The drake had no idea what exactly had happened.
All it knew was that a searing agony had exploded across its back, as if a chunk of flesh had been carved out—some alien energy clinging to the wound, burning its powerful body.
ROAR!!!
It spun out like an autumn leaf in a gale, tail lashing wildly at the spot on its spine—trying to swat the rider loose.
Gauss chewed the last mouthful and looked satisfied. Dragonflesh, indeed. The richest fuel he'd ever tasted; even ground mana crystal didn't compare for raw, brutal simplicity. But this isn't a flavor for everyone—swallowing a mouthful was like gulping molten rock; savage, unruly power flooded every limb in an instant. Anyone else would likely ignite—literally.
Right now, though, his body was stacked in an abnormal, overclocked state—hungry for energy to stabilize it. The bite had put out a fire and steadied the frame.
The snap of a tail-whip tore at his ears. He didn't look; it was as if he had eyes behind his head—he saw the arc in his mind.
His reaction was pure instinct. He stamped hard on the drake's back and surged forward a span—then threw up a hand glowing with pale energy.
"Magic Missile!"
A pale-blue sphere condensed in his palm and ballooned, gulping mana. It wasn't the old spell anymore—no longer a simple blue dart, but drenched in cold-white energy—like a burning, ghost-blue wisp—larger than normal, its compressed power warping the air, threatening to detonate if he held it any longer.
One bolt drank a lot; mana kept pouring in. The fresh dragonflesh burning in his gut barely kept the ledger balanced.
He flicked a glance at its state. This energy needed out now.
His energy-wings flared full—dragon-wide, dwarfing his body. First time or not, instinct taught quickly.
Whssht!
The wings beat; he peeled off the spine and leveled out alongside the drake. The overcharged missile in his hand thickened, the aura hardening to a piercing intent—his strongest single-target kill, rebuilt in the crucible of Ghoul Form and Ironscale. A humble Level 1 Spell, reforged into something else entirely—cold rot and dragon rending braided together.
Below, the drake, thinking it had flung him free, felt pressure spike off its flank. It twisted its head—and stared. The "bug" had become a small dragon-shadow—and the blue light in his hand screamed danger.
Instinct shrieked. It clawed for speed, forcing burnt wing and torn back to drive harder—trying to outrun the threat. It couldn't shake him. No matter how it climbed or sprinted, he hung at its shoulder—a haunting.
Then he moved. The new missile hit peak.
He extended his right hand, blue scales bright. "First lesson of true dragons: master magic."
KOOOM—
With a roar like a dragon's, the ghost-flame stretched—shaped—from a burning sphere into a hair-thin lance, pale and blue spiraled tight together. A spear of will—unstoppable, absolute—thrust for the great body.
Time paused.
Every fiber in the drake screamed and locked; instinct demanded a dodge—but against a light-spear, everything was too slow.
"Pff—"
No thunderclap—just a clean, soul-cutting sound. The beam punched through the right wing, snapping the tough membrane like paper, bit into the wing-root, cored steel-hard muscle and ribs, burned through the chest, and lanced out the left side—pinning both wings and body in one shot.
ROAR!!!
Down below, kobolds clashed with the rest of the party—until, all at once, they felt something and froze, heads tilting skyward.
In broad daylight a blue comet had drawn a line across the vault of the sky. Their "king"—that grand crimson shadow—was run through by a needle of light, as if a god had hurled a sword and nailed a dragon to the heavens.
KRA-THOOM!!
The drake's wings and torso pierced, every motion stalled. The hit came too fast. Power left it in a rush; its wings drooped; gravity took the mass. It fell like a meteoroid into the sand.
"The king… the king is fallen!" a shaman croaked, staff clattering to the ground. Panic rippled through the ranks—eyes fixed upward, minds blank. Gauss hadn't just felled a drake; he'd shattered a god in their heads.
Some weaker kobolds dropped to their knees.
RUMBLE—!
The drake hit like a meteor. The earth shivered; a wall of dust surged like a tide. Not far off, the party ducked and waved grit away.
"Cough—"
Shock still sat in their eyes—the image of the dragon falling burned in. They would see that again, years from now, as sharp as today.
Out on the field, the fight rolled on. Gauss cut a white streak and landed squarely on the drake's body. To their surprise, even with a hole from chest to back and a fall from the sky, the drake wasn't dead.
It clawed to its feet in a crater, swaying; most of its scales were split, meat a map of ragged wounds, dark blood soaking the sand. The light-lance hole was worst—front to back, edges still eroding—ribs and organs visible through the gap. And still it lived—and aside from the core wound, the fall's damage was already knitting.
Dragon bodies. Hard to kill.
But when it felt Gauss's boots on its spine again, it shuddered. Pain teaches best. The spear had smashed its pride. It thought like a ruined heiress—once-proud red scales now crisscrossed with breaks. This human wasn't a bug—he was a killer. Fear poured through it like cold water—quenching rage in an instant.
It twisted its neck. The human stood on its back, golden slit eyes like burning brands—and judging.
"Rr…!"
The roar was no longer defiant—a hoarse, almost pleading whine. Dragon pride means nothing before death; and a drake can accept bending to a stronger kin—for a time. Bow, wait for a chance…
Gauss acted like he saw none of it. The "lance" had drained him nearly dry; weakness lapped at his edges. He knew a drake's submission was just math and fear. The instant it sensed his state, that pride would explode back in a lash.
He had to keep the hammer overhead.
He dragged in a breath, refused to drop Ghoul Form and Ironscale. Golden eyes flared hotter, pinning the drake. He bent; his blue-scaled hand became a blade.
Sssk!
He drove his arm into the scales.
ROAR!!!
The drake screamed. He ignored it—fingers found hot meat and tore—ripping a red hunk free and biting down.
[Special Stomach] could break down what others couldn't; too much carried a price—but that was later. He chewed; heat spread; strength filled back in—yet nowhere near enough to fire another lance. Not yet.
ROAR!! It thrashed. He finished the bite and felt power steady. This state ate fuel too fast; a dragon was a handy supply. What came after, he'd pay later.
Whump! His forearm twisted again into a dragon's claw and stabbed down. The drake convulsed—anger flaring as beast-blood overrode fear. It had bowed—and still he beat it. Dragons have blood, too. It opened its maw, a spark glowing in its throat—Gauss flared his wings and flashed to its crown—
THUMP!!!
His coiled fist dropped like a warhammer—smashing the upper jaw down into the sand. The fresh spark died in its throat, exploding harmlessly inside with a painful grunt.
"Second lesson of true dragons—don't surrender so lightly."
Whether it understood or not, it roared at him again.
One punch.
Two.
Three.
He kept hammering—blood flying—stopping to lean down and tear another mouthful of neck meat now and then. Taking from the dragon, to use on the dragon.
…The drake tried—begging, fighting—Gauss's answer never changed: heavy, relentless strikes.
Thud! Thud! Thud! A big body and a small one writhed in the sand—and Gauss had the upper hand. The more it bucked, the harder he hit.
Off to the side, Alia and the others kept cutting down kobolds, but their eyes flicked constantly back to the main fight. Watching Gauss pummel a dragon, she swallowed.
This Gauss… was terrifying.
~~~
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