At this moment, in the Dead Dragon's eyes, heaven and earth seemed to plunge into—
boundless darkness.
Cold, lifeless, empty.
A pressure of a higher order, far beyond its comprehension, crushed its spirit—as though the entire sky had turned solid and was bearing down upon it.
And in the deepest, farthest reaches of that darkness, something... awakened.
Three pairs of eyes, blazing with golden lightning and as huge as suns, slowly opened.
Their gaze pierced the clouds of the material world like tangible fetters, instantly nailing the Dead Dragon's core—patched together from grudges and Blood Magic—to the spot.
It was not the look of a living thing, but the "gaze" of a calamitous law itself, cold and indifferent to all existence.
"ROAR————————!!!!!!!"
An indescribable roar.
Not the vibration of air, but the sound of space itself being torn and laws trampled—the very essence of existence crying out!
In that roar the Dead Dragon's consciousness flickered like a candle in a hurricane, nearly snuffed out.
It "heard" the creaking of its Blood Magic-sustained carcass, the soul glued from countless wraiths, groaning under the strain of imminent collapse.
Under that solar stare the surging clouds were no longer mere vapour; they boiled and whirled, becoming backdrop and extension of something far more terrible.
A sky-blotting three-headed dragon shadow was fully taking shape beyond the dark void.
Strangely overlapping the tiny human body before it.
To the crushed perception of the Dead Dragon, what stood before it was no silver-haired mortal.
It was a mythic titan whose body vanished into the boundless storm-clouds, whose partial outline alone eclipsed the whole vault of the Blood Abyss!
It could not see the necks and heads of that three-headed shadow piercing the clouds like pillars that propped up the sky.
It could only "feel" the appalling mass pressing down as though the heavens themselves had collapsed.
In its warped senses the projection of a single scale was an inverted, moving mountain.
One of the heads slowly, almost gracefully yet lethally, eased out of the dense, un dispersable clouds.
The wind-pressure of that simple motion was already hurricane-strong, whipping the last remnants of the Blood Lake into towering crimson waves.
That head was island-huge; every edge sharp enough to slice space, dark-golden exoskeleton wrapping unspeakable power.
It did not strike at once; it merely tilted its head, vertical pupils blazing with golden lightning casting a disdainful downward glance.
No anger, no hatred, not even targeted killing intent—
only the pure disregard born of an absolute gulf in the hierarchy of life, like a man idly noticing an insect chirping at his feet.
Under that dismissive glance the fragile Blood Magic structure—crafted at the cost of Torregar's life and the blood of myriad beings to haul the Dead Dragon back from eternal silence—emitted a final, crisp crack.
Crack—
like glazed porcelain hitting the floor.
The last thread of false "life" that held it together, the blasphemous power that fused a multitude of souls and defied the law of death,
before the gaze of a being above all laws melted like snow meeting its bane, gone in an instant.
"Uhh..."
A faint whimper—terror, bewilderment and release—escaped from the deepest part of the Dead Dragon's consciousness.
Then it burst apart.
Not burning, not corroding, but silent annihilation... Henry tore free from that brief yet eternal, soul-freezing oppression, mind blank, left only with instinctive breath and a thundering heart.
He blinked the cold sweat and dust from his eyes; his vision cleared.
And he saw a contrast that would haunt him for life:
The silver-haired youth, before a titanic, fearsome Dead Dragon, was as small as an ant.
Yet that ant-sized figure simply pressed the tip of his eerily flaming sword downward—a casual, almost off-hand motion.
A simple, leisurely action, tinged with nonchalance.
Then came the sight that made Henry's pupils shrink: the terrifying Dead Dragon whose breath had obliterated Corleone moments ago seemed crushed by an invisible mountain.
Its colossal frame stiffened; it loosed a short, shrill, unliving shriek of ultimate dread and defiance.
Its hideous head slammed onto the dry lakebed in a thunderous kowtow, raising clouds of dust!
"..." Henry's mouth gaped; no sound emerged.
The scene was too overwhelming: an ant-sized being, with a casual flick, made a monster bow.
Such absolute, crushing power surpassed what his mind could process.
His gaze locked on the burning sword in Aegon's hand—blue and dark-red flames entwined.
At that moment an old legend from across the Narrow Sea, from his homeland, flooded his mind like ice-water. Trembling, he murmured:
"The prince that was promised shall be reborn amid smoke and salt... bearing a burning sword and waking dragons out of stone..."
The words slipped out; even he froze. Smoke and salt? This scorched ground where the Blood Lake steamed with reeking vapour of blood and smoke—wasn't that it? That sword... the very sword blazing in Aegon's hand... The realisation struck him like lightning.
The Dead Dragon's collapse entered its final stage.
Its huge body of rot and undead energy did not explode or burn;
from within it glowed a sickly ashen light, then, like a weathered sand-castle or a punctured sack of ash, it began to crumble and disintegrate from the bowed head downward into fine black dust.
A cold, sourceless wind swept the dust—bearing countless grudges—into the dim daylight, leaving no trace.
A world-ending threat one heartbeat ago, gone the next.
As the Dead Dragon vanished entirely, the ominous red comet in the sky silently streaked across the firmament and disappeared.
Pale, wan light again fell upon the scarred ruins.
Silence.
Deeper silence than before. Only the breeze stirred the black ash the dragon had become, whispering over scorched earth.
Aegon slowly lowered the crimson sword.
The ghost-blue flames on its blade died out.
The sword reverted to common steel, still dark-red from residual heat.
He turned. Silver hair fluttered in the faint wind; blood and soot blurred his features in the dim light.
His violet eyes regained their usual calm depth, though something inexpressible now lurked within.
He looked at Henry, Carl, and the other survivors still sprawled on the ground, stunned, souls adrift. His gaze swept calmly over them.
Then he spoke, voice soft yet reaching every ear:
"It's over."
After a pause he added, tone flat, as if remarking on something trivial:
"Time to leave."
Without another glance he turned away, the still-glowing sword in hand, and walked toward the broken, scorched road leading out of the ruins.
Step by step.
Steadily.
Onward.
Behind him, Henry stared at that back cloaked in mystery and terrifying power.
Recalling the miracle he had witnessed and the legend echoing in his mind, he at last whispered in trembling awe:
"Hain... brother... what... are you..."
Aegon's step faltered, almost imperceptibly.
But only for an instant.
He did not look back.
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