Goan lay sprawled on the floor, blood smeared across his face, but his laughter rang out cruelly, echoing through the chamber. "For the first time," he rasped, "I agree with you, Kho. You are no son of mine. You are a curse, a shame upon my bloodline."

He rose to his feet, towering over Kho, his massive frame radiating menace. Goan’s hands gripped his weapon—a brutal, iron-studded mace almost as large as Kho himself. His eyes gleamed with malice as he continued, "But today, I’ll finally rid myself of you. The timing couldn’t be more perfect. My brother, the so-called emperor, has lost his generals. He’s weak, ripe for conquest. And you? You’ve come to die, offering me the honor of delivering the final blow."

Goan raised his mace and sneered. "Once you’re gone, I’ll march on Rogg, take his throne, and rule Oosa as it should be ruled. Consider your death my coronation gift, boy."

Kho didn’t flinch. His face remained stoic, his eyes cold. "The dead don’t become emperors," he said flatly, drawing his claymore. "Follow me, or are you too afraid to fight?"

Goan roared with laughter but wasted no time. He charged at Kho, swinging his mace with murderous intent. Kho, however, darted away, his smaller frame allowing him to outmaneuver the lumbering giant. He didn’t counterattack—he simply ran, weaving through the corridors of the palace, leading Goan toward a familiar destination: his chamber.

This room, where Kho had spent countless years training, was steeped in memories. Dule, his human servant, had been more than a mentor—he’d been Kho’s closest friend, his true father in every way that mattered. Kho had trained tirelessly here, sweating and bleeding to earn a shred of recognition from Goan. But today, he returned not for approval, but for vengeance.

Kho reached the chamber and positioned himself in the corner, his breathing steady. When Goan stormed in, his mace raised high, the giant’s rage blinded him to Kho’s intentions. With a deafening roar, Goan swung at Kho, but the massive weapon collided with the stone wall, shattering it into rubble. The blow left Goan momentarily off-balance, and Kho seized the opportunity.

Dashing forward, he slashed at Goan’s torso, his claymore biting through flesh. Blood sprayed across the chamber, but Goan’s armor absorbed most of the blow. The wound wasn’t fatal, but it enraged him further.

"You coward!" Goan spat, staggering back. "You rely on tricks and shadows!"

Kho’s voice was calm, almost detached. "It’s called strategy. Something I learned from Dule—a real warrior, and the only father I’ve ever known."

Goan’s face twisted in fury, and he lunged again, his attacks growing more erratic with each swing. Kho moved with precision, dodging and countering, but the giant’s raw strength eventually found its mark. The mace struck Kho square in the side, the force of the blow throwing him across the room. Blood spilled from his lips as he staggered to his feet, his vision swimming.

Goan laughed triumphantly, but his mirth was short-lived. Kho was still standing.

"How?" Goan demanded. "You should be dead!"

Kho wiped the blood from his mouth and raised his claymore. "Rakioho," he said, gesturing to the ring on his finger. "A great dwarf gave me this. It’s a Magister, and it shields me from death—at least for now."

Goan’s confidence wavered, and he began to back away, his mace trembling in his hand. Sensing his fear, Kho pressed forward. "What’s wrong, Goan? Running away? I thought you were a warrior."

With a swift, precise strike, Kho severed Goan’s arm. The giant screamed, clutching the bleeding stump as he fell to his knees. Panic consumed him, and he turned to flee, but Kho was relentless.

"You’re a coward," Kho said, his voice ice-cold. He swung again, this time severing Goan’s left leg. The giant collapsed, his blood pooling around him as he writhed in agony.

Kho stood over him, his claymore poised for the final blow. "Your dreams of becoming emperor are over," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "This is for Dule—for the father you took from me."

Goan managed one last word through the blood bubbling in his throat. "Curse..."

With a single, decisive strike, Kho decapitated him. Goan’s head hit the ground with a heavy thud, and the chamber fell silent save for the steady drip of blood.

Kho stood motionless, his claymore still in his hand. He stared at the lifeless body of the monster he had spent his life trying to please. The memories of his years of training flooded back—every moment spent striving for approval, every harsh word, every ounce of pain. It was all meaningless now. Dule had been the only one who truly believed in him, and he was gone.

