Victory was a bitter, metallic taste in our mouths, indistinguishable from the blood we had swallowed. The colossal ice arena Masha had forged was now a ruin of melting slush and steaming dragon corpses. We, the victors, were scattered amongst the dead, too exhausted to even stand. The adrenaline that had sustained us through the brutal, high-speed battle against the Void Drakes had vanished, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep weariness that felt heavier than any physical blow.
I was on one knee, Soul-Drinker's tip planted in the white stone for support, my own vast mana reserves feeling shallow and sluggish. Eric had collapsed against a fossilized rib bone, his chest heaving, his powerful, reinforced body trembling with the aftershocks of the alpha's assault. Jin and Talia were a mess of cuts and bruises, leaning on each other for support, their breathing ragged. The others were in no better shape. We had won, but the cost had been immense.
"The cores…" Kael managed to gasp, his Eidolon's Mask askew. "We need to… absorb them."
He was right. The seven S-rank corpses around us were a treasure trove of power, a feast waiting to be claimed. But the thought of the arduous, mentally taxing process of absorbing even one of them felt like a mountain we did not have the strength to climb.
"Rest first," I commanded, my voice a low rasp. "Five minutes. Then we take our shares."
We sat there, a broken, silent tableau amidst the carnage we had wrought. The silence of the Graveyard of Gods returned, but it was no longer unnerving. It was a welcome, peaceful shroud. For a few precious minutes, there was no fighting, no strategy, no fear. There was only the quiet, shared experience of survival.
After a time that was both an eternity and a fleeting moment, we began the grim task. We moved from one draconic corpse to the next, a silent, efficient procession. There were no arguments this time, no claims of who deserved more. We each placed our hands on the cooling scales and drew what we could, a communal act of replenishment. The influx of S-rank mana was a potent, invigorating balm, knitting together torn muscles, sealing shallow cuts, and refilling our depleted reserves. But it was like pouring water into a cracked vessel; the energy was there, but the deep, spiritual exhaustion remained.
It was in that moment of fragile recovery that the world decided to remind us that peace was an illusion.
It started as a flicker on the horizon, a distant, orange glow against the perpetual twilight sky. Then came the sound. It was not a roar or a shriek, but a low, tearing sound, like the fabric of reality itself was being ripped apart. It grew in intensity, a sound that vibrated in our chests, making our teeth ache.
The ground far beneath our floating island began to burn. The swirling purple abyss ignited, a sea of fire from which something terrible was ascending. The cries began then, a cacophony of high-pitched, reptilian screams that tore at our eardrums, a sound of pure, unbridled savagery.
And then we saw them.
A horde. A cloud of leathery wings and snarling, reptilian heads, so numerous they blotted out the distant, skeletal landmarks. They were Sun-Eater Wyverns, hundreds of them, their scales the color of scorched bronze, their eyes burning with a hateful, yellow light. They were A-rank, lesser beasts, but their strength was in their sheer, overwhelming numbers.
But they were not the true threat. They were merely the heralds.
Behind them, ascending from the fiery chasm with a slow, majestic, and utterly terrifying grace, came the dragons.
There were ten of them. These were not the sleek, predatory Drakes we had just slain. These were the titans of myth, the living embodiments of natural disaster. Each one was a mountain of muscle and scale, easily twice the size of the Void Drake alpha. There was a Magma Drake, its hide a crust of cooling lava, its breath a shimmering wave of heat. A Frost Drake, its scales forged from pure, blue-white glacier ice, a cloud of freezing mist coiling around it. A Storm Drake, its body crackling with contained lightning, its roar the sound of rolling thunder. And seven others, each a different, terrifying aspect of nature's wrath. They were true S-rank titans, and they were flying in a disciplined, V-shaped formation, the Wyvern horde their loyal, screeching army.
A wave of pure, undiluted despair washed over my team. We had just survived a battle against seven lesser S-rank creatures. Now, we were facing a literal army, led by ten true gods of destruction.
"Dante…" Eric breathed, his voice full of a horror I had never heard from him before. "What do we do?"
"There is nothing to do," Jin said, his voice flat with resignation. "We are dead."
"No," I snarled, my own exhaustion burned away by a sudden, furious surge of adrenaline. I would not die here. Not after coming so far. "We are not dead until I say we are dead! Formation! Now!"
