Chromatic Dragons—especially black ones—were notorious for treating everything as prey. Barbatos knew if Lyanna were left unchecked, she might revert to her instincts and start eating his subordinates.
But now… she was part of his domain. And his domain would have order.
Lyanna looked up at him and gave a powerful nod. "Yes."
Even if he hadn't reminded her, she had already decided to restrain herself. She was new here. And more importantly… she wasn't ready to challenge anyone here.
As she left, her thoughts drifted. Her body was still aching, but within that pain evolved potential. Real, tangible, unstoppable growth. She felt her bloodline surging with power—her senses sharper, her vision clearer, her magic capacity vastly expanded.
She was no longer just a black dragoness. She was evolving into something… legendary.
Thinking of what had just happened, Lyanna's chest tightened. A swirl of conflicting emotions roiled within her—pride, humiliation, longing. She had wanted to flaunt her dignity as a mother, to stand tall before her son as the one who had birthed him into this world. Yet the reality was undeniable—her strength could not compare. Her pride crumbled under the sheer weight of his presence.
And the sight of him just now…
Her gaze traced the towering, muscle armored frame before her—Barbatos's body, several times her own size, exuding the unshakable aura of a dominator. It was only fourty short years ago that he had been a scrawny, awkward whelp—dark scales dull and uneven, wings too small for his body. She remembered thinking he would never amount to anything beyond what she had achieved. Yet here he stood, a fully ascended Ancient Dragon, brimming with a Void-born power that sent shivers down her spine.
Even now, she could feel the changes within herself. Her power—already formidable—had surged in the aftermath of their fusion through the Twisted Seed. She had jumped from the mid 17th Order straight to the high 19th Order in a single leap. That alone defied every rule of draconic sense.
To a dragon, advancing even one rank could take decades, if not centuries. Such leaps required wars, treasures from fallen realms, the devouring of ancient beasts, or the blessing of high gods. Yet here she was, her claws tingling with destructive force, her wings itching to tear the skies apart. With raw strength alone, she now believed she could force even a half-step Legendary to retreat in a frontal clash.
If she had known this cub of hers would one day wield such power… she would have raised him differently. Protected him. Nurtured him. She would have sacrificed everything to keep him by her side when she kicked him out of her homeland. But fate had its own path, and in its twists and cruelties, it had brought her here—to him.
Barbatos, her son, now stood like an Ancient Dragon—a title feared across the Star Realms. His rise had taken only forty years, an impossibly short span by draconic standards. She could already see the trajectory of his reign: if nothing stopped him, the material world would be his. Not just the mortal continent they stood upon, but the neighboring realms, the fractured skies, and perhaps even the celestial rivers that led to the domains of gods.
And this was not mere boasting. This island alone held dozens of Legendary beings in service to him. The Abyss City under his command pulsed with endless tides of demons—millions strong—each bound to his will through the Voidblood Covenant. His army was not just soldiers, but a living network of power, feeding him strength from every implant, every act of conquest.
Lyanna knew the truth about dragons of his caliber. A legendary dragon species, once fully grown, could challenge gods themselves. Even divine intervention could not erase such a being without shattering entire planes in the process.
His future territory would span countless planes, like the ancient Mind Sucker Empire whose dominion stretched across the Astral Sea. Whole civilizations would kneel before him. Empires would be mere tributaries to his might. And the method by which he had empowered her—instantaneously, without the cost of divine pacts—was something beyond even the workings of most higher gods.
The thought made her scales prickle with anticipation. If he could make her this strong in a single session, what heights could she reach in the centuries to come? She could already imagine herself, soaring beside him as they descended upon newly conquered planes, their names spoken in reverence and fear across a thousand realms. The treasures they would claim… the power they would wield…
And she smiled—a slow, curling smile filled with hunger of a different kind.
Besides, he was her son. That fact, in her mind, was not a barrier but a bond. Dragons were not bound by the petty t@b**s of lesser species. Power was power, and mating with such a mate—one who could stir her body to pleasure to such an extreme extent for an entire month—was not just the best, but now so much desirable. In truth, the sensations he had given her were unlike anything her kind had ever known or experienced something she never thought possible. Pleasure and power, intertwined until they were indistinguishable. She would never let that go.
When she had first arrived, she had noticed the dramatic transformation among his followers. The last time she had seen them, only a handful had been worthy of her attention. Now, dozens radiated Legendary-tier auras, their power organized and sharpened by the Voidblood Bond. If Barbatos willed it, she could command them—an army of monsters and legends at her beck and call.
With him as her mate, her safety was not just guaranteed—it was absolute.
And yet…
Beneath the hunger and excitement, Lyanna felt a deep, unfamiliar sting. A sensation she realized was humiliation—born from seeing her "ch¡ld" surpass her so utterly in every way. No other dragon would understand this feeling.
