The streets of Shizumi were bustling with life once more. The same city that had witnessed the devastation of Vaelzaryon and endured two years of chaos following the tower break now stood fully restored. This revival was thanks to the savior of Shizumi, the renowned 7-star hero, Hakan Raihan. Fighting alongside the guilds of Japan and the legendary Silver Valkyries, he led the charge against the calamity, bringing peace back to the city.
But now, whispers of uncertainty filled the air.
"Any idea where the 7-star is?"
"No clue. They say he had something important to attend to."
A conversation between two neighbors reflected the growing concern over their missing leader.
Meanwhile, at the Black Dragons' headquarters, preparations were underway.
"Hurry up! We need to be ready for his arrival," Alaric urged, his voice sharp as he moved with urgency.
Torren scowled, arms crossed. "Why is he coming here, of all places?"
The Black Dragons' headquarters buzzed with tension. Alaric, Sylvia, Torren, and Rina worked tirelessly, ensuring everything was in order. The crisp mountain air carried the scent of burning incense, blending with the distant growls of dragons perched on rocky outcrops. Their watchful eyes tracked the disturbance approaching from above.
Torren adjusted his gauntlets, his frown deepening. "I still don't get why he's coming here."
Sylvia sighed, brushing a strand of silver hair behind her ear. "It's obvious. He's here for Hakan."
Rina tightened the leather straps on her gloves as she arranged the seating near the stone courtyard. "And that's the problem—Hakan isn't here."
Then, the deep, rhythmic thrum of helicopter blades shattered the stillness, sending loose leaves and dust swirling through the courtyard. The dragons rumbled lowly, shifting uneasily as the aircraft descended.
A sleek black helicopter emblazoned with the golden insignia of the Celestial Dominion—China's most powerful guild— hovered briefly before touching down on the helipad. The downdraft sent ripples through the banners hanging along the Black Dragons' fortress.
The doors slid open with a sharp hiss.
Stepping out first was a tall, imposing man in a flowing Chinese robe, embroidered with golden dragons coiling around the sleeves. His movements were deliberate, controlled—effortless power wrapped in elegance. His sharp eyes swept across the courtyard, taking in the sight of the dragons, the warriors, and the absence of the one he sought.
Ren Tianlong had arrived.
Behind him, Xian Fei stepped out, her posture precise, her gaze cold and calculating. Her dark braid whipped slightly in the wind as she scanned the surroundings.
Alaric stepped forward, standing tall despite the invisible weight pressing down on him. He had no doubt why Ren was here.
Ren's gaze locked onto him, unreadable yet intense.
"Where is Hakan Raihan?"
The dragons stirred restlessly.
Alaric exhaled slowly. He had been dreading this moment.
Hakan was nowhere to be found.
Silence stretched between them, thick and unyielding. The distant growls of dragons faded, replaced by an almost suffocating tension that settled over the courtyard.
It was Torren who finally broke it.
"He's not here," he said bluntly, arms crossed, his sharp eyes meeting Ren's gaze without wavering.
Ren's expression didn't shift. He studied Torren, then the others, before his voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Where is he?"
Alaric didn't hesitate. "We don't know."
A beat passed.
Then another.
Ren exhaled slowly, his lips curling ever so slightly—an expression devoid of amusement.
"Lies."
The single word carried an unmistakable weight, like the prelude to a storm.
Xian Fei shifted slightly, sensing the shift in the air. The stillness was an illusion, a moment before the sky shattered.
Ren took a step forward.
And then—
Power.
It rolled off him in an unseen wave, crashing into the courtyard like an unrelenting tide. The very air quivered, distorting as the force of his presence expanded outward. A crushing pressure descended upon everything within seventy meters, suffocating and absolute.
The sky darkened. The banners that had once fluttered in the wind were now frozen mid-motion, held captive by an unseen force. The ground trembled beneath his will.
Then came the command.
"Kneel."
The word struck like divine decree.
Alaric barely had time to resist before his body betrayed him, knees slamming into the stone with a force that rattled his bones. Torren let out a strangled growl, his entire being raging against the unseen chains that forced him to submit—but it was useless. His body bowed, whether he willed it or not.
Sylvia clutched her head, her breathing ragged as she collapsed forward, her silver hair falling over her face. Rina gasped, her muscles locking in place as she dropped to her knees, fists clenched so tightly they trembled.
And the dragons—majestic, towering creatures of raw power—lowered themselves without resistance. Wings folded, heads bowed. They submitted.
They had no choice.
This was Absolute Dominion.
Ren Tianlong stood amidst it all, untouched, unmoving—a god among mortals.
His golden eyes burned as they fixed upon Alaric, the only one with enough strength left to lift his head.
"Once more," Ren said, his voice deceptively calm. "Where. Is. Hakan?"
Alaric's teeth clenched, his breath ragged under the unbearable weight pressing down on him. His mind screamed at him to fight back, to resist—but how could he resist something so absolute?
This was not mere power.
This was authority incarnate.
And at this moment, Ren Tianlong was king.
Torren gritted his teeth, his entire body trembling under the crushing force pinning him to the ground. His lungs burned, his muscles screamed for freedom, yet his will alone wasn't enough to defy the command of Absolute Dominion.
Ren Tianlong's gaze remained cold, expectant.
Torren had no choice.
"Hakan…" he gasped, forcing the words past the unbearable weight pressing down on his chest. "He left… Took a few of his dragons… Said he had something to handle."
Ren watched him in silence.
Torren's breathing was ragged, but he managed to lift his head just enough to glare at Ren, defiance flickering in his amber eyes. "That's all we know."
Another moment of silence.
Then, Ren's golden eyes gleamed.
He didn't need to ask again. Under his absolute authority, no lie could exist.
Torren was telling the truth.
The tension in the air remained for a moment longer, stretching unbearably—then it vanished.
Like a sudden release from invisible chains, the weight disappeared.
The overwhelming force that had shackled them to the ground lifted, and the Black Dragons gasped for breath, collapsing forward as though they had been drowning and were finally allowed to breathe.
The dragons shook their heads, growling lowly as they regained control over their bodies.
Torren wiped his mouth, fury in his gaze as he slowly pushed himself up. Sylvia steadied herself with one hand on the ground, her vision still spinning. Rina coughed, her knuckles white as she clenched her fists.
Alaric, however, remained frozen.
He had never—never—felt power like that before.
He was no weakling, no stranger to strong foes. He had fought alongside Hakan, faced horrors beyond human imagination… but this was different.
What he had just experienced wasn't simply strength.
It was authority.
An unconquerable force.
