Drakaryn felt his body tremble, every muscle screaming in protest as he tried to lift himself from the shattered earth. Blood seeped from deep gashes along his sides, pooling beneath him and staining the ground. His wings hung limp, torn in places where Medraut's claws had found purchase. He looked down the strip of ravaged earth that stretched between them, his glowing eyes meeting Medraut's piercing silver gaze.
The black-scaled dragon was breathing heavily, his own body battered from the ferocious clash. Yet he still stood strong, exuding an aura of dominance that made the air around him feel heavier. Drakaryn gritted his teeth. He was no fool—Medraut was older, stronger, and far more experienced. A battle of attrition would only lead to his downfall.
And yet, as Drakaryn's mind raced, he refused to accept defeat. There had to be another way.
Drakaryn's thoughts turned inward, diving deep into the knowledge he had painstakingly gained. The Dragontongue. That was his only advantage, the one tool he possessed that Medraut couldn't anticipate. It was raw, unpredictable, and dangerous—but it was his.
The sensation of vitality came to the forefront of his mind. He had experienced it countless times—its warmth, its essence flowing through him as it mended his wounds and fueled his growth. The concept was familiar, almost second nature, but he had never attempted to wield it so deliberately. He closed his eyes, ignoring the pain, and focused.
In his mind's eye, he envisioned his bones knitting themselves together, his scales regrowing, and his torn wings mending. He thought of his muscles regaining their strength, of his body whole once more. Layer by layer, he built the image, weaving it with the sounds of the Dragontongue that hummed faintly in his mind. The words rose to his throat, a symphony of layered harmonics that carried the weight of his understanding.
Drakaryn spoke.
The effect was immediate. A faint glow spread across his body, the warmth of vitality surging through him. His wounds began to close, the process slow but far faster than any organic healing. Yet even as his body began to repair itself, he felt something was missing—a bottleneck that prevented the process from reaching its full potential.
The realization struck him like a thunderbolt. The mana around him and within his body wasn't rich enough to sustain the process. It was being cleaned and converted too slowly, like a dam restricting the flow of a powerful river. If he wanted to heal faster, he needed more—much more.
With a thought, Drakaryn reached into his storage space. He willed the vitality orbs within to release their energy, allowing it to flow freely into the clearing. The air shimmered as the concentrated life force surged outward, saturating the space around him. The glow on his body intensified, his wounds mending at a pace that defied belief.
Medraut, still standing across the clearing, froze in place as he watched the spectacle unfold. The domineering confidence that had defined him moments before was replaced with shock. His silver eyes widened, disbelief flickering across his face as he took an involuntary step back.
Drakaryn rose slowly, his movements fluid as his body regenerated before Medraut's eyes. The glow of vitality surrounded him, his opalescent scales gleaming with a brilliance that seemed almost otherworldly. His wings spread wide, whole and unmarred, as he took a step forward.
"What are you?!" Medraut exclaimed, his voice low and unsteady.
Drakaryn tilted his head slightly, his glowing white eyes locking onto Medraut with a calm intensity. He didn't answer. The Dragontongue still hummed in his throat, the words carrying him forward as the process of healing continued to reshape him. His towering frame seemed even more imposing now, his presence suffused with an aura of raw, untamed power.
Far away, perched on a ridge several hundred meters from the battlefield, Tazerith and his remaining companions stared in stunned silence. The younger blue-scaled dragon, now conscious but weakened from his earlier injury, clutched his damaged eye as he watched the scene unfold. Sylra and Grathor exchanged uneasy glances, their fear palpable.
Tazerith, however, couldn't tear his gaze away from Drakaryn. His scarred face twisted into a mixture of shock and fury as he tried to process what he was seeing. The dragon he had dismissed as a rival—a threat, but ultimately a stepping stone—had become something else entirely.
"How is this possible?" Sylra whispered, her voice barely audible. "He's… it's like he's rewriting himself."
Grathor grunted, his expression grim. "This isn't normal. This isn't dragonkind."
Tazerith didn't respond. His mind churned with thoughts of ambition and desperation, his plans unraveling before him. Whatever Drakaryn had become, it was beyond anything he could have anticipated. And yet, his hatred burned brighter than ever. If anything, this only solidified his resolve.
Back in the clearing, Medraut stood rooted in place, his claws flexing against the cracked earth. He had faced countless dragons in his time, had crushed rivals and enemies alike, but this… this was different. The sight of Drakaryn healing so quickly, so effortlessly, defied all reason.
And yet, Medraut was not one to retreat. He took a slow step forward, his silver eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation. He was injured, yes, but not fatally. Drakaryn, for all his show of power, had been moments away from death before the healing began. This wasn't invincibility—it was a trick, one that had yet to reveal its flaws.
Drakaryn, now fully healed, turned his gaze to Medraut, his expression unreadable. The air between them crackled with tension, the mana-rich atmosphere amplifying the weight of their presence. Both dragons knew the fight was far from over.
Medraut's lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. "Impressive," he said, his voice steady once more. "But tricks like this won't save you forever."
Drakaryn didn't respond immediately. Instead, he took another step forward, his claws sinking into the earth with deliberate force. The Dragontongue still lingered on his breath, a faint hum that resonated in the air around him.
"We'll see," Drakaryn said finally, his voice low and calm. "Won't we?"
Medraut's smile faded, replaced by a cold, calculating glare. The battle wasn't over, but the balance of power had shifted. Both dragons knew the stakes, and both were prepared to see it through to the end.