The very air of the factory district, reeked of ozone and superheated rock.
Waves of molten earth still pulsed behind Draco, as he loomed over Mors.
His form, that of a mini-dragon, was a grotesque masterpiece of destructive energy: scales the colour of midnight, jagged and uneven, pulsed with an internal fire that seemed to tear at his very being.
Molten crystals protruded from his hide, and glowing veins pulsed ominously beneath his scorched skin, mapping the pathways of the rampant magic within him.
Deep, angry cuts marred his flanks, weeping trails of ichor that instantly sizzled and vanished in the intense heat radiating from his body.
His growl, an unholy symphony of rage and instinct, rumbled across the ruined landscape, a small declaration of victory.
Before him, battered and broken, lay Mors, the evilus champion, now reduced to a whimpering mass of scorched flesh.
Draco's maw gaped, ready to deliver the final, crushing blow, the triumph of the hunt palpable in the air.
His draconic instincts, untamed and absolute in this transformed state, had demanded the absolute subjugation of his prey, and Mors was on the brink of becoming a mere trophy, a symbol of Draco's might.
But then, the disturbance came.
The air, already heavy, grew thicker still, not with heat, but with a palpable presence.
It was an intrusion, a foreign body disrupting the sacred ritual of the kill.
A ripple of shadow, deeper than any night, coalesced into a figure that dropped from the smoke-choked sky with the silent grace of a falling blade.
Its descent stirred no wind, displaced no dust, yet its arrival sent a shiver down Draco's spine, cutting through the haze of his bloodlust like a shard of ice.
This was Falazure, the dragon god of decay and death.
His aura was an immediate, visceral assault: an ancient, cold dread that seeped into the ground and poisoned the very light.
It reeked, unmistakably, of death—not just the death of living things, but the slow, inevitable entropy of all creation.
Draco's draconic instincts, sharpened to a razor's edge by his transformation, immediately recognized the new arrival as an extremely serious threat.
The very presence of Falazure, a being of such power, was interpreted by Draco's primal mind as a direct challenge, an unspoken claim on his hard-won prey.
The rage that had fuelled his rampage intensified tenfold, now focused not just on Mors, but on this audacious interloper who dared to interrupt his victory.
Every nerve ending screamed, demanding immediate action, demanding the repulsion of this challenger.
Before Draco could even gather his breath for an answering roar, before his rage could translate into a retaliatory strike, another figure appeared.
This one arrived with a different sort of solemnity, a grace that countered the gloom Falazure exuded.
Her form seemed to suddenly coalesce from silver light.
She carried a draconic aura similar in intensity to the first, yet utterly distinct.
Where Falazure's presence was a sterile chill, a whisper of the grave, hers was a current of warmth, a comforting solace amidst the desolation.
It was an aura that spoke not of endings, but of new beginnings, of hope and potential.
A flicker of recognition, a primal memory buried deep beneath layers of rampaging instinct, stirred within Draco's monstrous form.
Her scent, carried on the displaced air, was so achingly familiar, so deeply ingrained in his very essence that it momentarily bypassed the raging chaos in his mind.
This was Bahamut, his familia goddess, his guiding star, his… lover.
A fragment of doubt, a sliver of hesitation, threatened to pierce the veil of his madness.
But it was only a fragment.
His mind, utterly consumed by the raging draconic instinct, was a maelstrom of primal urges. The sight of two monumental, overwhelming draconic presences, one dark and one light, triggered an alarm deeper than conscious thought.
His instinctual brain registered the situation as a siege, a direct assault on his dominion.
Two dragons, equally powerful, perhaps even more powerful than himself, were here to challenge him, to claim his territory, his prey.
The only logical response within the confines of his current deranged state was to assert absolute superiority.
Dragons, above all creatures, were defined by their territoriality and their hierarchy of power.
They would only truly submit to a power unequivocally superior to their own or die trying.
Draco, though a dragon-kin only currently able to achieve the form of a mini-dragon through a skill, and clearly not of sane mind, embodied this principle.