Ren adjusted his sleeves, his expression unreadable as he turned slightly. "Fei!."
A figure standing near the helicopter nodded in silent acknowledgment.
"The job here is done. We're leaving."
Without another word, Ren walked toward the waiting aircraft, his long robes billowing in the wind. Xian Fei followed closely behind, sparing the Black Dragons a lingering glance before stepping into the helicopter.
The rotor blades roared to life.
Alaric barely noticed.
His fingers trembled. His heart hammered against his ribs.
Even after Ren Tianlong had left, even after his overwhelming power had vanished, the fear remained.
The realization settled deep in his bones—cold, undeniable, and absolute.
They had just met one of the strongest beings in the world.
And against him, they were nothing.
Astralis Rift—The Realm of Celestial Dragons
Hakan moved forward, his body weightless as he passed through the shimmering veil of light. The transition was unlike anything he had ever experienced—silent, seamless, and absolute. For a fleeting moment, it felt as if he was floating through a rift between existence itself.
Then—
The light peeled away.
A vast expanse unfolded before him.
The air was unlike Earth's or Drakareth's—thin yet invigorating, humming with a celestial resonance that seeped into his very being. The sky above was an endless ocean of silver and gold, a cosmic expanse where distant stars pulsed softly like breathing entities.
Floating landmasses drifted through the sky, each adorned with ethereal flora that shimmered with a faint glow. Rivers of liquid starlight cascaded from one island to another, defying gravity, their waters imbued with a radiant energy that seemed to pulse with life. Massive spires of crystalline stone pierced through the heavens, their surfaces engraved with runes that exuded an ancient, boundless power.
But what truly stole Hakan's breath—
The dragons.
They were unlike any he had seen before.
Colossal beings that dwarfed even the mightiest of dragons in Drakareth.
Their sheer size was unfathomable. Some were so vast that their wingspans eclipsed entire floating islands, their movements shifting the very currents of the celestial winds. Others coiled around towering spires of crystal, their serpentine bodies gliding effortlessly through the air, each motion imbued with a grace that defied their impossible scale.
Hakan had seen powerful dragons before—Vealzaryon, Xyvarion, the great wyrms of Drakareth. But these beings? They were beyond mere strength.
They were monolithic. Eternal.
Their scales shimmered with an almost translucent glow, as if woven from the very fabric of the cosmos. Some bore intricate markings that pulsed with golden luminescence, while others had six, even eight wings, their forms shifting between tangible and ethereal as if they existed in multiple realities at once.
And their eyes—**those endless, luminous voids of knowledge and judgment—**locked onto him.
A deep, reverberating presence filled the space around him. It wasn't a roar, nor a sound in the traditional sense. It was a frequency, an ancient voice that resonated within his very soul.
"A mortal steps into the Rift."
The sky quivered. The floating landmasses trembled.
The weight of their attention was suffocating, pressing down on Hakan like the weight of a thousand mountains. He could feel the sheer authority of these beings, their existence woven into the very essence of the Rift itself.
Yet, he did not kneel.
He could not.
Not out of arrogance, but because his body refused to bend. Something within him—whether it was his own will, his defiance, or perhaps something even deeper—resisted.
The air shimmered, and from the swirling currents of celestial energy, one dragon emerged.
Larger than the rest, its presence was suffocating yet awe-inspiring. Its wings stretched across the horizon, its very breath altering the flow of the cosmic winds. Every movement it made felt deliberate, as if time itself yielded to its will.
The air split apart as the massive dragon lunged forward without warning. A blur of celestial light and raw, unrelenting power.
Hakan barely had a moment to react before an immense claw, larger than any structure he had ever seen, came crashing down toward him. The sheer force of it fractured the floating landmass beneath him, sending shockwaves through the air.
Phantom Step.
Hakan vanished just before impact, his form flickering in and out of existence as he reappeared above the dragon's head. With no hesitation, he launched himself downward, his fist crackling with pure kinetic force.
Dragon's Fang!
His strike descended like a meteor, aimed directly at the dragon's skull.
But before it could land—
BOOM!
A shockwave erupted as the dragon twisted its colossal body, a barrier of celestial energy forming instantaneously. Hakan's attack collided with it, sending ripples of force through the sky, but the barrier held.
The dragon's voice resonated through the Rift, a roar woven into existence itself.
"You are not welcome here, mortal!"
With a single beat of its wings, the celestial winds surged, warping reality around it. Gravity itself bent as golden chains of energy erupted from the void, attempting to bind Hakan mid-air.
He reacted instantly.
Spinning mid-flight, he twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the first chain—but another caught his arm. A crushing force threatened to snap his bones, dragging him downward.
With a fierce growl, Hakan wrenched free, ripping the chain apart with sheer force. The celestial threads unraveled, but the dragon had already moved, surging forward with terrifying speed.
Hakan barely had time to cross his arms before the creature's tail struck him with the force of a collapsing star.
The impact sent him hurtling through the sky, smashing through floating structures and celestial formations. Each collision sent radiant dust scattering into the Rift.
Yet, he did not fall.
Twisting mid-air, Hakan forced himself to halt, his feet skidding against an unseen platform of condensed energy. Blood dripped from his lip, but his eyes burned with determination.
The dragon snarled, its divine aura warping the very fabric of space. It reared its head back, celestial energy gathering at its core, preparing to unleash devastation—
But then—
The Rift trembled.
A second presence emerged.
Older.
Vast.
Timeless.
Reality itself bent around the arrival of another dragon—one far older than the one Hakan fought. Its scales were like the night sky itself, shifting with the cosmos, adorned with constellations that flickered with forgotten wisdom. Its very breath carried the weight of eons, of time before time.
Its voice was not loud.
Yet it silenced all.
"Enough."
The battling dragon halted instantly, its massive form locking in place as if the command itself was absolute law.
Hakan, still bracing for the next strike, exhaled sharply, his instincts on high alert. He had felt power before—but never something like this.
The ancient dragon's eyes—**limitless, ageless, unknowable—**turned toward him.
"You have been summoned, mortal."
A pause.
"By the Primordial Kings."
The chamber was tense, a gathering of powers that had long remained separate. Xyvarion stood at the head of the council, his formidable presence casting a long shadow over the stone table before them. The glow of celestial torches flickered across the gathered leaders—Eryndor, the Radiant Sage, whose ethereal presence pulsed with timewoven magic; Itharyx, the Sage of Winter's Veil, his icy demeanor as sharp as the frost that clung to his scales; and Veyrath, whose piercing gaze seemed to weigh every word before it was even spoken.
