is still melodic, but there's a jagged edge in it now.
Mike grins wide, fangs glinting under the moonlight. "Guess what happens when the animal keeps getting stronger."
He doesn't wait for a reply. He launches forward, digging his claws into the ground for momentum. The earth caves beneath him, soil and stone exploding under the force. He swings his arm upward, a vertical slash that sends a trail of molten fire arcing toward the Watcher.
Veyra'el blocks it with a wall of white light, but the impact sends cracks racing through the barrier before it shatters like glass. The blast drives him back several paces, dust spiraling around his form.
Mike looks at his own hand, the faint crimson heat still burning along his claws. He can feel it, how energy moves through his muscles now, the balance between strength and restraint. His new form isn't just powerful; it's efficient. Every ounce of essence channels perfectly, every strike heavier, cleaner, faster. He thinks about the training with Hamza and how much better this control feels now.
Bahamut's voice hums through his mind, proud. "You see now. This is making the power your own. Using the powers of different beings that you devoured properly."
Mike chuckles under his breath. "Feels damn good."
He charges again.
Veyra'el parries with twin blades of light that materialize from thin air, their edges humming with a corrupted holy energy. Mike ducks low beneath one strike, feeling the air peel past his horns, and counters with a shoulder ram that sends both of them skidding across the ground. They crash through a boulder, pulverizing it into dust, and Mike's claws slam into the fallen angel's chest.
The blow sends Veyra'el flying. He flips midair, wings snapping open, and halts his motion with a burst of light before streaking forward again. Their collision sends another concussion across the plains, rolling through the grass like a shockwave from a detonation.
Every movement burns brighter. Every hit is louder. The land itself begins to break beneath their power.
Veyra'el's patience finally cracks. "Stop laughing!" he snarls, slamming a knee into Mike's gut and throwing a beam of white and silver energy point-blank into his face.
Mike roars, caught in the blast, and then bursts through it, smoke curling from his skin. His grin hasn't faded. "Why? You're finally making it interesting."
He swings. The strike connects, sending Veyra'el spinning into the dirt. The angel rebounds instantly, his wings folding into sharp spears of black light that stab forward. Mike catches two, crushes them with a flex of his claws, and smashes his forehead into the Watcher's face.
The sound is like steel colliding with stone.
Veyra'el reels, staggered for the first time. Mike's laughter rolls over the savanna, deep, raw, joyous. The night itself seems to shudder with it.
He straightens, flexing his hands, feeling the heat pulsing through his veins. "You're fast," he says, "but not fast enough."
He vanishes.
One instant he's in front of Veyra'el, the next, behind him. A kick sends the angel crashing forward, then a claw strike smashes him into the ground. The dirt erupts upward in a blast of dust and glowing embers.
The shockwave races across the plain, flattening trees, splitting the cracked soil open into a glowing fissure. The night lights up orange as fire bursts from beneath the surface.
Mike lands on the edge of the crater, looking down at the glowing pit where the Watcher fell. His wings flare open, each one dripping embers.
"You are learning, good. I can't call you pathetic any longer. Finally." Bahamut mutters. "The destruction you cause is not chaos. It is control. You are learning to hold your power in the palm of your hand."
Mike smirks. "Guess it's about time I caught up."
The ground explodes.
Veyra'el bursts upward in a storm of feathers and light, his armor fractured, his silver eyes blazing with fury. He grabs Mike by the throat and slams him backward into the earth.
"Enough games!"
The ground quakes as corrupted energy surges around the fallen angel's body. Beams of white and black fire stab downward from the sky, forming a cage around them. Each one carves deep, molten scars into the land. The Watcher presses down harder, trying to pin Mike.
But Mike doesn't yield. His claws grip the angel's wrist, and his grin widens through the pain. "Games?" he growls. "You think this is a game?"
He surges upward, his body flaring with red-gold light. The energy radiating off him melts the surrounding ground, liquefying the soil into glowing magma. He grabs Veyra'el's arm, twists, and slams him into the molten earth.
Veyra'el tries to rise, but Mike's foot comes down on his chest, pinning him. The dragon's laughter echoes again, rolling across the endless plain. "You're strong," he says. "Make it more fun! Show me more!"
He drives his claw down, drawing a streak of silver blood from the angel's shoulder.
The sight makes him pause. The blood glows faintly, pulsing with light before fading into the dust. Mike tilts his head, fascinated. "Weird," he murmurs.
Veyra'el shoves him off with a burst of light, stumbling back. His breath comes sharp, his composure finally cracked. "You are abomination," he spits. "You steal and take from everything like a parasite."
Mike wipes blood from his jaw, still smiling. "Who gives a shit. It lets me kill all of you."
He lunges again. The battle spirals upward into the air, higher and higher, until they are fighting among the clouds. Lightning flashes between them as claws meet radiant blades. Fire and light twist together in the sky like battling serpents.
Below, the savanna burns. The sea of grass covered in flame across the landscape, the ground itself scarred with the imprint of their fierce battle.
Every time Veyra'el blocks, Mike hits harder. Every time the fallen angel adapts, Mike adjusts faster. His movements become sharper, cleaner, an artist learning his new instrument mid-performance. He dodges with precision, rolls through strikes that would have broken him before.
He can feel every breath, every heartbeat. He catches Veyra'el mid-swing, grips both his wrists, and head-butts him so hard the fallen angel's halo fractures into fragments of white and black flame.
"Stop—" Veyra'el gasps, blood spilling from his mouth. "—laughing!"
Mike grins wider, flames curling up his throat. "Make me."
He opens his mouth and exhales a torrent of red-black fire that engulfs the Watcher completely. The flames roll through the sky like a storm, swallowing the stars, until the horizon glows crimson.
When the fire fades, Veyra'el is kneeling, his wings tattered and smoking. He looks up through scorched hair, defiant but breathing hard. "You are not ready," he whispers. "Even this… this power will not save you from Abbadon."
Mike steps forward, his eyes burning like twin suns. "Maybe not. But it'll make me harder to kill."
Veyra'el's lips curve into a grim smile, blood trickling down his chin. "You truly are that foul dragon's successor."
And with that, the Watcher dissolves into a swirl of black feathers and vanishes into the night, his presence fading like smoke.
Mike stands alone in the air, his chest rising and falling slowly. The night is silent except for the crackle of fires below.
"You see it now hatchling," Bahamut says softly, proud and dark. "You are finally becoming what you were meant to be."
Mike looks down at his clawed hands. The faint crimson glow still pulses beneath his scales, casting a reflection on his face.
He laughs quietly, low, almost content. "Yeah," he says. "I can feel it."
The wind shifts, carrying the scent of burnt earth and molten stone. The savanna glows red beneath him, and above, the stars flicker faintly through the smoke.
Mike folds his wings and drops toward the burning horizon.
Each beat of his heart hums with new strength and power waiting to be unleashed.