Kho sank to his knees, his head bowed. "I’m sorry, Dule," he whispered. "I’m sorry, Kai. Yholm. All of you who died for these vile giants... I failed you all."

He stared at the blood-stained floor, his voice trembling with despair. "I’ll join you soon. I promise."

For a long moment, he didn’t move, his body weighed down by the crushing guilt and grief. This was his victory, but it felt like nothing more than another hollow loss.

The battlefield in the heart of the Dwarf Kingdom was a storm of chaos and fire. Drasko and his dragons unleashed their fury upon Stolas, the Demon King, determined to end his reign of terror. Yet Stolas’s grotesque, serpentine tongue moved in a deadly arc, slicing through the ranks of dragons who dared to come too close. Blood and scales scattered as the infernal appendage cut through even their mighty defenses.

Drasko roared with rage, his powerful tail lashing out. The blow connected with tremendous force, sending Stolas reeling backward. But the Demon King, instead of toppling, unfurled his tattered wings and launched himself into the air. His laughter echoed through the battlefield, a chilling sound that filled the hearts of his enemies with dread.

With an earth-shaking roar, Drasko retaliated. He opened his maw, and a beam of brilliant white fire erupted forth, a concentrated blast that seared the air. The other dragons joined their king, unleashing a torrent of flames that lit up the sky like a blazing inferno.

But Stolas was not so easily overwhelmed. Using his cursed foresight, he twisted and dodged the attacks with unnatural precision. His movements were almost a mockery of the dragons’ might, as he evaded their combined assault with an elegance born of dark power.

In a flash, Stolas surged behind Drasko, his claws latching onto the White Dragon’s tail. With monstrous strength, he began to spin, faster and faster, the sheer force generating a whirling vortex of wind and debris. The tornado tore through the battlefield, uprooting what remained of the kingdom’s ancient structures. With a final heave, Stolas hurled Drasko like a missile.

The White Dragon’s immense form smashed into a building, reducing it to rubble. Before Drasko could recover, Stolas unfurled his wings, feathers glinting with a dark, venomous sheen. With a wicked grin, the Demon King launched a flurry of feathers aimed at a single point: Drasko’s right wing.

The feathers struck true, piercing through scales and sinew with merciless precision. Drasko roared in agony as his wing faltered, rendering him unable to take flight. But even as he fell to the ground, his golden eyes burned with determination. Gathering his strength, he unleashed another beam of white fire, this time aimed directly at Stolas’s face.

The beam struck its mark, obliterating Stolas’s right eye. The Demon King howled, black ichor pouring from the wound as he stumbled backward. Despite the searing pain, his laughter resumed, a maddening cacophony that echoed across the battlefield.

The other dragons, seeing their king wounded, surged forward to assist him. But before they could act, a distant roar and the glow of flames reached their ears. Turning their heads, they saw smoke rising far away—their homeland was under attack.

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Drasko gritted his teeth, his voice a commanding growl. “Leave! Protect our land. Destroy those who dare invade it!”

The dragons hesitated, their loyalty pulling them in two directions. Stolas, sensing their doubt, laughed mockingly. “You send them away? Do you really believe you can face me alone?”

Drasko’s glare was unyielding. “I don’t need help to end you, abomination.”

Reluctantly, the dragons obeyed their king’s orders, taking to the skies. Their massive forms disappeared into the distance, leaving Drasko alone with his foe.

Stolas smirked. “Such arrogance,” he sneered, taking a step forward.

Drasko did not reply. Instead, he leapt with the strength of a thunderclap, his jaws clamping down on Stolas’s shoulder. The Demon King screamed as white fire erupted from Drasko’s mouth, engulfing him in a blazing inferno.

The flames seared through Stolas’s flesh, his tattered form writhing in agony. But even in his pain, the Demon King struck back. His massive beak came down with the force of a hammer, shattering several of Drasko’s teeth. The White Dragon roared and released his grip, blood pouring from his injured jaw.

Both combatants staggered, their colossal forms battered and bleeding. The air between them crackled with tension, their wounds a testament to the ferocity of their battle. Yet neither would yield. The fight was far from over, and the fate of their kingdoms hung precariously in the balance.