The draconic instincts, pure and unadulterated, were very much present, guiding every twitch of his monstrous body, every pulse of hot energy.
With the recognition of the two new arrivals as extremely threatening challengers, Draco's instinct overrode any lingering familiarity.
He needed to show them who was truly dominant.
He needed more power.
With a guttural growl that shuddered through the molten ground, he lurched backward, tearing himself away from the still-twitching Mors.
His movements, though bulky, were surprisingly swift, covering a significant distance in a mere heartbeat, establishing a wider perimeter.
His body, already pushed to its limits from the stage three transformation, responded to the desperate urge, initiating the final, suicidal gamble: Stage Four.
All of this—Falazure's arrival, Bahamut's appearance, Draco's internal processing, his retreat, and the initiation of his final transformation—had occurred in the split few seconds in which his current stage three transformation duration was set to expire.
The magic coursing through him, already volatile, surged with a renewed, terrifying vigour, threatening to tear him apart from the inside.
Bahamut on the other hand, was momentarily transfixed.
She didn't fully comprehend the complex, instinct-driven calculations raging within Draco's fractured mind.
Her own focus was on assessing the scene, trying to decipher the best course of action to halt Draco's rampage without causing him irreparable harm.
She had made a promise to her children, that she would bring Draco back, whole and safe.
But the methods available to her were severely limited.
A dragon's will, especially one as fundamentally powerful as Draco's, even in this deranged state, could not be simply wished away.
The only true ways to end his current rampage were either to let his transformation duration naturally come to an end – a dangerous gamble given the destruction he was wreaking – or for her to overpower him into submission.
The ancient laws of dragon-kind were absolute: a dragon would only bow to a superior dragon. This draconian principle, though often nuanced by the complexities of divine power, still somewhat applied to the dragon gods themselves.
This was precisely why Falazure was so incredibly annoying to deal with.
He was a dragon god, somewhat equal to herself in terms of raw, unadulterated might.
This meant she held no real inherent advantage over him in terms of brute force, making any direct confrontation a costly and prolonged affair.
Their power dynamics were a delicate balance, rarely tipped decisively in one's favour.
Bahamut's heart, had been mortified upon arriving at the scene.
Her form, usually composed, pulsed with barely contained sorrow and fury.
Seeing her once handsome, noble child in such a horrific, twisted state was a sight that tore at her very being.
Dragon forms, she knew, were meant to be reflections of inner beauty and outer grace.
For dragon gods like herself and Falazure, their draconic aspects were inherently beautiful and aesthetically pleasing, generally reflecting a sublime elegance regardless of their moral alignment.
Draco, as a dragon-kin, a race created by the chief dragon god Io himself, should have possessed a similar disposition, a natural majesty even in his scaled form.
But his current manifestation was nothing short of horrific.
It reflected only mindless rage and untamed instincts, a raw, destructive force devoid of any redeeming grace.
His scales, rich black in his transformed state, were jagged and uneven, seeming to crack and bleed internal molten light.
Molten crystals, like aberrant growths, erupted from his hide, and the glowing veins pulsing ominously beneath his skin hinted at the torment within.
The serious cuts everywhere on his body spoke of the self-destructive nature of his uncontrolled power.
Bahamut nearly shed a tear, seeing him like this.
Her gaze, hardened into a cold, diamond-sharp glare that she flashed towards Falazure.
It was his child, after all, his corrupted follower, who had instigated the events that forced Draco into this desperate, self-destructive state.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Falazure drawled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
He leaned back slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips.
His eyes, like twin pools of shadow, held a knowing glint.
"Have you perhaps finally fallen for me? If so, I will gladly accept. Though I must say, your tastes are... impeccable."
He clapped his hands together once, the sound like two plates of obsidian grinding.
He knew the animosity in her glare was a deep, righteous fury, so he brushed it off with a jest, deflecting her blaming glare with a touch of his morbid humour.