My voice, raw and full of a tyrant's absolute refusal to fail, shocked them out of their despair. They scrambled to their feet, their bodies screaming in protest, and formed a tight, defensive circle.
"This is not a battle we can win with finesse!" I roared over the growing din of the approaching horde. "This is a war of attrition! Masha, forget the arena! I need walls, barriers, anything to slow the Wyverns! Eric, you are the anchor! Nothing gets past you! Rina, you will do nothing but heal him! The rest of you, your job is to thin the horde! Do not engage the dragons! Not yet!"
The first wave of Sun-Eater Wyverns hit us like a physical blow. They descended upon our small island in a screeching, chaotic torrent of claws and teeth.
The battle became a desperate, swirling nightmare. Eric was a bastion of pure defiance, his gauntleted fists and greaves the only shield he had left. He took the brunt of the charge, his reinforced body weathering blows that would have turned a normal man to paste. Rina stood behind him, her hands a constant, glowing font of life energy, her face pale with the strain of keeping our wall from crumbling.
Masha, her new S-rank core blazing with power, was a goddess of winter. She didn't create single walls; she made the very air around us a blizzard of razor-sharp ice, shredding the wings of any Wyvern that got too close. But for every one she brought down, ten more took its place.
Lana and Talia were a whirlwind of death on the flanks. Lana's crossbow was a silent, deadly metronome, each kinetic bolt finding a Wyvern's eye socket. Talia was a blur of poisoned steel, her daggers leaving a trail of twitching, dying reptiles in her wake. Jin, Erica, and Kael formed our other flank, a disciplined trio of steel and plasma, their attacks a testament to their hard-won synergy.
But we were being overwhelmed. The sheer, crushing weight of their numbers was too much. A Wyvern slipped past Jin's guard, its claws tearing deep gashes in his arm. Another slammed into Talia, sending her sprawling, her head striking the stone with a sickening crack.
Rina, her attention divided between healing Eric and the others, was being pushed to her absolute limit.
And the dragons had not yet even joined the fight. They circled high above, watching the slaughter with a cold, intelligent patience, waiting for us to be weakened, for the perfect moment to strike.
"Dante!" Masha screamed, her voice tight with panic. A massive crack had appeared in the ice barrier she had thrown up, and a dozen Wyverns were pouring through. "I can't hold them all!"
She was right. Our formation was about to break.
I looked at Masha, at her pale, determined face. Then I looked at the dragons circling above. My mind, a cold engine of calculation even in the face of annihilation, saw the only path. It was a suicidal, desperate gambit.
"I'm coming," I said, my voice a low promise. I began to walk toward her, Soul-Drinker held ready.
Just as I reached her side, one of the ten dragons decided it had waited long enough. The Magma Drake, a beast of living lava and fire, folded its wings and dived. It was not a graceful descent; it was a meteor strike. It opened its maw, and a river of pure, liquid fire, a torrent of destruction that made the Juggernaut's attack look like a candle flame, descended upon us. Its target was clear: Masha, the cryomancer, the greatest threat to its own elemental power.
She saw it coming. Her eyes widened in terror. She tried to raise a shield of ice, but she was too slow, her power already engaged in holding back the horde. This was it. This was the end.
She closed her eyes, a single, traitorous thought flashing through her mind. At least he is here.
But the fire never came.
She opened her eyes. I was standing in front of her, my back to her, my black sword held aloft. I had not blocked the river of fire. I had met it. The magma washed over me, engulfing me in a roaring inferno. Soul-Drinker was screaming, a high-pitched, keening sound as it devoured an impossible amount of energy. My own reinforced body was being cooked alive, my skin blistering, my armor melting. The pain was absolute, a white-hot agony that threatened to incinerate my very soul.
But I did not move. I stood, a dark, unyielding silhouette in the heart of the fire, my shadow shielding her from the apocalypse.
When the torrent finally ceased, I was still standing. I was a smoking, blackened figure, my armor fused to my skin, my breath a ragged, painful gasp. But I was alive. And I was smiling.
"My turn," I rasped.
I turned to face the descending Magma Drake, and for the first time, I unleashed my full, terrifying might. I opened the gates of my soul and let loose the gods of my own making.
Ouroboros and Hephaestus.
The Abyssal Shadow and the Infernal Juggernaut materialized on either side of me, their colossal forms dwarfing everything around them. The two S-rank titans, my slaves, my weapons, rose to meet the dragon's charge. The battle for our lives had just begun, and we were already losing.