"Damn it! How long does Novia's Dragon Knight Forbidden Spell last?" James gritted his teeth, eyes glued to the streaks of starlight flashing across the sky.
"Did you think a forbidden spell ends with a single strike? These spells often cause continuous damage," Novia muttered, leaning against the city wall, clearly drained. He rolled his eyes at James's impatience.
---
Azog and his son Polge, sensing the magical storm that came with the spell, had quickly burrowed underground to escape the devastation. As the dust settled, a hand broke through the dirt, followed by Azog's battered form. Gasping for air, he scanned the battlefield, taking in the bodies of his fallen troops.
"Roar!"Azog let out an enraged howl, raising his warhammer into the air, furious at the sight of so much death.
---
"The Dragon Knights vanished ages ago..." Polge, still hidden, stared at the chaotic starlight. Shock lined his face as he processed what was happening. In his mind, Dragon Knights were relics of a past era, long forgotten when dragons retreated to isolation. The very idea that one could appear now seemed impossible.
---
The spell ended, leaving the battlefield in an eerie silence. Sky, still hovering above, swayed, disoriented but refocused on the enemy. With a mighty beat of his wings, the dragon breathed deeply, preparing to release a devastating attack.
"Unforgivable!" Azog, trembling with fury, hefted a massive dragon-hunting crossbow, something normally requiring a team of orcs to operate. With a powerful pull, he loaded the weapon singlehandedly and fired a black arrow straight at Peter Gross and his dragon, Skye.
"Sky! Black arrow!" Peter's voice cut through their psychic link, warning the dragon of the incoming threat.
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With a sharp twist of its tail, Sky veered sharply to the side. The black arrow narrowly missed, its scorching heat searing through the air just inches away. But the danger wasn't over—another black arrow, the one lodged in Skye’s flank, was taking its toll.
"There!" Sky's pupils locked onto Azog, now reloading another arrow. Rage flashed in the dragon's eyes as it prepared to strike back. With a powerful inhalation, fire danced at the dragon’s maw, building for a lethal breath attack.
Azog knew what was coming. He dropped the crossbow and sprinted away, leaping over debris in desperation. Despite his speed, Sky followed, redirecting its flame to chase the orc leader.
But the whistle of another black arrow came—this time aimed at the dragon's flank. Unable to dodge in time, the arrow tore through the membrane of Sky’s right wing, eliciting a pained roar.
Azog grinned savagely. He hadn't even needed the crossbow this time; his sheer strength was enough to hurl the deadly projectile.
---
"What kind of Dragon Knight is that?" Reynold muttered in disbelief, watching Peter struggle with Sky’s injuries.
"Well, the elves don’t have knights, after all. He’s doing the best he can," Lance replied, though even he winced at the awkwardness of Peter’s control over the dragon.
"It’s less like a Dragon Knight and more like a ranger hitching a ride on a dragon’s back," Roland observed thoughtfully. He knew Peter was powerful, but centuries of peace among the star elves had dulled their combat readiness. Without the trial of battle, Peter was more title than tactician.
"Not a knight, not yet. More like a dragon-borne fighter," Ladir, the mage, concluded, dismissing the last of his defensive spells with a sigh.
"The path of a pioneer is always tough," Priestess Ivy remarked, gripping her scepter tightly. She recognized that Peter was on a path similar to her own—a path of forging a new way forward in the ancient art of dragon mastery.
"They’re retreating," Lance noted, watching the orc forces scatter in the distance. The once-disciplined ranks of half-orcs had been thrown into chaos, their formations shattered by dragon fire and forbidden spells.
"They’ve lost their command structure," Reynold said, surveying the battlefield. Orcs were fleeing in all directions, unable to regroup under the relentless onslaught. The time to strike had arrived.
"It’s time to end this madness," Lance said, his hand tightening around his carbine.
Roland’s gaze swept over the crumbling orc forces, his eyes cold. "Assemble my army. Let’s finish this."
Reynold spurred his horse into motion, his lance held high. " Knights, assemble!" The flag of the red-backed gold dragon flew high in the wind.
"The Rapids Legion, assemble!" Lance called, hoisting the blue-striped banner of his legion.
Roland noticed the distinct battle flag. "The Grip of Rapid Flow?" he mused. It was a powerful war artifact, boosting the speed and morale of the Rapid Stream infantry. He nodded in approval—it would be crucial in what came next.
With the blast of a war horn, Roland's forces appeared on the horizon, the glint of their armor catching the light as they advanced.
"In the name of Rapid Stream! Charge! For His Highness, for our homes, and for our allies!" Lance shouted, leading his infantry forward. In perfect synchronization, five phalanxes of 300 infantry surged across the battlefield, forming a wall of spears as they advanced.
"Let the orcs tremble! The Rapid Stream infantry is back!" Roland bellowed, his voice carrying over the field.
As they charged, Roland's army was ready to deliver the final blow, bringing the chaos of the battlefield to a decisive end.