"You wish!" Bahamut muttered, her voice a low hiss of disdain that nevertheless vibrated with immense power.
She wasn't amused.
"Your eternal, undying love for me aside," Falazure continued, undeterred, gesturing with a languid sweep of his hand towards Draco, whose form was now writhing, undergoing yet another violent metamorphosis, "isn't that boy changing again? And quite rapidly, I might add."
Bahamut's head snapped back to Draco, her alarm immediate and total.
She had been so consumed by the sight of his pain, and the frustrating presence of Falazure, that she hadn't fully registered the increasing pressure emanating from him.
Now hyper-attuned to changes in draconic power, reeled from the sudden, exponential spike.
'No way,' she thought, her mind racing, 'can he still further grow in power? This is beyond what I anticipated. I have to stop this before it is complete. The sheer backlash of such a transformation… it will kill him.'
Her resolve solidified, all contemplation vanishing in the face of absolute necessity.
She immediately began to act.
She knew, with chilling certainty, that the backlash from Draco's first three transformations was still pending, a debt of energy or life force that would demand payment.
Going for a fourth transformation, initiating a stage four metamorphosis, was not just dangerous; it was an act of self-destruction.
It was, in essence, suicide.
Even if, by some miracle, he managed to survive the immediate, explosive outpouring of power, when it ended, it would take an impossibly long time for him to recover, if he ever fully did.
More likely, it would eat directly at his life span, stripping years, decades, perhaps even centuries from his already long-lived dragon-kin existence.
It might even leave him a hollow shell, forever scarred.
As Draco's beloved goddess, his divine patron, and indeed, his lover, she absolutely could not, would not, allow such a thing to happen.
While gods lived forever, their existence stretching into eternity, mortal lives, even the extremely long-lived dragon-kin, eventually came to an end.
To shorten his already precious existence, to condemn him to a life of perpetual agony or a premature end, was unacceptable.
Her decision made, she moved.
As Bahamut began swiftly closing the distance between her and the convulsing Draco, her body began to transform, shifting with breathtaking speed into her true dragon form.
A flash of pure, blinding silver began to emanate from where she had stood only moments before, growing and growing in size, expanding outwards with a speed that defied comprehension.
The light pulsed, coalescing, solidifying, until it eclipsed even Draco, who was already a formidable presence, dwarfing him by a significant margin.
In mere heartbeats, the shimmering silver light resolved itself into an entity of immense power and breathtaking beauty.
What was left standing in place was not merely a dragon, but a vision of divine splendour.
She stretched, her form easily more than three-fourths larger than Draco's already monstrous, mini-dragon frame.
Her body was covered in shimmering silver scales, each one a perfect, reflective mirror that caught the molten orange glow of the ground and transformed it into a kaleidoscope of dancing light.
Her wings, vast and translucent, unfurled like sails woven from moonlight, with countless sparks of silver stars glowing and swirling within their ethereal membranes.
Her eyes, usually a soft red in her humanoid form, were now deep red, ancient and wise.
Her body, perfectly proportioned despite its immense size, was covered in extra layers of beautifully crafted interlocking scales, each one a work of art, adding an extra dimension of grace.
A palpable, draconic aura radiated off her entire being, washing over the desolated landscape like a cool, cleansing tide.
Even with her arcanum sealed, her draconic presence was so overwhelming and suffocating that the molten ground around her began to cool rapidly, hardening into solid rock with audible cracks and groans.
The air around her shimmered, not from heat, but from the sheer density of her draconic energy.
"Hahahaha, beautiful and powerful as always, my dear Bahamut!" Falazure praised, his deep voice carrying easily across the distance.
He clapped his hands together again, a sound like distant thunder, a genuine glint of glee in his shadowy eyes.
He took a perverse pleasure in her displays of power.
"Truly, the platinum dragon goddess is a sight to behold."
However, Bahamut merely snorted through her massive nostrils, exhaling a voluminous amount of air that, for a being of her colossal size, generated an immediate, powerful gale that swept across the district, scattering smoke and dust.