"The lord of Pyross has declared war," Xyvarion began, his voice heavy with the weight of what was to come. "Pyrros Abyss will not accept Master as Monarch, nor will they entertain diplomacy. Their warriors are bred in the crucible of flame and battle. This will not be a war of words—it will be one of survival."
Veyrath exhaled sharply. "And how do you propose we meet their aggression? We cannot afford to be reckless. The dragons of Zephyros Expanse will not fight unless provoked."
"They may not have a choice," Itharyx murmured, his silver eyes gleaming coldly. "If Pyrros Abyss marches upon us, they will not stop at our borders. This is no simple dispute—they seek to challenge Hakan's rule, and by extension, all who support him."
Eryndor, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. "Their fire is relentless, but it can be tempered. They act on instinct, driven by rage and pride. If we force them into a prolonged engagement, wear them down instead of facing them in open battle, we may have a chance to turn the tide before it becomes a war of attrition."
Xyvarion crossed his arms. "And what would you suggest, Eryndor? That we let them burn through the lands unchecked?"
"Not unchecked," Eryndor countered, his tone patient. "Redirected. If we can maneuver their forces into a controlled battlefield, one where their fire and destruction work against them rather than in their favor, we can weaken their momentum before striking back."
Veyrath nodded slowly. "A battlefield that denies them their greatest advantage… that may be possible. We can force them to fight on unstable ground. If we position our forces strategically, we can counter their aggression without sacrificing our own strength."
Itharyx remained thoughtful. "There is also another matter to consider. Hakan has yet to make his move. We can prepare for war, but ultimately, he is the Monarch. His decision will shape the course of this battle. If he chooses to face the Infernal Lords himself, this war could-."
Silence settled over the chamber.
Finally, Xyvarion exhaled, his golden eyes flickering with resolve. "Then we prepare. We make our move before Pyrros Abyss strikes first. Eryndor, you will focus on protecting our warriors, ensuring they can endure the flames of battle. Itharyx, you and the Cryalis Dominion will hold the northern front—your ice will be crucial in stalling their advance. Veyrath, rally your forces in the skies; we'll need their speed to counter any sudden offensives."
He looked at each of them in turn. "We do not have the luxury of hesitation. If we fail to act, this war will consume not just our lands, but our future."
The weight of his words settled upon them.
War was inevitable.
The war council sat in tense silence, maps of Drakareth sprawled across the stone table, illuminated by ethereal flames that hovered in midair. Xyvarion, Eryndor, Itharyx, and Veyrath weighed every possibility, their minds racing to formulate a strategy against the Infernal Lords.
But then—
The chamber doors burst open with a resounding crash.
A dragon warrior, his scales darkened with soot, his breath ragged, stumbled into the room. His eyes were wide with urgency, his entire body trembling from exertion.
"They're here!" he roared. "The army of Pyrros Abyss—They've arrived at our gates!"
The room went deathly silent.
Xyvarion's claws dug into the stone table, his glowing eyes narrowing. "Already?" His voice was sharp, laced with disbelief. "How could they have mobilized so quickly?"
The messenger gulped. "They march under the banner of Ignivorax—the Infernal Tyrant himself leads them."
The weight of that name sent a ripple of shock through the war council.
Itharyx's silver eyes darkened with realization. "So… the strongest of the Abyss has stepped onto the battlefield."
Veyrath clenched his fists, his draconic form tensing. "A dragon whose potential rivaled Vealzaryon…"
Eryndor, ever calm, exhaled slowly. "Then war is inevitable."
Outside, the horns of war blared.
Across the stronghold, dragons took to the skies, their roars shaking the heavens. Warriors scrambled to their positions, the air thick with tension and the scent of battle. The distant horizon burned with a hellish glow as the army of Pyrros Abyss approached—a tidal wave of fire and destruction, led by a figure wreathed in infernal flames.
Xyvarion turned, his voice like thunder. "All of you—MOVE!!"
The chamber erupted into chaos as the war council dispersed, each leader taking command of their respective forces.
The ground trembled as the armies of Pyrros Abyss drew closer, the sky above darkened by the ashen storm that followed in their wake. Rivers of molten fire carved through the battlefield, the very air distorting from the sheer heat of their arrival.
And at the forefront of it all—Ignivorax.
The Infernal Tyrant strode forth, his massive form wreathed in an aura of searing crimson flames. His obsidian scales shimmered like molten rock, his eyes burning with an intensity that rivaled the core of a dying star. Every step he took left the ground scorched and ruined, his mere presence warping the space around him.
Above him, the sky ignited as the dragons of Pyrros Abyss descended like living comets of fire. Their war cries reverberated through the heavens, an unrelenting force of devastation ready to consume all in their path.
From the stronghold, Xyvarion took flight, his wings cutting through the turbulent winds as he surveyed the incoming tide of destruction. His expression was unreadable, but within his glowing eyes lay unwavering resolve. This was not just a battle—it was a conquest.
A conquest for the Monarch.
Itharyx ascended beside him, his silver scales reflecting the chaotic glow of the battlefield below. "This is madness," he murmured, gaze locked on the monstrous force before them.
"You are truly willing to wage war just to see a human take the throne?"
Xyvarion's snarl was instant, his aura flaring violently. He turned on Itharyx, his voice thundering across the sky.
"Speak his title! You will not refer to him so carelessly! He is the Monarch!"
Itharyx's gaze hardened, but he said nothing. He could see it now—Xyvarion was not merely following orders. He believed in this. He had chosen his ruler.
Lightning crackled as Veyrath surged past them, his voice a battle cry. "Enough talk! We either fight now, or we are consumed by fire!"
Xyvarion raised a claw, signaling the legions below.
"DRAGONS OF DRAKARETH—STAND YOUR GROUND!!"
A thunderous roar erupted from the defending forces. In the skies above, the warriors of Sylvaris Vale channeled the power of nature itself, vines and roots surging forth like living fortresses against the abyssal advance.
Eryndor hovered above them all, his magic weaving unseen forces into the battlefield. He did not need to fight directly. His role was far more important—ensuring that their army endured.
And then—
Ignivorax spread his wings wide, his voice a booming inferno.
"Xyvarion, you traitorous wretch! You dare call a human your ruler? You disgrace the very blood that runs through your veins!" His wings flared, sending waves of fire cascading into the sky. "If your so-called Monarch is worthy, then let him face me himself! Otherwise, I will burn your pathetic rebellion to ash!"
Xyvarion let out a low growl, his claws tightening.
This battle would decide everything.
With a single command, he led the charge.
The war for the Monarch's throne had begun.