As the dark forest crackled with Malphas’s infernal flames, the returning dragons descended upon their homeland with a fury that turned the skies alight. Their roars shattered the night, an unrelenting chorus of rage and anguish. The forest's once-vivid greenery was reduced to blackened husks, a testament to the demon's destruction.

But the dragons were not defeated—far from it. As soon as they landed, the flames began to diminish under their efforts. Mighty wings fanned the fires into submission, while others unleashed torrents of freezing mist or channeled their magic to restore the forest’s vitality. Even in the face of ruin, the Draconic Empire refused to surrender its sacred ground.

High above, the leaders of the flight spotted Malphas’s fleeing shadow. The demon moved erratically, weaving through the charred remains of the trees, his form slipping between dimensions as he attempted to mask his trail. Yet the dragons’ keen senses saw through his deceit.

“There!” one of them bellowed, a scarlet-scaled giant whose tail snapped through the trees as he soared after the demon.

The chase was relentless. Malphas’s powers, formidable as they were, could not outmatch the combined strength and speed of the enraged dragons. He turned once, lashing out with a torrent of black fire that engulfed one of his pursuers. But the flames were met with a dragon’s roar, and the victim emerged from the inferno, wounded but alive.

The demon snarled, his pride bruised as he launched himself into an ambush. A massive green dragon collided with him mid-air, the force sending both crashing into the burning forest below. The ground shook as they landed, claws and fangs tearing into Malphas’s shadowy form.

“You think you can hunt me?” Malphas roared, slashing with taloned hands that glowed with abyssal energy. “I am a general of the abyss! You will all—”

Before he could finish, a blast of fiery breath struck him from above, scorching his back and eliciting a guttural scream of pain.

Despite the agony, Malphas pressed on, refusing to fall so easily. He threw the green dragon aside and leapt into the air, his wings of shadow beating furiously to escape. He managed to slay another dragon in a vicious, frenzied attack, tearing through scales and crushing bone. But for every dragon he struck down, two more closed in on him.

Soon, the weight of their numbers overwhelmed him. One dragon’s jaws clamped around his left arm, ripping it free, while another hurled him to the ground with a swipe of its tail. Malphas clawed at the earth, his body broken and bleeding. Yet his expression was not one of despair but triumph.

“Yes… Come to me,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice dripping with venom. “You’ve played your part. The King’s work is done.”

Above him, the dragons formed a circle, their breaths glowing with primal energy. The sky lit up as they unleashed their fury, torrents of fire and light converging upon the demon in an apocalyptic blaze.

Malphas roared one last time, his defiance echoing through the forest, before his form was consumed in the infernal storm. When the flames subsided, nothing remained but ash.

High above, the dragon who had slain Malphas looked down at the smoldering remains, its voice a growl of satisfaction. “Let this be the fate of all who dare to desecrate our lands.”

The dragons stood for a moment in solemn silence, the loss of their kin weighing heavily on their hearts. But they knew this victory came at a price. Though Malphas was no more, his true goal had been accomplished: their strongest warriors had been drawn away from the Dwarf Kingdom.

As they turned their gaze to the horizon, the dragons prepared themselves for what lay ahead. For they knew that even in his defeat, the Demon King’s war was far from over.

The battle in the Dwarf Kingdom raged on with unrelenting fury. The land trembled beneath the forces of Drasko and Stolas, two titans locked in a battle that seemed to shake the very foundation of the world. They fought with a desperation born of years of hatred, each move an attempt to assert dominance, each strike an embodiment of their immense power.

Drasko, the white dragon, moved like a storm incarnate. His claws slashed through the air, carving arcs of destruction, and his wings beat with the power of thunder. Stolas, the demon king, dodged with terrifying agility, his dark form a blur of shadow. His every movement was calculated, poised to strike, and his twisted tongue lashed out with precision, seeking to pierce the dragon’s defenses.

In one moment of brilliance, Stolas found his opening. His tongue shot forward like a serpent, striking Drasko's chest with horrifying accuracy. The white dragon roared in pain as the demon's tongue pierced deep, sinking into his heart. Blood poured from Drasko’s mouth, staining the battlefield red. It seemed as though the great dragon had been struck down, but what Stolas didn’t know was that Drasko had been waiting for this exact moment.

