Dragon-king
Dragon-king
―!
A sound beyond description. It was thunderous, explosive — from a distance, it might even have evoked a dragon's roar.
That bellow rolled across the entire city. Tiyamal, whose hearing was merely good rather than exceptional, found himself listening instinctively.
"What's that? No festivals today..."
"Doesn't look like a festival. Tiyamal, does this happen often?"
They were in a residential quarter of the Torso District, near the Tail District.
Not far from the Heart District, where inns for travelers and outland heroes were located.
Which meant the destruction unfolding at the palace was visible to them, and the roar was violent enough to rattle the bones.
A cataclysm of a scale none of them had ever witnessed. Even Ereta and Angie, neither of whom was particularly sensitive, reacted.
"Something's fighting."
Fay, whose senses were keener, responded immediately. Her brow furrowed as she stared toward the palace, where a dust cloud towered high.
Every sound reaching her ears was combat noise.
Steel clashing, flesh tearing, the shouts and screams of those caught in it.
Someone was fighting amid blooming death.
Who, and against what?
What could possibly cause destruction this intense?
The question didn't linger. Aslan's party had hunted priests before. They knew.
This was the work of a priest.
And if so, the one fighting back was obvious.
The real question wasn't who was fighting.
It was what they were fighting.
Belus Alpen, homeland of the Dragon-kin. This city had never once permitted foreign invasion.
At least, so Tiyamal had always understood.
Where in the hell had a priest come from, and why was it fighting in the Heart District? Tiyamal had no answer.
Only one way to find out.
His expression tight, Tiyamal shed his upper garment.
As the leather vest dropped to the ground, the fierce wind gusted over his scales, carrying the scene from within that distant dust cloud.
The scales. The tail. The wings of a Dragon-kin.
The Dragon-king and Aslan.
The two were locked in mortal combat.
Tiyamal's face hardened as the image formed through his scales.
Not because Aslan dared to raise his blade against the Dragon-king.
Because the Dragon-king was fighting Aslan as an equal — no, as his superior.
Aslan was losing ground. Desperate defense and evasion, barely any offense, and even the attacks he did land left nothing but scratches on the Dragon-king's scales. No clean cuts.
'That's... the Dragon-king?'
No. It couldn't be.
Even the Dragon-king — inheritor of an Ancient God's divinity, gifted with a breath weapon, iron-hard scales, and wings — couldn't produce martial force like this.
Which meant...
The moment understanding struck, Tiyamal's hands moved on their own. His large hand seized the bow stave and drew the string, reaching for an arrow —
Kwagagang!
The wall of the building where they'd been resting collapsed as something burst through.
"What the fu—"
Over Angie's shout, Tiyamal felt the ripple of wind the instant the wall gave way and dropped low.
Tatang!
Two rounds sliced through the space where his head had been. Small fighter constructs, fast enough that even Tiyamal's scales barely registered them.
In the same breath, his arrow tore through the dust and impaled something.
Peo-eok!
Beyond the fallen fighter was a horde of steel.
Men and beasts of metal, each armed with its own weapons.
At their center, behind the machine that had taken Tiyamal's arrow with its body, a construct with guns for hands raised its arms toward them.
"Where the hell did these bastards come from?!"
Fay drew both blades without a word. Ereta pulled her axe and murmured, "Predator." Angie raised her fists, voice thick with confusion.
And she was right. Even Tiyamal couldn't tell where they had sprung from.
Their sudden appearance — bypassing Tiyamal's superhuman scales and Fay's exceptional senses — was nothing normal.
The implication was plain.
They had already been inside Belus Alpen, and they had been targeting Aslan's party.
And Aslan himself would be no exception. The instant Tiyamal grasped the situation, he closed his eyes.
Perceiving the surroundings through his scales, he calculated rapidly.
Their combat strength here: Tiyamal, Angie, Ereta, Fay.
They could spare one person without issue.
Aslan, on the other hand, was alone. Fighting something wearing the Dragon-king's form.
One person could be taken from here and still make a difference to him. Only one.
He decided fast. Eyes still shut, Tiyamal grabbed Ereta by the scruff of her neck.
"Ereta! Go to the center of the chaos! Find Aslan!"
A roar that rang off the walls. Before Ereta could manage more than a startled "Huh?", her body was already flying out the window. Tiyamal didn't blink — he swung his bow.
Kkaang!
A blade glanced off the bow stave. As he shoved it aside, Tiyamal shouted.
"You brats — kill them all!"
*
A shockwave bloomed outward. Death raced ahead of the blast and the thunder that followed. Aslan thrust his bloodsword toward it, the blade sheathed in Purity.
The killing blow was invisible. He couldn't see it, so he relied wholly on instinct rather than perception.
Superhuman intuition, the sense most tightly bound to Aslan's survival, flared, and his blade met the Dragon-king's foot.
