The chamber was thick with tension, the stagnant air pressing against Zuka like an invisible weight. Then, from the shadows, a voice slithered forth—low, guttural, laced with amusement and something far more ancient.
"I can feel your struggle, Dragonkin."
Zuka's golden eyes snapped toward the voice, his body instinctively shifting into a ready stance. The air felt heavier now, charged with a presence that carried undeniable weight.
From the darkness, a figure stepped forward.
He wasn't taller than Zuka, but he carried himself like a man who had never known fear. Broad shoulders, a fortress of muscle wrapped in black and crimson robes that shifted subtly with his movement, as though alive. His dark skin was marked with intricate blood-red sigils that pulsed with an eerie, rhythmic glow, like veins channeling something ancient and forbidden.
Zuka's gaze sharpened.
"And who might you be?" His voice was calm, but the steel behind it was unmistakable.
The man gave a slow, humorless smile. "Introductions, before death?" He took another step forward, the floor beneath him cracking slightly as though the stone itself recoiled from his presence. "I am Segun, the Ironblooded Warlock—Ogun's Cursed Right Hand."
He tilted his head, dark amusement flickering in his ember-like eyes. "And you?"
Zuka remained still, though a glimmer of recognition flickered behind his gaze.
"You bear Ogun's name, then you have made a pact," he said, voice even. "With the ancient god of iron… or one of his descendants."
Segun's smile widened, his crimson-marked fingers flexing at his sides. "You are well-versed in knowledge few outside my land would know."
Zuka inclined his head slightly, unreadable. "The Ancient Ones of Naij are not easily forgotten. Those who wield the power of the Orisha… they are rare. To meet one in person is an honor." His tone was smooth, but beneath it lay a quiet intensity. "I am Zuka Kogetsu, Prince of the Dragonoid Nation."
For a moment, silence stretched between them—an unspoken acknowledgment of power.
Then Segun moved.
He lunged forward in a blink, a massive iron blade materializing from nothing, its weight splitting the air as it came crashing down toward Zuka's head.
Zuka's arm shot up, his forearm clashing against the enchanted steel. Sparks erupted as draconic scales met warlock-forged iron, the impact shaking the entire chamber. But before Segun could press the advantage, Zuka retaliated—his fist igniting with light magic as he drove it into Segun's gut. The force sent the warlock skidding backward, his boots scraping deep trenches into the stone.
Segun barely had a second to recover before he was already closing the distance again.
A blur of motion.
Fists like iron smashed toward Zuka—rapid, relentless, aiming for his ribs, his throat, his joints. Zuka sidestepped one, deflected another, ducked the third—but Segun was fast. Faster than expected. A strike slipped through, hammering into Zuka's ribs.
He barely reacted.
Zuka caught the next attack in a vice grip, his claws locking around Segun's wrist. The warlock's smirk faltered, just for an instant—long enough.
Zuka twisted sharply, pulling Segun off his feet. In a seamless motion, he pivoted, using the warlock's own momentum against him.
The impact was devastating.
Segun's body slammed into the chamber wall, stone shattering from the sheer force. But Zuka wasn't finished. Before Segun could react, he spun, launching a brutal spinning kick to the warlock's jaw. The sound of bone meeting bone echoed through the chamber like a war drum.
Segun's head snapped sideways, but he didn't fall.
Zuka surged forward—fast, merciless. A left hook slammed into Segun's ribs, then a knee to the gut, then another kick aimed at his shoulder. Each strike was precise, honed to overwhelm and dominate. His movements were a seamless dance of destruction, flowing from one attack to the next without pause.
But Segun endured.
Despite the brutal assault, a grin stretched across his bloodied lips. His breath was ragged, but his eyes burned with something darker.
Without hesitation, he bit into his thumb.
Blood welled up instantly, but it did not fall. Instead, the droplets defied gravity, floating before him, pulsing like something alive. Segun's fingers moved through the air, tracing sigils in his own lifeblood, each symbol burning brighter as they formed.
A deep, rumbling incantation spilled from his lips.
"MO PE ORUKOR ORISHA, JE KI EJE MI SAN KI O SI PA OTA MI RUN!"
The chamber trembled.
Zuka saw the change immediately—the air itself thickened, the very fabric of the space warping under the weight of the spell. Whatever Segun was summoning, it was beyond a simple incantation.
'No.'
Zuka was already moving.
He lunged, foot aimed at Segun's head, ready to break the casting before it could finish.
But before the strike could land, an iron staff materialized from nowhere, intercepting the kick with a deafening CLANG.
The spell was complete.
Blood from Segun's thumb flowed freely now, spiraling unnaturally around him. The liquid pulsed, twisted, grew.
It was no longer just blood.
It became iron?
A massive crimson wave surged outward, its form shifting between liquid and solid, jagged tendrils of molten metal lashing toward Zuka with the force of a tidal wave.
Too fast. Too wide.
Zuka braced himself, but there was nowhere to dodge. The wave of blood and iron crashed down upon him