The vast conclave hall of Draconium resounded with a low, ceaseless hum—an ancient resonance born of layered enchantments, draconic mana, and the sheer presence of beings who had ruled skies long before empires learned how to crawl. Colossal pillars of obsidian-veined crystal rose toward a ceiling lost in drifting embers, each pillar etched with runes that glowed faintly like slumbering stars.
Nine figures stood arranged in a crescent formation.
They were the Draconics—the highest-ranked champions of the dragonoid race—each radiating an oppressive aura that bent the air around them. Scales of varying hues shimmered beneath ceremonial armor, their draconic heritage evident in slit pupils, sharpened features, and the faint echo of roars lingering in their breaths.
Rank Five shifted slightly, his tail flicking against the marble floor as his gaze swept the formation.
"Aren't there supposed to be nine of us present?" he asked, voice edged with mild irritation. "I can only count four, my lord."
At the heart of the chamber, upon a throne sculpted entirely from interlocked dragon scales darker than midnight, sat the Dragonoid Sovereign.
He appeared youthful—deceptively so.
A boy no older than fifteen in appearance lounged upon the throne, one leg crossed casually over the other, chin propped against his knuckles. Ash-gray hair cascaded loosely to his shoulders, framing a face that seemed almost bored by the world itself. His eyes, however, pale gold, pupils razor-sharp, ancient beyond comprehension.
"Their absence is accounted for," the Sovereign replied, voice calm yet absolute. "Ranks One through Three are engaged in a special operation. Ranks Eight and Six are currently undergoing their enclosed ascension rituals."
Rank Four scoffed loudly, folding her arms. "Tch. This is such a bore. Sitting around while demons play war games."
Rank Nine inclined her head respectfully. "Then what is the plan, my great Sovereign?"
The Sovereign's lips curved faintly—an expression that was neither smile nor frown, but something far more dangerous.
"We do what we have always done best," he said. "We challenge them."
The hall stilled.
"A duel," he continued, rising from his throne. As he stood, the very mana in the chamber thickened, pressure crashing down like invisible waves. "If the demons win, we become their allies. We share resources, intelligence, and territory access."
A pause.
"If they lose, Harken becomes a sub-state of Draconium."
Rank Four's scales bristled. "And if they refuse?"
"Then it will be interpreted as an open declaration of war," the Sovereign said plainly. "And we erase them."
"But Sovereign-chan," Rank Four pressed, a trace of indignation creeping into his tone, "they enslaved defenseless baby dragonoids. Why would you even propose an alliance?"
For the first time, the Sovereign's aura flared unchecked.
The air screamed.
Mana pressure exploded outward, cracking the marble floor beneath his feet and forcing several Draconics to instinctively brace themselves. His golden eyes burned with cold amusement.
"Do you truly believe," he said softly, "that we would lose?"
Rank Seven swallowed hard. "I… I cannot imagine such a scenario."
"Good," the Sovereign replied, satisfied.
He turned sharply. " The four of you present will be our combatants. I've already dispatched a messenger."
Rank Four straightened instantly.
"Understood."
"Prepare yourself well," the Sovereign added, gaze sharp as a blade. "Do not shame the pride of our race—or mine."
"Yes, yes," Rank Four muttered.
"As you wish, Sovereign," Rank Five said, bowing.
"By your will," Rank Seven echoed.
"Your command is absolute," Rank Nine concluded.
The gates of Harken groaned open beneath the weight of night as Tenmaru's carriage rolled through, moonlight gleaming faintly off its reinforced plating. The journey from the Night Kingdom had been… eventful, to say the least.
Dracula lounged casually atop the carriage roof, crimson cloak fluttering like spilled blood in the wind, while Theora sat beside Tenmaru within the carriage, gaze thoughtful, unreadable.
Then—
A thunderous flap split the sky.
Wings vast and blazing orange descended from the clouds, scattering guards into a frenzy as a massive dragonoid landed directly before the gate. Stone shattered beneath clawed feet as dust billowed upward.
"What business does a dragonoid have here?" a guard demanded, spear trembling.
The dragonoid shifted—scales receding, frame shrinking—until a tall, broad-shouldered man stood where the beast had been. Orange scales still traced his jaw and forearms, eyes glowing like molten amber.
"You must be the new Demon Lord," he said, turning toward Tenmaru.
Tenmaru blinked. Whoa… they actually look human. Except the scales.
"Yes," Tenmaru replied calmly.
"I am Phil, a messenger of Draconium." He extended a sealed scroll. "A message from the great Dragonoid Sovereign."
Tenmaru broke the seal and read aloud:
Demon Lord Tenmaru.
Draconium hereby challenges Harken to a duel.
If you emerge victorious, we shall become allies and share our resources and intelligence.