It was a clear dismissal, a gesture of pure, disdain for his flattery.
She was indeed one of the most beautiful dragon goddesses, her majesty undeniable.
As for her standing amongst goddesses from other pantheons, that was debatable, of course, based on individual preferences.
Her humanoid form was admittedly quite petite and, to some, lacking in certain desired areas, but her true dragon form was universally acknowledged as perfection.
With her transformation completed in mere nanoseconds, she looked down at Draco.
Her immense pressure, bore down on him like a collapsing mountain.
The sheer scale of her true form was already intimidating enough to the deranged Draco, whose instinct recognized the immense size difference.
But it was her aura, vast and crushing, radiating absolute dominance, that truly prompted his battered body to further accelerate its desperate need for transformation, a final, futile attempt to match the overwhelming power now looming over him.
However, Bahamut was not going to let him progress one inch further, nor would she allow him to do anything else.
With a massive, silver claw, as large as a small building, raised high, she instantly brought it down, pinning Draco to the ground with a force that made the already fractured earth groan anew.
Her claw came down so fast and unexpectedly, a blur of silver light, that it displaced the air around the area with a concussive force, creating a shockwave that rippled outwards, flattening any remaining debris.
Draco didn't have any chance to even react, his instinct-driven mind still processing the overwhelming pressure, before he realized he had been pinned down.
The residual heat radiating from his furiously regenerating body, the molten crystals and burning scales, were a paltry, non-existent distraction for Bahamut.
Her aura, like a cold, purifying flame, instantly squashed the very embers of his self-destructive inferno, nullifying their effect.
Draco struggled to break free, roaring and biting with indignation, his jagged teeth snapping futilely against the unyielding silver of her scales.
But it was pointless.
Bahamut's sheer size, her immense weight, and her overwhelming strength simply squashed him deeper into the earth, forcing him into an even more desperate, futile struggle, an unconscious, forceful draw of even more power.
Yet, before Draco could truly tap into that suicidal reserve, before his stage four transformation could even fully begin, Bahamut brought her magnificent jaw, lined with teeth like polished daggers, close to her restraining claw.
She took a deep, resonating breath, her chest expanding.
Then, with a powerful, soul-shaking exhale, a roar escaped her lips.
But this was no ordinary roar of dominance or rage.
It was delivered in a unique, precise way, infused with a very specific intent, a frequency that even the crazed, instinct-driven Draco could understand at a primal level.
It was like a mother dragon, ancient and infinitely patient, yet utterly firm, scolding her new hatching for making a truly egregious, monumental mess.
It carried the weight of disappointment, the sternness of a reprimand, and the undeniable authority of a superior.
This was not a challenge; it was a command.
Added to this unique roar was the full, crushing weight of her draconic aura, locked solely onto him, inescapable.
A small, yet potent, spark of her divinity, her true power as a god, was embedded within the sound and the pressure.
It was game over.
The combined pressure was so intense and utterly crushing that it squashed his draconic instincts' will to continue resistance.
It didn't just suppress his power; it mentally subjugated him, overriding the primal urge to fight, to dominate.
The madness, the raw, untamed rage that had consumed him, flickered, wavered, and then, under the sheer, benevolent weight of his goddess's will, began to recede.
Even when Bahamut, seeing the final spark of resistance extinguish from his eyes, released her claw, Draco remained lying in place.
His monstrous, mini-dragon form, now no longer thrashing or roaring, lay unmoving, utterly defeated.
As the last few precious seconds of his stage three transformation duration trickled to its inevitable end, the jagged scales retracted, the molten crystals receded, the glowing veins faded, and the immense heat dissipated.
With a soft, almost ethereal shimmer, Draco reverted, shrinking rapidly, until he was once again in his original, humanoid form, lying unconscious amidst the cooling desolation of the factory district.
The silence that followed was broken only by the gentle hum of Bahamut's revertion.