Jjeo-eo-eong!
The impact split the air. Aslan moved through the agony, his wrist screaming as though the bones would shatter.
He didn't resist the force shoving his blade aside — he rotated with it. Put the spin into his sword. The counterclockwise strike was a thrust.
Kaaang!
Useless. Even Heart Piercing couldn't penetrate the Dragon-king's scales.
A thrust driven by full-body rotation couldn't dig in a single inch.
"Kh..."
Kagak. Sparks scattered as the blade skidded away. Before the deflection could wreck his stance entirely, Aslan released the sword and drew the second spear from his back.
Uuung!
The low thrum of turbines. What followed was a thoroughly human attack.
A right straight.
The punch, accompanied by a shockwave, was invisible to Aslan's eyes.
A direct hit meant death. A graze meant death. His luck blazed with all its might, screaming the warning.
You're about to die. You're going to die. He twisted his body, narrowly slipping past the killing blow, and thrust with his spear first.
Eudeudeuk!
The short spear lanced out with his left hand. The Dragon-king's straight crushed it instantly, shattering even the lightning that wreathed it as death bore down. Aslan barely escaped by flattening himself. Only because the shattered spear slowed the punch by a heartbeat.
Guuung!
But the windstorm trailing the fist caught him, and Aslan lost his balance.
Kwaaang!
The Dragon-king's foot slammed down toward his head. Dirt and stone shards erupted like a grenade blast. Aslan retreated, his cloak deflecting the fragments.
The moment he scrambled back to create distance, the Dragon-king settled into a stance. Tail crushing into the ground. Left heel rising. Right foot planted solid. Motion ceased.
―!
The Dragon-king vanished. Aslan didn't panic. He simply stared straight ahead and drew Seobsaeng. White flames of Purity licked along the stone sword.
One clean hit and he was dead. Aslan's lips twisted into a bitter smile as he read the technique's essence.
The Dragon-king's move was a front kick.
Acceleration driven solely by tail and right leg, a strike so vile it seemed to warp space itself as it shot forward.
Aslan extended Seobsaeng in his left hand.
—Jjeo-eo-eong!
Dragon-kin caught in the expanding shockwave vomited blood and died. The brick-paved street scattered into fragments.
Aslan couldn't escape the aftershock either. He was hurled backward, blood surging from his mouth.
His expression twisted.
Kwang, kwang, kurrurr...
He was already a wreck.
Only a handful of exchanges. Defense, evasion, offense. And yet each one had dragged him a step closer to death.
But he couldn't complain. Aslan understood. This was the best he could manage.
A single mistake and he'd be dead already.
He was outmaneuvering his opponent tactically but couldn't press the advantage — couldn't avoid getting dragged in.
This was the sheer power of overwhelming violence.
A high priest was exactly this kind of being.
Something on a different order from ordinary priests. An irrational entity.
A calamity with a will, walking the mortal world.
The unprepared cannot defeat a priest. But even the prepared cannot defeat a high priest.
What defeating a high priest required was colossal luck, a task bordering on miracle, and exhaustive preparation.
None of which Aslan had right now.
What he lacked, he would have to create. Aslan was certain that the moment his party gathered, the outcome would turn.
Beneath that certainty, he fought desperately to buy time. Even as his own death crept closer by the second, he swung his blade and slipped every attack.
Strikes he couldn't see, strikes he couldn't block — he barely managed to parry.
Scrambling upright from a roll, short spear in his right hand and Seobsaeng in his left, Aslan's breath came in ragged gasps.
A fighting spirit approaching the threshold of the superhuman — 7 — and the battle remained hellish.
Mental and physical attrition were punishing.
But he was buying time. Steadily. Once his companions arrived...
"I know what you're waiting for."
The Dragon-king spoke low, addressing the panting Aslan.
Turbines still hummed from his hanging arms.
"You think your companions will arrive and turn this situation. You would be right to think so."
"What... are you..."
Gasping through the words, Aslan met the Dragon-king's golden eyes. Deep wariness lurked there.
The Dragon-king added one more thing as he settled into his stance.
"No reinforcements are coming."
Hips slightly turned, right leg extended forward. Both fists raised high, trembling with shockwave energy.
"I've accounted for all your companions. I've already sent priests to their location, tailored the opposition to be difficult for them. So... no support."
And with that, the Dragon-king closed his mouth. Tuk, tuk — he bounced lightly on his feet, then shot forward.
Shockwaves radiated again. As the dark scales closed in, Aslan crushed down the confusion and dismay and swung his sword.
And flew once more.
Tumbled across the ground. Slammed into it. Scattered and spat blood.
With every roll, dark stains smeared across the earth.
The only reason Aslan was still alive: the health reinforcement from wild magic and the impact dispersion of Stymphalos's Wings.
Without either, he'd already be dead.