The battlefield was a storm of chaos.
Flames roared through the sky, colliding with torrents of abyssal lightning. The earth split apart as titanic bodies clashed, the sheer weight of their strikes sending shockwaves that rippled across Drakareth. Dragons tore into one another, their roars shaking the heavens as fire and shadow consumed the land.
Xyvarion surged forward, his massive draconic form wreathed in crackling darkness. With a single swipe of his claw, a dozen of Pyrros Abyss' warriors were sent hurtling from the sky, their bodies scorched by the abyssal energy coursing through him.
Across from him, Ignivorax met his onslaught with equal fury. His molten body radiated unrelenting heat, every movement sending embers scattering like dying stars. He crushed the ground beneath him with each step, his claws burning through the very air as he charged straight toward Xyvarion.
Their clash sent a deafening explosion across the battlefield.
Fist met claw, darkness met flame. The sheer impact sundered the land, creating a crater where their forces once stood. Warriors on both sides were thrown back by the shockwave, the sky itself trembling from the force of their battle.
Xyvarion's eyes narrowed. Enough.
In a burst of abyssal energy, his form began to shrink, the shadows around him collapsing inward as his body shifted. The immense bulk of his draconic form condensed, his figure twisting into something far more focused—far more deadly.
From the flames, Ignivorax followed suit. His molten body reshaped, fire receding yet still coursing through every inch of him, giving him the appearance of a being forged in the heart of destruction itself.
Now, two figures stood amidst the ruin—no longer colossal beasts, but humanoid forms that carried the full, terrifying power of their true selves.
Xyvarion's body was wreathed in endless darkness, his very skin resembling the void itself, shifting and flowing like living shadows. His wings, jagged and bat-like, extended from his back, tendrils of abyssal energy coiling around them. His eyes, twin pools of glowing crimson, burned like the dying embers of a collapsed star. His tail swayed behind him, sharp as a blade, while his claws gleamed with pure, condensed void energy.
Ignivorax stood opposite, his presence radiating suffocating heat. His body was encased in molten scales, cracks of searing light running along his skin like veins of living fire. His wings, vast and infernal, flared with an inner blaze, casting an eerie glow upon the battlefield. His tail, covered in obsidian-like plating, dripped with magma, while his horns curled back like those of an ancient conqueror.
Their eyes met.
Then, as one—they moved.
Xyvarion struck first, vanishing in an explosion of shadow. He reappeared behind Ignivorax, his claws already slashing downward. But the Infernal Tyrant twisted, flames erupting from his hand as he intercepted the strike, their clash sending another wave of destruction across the battlefield.
Ignivorax retaliated with a burst of hellfire, but Xyvarion weaved through it, his form flickering like a phantom as he reappeared at his flank. His claw shot forward, aiming for Ignivorax's throat—only for the fireborn dragon to spin, catching the attack and hurling him into the ground.
The battlefield trembled.
But Xyvarion was already gone before the impact settled, his shadowy form reforming midair. "You'll have to do better than that."
Ignivorax grinned. "Gladly."
With that, their true battle began—one that would shake the foundations of Drakareth itself.
The air around Hakan shimmered with an unfamiliar weight, the fabric of reality folding in ways beyond his comprehension. One moment, he stood within the celestial rift, staring at the ageless dragon before him—the next, he was moving.
Not flying.
Not falling.
Transported.
The very stars twisted around him, streaking past in spirals of gold and violet, as if he were being pulled through the marrow of existence itself. His body felt weightless, yet he could feel the pressure of something immense guiding him forward.
Then—stillness.
Hakan's boots touched solid ground. He exhaled sharply, his senses sharpening.
Before him stretched an impossible expanse. A vast, ethereal plane suspended within the cosmos itself. The sky was alive, not with stars but with shifting constellations that pulsed like beating hearts. Pillars of astral stone rose into infinity, inscribed with glowing runes older than time.
And there—dragons.
Unlike any he had ever seen.
Towering celestial beings, their forms woven from the very light of creation, stood in silent witness. Their scales shimmered like nebulae, their wings stretched vast and regal, yet… they did not move.
They merely stared.
Hakan felt their gazes pierce through him, their expressions unreadable. Confusion flickered across their luminous eyes—uncertainty, even hesitation.
They did not know why he was here.
A strange unease settled in his chest. Why were these celestial dragons… separate from the rest of their kind? He had fought, bled, and survived against dragons of every form, yet these creatures felt distant. Removed.
What were the Primordials hiding?
Before he could dwell on the thought, the ground trembled.
A low, ancient hum resonated through the air. The celestial dragons bowed—not to him, but to something ahead.
Hakan turned his gaze forward.
A vast chasm yawned before him, an endless abyss stretching beyond sight. And emerging from that abyss were four colossal figures—dragons unlike any before them.
Their bodies were immense, even by dragon standards, each one bearing the scars of war. Their scales, once pristine, were marred with cracks and wounds, as if they had battled against forces beyond comprehension. Yet their presence… their sheer being radiated something beyond mere power.
Dominion.
This was not the presence of kings.
This was the presence of something higher.
The first dragon exhaled, a sound like shifting galaxies. Its voice, deep and resonant, carried the weight of eternity.
"You stand before the Primordial Kings, mortal."
Another dragon, its horns jagged and crowned with luminous sigils, narrowed its infinite gaze upon him.
"You are the first human to set foot here."
Hakan clenched his fists, his heart hammering in his chest. Whatever this was—whatever this meant—he knew one thing.
This was not just a meeting.
This was a reckoning.
The ageless dragon that had brought Hakan forward stepped into the light, his celestial form towering over the mortal warrior. His scales shimmered like an eternal night sky, constellations shifting across his body as if the cosmos itself had been etched into his being.
"I have brought the mortal you summoned."
His voice was absolute, like the turning of celestial spheres, a force that could not be denied.
Hakan turned his gaze up at the ancient being, realizing now that this dragon was no ordinary guardian—he was a being of unfathomable wisdom, one who had likely existed since the very birth of the cosmos itself.
The name came to Hakan like an echo from time itself.
"Voryndral, The Keeper of Eternal Oaths."
And before them, standing like celestial titans, were the Four Primordial Kings.
Their mere presence warped the space around them, their wounds evidence of battles beyond mortal comprehension. Their forms towered, each an embodiment of absolute dominion—not just of dragons, but of existence itself.
The first among them, his form like a shifting storm of cosmic flames, narrowed his blazing, endless eyes upon Hakan. The scars across his celestial hide pulsed like dying stars.
