THUMP! THUMP!! THUMP!!!
The Ferocious Golden Blood Wolf's heartbeat thundered through the clearing, louder with every second, faster and stronger as Draco's blood did its work inside the cocoon.
Demonic Draco glanced at it. "Hmm. The little one will come out soon… which means—"
ROAR!
A horde of ferocious volkoids charged, not at Draco but at the cocoon, at the promise of evolution. Temptation drowned out reason, and even with a stronger volkoid looming nearby they didn't care. This was their chance to ascend.
Fools, Demonic Draco thought, letting out a wild chuckle. "It seems I have to take care of the minions."
He didn't move from where he stood. Confidence flowed through his blood like wine. When the first wave reached him—jaws open, claws extended, hunger in their eyes—he raised a single hand.
"Let's see if you can get through me."
Demonic Originat erupted across his body. Black flames licked his shoulders as his saber whispered from its sheath. He stood before the cocoon like an immovable wall, and the volkoids crashed against him. The demon's massacre began.
His demonic saber appeared in his hand, but the ferocious volkoids were still charging. The only thing on their minds was devouring the cocoon and what was inside. Demonic Draco didn't wait.
He stepped forward—one step, that's all it took—and his saber sang.
The first volkoid reached him with jaws wide and drool flying. Demonic Draco's blade traced a horizontal line, and the creature's head left its shoulders before its body even understood it was dead. It crashed into the dirt, spraying blood across the grass.
The second volkoid fell, then the third, then the fourth. Each died in a single swing, no wasted motion, no second chances. But the horde didn't stop. They just climbed over their dead, claws scratching, howls filling the air.
---
Meanwhile, across the clearing where Draco himself stood, the Dragon Tyrant decided to release all of its strength after realizing how formidable its opponent really was.
It shrank to human size, keeping its speed so it could strike better. Raw mass meant nothing against an enemy who could dance around your feet.
The Tyrant swiped with its claw—a fast, brutal arc that would have torn through steel. But Draco, in his Perfect Slaughter form, was like a machine built only for battle and slaughter, operating on pure instinct.
He stopped the claws with his sword, metal screeching against obsidian. Then, with a quick movement, he slid under the Dragon Tyrant's arm and struck upward.
The Tyrant sensed the danger early because of its reduced size and dodged just enough that the blow only scratched it. A shallow wound opened, then healed in the blink of an eye as if it had never existed. Pure physical strength and weapon against regeneration that mocked injury.
The battle continued in that brutal rhythm—strike, dodge, heal, strike again.
Then the Dragon Tyrant let out a draconic roar that wasn't meant for the ears but for the spirit. It concentrated all of its will into a single pulse that slammed into Draco's soul. His soul took no damage, but the distraction was exactly what the Tyrant wanted.
The real attack came from behind: the tyrant tail, swinging with immense speed, catching Draco square in the chest. He flew across the clearing, crashing through a fallen tree, tumbling across muddy ground, and slamming into a moss-covered boulder that cracked from the impact.
The Dragon Tyrant snorted, letting out some of its frustration as dust and debris swirled. For a moment, it thought the fight was over.
But when the dust cleared, Draco's figure appeared—unharmed.
Unlike before, when he had been like raging thunder, now he seemed like calm thunder waiting for the right moment to strike. His red hair still burned, but his eyes were no longer wild. They were clear, focused, almost peaceful.
Ding!
[Mental synchronization complete. Host has achieved full control of the Perfect Slaughter Ranger Form.]
"Never thought I would be controlled by my killing intent," he chuckled, brushing dirt from his shoulder. "It seems I have to refine myself."
He checked the form he was in, the Perfect Slaughter Form, and felt his body filled with raw power. He realized that before, he could only release seventy percent of his strength because his mind had been clouded by the slaughter instinct. Now he could make use of one hundred percent of his strength without losing himself.
The Dragon Tyrant looked at Draco and felt the shift in his aura. It was calm now—calm in a way that gave off a far more dangerous feeling because there was no opening, no anger to exploit, no frenzy to bait. Just a patient killer waiting for the perfect moment.
On the ridge behind them, Rose stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, still groggy, but she saw Draco's back—blood-soaked, unyielding—and she whispered, "He's still standing."
The Tyrant understood.
The battle was just starting.
---
Meanwhile, in the sky, two beings stood on opposite sides of a burning horizon. Their battle wills clashed against each other like storms meeting at sea.
Phoenix Draco's tricolored wings burned—blue, gold, crimson—each feather trailing embers that refused to die. Across from him, the Ancient Ferocious Thunder Fire Roc spread its storm-cloud-gray wings, lightning crackling between the feathers.
The Roc's eyes locked onto Phoenix Draco. Hunger burned there. "Such a high level of bloodline," it said, almost salivating. "I wonder how much I will evolve if I devour you and that cocoon. I could even return to my ancestral state." It let out a greedy laugh filled with excitement. Today was its day.
Phoenix Draco chuckled. "Aren't you happy too early?"
He attacked. His fist, covered in tricolored flame, shot forward like a meteor.
"Hmph. Playing with fire against me?" The Thunder Fire Roc roared in disdain and struck back with its own claw, wreathed in red flames streaked with crimson lightning.
Fist met claw. Flame met flame.
Then the Roc's eyes widened.
It flew backward, staring at the tricolored flame licking its claw. "What kind of flame is this?" it roared.
Phoenix Draco smiled. "The kind that ends you."