Her mind wandered back to her earliest memories. She had been born in the wild, alone. No mother to shield her, no steady source of food. She had eaten dirt, gnawed rotten leaves, and survived by scavenging the kills of larger beasts. When she finally learned to hunt, she did so in constant fear, nearly dying countless times in the jaws of predators far stronger than herself.
She had clawed her way to survival in the Dark Forest, a cursed expanse where even sunlight dared not linger. In time, she began to hoard treasures, each one stolen or claimed through violence. Her first true act of power had been the ambush of a human caravan that carried a soul-infused relic—a soul so valuable that it allowed her to shape her own unique profession with a lot of effort and blood. From there, she hunted beasts of increasing strength, each kill marking another step in her ascension.
The first True Dragon she had ever met was Dunte, an arrogant ancient with a cave overflowing with gold. His hoard had been the greatest she had ever seen—until now. Standing in Barbatos's presence, she knew even that legendary treasure would look pitiful in comparison to what her son would gather.
And perhaps, one day… what they would gather. Together.
---
Barbatos reclined lazily within the obsidian-walled palace, the faint glow of molten light from the volcanic vents casting a red sheen across his scales. His mood was bright, almost smug. The past month had been… gratifying. To have Lyanna—proud, fierce, and beautiful—return to his lair and spend thirty days in a haze of unbroken, feverish mating had been both a pleasure and a conquest. Her submission had been as intoxicating as her body, and the fact that she had chosen to stay only deepened the satisfaction curling in his chest.
That satisfaction was matched by the primal thrill of dominance, for Lyanna had not simply returned—she had returned to him. She belonged here now, and she knew it.
But in the wake of their departure from the palace hall, another moment stirred the air between them. Westerby, a close and trusted confidante in Barbatos's inner heart, had lingered. With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached out and laid a hand upon Westerby's lower abdomen.
The touch was gentle, but something in it resonated with ancient power. Westerby froze.
It wasn't a physical discomfort—it was something deeper, something primal. A warmth bloomed within her core, radiating outward in slow pulses. She had felt arousal before, pleasure beyond measure during the times before, but this was different. This was seeded. Something within her shifted, awakened, whispered to her blood and bones that a change had begun.
Unease gnawed at her instincts, but alongside it, there was… anticipation.
Barbatos had already left the hall when she placed a hand over her own abdomen, silently wondering what this sensation foretold.
---
I was making my way back toward my Dragon Pound, the great obsidian reservoir that served as my personal sanctum and resting place. Along the way, a voice tugged at the edge of my mind—an unmistakable pull through the Soul Chain.
It was Arthas.
I had ignored him earlier, immersed in the raw, overwhelming pleasure Westerby had brought me. Even my most disciplined subordinate could wait when I was otherwise occupied. But now that I walked in relative calm, I reached out along the chain.
"Arthas, what is it?"
Through the Soul Chain, his presence sharpened, the icy discipline that defined him radiating through the link. Arthas was one of my most reliable followers—never given to idle chatter, never wasting my time with trivialities. If he called, there was a reason.
"My Lord, I have found something… very important," he replied, his tone calm but carrying an undercurrent of tension.
My attention shifted instantly, my consciousness threading through the Soul Chain until I saw through his eyes.
---
In the heart of the Black Lake, Arthas sat upon his Throne of Ice, the jagged structure radiating a cold so pure it could freeze the breath of fire. Before him rested a sphere, suspended in a block of translucent frost—its form shrouded, yet unmistakably deliberate.
It was small, no larger than a human's palm, perfectly round and so black it seemed to devour the light around it. And faintly—so faintly I thought it might be my imagination—came the echo of a dragon's roar.
The moment I beheld it, an instinctive dread took root in my gut.
My inherited memories stirred, unraveling the truth like an ancient scroll:
"Black Dragon Ball… or rather… Orb of Dragonkind."
The Orbs of Dragonkind in this world were far older and far more dangerous than those I remembered from my previous life. Born in the fires of the Great Dragon War, they were forged not by mortals, but by ancient god-smiths who sought to break the supremacy of True Dragons. Each orb was bound to a specific draconic lineage—Black, Red, Gold, Brass, Bronze, even the rare Gem Dragons and the fearsome Ferrous Dragons.
But the method of their creation… was an atrocity.
A Dragon Ball was not merely crafted—it was made. The soul essence of a True Dragon was torn from its body, its will shattered, its life extinguished, and its essence condensed into a sphere. Such an act required magic so vile it warped the very laws of the planes. These were not mere relics; they were soul prisons.
