Chapter 277
Felling a Dragon (IV)
The history of a species is long-- remarkably long. Then there are different forms of histories, one of their evolutionary path, the other of their survival, or perhaps even their domination. Forests are felled to usher in the inked histories of many-a-predator, to sketch out their path of domination and their indomitable will to stand tall. However, those histories still, all the same, appear lame in comparison to the one that dominates them all-- after all, only select few species are gifted with remarkable intellect from every early on in their evolutionary chain, affording them the opportunity to record their ascent.
And among those few that have such remarkable gifts, only one had ever gone out of its way to ink every step of its climb into the writs and spread them far and out, like ball invitations-- Dragons. What made the winged species so remarkable beyond the name was that they were one of the select six species that evolved to such a powerful degree entirely independently from the Trials and Crucibles. In fact, by the time the Trials reached their little corners of the universe, it was all pointless; Dragons burned them as though they burned wood-laden forests.
The magnificent beasts wrote a different writ, a different chapter, in the cosmic eulogies. They became one of the few that were able to survive without bending a knee to the Divines. For Cycles on end, wars prevailed. In the midst of those wars, cosmos began to understand the sheer inevitability of the Dragons, some of whom seemed to break the wholly-accepted parameters of reality through their sheer size and power.
However... they were not immortal. Evolution, come as high as it may, is never all-giving; at the expense of their remarkable power, Dragons were notoriously almost always within the scope of extinction. In fact, most scholars agree that their numbers never broke the ten thousand threshold, usually seen as ‘hitting the critical mass’, so to say, whereupon the species numbers are expected to explode exponentially.
Main reason for it is that two out of every three male Dragons were born infertile and the next-in-line reason was that the female Dragons could only give birth to two-- three at the risk of their own lives-- Dragons. However, unlike most species, pregnancies lasted for nearly a century, and chances of still birth were far greater. That wasn’t to mention that the amount of nutrition that the female Dragon required during the pregnancy nearly quadrupled from the norm and that during the last trimester of the pregnancy, they were, for all intents and purposes, cripples incapable of taking care of themselves.
By all accounts, it was a miracle that the Dragon species ever managed to survive for as long as it did. The only reason it did, however, was that it was the apex predator-- unmatched, far and wide. Even still, their numbers were never steady and certain, and they came within inches of extinction line innumerable times... until they finally crossed the threshold, two Cycles ago.
During the ‘Sixth Epoch of Wars’, the number of Dragons dipped into two digits, most of whom were too old or too wounded to reproduce. Their fate, at that moment, was sealed. They’d die out, someday soon. The same behemoths that had shaken the cosmic virtues slowly began retreating; Vak’ash the Terrible, a Dragon whose single eye was the size of a planet, was the first to retreat into the deep reaches of the cosmos, uttering he would live out the last of his days away from conflict.
Soon after, other legends, some of whom have been fighting the endless wars for hundreds of Cycles, also vanished-- At the Hungering, Fe’khta the Undying, Syt the Exalted, Fael the Colossal... their, and others’, dispersal signaled the last breath. Those few stubborn, prideful Dragons who refused to surrendered were hunted down and either killed or enslaved.
By most estimates, there were fewer than twenty adult Dragons remaining, none of whom are capable of reproduction. They are all hidden away in the ashamed corners, awaiting their last breaths. The most prideful of creatures were felled... but not without leaving their mark.
Though the Dragons suffered the most by the end, numerically, their loses paled in comparison to the number of felled Divines and Demigods and quasi-Divines. In fact, the only recorded death of a Qod-- the Divine Enthrall Stffel-- was by a Dragon, the beyond-mythical Asarian, Screech of Death. It was said by many that the Dragon of legends was a paradox-- for as small as he was, not much larger than the mountable winged lions-- he remained entirely unmatched in strength. A single blast of his flame is said to produce the power of a thousand quasars, and in the mythical showdown with the Divine Enthrall, the two fought uninterrupted for two Cycles before the Enthrall was felled... alongside dozens of galaxies and over twenty Trials.
The Screech only appeared once after the fact... and withdrew from the war, never to be seen again. It was likely the consequence of the fight making him either entirely incapable of fighting further or too weak. Nonetheless, that singular spark breathed life into the war for an extra fifty Cycles, as the Dragons restored faith that they had the capacity to usurp the Divines. Alas, it was not meant to be.