He'd barely managed to rise from his collision with the ground when the Dragon-king's upward kick came for his head.
'Jeojang.'
Aslan closed his eyes and murmured the word inwardly. The world decelerated as dozens of deaths filled the space. He piled up his own corpses to narrowly escape.
Kwaaaang!
Purity, placed just barely in the kick's trajectory, preserved his life.
Launched high and then slammed into the ground, Aslan spat out the blood filling his mouth and forced himself upright.
He couldn't burn precognition recklessly.
Only when a truly unavoidable killing blow was staring him in the face — like just now — could he use it.
If he triggered precognition for every exchange, his brain would liquefy and kill him long before the fight ended or he found an opening.
Blood was already trickling from his nose from overuse. He had to move even more carefully now.
Panting, he adjusted his grip on his sword and rose to meet the Dragon-king's next attack. The scene was overwhelming — you could hardly call it a fight.
Overwhelming enough to crush the heart of anyone watching from afar.
Overwhelming enough that you couldn't help but throw yourself in.
Kaaaaang!
Seobsaeng was torn from his grip. He'd swung it to block a spinning kick driving into his body. Against his weakening grip, the Dragon-king's leg strength was monstrous.
Aslan spared a glance at the stone sword flying away and swung his last remaining weapon — the Dragon Hunter spear — to block the crushing tail strike.
The golden spear shattered into fragments. Through the debris, claws shot toward Aslan's throat. He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes.
'Jeojang.'
Without precognition, he couldn't dodge this.
He had to push through, even if it meant pushing too hard.
The claws drove toward his throat. Dark, razor talons moving at tremendous speed despite the distance.
Twist his body away? No, the force was too heavy. Even with a deflected trajectory, it would be a fatal wound.
Letting the distance bleed off the impact was pointless. The Dragon-king had shockwaves. A glancing brush would still pierce his throat.
The only option left was sacrificing an arm. He didn't have Equalization, but his life came first. Aslan raised his arm. If he failed, he could always call it back and try again.
That was what he was thinking when white hair fluttered into view before his eyes.
Ereta appeared, her back to him.
Axe in hand, she wedged herself between Aslan and the Dragon-king. Caught the hurtling attack on the haft of her axe.
What she intended to do was obvious. Even though this was only precognition — even though it hadn't become reality yet — Aslan's eyes flew wide.
"Ere—"
Kkagak, peo-eok!
The axe haft burst apart. Ereta's leather breastplate split open. The shirt beneath tore as dark talons clawed through the gap.
Spraying blood soaked Aslan's hair, his face.
Luck at 10 — the realm of the superhuman.
The tactile sensation of the vision that luck delivered was impossibly vivid.
Ereta's body collapsed. She sagged toward Aslan. Her face buried against his shoulder, blood pouring endlessly from her mouth.
Warmth spread across his shoulder, her body temperature dropping, her heartbeat stuttering to a halt. Aslan felt someone else's death and froze.
This was precognition. An illusion. Even if it was a companion, there was no reason to lose composure in a vision.
He should push aside Ereta's dying body and face the enemy. Find a way out.
He couldn't.
Without warning, his master Budongong's words surfaced in his mind.
'You are too soft-hearted. At least when you fight, set that heart aside.'
How had he answered? He couldn't remember. Probably brushed it off like it was nothing.
And at that response, Budongong had smacked his head and told him to listen carefully.
With that blocky, impassive face, he'd spoken with a strange tenderness.
'Who told you to be cold all the time? Just... don't let personal attachments rule you. They'll get you killed.'
Become a fighter, Aslan. If you cling to being human, you won't win.
Aslan recalled those words and thought:
The old man was right after all.
Even if it was only within a vision, Aslan couldn't let go of Ereta's body.
Because he was human.
He couldn't discard his humanity.
Because the Aslan who remained after abandoning it would no longer have any Lee Hyun-woo left in him.
Seized by that attachment, Aslan held Ereta close, unable to stop the warmth and blood from draining away.
As death approached, the woman's small lips moved to exhale her last breath.
"I like... you..."
And with that, Ereta's breath ceased.
She vanished, leaving behind only clear, vivid emotion. Even if it was only in precognition.
He'd known. Of course he'd known.
But he'd been afraid and avoided it. Afraid this would happen. Afraid he'd lose her and never rise again.
Aslan had been frightened in advance and deliberately ignored it.
That was why he'd left Fay. Why he'd made excuses in the face of Ereta's feelings.
This was the price.
Aslan saw the Dragon-king's foot descending and died once.
His headless body crumbled.
And time rewound.
To before his death. To before Ereta breathed out her last affection.
Watching it, Aslan understood.
He couldn't let this vision go. The moment he did, it would become reality.
Watching death close in once more, Aslan moved.
He moved desperately, fighting to hold onto this precognition.