-SNAP-

A Frost Wyvern slithers into view from behind a tree in front of the two boys, one of many Ssamuell is sure, as the hefty lizard slits its azure eyes and glares at them.

'Oh, it's like, a Gen 9 baby...and we were sitting here stressed!' Mmanuell chuckled, looking up at Essam and pointing a thumb at the apparent Low Rung juvenile with a smirk.

Ssamuell readies himself, 'I wouldn't relax yet, Mmanuell. A juvenile though it may be, that's just a sign we're about to get jumped.'

Mmanuell ponders for a moment and nods, 'Hm, true. Ready when you are, then.' Mmanuell slowly lowers his knife-bearing arm and enters a fighting stance.

Tyrant Spawn such as Frost Wyverns come in "Rungs": Low, Mid, or High, which denote not their age, but their pedigree. They're clones of each other, which get smaller and weaker as they carry on doing so until you go from city-sized behemoths that take dozens of Veteran Mages to take out, to log-sized "snakes with arms" that aren't even much of a match for two children caught unawares.

That being said, Ssamuell isn't sure there's a person alive on Arcerra who would want to fight what could be several dozen thirty-foot wild animals that can fly and shoot *anti*-anti-freeze out of their teeth like venom.

Except maybe Mmanuell...and Kkele...and himself, to be quite honest.

This is a walk in the park and dinner.

The approaching Frost Wyvern bares its transparent, icy-blue fangs and heats its body up, glowing red hot and sizzling the snow upon it's back. It rears up, coiling its serpentine body before lunging at the closer target, Mmanuell, with claws primed and maw agape.

'Ugh, I wish I ate,' Mmanuell rolls his eyes as the snake-like dragon lunges at him like it hasn't eaten in months. Mmanuell barely moves from his current position, merely leaning back a little, as he drives his knife into the underside of the Frost Wyvern's head and instantly bringing it an inch from death.

It extends its skinny, claw-bearing front limbs at Mmanuell in a desperate attempt to even somewhat harm him, but seeing as he's holding the seven-foot long juvenile up with one hand that probably wasn't ever going to happen.

'You think your mum would take this as an apology?' Mmanuell casually glances upwards at Ssamuell as he weaves between the few swipes that actually manage to reach him.

'Yeah, it's a decent size. Kill it properly please, I can smell you wanting to blow the thing to smithereens from here.'

'Heh, you got me. No problemo-' Mmanuell flicks his wrist in a fanciful motion, slitting the Frost Wyvern's neck and stabbing in the back of the head all before it falls to the ground, killing it instantly.

'Ooh, you did that well,' Ssamuell applauds.

'I'm lucky the Low Rung ones have such soft skin. Try that with a Generation Seven I'd dislocate my shoulder-'

SKRAZAZAASH!!!!

A deafening screech shook the snow off all the surrounding trees and sent a horrible frequency recoiling through Ssamuell and Mmanuell's bones.

'Oh for fuck's sake...' Mmanuell annoyedly glances downwards in realisation.

That...was the noise a Frost Wyvern makes when its about to "crash out": it's just gone and alerted every other wyvern in a mile radius to kill everything they see. Including them.

'Nigga...did you miss its vocal chord?' Ssamuell lowers Nimbus down to Mmanuell's height and grips his shoulder, who flips his hands upwards in response.

'I guess I did. Sue me...Yeah, this ain't good,' Mmanuell exhales through his teeth and smiles as he vapidly stares into the bloodied snow.

Knowing him, he's already lost his mind to a ridiculously long chain of conclusions and assumptions...with no immediate solutions.

Yeah "ain't good" you're damn right! It has to be a talent, how someone as smart as Mmanuell can blank out and turn useless the second something even slightly deviates from what he envisions.

Time for Ssamuell to step in and do the thinking for the both of them. There's probably a few dozen similar generation Frost Wyverns on the way, but in a heavily forested area they're at a severe disadvantage. They need to get out of here, and only one suitable location comes to mind. But before that...

If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

'Oh, be QUIET!'

Ssamuell crashes Nimbus down onto the still-wailing Frost Wyvern so forcefully it crushes half of its body into pulp, shutting it up for good at the cost of absolutely ruining the carcass. 'Aw, that one was all flesh. There goes dinner,' Ssamuell muttered, 'Alright, let's get outta here.'

Ssamuell scoops Mmanuell up into Nimbus, expanding it a little to fit them both, then takes off as fast as he can in the direction of the largest clearing in the glades, where Kkele should be-

'Kkele!!!' Mmanuell gasps. 'I mean- sure, she can fight, but she's no Dreacon. We need to find her, NOW!'

Oh, he snapped out of that faster than I thought. Wonderful. Despite the wind roaring into his ears and the cover of the forestry whizzing past, Ssamuell spies must have been twenty...maybe thirty Frost Wyverns around the same size as the pallbearer they dealt with a few minutes ago. The swarm effortlessly matched Ssamuell's speed as they weaved through trees and over snowy boulders like blue streams of carnivorous, warm-blooded death, eyes fixated on the two of them.