If you fall, Harken will become a sub-state of Draconium.
Refusal will be seen as a declaration of war.
Choose wisely.
Silence followed.
Then—
"Tell your leader," Tenmaru said evenly, rolling the scroll back up, "that Harken accepts."
Phil's eyes widened slightly.
"The duel will take place one week from now, within the Sovereignty of Draconium," the messenger said. "Select four combatants—excluding yourself."
With that, wings unfurled once more, and he vanished into the night.
Dracula burst into laughter. "Bold. Very bold."
"It's better than an all-out war," Tenmaru replied. "Our forces are depleted. And an ally like Draconium could tip the scales."
Theora nodded. "Dragonoids are a noble race. If nothing else, they will honor the duel."
The following days were brutal.
Training grounds echoed with clashing steel, roaring mana, and bone-rattling impacts.
"Rin," Misha said coolly, parrying a strike as her abdomen rippled with restrained power, "if you can't beat me, how do you expect to beat your opponent?"
Rin gritted his teeth, sweat pouring down his face. "I'm not losing control."
"Good," Misha replied. "Then don't. Master Gluttony. Don't let it master you."
Nearby, Aspen watched Blist carefully as the latter gasped for breath after a heavy exchange.
"Don't push recklessly," Aspen instructed. "Know your limits—and when it's worth surpassing them."
A week passed in a blur of sweat and steel.
Then came the summons.
A female dragonoid awaited them beyond the gate—tall, elegant, scales a deep royal purple.
"Please," she said, opening a swirling portal. "Step inside."
Tenmaru, Volic, Aspen, Rin, Dracula, Misha, Theora, and Blist crossed through—
The colossal arena trembled with anticipation.
Winds howled through the jagged mountain peaks encircling the battlefield, carrying with them the scent of ancient stone, scorched mana, and the faint, metallic tang of blood yet to be spilled. Tens of thousands of dragonoids filled the terraces carved into the mountainside—some seated in disciplined silence, others murmuring with restrained excitement.
At the apex of it all, the throne of dark draconic scales loomed.
Upon it sat Crux Draconium, his posture languid, chin resting against his knuckles, golden pupils observing the arena below with faint, predatory amusement. He said nothing. He did not need to.
A figure stepped forward instead.
Hovering above the central platform was a tall dragonoid clad in ceremonial armor of burnished bronze, his wings spread wide as mana-amplifying sigils ignited beneath his feet. His voice, reinforced by ancient draconic enchantments, rolled across the arena like thunder.
"Dragonoids of Draconium," he proclaimed, "and honored guests of Harken."
He paused, allowing the crowd to settle.
"I am Hen, appointed commentator and arbiter for this historic duel between Draconium and Harken."
A ripple of excitement surged through the stands.
Hen gestured toward an obsidian pedestal beside him, atop which rested a sealed container etched with runes of fate-binding.
"The matches have been determined," he continued. "Each duel shall proceed under the Sovereign's law—no interference, no retreat, no substitution once combat begins."
His clawed hand reached into the container.
The runes flared.
Hen withdrew a single card, its surface glowing faintly as he read its contents. His eyes narrowed, and a low, impressed hum escaped his throat.
"For the first match," Hen announced, voice rising, "representing Harken—"
The arena darkened.
"—Aspen, Commander of the Demonic Army."
A stir ran through the dragonoid spectators. Some leaned forward. Others scoffed.
"So that is the demon commander," one voice muttered.
On Harken's side, Aspen stepped forward.
His expression was calm—too calm. Cloaked in his battle attire, aura tightly restrained, he radiated the quiet confidence of one who had survived countless battlefields. His gaze never wavered as he entered the arena, boots crunching against ancient stone.
Hen raised the card once more.
"And opposing him," he declared, mana surging, "representing Draconium—Rank Seven of the Draconics."
The air thickened.
"Tefold," Hen announced solemnly.
"Bearer of the title—The Unending Onslaught."
A gate on the opposite end of the arena groaned open.
Heavy footsteps echoed.
Each step sent shockwaves rippling through the ground as a towering dragonoid emerged, scales the color of dark iron layered thick across his massive frame. His wings were scarred, torn, and reforged countless times—a testament to wars survived rather than avoided. His eyes burned with relentless fervor, mana spilling from him in ceaseless waves, as though his very existence rejected stillness.
Tefold rolled his shoulders once.
The stone beneath him cracked.
Aspen exhaled slowly.
From the throne above, Crux Draconium leaned forward ever so slightly, interest finally flickering across his ancient features.
Hen spread his wings wide, voice resounding across the battlefield.
"By decree of the Dragonoid Sovereignty—"
The arena barriers flared to life.
"Match One—"
Mana exploded outward.
"Begin."