With a surge of strength, Drasko’s claw shot out, trapping Stolas in place before the demon could withdraw. The white dragon’s eyes glowed with fierce determination as he unleashed a powerful blast of white-hot fire from his mouth, a laser of pure energy that surged toward Stolas. The inferno engulfed the demon king, scorching his body. Stolas howled in agony as his form was consumed by the flames. The air grew thick with the stench of burning flesh, yet Stolas refused to yield.

But Stolas was no ordinary demon.

With a twisted grin on his face, Stolas did the unthinkable. His tongue, still embedded in Drasko’s heart, extended further—transforming into a long, deadly lance. With a sudden thrust, it pierced Drasko’s neck, the force of the strike sending the mighty dragon crashing to the ground. Drasko’s head and body hit the floor with a sickening thud, his blood mingling with the earth.

For a brief moment, the battlefield was silent. The two combatants lay still, the outcome uncertain. But then, the ground trembled again as Drasko’s massive form stirred.

The white dragon was not dead.

He was preparing for his final assault.

Despite the grievous wounds, Drasko’s immense power surged once more. His tail, long and muscular, lashed out with incredible speed, pushing his broken body forward. He used his legs to push again, a final, desperate rush toward his foe. His claws—now stained with the blood of both himself and his enemies—extended like jagged knives, and he struck Stolas with the force of a thousand storms.

The impact was devastating.

Drasko tore through Stolas’s torso, ripping apart his arms, his wings, and his very essence. The demon king roared in fury and pain, but Drasko was relentless. Stolas’s body was shattered, yet he refused to fall.

In a final act of desperation, Stolas flared his left wing, its feathers shimmering with dark magic. He launched them like arrows, sending them straight at Drasko with the precision of a master archer. The razor-sharp feathers pierced Drasko’s eyes, his wings, his limbs—every strike finding its mark. Drasko staggered back, blood pouring from the wounds, but he did not fall.

With a growl of fury, Drasko spun around, his tail sweeping with deadly accuracy. In one final, bone-crushing swing, he almost decapitated Stolas. The demon king’s head hung by a thread, yet his body continued to writhe, the beak of his twisted form piercing Drasko’s left leg in one last, futile attempt to stop him.

Drasko’s leg tore, but he did not relent.

The battle had gone on for far too long.

With one final, all-consuming leap, Drasko hurled himself at Stolas. His head, now a gory mess, nearly detached as he collided with the demon. With his claws—dripping with blood and power—he raked through Stolas’s body, crushing bones and tearing apart flesh.

Then, in a move of devastating finality, Drasko unleashed his ultimate weapon. His mouth opened wide, and a blinding burst of white laser fire erupted from his throat, hitting Stolas directly in the face. The demon’s skull shattered under the intensity of the attack, it exploded in a violent, catastrophic eruption of dark magic and blood.

When the smoke cleared, there was nothing left of the demon king skull but a charred, smoking ruin. Stolas’s face had been reduced to ash, scattered by the fury of Drasko’s last attack.

The battlefield grew quiet, the echoes of their fierce clash fading into the winds. Drasko’s body stood as a towering, broken monument amidst the destruction. Blood flowed freely from countless wounds, painting the earth beneath him.

Stolas face was gone, his body lifeless. The Demon King, the scourge of Arche, had been defeated. Drasko’s task was complete. The dragons’ dominion remained unbroken, their lands secured from any who would dare challenge them.

But the cost had been steep. Drasko’s immense form trembled, his legs barely able to support his weight. Slowly, as if the very ground pulled him down, he collapsed. His breath came in ragged bursts, his strength utterly spent.

There was no fear or regret in Drasko’s heart—only the quiet acceptance of his condition. He had fulfilled his duty. With his massive frame crumpled upon the scorched earth, his eyes dimmed, and his breaths slowed until they became imperceptible.

To any observer, it would appear the mighty dragon king had fallen, his life extinguished in the heat of battle. But Drasko did not die. He slipped into a deep, profound slumber—a rest that no force in Arche could disturb.

The land was still. The fire of his victory burned silently in the hearts of the dragons who would carry his legacy forward. The Draconic Empire was secure, and the shadow of the abyss had been cast out. For now, Arche belonged to the dragons once more.

Drasko’s body remained motionless, a titan at rest, and the world, none the wiser, continued to turn.