The powers of these orbs were many:
Domination: With a single command, the wielder could bend the will of any True Dragon of the matching lineage. A Black Dragon Ball could enslave any black dragon, no matter how old.
Detection: The orb could sense the presence of dragons within a vast range, its detection amplified when seeking its own kind.
Immunity: The wielder became immune to the breath weapon of that dragon type—lightning from a Blue Dragon for A Blue Dragon Ball, acid from a Black for a Black Dragon Ball, fire from a Red for A Red Dragon Ball.
In short, they were perfect counters to dragonkind, nullifying the most destructive aspects of our power.
And yet…
Legends told of a final act of defiance. The Dragon God, in the twilight of the Great Dragon War, had laid a curse upon all Dragon Balls: whoever held one, even for a heartbeat, would be marked. From that moment on, every True Dragon in existence would recognize them as an enemy. Even if they discarded the orb, the mark would remain. And when a dragon came across such a foe, it would fight until either it or the mark perished.
That curse had ended the open use of Dragon Balls, for to hold one was to declare war upon the entire draconic race.
Now one of these relics lay before my subordinate.
My gaze—through Arthas—lingered upon the sphere, and thoughts stirred.
In the distant age when Titans still walked among mortals, the Dragon Balls were feared above all other artifacts. Yet, in those ancient times, most of them met their end—not through time or decay, but by the relentless crusade of both the Metallic Dragons and their sworn rivals, the Chromatic Dragons.
For once, these two eternal enemies found common cause. It mattered not whether the Dragon Ball was in the hands of a saint or a tyrant—any who possessed one were marked for death. True Dragons descended from the heavens or rose from their lairs in the deepest abyss, rending cities to ash and bone. The slaughter was indiscriminate; kingdoms were erased in a night, their rulers and people alike burned, frozen, or torn apart. Those foolish enough to grasp at the Dragon Balls were hunted without mercy, for possession alone was a crime against dragonkind.
The history books of men would later call this the Purging of the Orbs, but for dragons, it was not mere history—it was vengeance made eternal.
That is why it was so utterly shocking for me to lay eyes upon one now.
The quality of Dragon Ball is not uniform. Those forged from the soul of a hatchling or young dragon are crude imitations, unable to command an adult of their lineage, their influence little more than a passing headache to the truly strong. Even among young dragons, the willful or gifted can shrug off such control entirely.
But the Black Dragon Ball before Arthas… its aura was different. Denser. Darker. This was no relic of a slaughtered whelp—it reeked of the condensed essence of an adult black dragon, perhaps even one who had reached the ancient stage.
That alone made my claws itch. A relic of such caliber was no mere trinket; it could bring an adult black dragon to heel, strip their will, and bend them into a weapon.
I considered the possibilities, and an uncomfortable thought surfaced.
Could this be the Dwarf Kingdom's trump card against me?
Arthas's memory—meticulous as always—offered fragments of information. He had not dared to hold the orb directly. Even without knowing the full extent of its capabilities, he understood the danger. Instead, he had sealed it within layers of binding frost and runic wards, locking it in a prison of ice.
Originally, I had thought the underground Gray Dwarf Kingdom would be slowly consumed by Arthas's quiet conquest—its borders corroded, its influence bled away—until it became nothing but another silent tomb under my dominion. But this changed everything.
They did not simply have a relic. They had my relic.
A Black Dragon Ball.
To most, such a thing would inspire fear. But to me? It was merely… irritating.
I could be certain it would not affect me. Not with my immense mental power, honed over two mind Professions and an Eye of an Evil God, and the Glorious Radiance Force Field that constantly enveloped me—a manifestation of my greater power. This force field was not merely defense; it was a domain of willpower and soul so absolute that the petty enchantments of mental control shattered against it like waves upon a cliff.
And yet… the very existence of the Black Dragon Ball in my territory was an offense I would not tolerate.
This was no time for patience. Arthas's slow attrition would take months, perhaps years, to devour the Gray Dwarf Kingdom. I would see it burned and broken now.
The Larkana Mountains were already under my banner, and the great cavern-mouth to the underground was nestled in the forests that spread across their slopes. I could send my armies into the depths at will—wyverns, drakes, undead legions, mortal vassals—pouring through like a tide of iron and flame.
My territory will never allow dangerous things to exist.
---
Far, far away, deep below the ground of Tal in the Underdark, in the capital of the underground world—a sprawling fortress-city of stone and phosphorescent heat known as Blade City—the atmosphere was far from calm.
In the throne hall, King Rex's voice thundered like a hammer striking iron.
"What?! You lost it?!"
Before him knelt Sarath, once proud, now pale with strain. His words came heavy, each one tasting of defeat.
"All our elite soldiers… gone. Cut down by the Death Knight and twisted into undead. And the Dragon Ball—it was taken."