"So this is the mortal." His voice was fire and destruction, ancient yet unwavering. "Are we certain this is the one?"
His name struck through Hakan's mind like a burning sigil.
Zerythion, The Ever-Flame Sovereign.
The second dragon, her scales a tapestry of endless voids and swirling galaxies, her wings like the fabric of the universe itself, let out a slow, considering breath.
"Fate is ever-changing. Even we are uncertain." Her eyes, twin pools of infinite depth, regarded Hakan with something close to curiosity. "But the signs… they are not wrong."
Her name was a whisper of the cosmos itself.
Valaqara, The Weaver of Celestial Threads.
The third dragon, his body adorned with fractured sigils of forgotten power, bore a presence that made Hakan's breath catch in his throat. This one felt… broken. Worn. But unshakable.
His voice was low, measured, yet there was an edge to it—one that spoke of eternal vigilance.
"If we have called him here, then the answer is already known."
Tzeryxal, The Sentinel of Forsaken Truths.
And finally, the fourth dragon, whose presence was the most suffocating of all, spoke without speaking.
The moment his name formed in Hakan's mind, it was as if reality itself trembled.
A single, glowing eye regarded him from an abyssal helm of cosmic bone, his breath warping space itself. Unlike the others, this one had no wings—only gravity.
Weight.
Dominion over everything.
His name struck with finality.
Azharel, The End That Watches.
Silence stretched between them, a silence that held eternity itself in its grasp.
Then, Zerythion exhaled, his cosmic flames shifting.
"Well?" His gaze shifted to the others. "What do you think? Is this human… the one?"
Valaqara's tail coiled slightly, her voice softer but no less mighty. "The prophecy spoke of a being who would stand beyond the limits of the known order. A being whose existence defied even the will of fate itself. A being who was the king of all realms" Her endless eyes locked onto Hakan. "A being… unbound."
Tzeryxal let out a slow breath, his cracked sigils pulsing. "Then we must decide… is this the mortal who will break the chains of destiny?"
Azharel remained motionless, only the faintest hum resonating from his abyssal form.
Hakan, standing before them, felt his fists tighten.
For the first time since entering this place, he finally spoke.
"And if I'm not?" His voice did not waver. "What happens then?"
Silence.
Then—
Azharel's single, cosmic eye burned.
"Then you will not leave this place alive."
The air thrummed with unspoken tension.
Hakan stood before the four Primordial Dragons, their gazes burning with expectation.
Then, Zerythion's molten voice echoed through the void.
"Then let us see what you are truly capable of, mortal."
The space around them twisted—an unseen force reshaping reality itself. The celestial chamber expanded into an infinite battlefield of astral stone and flowing constellations. Sigils of forgotten eras pulsed beneath Hakan's feet, their meaning lost to time.
A shadow passed over him.
Something vast descended from the abyss above.
A single dragon.
Its presence alone sent tremors through the space, bending the very concept of gravity. Scales of crystallized light shimmered across its body, shifting with the cosmos, while its wings extended like the threads of fate itself. Each movement carried an elegance that spoke of countless wars, of an existence untouched by mortality.
Its eyes—endless pools of celestial brilliance—settled on Hakan.
Then, it spoke.
"I am Vaelthion, the First Blade of the Celestials."
His voice was calm, yet absolute.
"You are no king. You are no chosen one. Yet, the Primordials have deemed you worthy of a trial."
He took a step forward, and the space beneath him rippled, bending in submission.
"Show me, mortal. Show me why you stand here before the Kings of the Beginning."
Hakan exhaled. His body tensed, his instincts screaming at him—this was unlike anything he had ever faced.
Yet, even against such a force…
He raised his fists.
Azharel, The End That Watches, remained still, his abyssal gaze locked onto Hakan.
Watching. Studying.
And then—
Vaelthion moved.
The battlefield trembled.
Vaelthion's massive form surged forward, a blur of celestial light and crushing weight. His tail lashed out, faster than a shooting star, aiming to cleave Hakan in half.
Hakan barely managed to evade, twisting his body mid-air as the force of the strike sent a shockwave rippling through space. He countered instantly, launching himself toward the dragon's head, his fist coated in raw force.
His strike connected.
A thunderous boom echoed as his punch struck Vaelthion's celestial scales, sending a shockwave across the battlefield. The impact cracked the astral stone beneath them, and for the first time—Vaelthion staggered.
Hakan pressed his advantage.
He blurred forward, weaving through the air, each movement precise and relentless. His blows struck at the gaps between the dragon's shimmering plates—targeting weak points, forcing the beast to remain on the defensive.
A normal dragon would have fallen by now.
But Vaelthion…
Vaelthion was different.
The Celestial Dragon let out a slow exhale, his eyes glowing with quiet judgment.
"You are fast." His voice rumbled through the void. "And your instincts are sharpened. But strength alone does not make one worthy."
Hakan's expression tensed.
Something was about to change.
The stars around them dimmed, the battlefield shifting as an unseen force gripped reality itself. Vaelthion's body—vast, divine, unstoppable—began to collapse inward. Light coiled around him, reshaping, condensing.
His form shrank.
No longer a towering celestial force, Vaelthion now stood at the size of a human—yet his presence had not diminished.
His humanoid figure was draconic perfection—tall and imposing, his obsidian-white scales shimmering like liquid light. Jagged horns curved back from his head, his tail swayed behind him, and his taloned hands flexed as golden veins of celestial energy pulsed beneath his scales.
Most unsettling of all—his eyes had not changed.
Still ancient. Still overwhelming.
He looked at Hakan, wings folding behind him.
"Let us begin again."
Then he vanished.
Faster than before.
A blur of celestial destruction.
Hakan barely had time to react before a clawed fist slammed into his ribs, sending him careening across the battlefield.
Hakan crashed into the astral ground with the force of a meteor, shattering the floating stone beneath him. A shockwave rippled outward, sending cosmic dust spiraling through the air. He barely had time to breathe before Vaelthion was upon him again.
BOOM!
A clawed foot slammed down where Hakan had just been, but he twisted away at the last second, flipping backward and launching a precise counterstrike at Vaelthion's exposed flank. His fist, wreathed in raw force, connected—but instead of staggering, the celestial dragon barely flinched.
Vaelthion caught Hakan's wrist mid-strike.
With effortless strength, he hurled Hakan skyward.
The world blurred.
Hakan felt his body tearing through layers of condensed energy, reality bending from the sheer force of the throw. Before he could reorient himself—
Vaelthion was already there.
The celestial dragon reappeared in front of him, having warped space itself to intercept his trajectory. A moment later—
CRACK!