'I'm already on it, Mmanuell. Do I have you back now?'

Mmanuell nods.

'Okay wonderful. Your ten o'clock, please,' Ssamuell points at some of the confident-feeling Frost Wyverns that have began to close in on the pair of black kids riding atop, what must look like to them, a giant flying Snow Poff.

Mmanuell sticks an arm out of the magical vehicle and uproots a young tree they whizzed over, using it to smack away the half dozen wyverns that all leaped at the him at the same time. Communicative chirping and clicking transformed into pained, ireful roars that shrank into the glades behind them as Mmanuell cheerfully doled out baseball swings and a couple of semi-serious punches, knocking the wyverns into the passing trees at speeds that have to be at least semi-lethal.

Ssamuell on the other hand, spends the next five minutes trying not to pass out from a Mind Crush; it's hard work trying to carry two people at once, use two different masses of Magic at the same time, AND fly with any sort of agency, but nonetheless Ssamuell stays at it.

Using his Steam Magic chains to swat tree branches out the way and fling Wyverns that jump too close into Mmanuell's range, the duo reach the center of Oldport Glades: a large clearing with flat snow and no trees. Ideal for fighting dragons like Frost Wyverns, who love to fight in packs and try to swarm you.

'Finally!' Ssamuell huffs and flings his Steam Chains to the ground, 'Alright, Mmanuell, get out. I'm this close to a Mind Crush, let's see if Kkele isn't already here'

Mmanuell squeezes out of the pseudo-solid Steam orb and covers his eyes, 'Hold on man, I can't see, the snow's bright after being in the shade for so long'

'Not wrong there. Also drop that wyvern already! Poor thing didn't last a few seconds after you started using it instead of that tree you picked up.'

'Huh? Oh, ew, yeah. We gotta go back and clean up by the way. Kkele would kill us if she saw what we did to all those bastar- OH MY LORDY LORD.'

Granted their eyes needed time to adjust, but it's a surprise Ssamuell and Mmanuell didn't immediately notice what lay before them. Maybe it would have been nice to be blind for a little while longer.

What Ssamuell thought was a glade set with fresh snow was in fact the pristine white and blue scales of Frost Wyverns...large enough in number to cover the entire ground.

The whole clearing.

A one-hundred-meter-diameter perfect circle.

TEEMING with Frost Wyverns.

Mmanuell's exclamation caught the attention of every single one.

Silence pierces the air as the swarm of dragons turn to face the boys, who awkwardly kick away the Frost Wyvern corpse they were holding (what was left of it after it got split in half, at least).

Mmanuell's jaw drops as he looks at Ssamuell, then back to the swarm, then back at Ssamuell.

'Dude, what the fuck?! What's that? Like, a hundred of them? This is ridiculous- I don't even think we're allowed to kill that many.

Ssamuell dissolves his Steam Magic chains and pushes his glasses up in disbelief, 'Wow. Well, don't think I see any higher than a Generation Eight, at least.'

'I should hope so. Ahem, alright. Give me a larger weapon,' Mmanuell cracks his knuckles and removes all but a single shirt, before patting the exterior of Ssamuell's Nimbus. 'You're gonna have to lock in for a minute.'

'It seems so,' Ssamuell sucks his teeth as he scans the area in front of them. Ninety-six Frost Wyverns, to his count. They're watching the boys, waiting until one of them try to run to make an advance.

Good thing they don't plan on going anywhere.

Ssamuell pulls the dagger he made for Mmanuell out of his hand and dissolves it into Flow. 'Stick your hand out for me'. Mmanuell obliges, and has a clawed glove made of out Ssamuell's signature bronze-shaded Ice Magic fitted onto it.

But he's not done there. A sizeable stream of Flow exits Ssamuell's Afro, which he moulds into the shape of a sword. Most of that Flow congregates at the blade as it Transmutes into Steam Magic, as contrarily dense and weightless as Nimbus.

'How's that?', Ssamuell presents the Steam Magic falchion to Mmanuell, who is shocked at how light it is and spends a few seconds admiring it.

All of that prep took a little while, long enough for one of the closer Frost Wyverns to crawl too close to Mmanuell's leg for his comfort.

'Eesh!' Mmanuell flinched and BARELY swiped at the thing with his new weapon.

It was a clean split.

Halfway down the middle.

Like a cheese string.

'Holy- Sam, how sharp did you make this!?'

Ssamuell, flattered at his own craftsmanship, tilted his head and smiled, 'Hey, you said lock in. On queue, too. I think they're done watching now.'

If "You have alerted the horde" had a dictionary definition, you would see the sight which Ssamuell and Mmanuell beheld. Blinding white shifted to red hot as every Frost Wvyern with the two boys in their line of sight heated up tremendously, melting the snow beneath them and dousing their glass eyes a shade of fiery yellow. They're in for it now. Either going to be mauled alive, or walk out of this with food for half a year.

A hundred-to-two and we're both pretty exhausted?

It's Easy.