The capital shook as their clash tore through its bones. Gold and black streaked across broken towers, ripping the night apart.
Lucy's blade trembled in her hands, the markings on her arms crawling brighter with each swing. Her breath came sharp, uneven, her chest burning as the new power raged inside her like it wanted to tear free from her body. Every strike she landed carried more force than she meant, every movement heavier, sharper—barely hers at all.
The Dragon King's fists hammered back, gold crashing against black. Each blow was cleaner, steadier, the weight of centuries behind them. Lucy pressed harder, but her sword arm twitched, her fire sputtered mid-swing, sparks breaking her rhythm.
The King's eyes narrowed, a sneer flashing across his blood-streaked face. "Unstable." His fist drove into her gut before she could block.