A devastating blow struck Hakan's chest. His ribs screamed in protest as he was sent rocketing downward.
He collided with the ground hard, carving a deep crater into the battlefield.
High above, the four Primordial Dragons observed in silence.
Valaqara's endless gaze followed the battle with interest, her massive tail curling slightly. "Is he...?"
Tzeryxal, his cracked sigils glowing faintly, rumbled in response. "Yes. He is adapting."
Azharel, The End That Watches, remained motionless, his abyssal helm hiding whatever thoughts ran through his mind. But his lone, glowing eye remained locked onto Hakan.
And then—Hakan moved.
He forced himself to his feet, exhaling sharply. Blood dripped from his lip, his muscles ached from the punishment, but his stance had shifted.
His breathing had adjusted.
His footwork had adapted.
Vaelthion landed across from him, watching with the quiet patience of a being who had witnessed countless battles. "You learn quickly," he noted, flexing his claws. "But will it be enough?"
Hakan didn't respond. He didn't need to.
He charged.
This time, it was different.
Instead of trying to meet Vaelthion's overwhelming power head-on, Hakan moved with precision—his footwork shifting ever so slightly, his attacks following new angles. He wasn't just fighting anymore.
He was reading.
Vaelthion struck with his claws—Hakan dodged at the last second, slipping just outside the arc of the attack.
A knee came next—Hakan twisted his torso, narrowly avoiding the impact while launching a counter elbow toward the celestial dragon's ribs.
CLASH!
The two warriors exchanged blows at blinding speeds, each strike shaking the battlefield. Where before Hakan had been on the defensive, now he was keeping up.
His movements grew sharper.
His counters became faster.
He was adapting.
And the Primordial Dragons saw it.
Valaqara murmured, "How far will he go?"
Tzeryxal's eyes burned. "Far enough to make even Vaelthion adjust."
Azharel remained silent, watching, studying.
The battlefield was silent.
Hakan's breath was steady, yet the weight of Azharel's words pressed upon him like the vastness of the cosmos itself.
"You are not fighting at your fullest."
The words weren't an accusation, nor a taunt. They were an absolute truth.
Azharel's gaze bore into him, that singular, glowing eye studying him with the weight of countless eons. "Your movements are precise. Your mastery over your body is undeniable. But this style is not your own."
Hakan clenched his fists, the scent of ozone and dust filling his lungs as Vaelthion watched with burning eyes, waiting.
"You were once a swordsman, were you not?"
The statement struck something deep inside him. Something old. Something lost.
Hakan's lips parted, but the words felt foreign on his tongue. "I… was."
Valaqara's endless, golden gaze shimmered with intrigue. "Then tell us, what did you wield?"
His hands twitched. The weight of ghosts pressed against his palms—memories of steel, of battle, of a time when he fought differently. When he had more than his fists.
"Two swords."
The words felt like an admission.
"A long one and a short one."
A beat of silence. Then, Zerythion's cosmic flames flickered, amusement laced in his voice. "And your style?"
Hakan exhaled slowly. "I fought with the Eclipse Fang."
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
The fabric of reality trembled.
Azharel's presence grew heavier, and space itself parted.
Before Hakan, two blades formed from the void.
One long. One short.
Their edges gleamed with celestial power, yet the shapes were achingly familiar. These were not the same swords he once wielded, but something beyond. Their hilts pulsed, as if recognizing his touch.
For a fraction of a second, he hesitated.
The last time he held swords like these, they had shattered in his hands.
They had crumbled beneath the might of Vealzaryon.
And yet, his hands moved on their own.
His fingers closed around the hilts, and—
Power surged through his veins.
The weight, the balance, the way they felt in his grip—it was right.
Like something lost had finally returned to him.
Zerythion let out a low, satisfied rumble. "Good. Then fight with them once more."
Vaelthion's lips curled into a grin. "Let's see if you're any better with them."
Hakan didn't answer.
He simply moved.
Faster. Sharper. Lethal.
Vaelthion barely had time to react before Hakan's blade whistled through the air, carving an arc that cut through space itself.
For the first time in the fight—Vaelthion was forced to evade.
Hakan lunged, his blades flowing like an extension of himself, like they had never left his hands. His movements were different now—not just fists, not just technique.
He fought like a predator reclaiming his fangs.
And this time, he no longer feared the dragon's claws.
The battle had truly begun.
The moment steel returned to Hakan's grip, the battlefield belonged to him.
He moved.
Not like before. Not like a man adapting to his circumstances.
This was different.
His footwork became weightless, his strikes effortless, his form honed to perfection. He was no longer surviving—he was hunting.
Vaelthion snarled, his draconic form blurring as he lashed out with his tail. A single swipe could shatter mountains, could twist the very air with its sheer force.
But this time—Hakan did not dodge.
He cut.
His short blade flashed, and in an instant—
The tail was severed.
Vaelthion roared, his form staggering backward, golden ichor spilling from the wound. But he had no time to recover—
Hakan was already upon him.
A blinding arc of silver tore through the air.
Vaelthion barely raised his arm in time, his scaled gauntlet clashing against Hakan's long blade. But the impact sent him reeling, his feet skidding backward across the celestial stone.
His golden eyes widened.
This was not the same fight.
Hakan was no longer fighting with restriction. No longer measuring his movements. No longer relying on pure technique alone.
Now, he was overwhelming.
His swords blurred into countless afterimages, his attacks striking with merciless precision. Vaelthion could no longer predict him—he was being forced onto the defensive, being pushed back by an opponent who should not be stronger than him.
Another strike—
Another—
Another—
Each one driving Vaelthion further back, each one ripping away his balance.
And then—
Hakan appeared above him.
Both blades raised.
The air split.
A cross-shaped slash cleaved down—two strokes of utter finality.
Vaelthion's humanoid form crumpled.
The celestial dragon crashed to his knees, golden blood staining the ground beneath him. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body refusing to rise.
Silence.
The battlefield stood still.
Azharel's eye gleamed in the abyssal dark.
Tzeryxal exhaled, his gaze unreadable.
Valaqara's expression held something between intrigue and understanding. "He adapted. Completely."
Zerythion merely smiled.
And then—
The blades in Hakan's grip shattered into dust.
Gone.
As if they had never existed.
Hakan stood over Vaelthion, his breath heavy. His fingers flexed, the absence of the weapons leaving a strange emptiness in his palms.
Azharel's voice broke the silence.
"It seems the blades were never yours to keep."
Hakan exhaled, his shoulders still tense. "They never were."
His voice was quiet.
And yet, he did not need them anymore.
