Chapter 281: The Dragonlord’s Breath, and the Material of Farum Azula
Arthur’s sword beams continued carving through Placidusax’s lightning-forged talons.
The dragonlord, in turn, swung relentlessly, crimson claws tearing through the air.
Man and dragon clashed in a violent exchange.
Then—
As Arthur raised the Dark Moon Greatsword to block another strike—
Both of Placidusax’s heads lowered simultaneously.
And exhaled.
Twin streams of dragon breath erupted toward Arthur.
Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have bothered dodging.
He had long since achieved immunity to conventional dragon breath.
But—
His instincts screamed.
Move.
Without hesitation, Arthur retreated explosively, leaving the breath’s radius.
When the dragon breath dissipated, he looked toward the impact point.
A massive crater had formed.
Fine dust drifted upward from its depths.
Arthur’s pupils narrowed.
The arena floor was not ordinary stone.
Among the legendary weapons he had collected in the Lands Between was the Ruins Greatsword.
Its system description read:
A weapon forged from intact fragments of ruins struck by a falling star.
It carries within it the power of destruction.
The "ruins" referred to Farum Azula itself.
The weapon’s engravings matched the city’s architecture perfectly.
And the material—
Identical to the very platform beneath Arthur’s feet.
If a single fragment of this stone could be forged into a legendary weapon—
Then an entire city built from it must be unimaginably durable.
Until now, even Placidusax’s crimson lightning had failed to leave so much as a scratch.
Only Arthur’s Dark Moon Greatsword had been sharp enough to carve faint marks.
Yet the dragon breath had eroded a massive pit.
Arthur extended his spiritual sense toward the crater.
Understanding dawned.
The dragon breath was infused with time.
Specifically—
It accelerated the target’s lifespan to exhaustion.
Objects caught within it did not burn.
They aged into dust.
The stone had simply reached the end of its allotted existence.
Arthur exhaled slowly.
If he had taken that attack directly—
Even a divine being’s long lifespan might not have saved him.
He might have crumbled to powder.
Then he realized something else.
The aura lingering in the crater—
It was the same scent of decay emanating from Placidusax’s severed necks.
So that was it.
The very force corroding the dragonlord itself—
He had weaponized it.
Arthur couldn’t help but admire it.
Former Elden Lord indeed.
Placidusax advanced again, attempting to capitalize on Arthur’s brief distraction.
But a creature hundreds of meters tall had no concept of subtlety.
Arthur easily evaded the lightning talons.
He leapt upward, reaching the dragonlord’s neck.
The Dark Moon Greatsword rose high.
He aimed to sever one of the remaining heads.
And then—
Placidusax vanished.
Completely.
Arthur landed, scanning the arena—
Only for the dragonlord to reappear behind him in a flash of spatial distortion.
A lightning-wreathed claw descended.
Arthur barely had time to erect a mana barrier.
The blow struck.
He was hurled hundreds of meters—
Crashing into a massive pillar before stopping.
The barrier prevented injury.
But the impact left him momentarily disoriented.
He stood, shaking his head.
"...You’re a thousand-meter dragon and you’re using Bloodhound Step? Seriously?"
It wasn’t Bloodhound Step, of course.
But the instantaneous disappearance and rear-positioning were disturbingly similar.
Enough playing.
Arthur raised the Death Staff.
Time to fight properly.
He slammed the staff into the arena floor.
Black mist erupted outward.
Bone grated against stone.
One by one—
Undead rose from the darkness.
Skeleton warriors.
Corrupted remains.
Even Those Who Live in Death from the Lands Between.
Within moments, an undead army flooded half the colosseum.
The fusion of his two Death Staves had enhanced the summoning dramatically.
More undead.
Greater efficiency.
And access to higher-tier revenants.
Arthur pointed forward.
The legion surged toward Placidusax like a black tide.
The dragonlord unleashed twin breaths again—
Attempting to erode the army.
But something was different.
The undead skeletons glowed red from the heat—
Yet they did not crumble.
They had no lifespan to exhaust.
No future to age away.
For beings already dead—
Time meant nothing.
Only the raw temperature of the breath could damage them.
And that—
Was manageable.
The battlefield shifted.
A stormbound dragonlord.
A sea of death.
And Arthur—
Standing at the center,
Commanding oblivion itself.
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