He had already won.
Hakan knew.
This wasn't over.
He exhaled sharply, his muscles still tense from the battle, his body still primed for another clash. His gaze lifted—not toward Vaelthion, who remained kneeling in defeat, but toward the four true sovereigns of this place.
And then—
The abyss moved.
Azharel descended.
It was not flight.
It was not movement.
It was inevitability.
The weight of his existence bore down upon the Rift, and for the first time, Hakan truly saw how vast he was.
Vealzaryon had been a king among dragons—towering, monstrous, a force of destruction.
But Azharel…
Azharel was something else.
His form, up close, devoured the sky.
His abyssal helm of cosmic bone was a monument of entropy itself, and the single glowing eye that peered at Hakan was not looking at him—it was looking through him.
No—it was seeing everything he was.
Hakan stood his ground.
But the weight… it crushed.
Azharel did not speak.
Not at first.
He merely regarded Hakan in silence, his suffocating presence pressing down upon the space between them.
And then—
"You are not the one."
The words were not spoken in anger.
Nor in disappointment.
They were simply stated.
Like an immutable law.
Like a fate already decided.
The other dragons watched, their expressions unreadable.
Hakan remained still, his breath slow, his fists clenched.
Azharel continued.
"You are not the king of all realms."****"You are not the one who will stand above existence itself."
A pause.
Then, his voice darkened—just slightly.
"You are nothing more than a man."
Azharel leaned in, and for the first time, Hakan felt something deeper than just presence.
He felt a force without limit.
"No magic. No divinity. No birthright. No fate to call your own."
The space around them fractured, bending under his presence.
"You have walked this path with only your body to carry you."
His abyssal eye pulsed, the weight of his words sinking deeper.
"But this is where it ends."
The finality in his tone was absolute.
Hakan's fingers curled.
Azharel watched him carefully.
Then, he taunted.
"Or perhaps you believe otherwise?"
Silence.
The other Primordial Dragons remained still, observing.
Hakan's jaw clenched. His breath was controlled. His stance did not falter.
But in the depths of his being—a fire burned.
And Azharel saw it.
He saw it clearly.
Azharel's abyssal presence bore down upon Hakan, but this time, it was not his sheer power that crushed.
It was his words.
His voice was neither cruel nor loud—it did not need to be. It simply existed, woven into the fabric of reality itself.
"You call yourself a leader, yet you lead only to ruin."
Hakan's fists clenched, but Azharel did not stop.
"You claim dominion over dragons, yet they fight and die without you."
The air around them shifted.
The space between them fractured.
Azharel raised his wings ever so slightly, and suddenly—the Rift trembled.
A vision was forced upon Hakan.
A window into reality.
A battlefield.
His battlefield.
Flames. Blood. Ash.
Pyross Abyss against Hakans army .
His dragons. His followers.
They clashed against the might of Pyross' strongest.
A war fought in his name.
But Hakan was not there.
He saw it all.
The dragons who had sworn loyalty to him—dying.
Falling from the skies, their roars of defiance drowned by the unrelenting onslaught of fire.
And at the center—
A battle that should not have been.
Xyvarion.
The fiercest among his dragons. A warrior whose strength stood only beneath Hakan's own.
Locked in battle against—
Ignivorax.
The Infernal Tyrant
A dragon whose flames had once turned entire skies into cinders.
Their clash was titanic, shaking the very air itself.
And yet—
Hakan saw the difference.
Ignivorax, though wounded, was winning.
Xyvarion was struggling.
And in that struggle, more of Hakan's dragons fell.
The battlefield was soaked in flame and blood.
All because of him.
The vision shattered.
Hakan staggered. His breath was sharp. His pulse roared in his ears.
Azharel watched him. His abyssal eye unblinking.
Then, he spoke again.
"You are the cause of this."
Hakan's gaze snapped up.
Azharel did not move, but his words dug deeper.
"You have abandoned them. You have left them to die in your absence. And for what?"
A pause.
Then, the final cut—
"You have inherited nothing but arrogance. You are no leader. You are a failure."
Silence.
The other three Primordial Dragons stirred.
The moment they had seen the battle, their expressions had darkened.
Zerythion's cosmic flames flared. His aura burned with fury.
Valaqara's endless eyes narrowed, her celestial threads trembling with outrage.
Tzeryxal's sigils cracked, his breath heavy with judgment.
"This mortal has doomed his own kind," Valaqara hissed. "His rule is a farce. His arrogance has led only to suffering."
"He is unworthy," Tzeryxal's voice resonated through the Rift. "And we will not suffer his existence further."
"Then it is decided," Zerythion declared. "Kill him. Now."
The air shifted.
Power gathered.
Hakan did not move.
Not because he feared death—but because he was still seeing the war.
The dying roars.
The falling dragons.
His dragons.
Then—
"No."
Azharel's voice cut through the chaos.
The three Primordials froze.
Hakan snapped back to the present, his instincts screaming.
Zerythion's cosmic flames dimmed slightly, his narrowed gaze turning to Azharel. "What?"
Even Valaqara hesitated, confused. "Azharel, what are you—?"
Tzeryxal's sigils pulsed erratically. "You saw the battle. You saw the failure. You saw what his absence has wrought. You, more than any of us, know what must be done."
Azharel did not move.
He did not blink.
He simply spoke.
"I will give him a choice."
The Rift stilled.
Hakan felt a shift.
An undeniable change in the air.
Azharel's abyssal form loomed closer, the sheer scale of his presence drowning everything else.
And then—
"Listen well, mortal."
His voice carried certainty.
"You have two paths before you."
Hakan did not speak. He listened.
"The first—" Azharel's cosmic eye burned, "—you die here. Now. And you are never seen again."
The weight of those words crushed.
The finality of it.
And yet—
Azharel was not done.
"The second—"
His breath warped the air.
His wings stretched, eclipsing the very Rift itself.
"You return."
Hakan's eyes widened slightly.
Azharel's abyssal gaze pierced through him.
"You go down into that war. Into the slaughter you created. Into the battle you abandoned. And you stop it."
Silence.
"Those are your choices."
The three Primordial Dragons were shocked.
Zerythion's flames flickered. "You—are you saying—?"
Valaqara's celestial form tensed. "Azharel, you cannot—!"
Tzeryxal's sigils crackled with disbelief. "He is not worthy! He is not the one!"
Yet, despite their protests—
They did not question him.
Because Azharel was the only one who saw.
He was the only one who could see beyond.
And Hakan knew that.
Hakan's breath was steady.
His gaze rose to meet the abyss.
And for the first time—
He spoke.
"...That's not a choice at all."
Azharel's abyssal eye glowed.
And the Rift shattered.
Azharel did not speak.
He simply raised his claw.
A tremor ran through the Rift.
A pulse of abyssal energy surged forth, and before them—
The portal opened.
It was no ordinary gate. No mere fracture between realms.
It was clarity.
A window into the chaos below.
And now, Hakan saw everything.
The battlefield.
The sky burned red with dragonfire.
The earth cracked beneath the weight of fallen titans.
Xyvarion and Ignivorax— still locked in a brutal, unforgiving clash, their bodies marred by wounds, their breath ragged, yet neither yielding.
And all around them—
His dragons.
His warriors.
Falling. Bleeding. Dying.
Some roared in defiance. Others fought with reckless abandon, unwilling to retreat.
Yet, Hakan saw the truth.
They were losing.
And now, for the first time, it was not a vision.
It was reality.
Hakan's hands trembled—not with fear, not with hesitation—but with the weight of choice.
He turned his gaze away from the war, back to Azharel.
For a moment, silence hung between them.
Azharel's cosmic eye bore into him, waiting.
And then—
Hakan let go.
Let go of his search for answers.
Let go of the questions that had chained him.
Because right now—
The only thing that mattered was below.
He turned towards the three Dragon Kings.
Their immense, celestial forms loomed over him, their expressions unreadable.
Yet, he spoke.
"This isn't over."
His voice was steady. Unshaken.
"I will come back for my answers."
Azharel said nothing.
Hakan turned once more—
And then, without hesitation—
He jumped.
Into the void.
Into the chaos.
Into war.
The portal collapsed.
The Rift returned to stillness.
The moment lingered.
And then, Zerythion's voice cut through the silence.
"You did not answer us, Azharel."
Azharel finally moved, his abyssal gaze still fixed on where the portal had been.
Valaqara's celestial threads trembled. "You saw something, didn't you?"
Tzeryxal's sigils pulsed with unease. "A mere human left alive. What fate did you witness that made you spare him?"
Azharel's wings folded slightly.
And then, he smiled.
A rare, unreadable expression that sent a ripple through the Rift itself.
His abyssal eye glowed.
"I don't know ."
The sky split open.
A vortex of raw force surged through the battlefield as Hakan descended.
The shockwave of his landing shattered the ground beneath him.
Wind howled. The very air trembled.
For one brief moment—
The war itself stopped.
His dragons saw him.
Xyvarion. Eryndor. Veyrath. Elaris.
Some stood in their draconic forms, their massive wings stretched against the sky.
Others, in their humanoid forms, battle-worn but unyielding.
And all of them—every last one of his warriors—felt something stir within them.
A feeling beyond loyalty.
Beyond duty.
Relief.
For the first time since the battle had begun, they saw hope.
The Monarch had returned.
Hakan's voice cut through the battlefield.
"Fall back."
The command echoed like thunder.
His warriors hesitated, their instincts screaming to fight.
But Hakan did not repeat himself.
He simply walked forward.
Past Xyvarion. Past Veyrath and Eryndor. Past Elaris.
And in that moment—they understood.
This was no longer their battle.
This was his.
One by one, his dragons stepped back.
Not out of fear.
But because they trusted him.
Hakan now stood before Ignivorax.
The Pyross Abyss warlord.
A being of infernal might, his body wreathed in eternal flame, his golden horns curved like a crown of fire.
"Ignivorax."
Hakan's voice was devoid of anger. Devoid of emotion.
Yet, it carried weight.
"Surrender."
The warlord let out a low growl.
Flames curled from his nostrils. His molten eyes burned with contempt.
Yet, he did not respond.
He simply attacked.
Ignivorax's claws tore through the air, streaking toward Hakan's skull.
A strike meant to kill.
A strike that would have ended any other warrior.
But—
Hakan did not move.
He did not dodge.
He did not retreat.
He simply raised his hand.
And caught the blow mid-air.
Silence.
The entire battlefield froze.
Every warrior—dragon and enemy alike—stared in disbelief.
The unstoppable force of Pyross Abyss… had been stopped.
By a single human.
Hakan's grip was unshakable.
His cold gaze met Ignivorax's burning eyes.
And for the first time—
Ignivorax felt fear.
The moment Ignivorax felt his attack stop—his instincts screamed.
Impossible.
The full weight of his strength had been behind that blow. The force of a dragon whose very body was forged in the abyssal flames of Pyross.
Yet—
Hakan's hand did not budge.
Not an inch.
And then—
Crack.
A sound like shattering stone.
Pain erupted in Ignivorax's arm.
His entire body lurched as Hakan's grip tightened.
His bones—unbreakable dragon bones—were being crushed.
And then—
Hakan moved.
A single pull.
A single, violent motion—
And Ignivorax's entire body was wrenched forward.
His feet left the ground.
Fist.
Hakan's knuckles met his gut like a meteor.
The battlefield shook.
Shockwaves tore through the land.
A blast of force erupted outward, sending warriors tumbling like leaves in a storm.
Ignivorax's body caved inward. His scales—stronger than steel—cracked from the sheer impact.
And before he could even breathe—
Another.
Hakan's knee—driven straight into his jaw.
His entire skull snapped back.
Another.
A spinning kick, ripping across his ribs.
The force sent him soaring through the air.
The sky.
He was in the sky.
A dragon of his size—launched like a broken doll.
But before gravity could drag him back down—
Hakan was already there.
Phantom Step.
A blur of movement. A shadow faster than thought.
Hakan's hand shot out, gripping Ignivorax's throat.
And then—
He brought him down.
The ground erupted.
A crater the size of a city block formed on impact.
Dust. Smoke. Shattered stone.
Ignivorax's body twitched, half-buried in the wreckage.
His mind reeled.
How? How?
How could a mere human—
BOOM.
A foot slammed into his chest.
Hakan stood over him, eyes cold.
"Get up."
Hakan's voice was low.
It was not a demand.
It was a command.
A single moment passed.
And then—Ignivorax roared.
Flames surged. His wings flared, his body igniting into a living inferno.
A dragon's wrath.
He would incinerate this bastard.
His claws swiped upward—
Miss.
Hakan was gone.
Not gone—behind him.
Ignivorax barely had time to react before—
Crack.
A blow to the spine.
Then—
Crack.
A second to the ribs.
Then—
A final, devastating strike.
A palm strike—straight to his heart.
Silence.
Ignivorax's body locked.
For a single breath—
His flames died.
His strength vanished.
And then—
His body collapsed.
Motionless.
Defeated.