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For the duration of the war, however, they did inflict irreparable damage to the Divine Halls-- so much so that few dare speak of that side of the history openly. Though official histories number merely a few thousand fallen Divine, even fools suspect that number was in tens, while those acutely aware of the realities imagine the number to reach well above seven digits.
“All of this said,” Cain mumbled with a frown while he was being explained the history of the Dragons by the phantom figure that appeared once again by his side, as though he was personal entertainment for her. “How in the hell is there a baby Dragon here, then? If they literally ceased being capable of reproduction two ‘effin cycles ago?”
“Oh, you’re quick to spot the plot holes!”
“Ain’t much of a plot hole if it’s literally a gaping maw biting my ass.”
“Clever.”
“... you still didn’t explain.”
“Possibilities are endless,” the figure replied. “What the hell do I know of the history, anyway? In fact, what does anyone know? It’s been marred and rewritten and modulated to all hell and back as to make this shitty place seem like the unparalleled Heaven. For all I know, the Dragons just grew bored of war and retreated to keep fucking or whatever.”
“It’s that fuckin’ edge-Dragon, isn’t it?” Cain wept softly. “It has to be. I know it is. I’m not so lucky to just run into the supposedly extinct species’ baby. Goddammit. My life sucks.”
“... the Screech? Honestly, I kinda doubt he ever existed.”
“Hm?”
“You won’t get it no matter what I say,” the figure elaborated. “But killing a Qod... nah. That’s just impossible.”
“Impossible?
“Yeah. And I mean that literally-- you can be ten billion times stronger than them, that’s not the issue. Killing them, however, is impossible. They’re effectively part of the reality-- you’d have to take that part of reality and just... void it? I dunno. I can’t even begin to fathom how you’d go about killing ‘em. I always figured the Screech was just an inspirational story Dragons shared as means of just... pushing themselves.”
“Aren’t myths usually based in some reality? So, maybe, y’know, he didn’t kill the rod or whatever, but it could still be that tiny dude with disproportionate strength. What I don’t get is... why didn’t anybody take this trial? Hatred of Dragons should be pretty high, no?”
“No, not really,” the figure said. “In fact, most Divines, at least younger ones, actually sympathize with them. They never instigated any shit with us-- they just wanted to be left alone and, well, we wanted to conquer them. There’s even a growing movement to find the remaining Dragons and offer them apologies or whatever.”
“... huh. So, your world is just as fucked up as mine, eh?”
“Pretty much, aye.”
“The only difference is that my world can bend me over backwards and ream me in the ass so hard it will break my spine. Namely, the fact that I’m about to go toe-to-toe with a Dragon.” the plan was already set in motion-- everyone had already dispersed, in groups, ready to hunt down the Wyverns. In the meantime, Cain had reached the mountain-- or a volcano, really-- where the Dragon supposedly slumbered, ready to intercept it and engage in the ‘I will permanently be running away’ kind of a combat.
“Isn’t it exciting, though?” the figure continued chirping like an excited observed about to see something amazingly entertaining. “Fighting a Dragon... even I can’t boast with that.”
“Isn’t much of a boast if he fries my cute behind,” Cain grumbled still, taking a deep breath, slowly pushing Mana from within. “All or nothing, I guess.”
A moment of silence fell upon the world as Cain coated himself in a sheen of Mana, ejecting it sporadically into the world, almost like an inviting signal. Screeches quickly filled the sky, but Cain just as quickly saw that they were being swiftly intercepted. In such a banquet and in such a symphony, the world shook for a moment abruptly, the volcano in front of him seemingly inhaling.
Smoke blew out and fire followed, ashen clouds forming above as thunder began to blossom like a dangerous flower in the sky. Cain frowned, taking a step back as the mountain before him began to crumble, its pieces flying off and rolling downhill, all whilst the world continued to quake and rumble.
“ROAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!!” Cain immediately wrapped himself in a thick layer of shields, all of whom began to turn into ashen puddle one by one while the invisible, fiery wave washed over him. Of the dozens, only two withstood the onslaught.
Scorching winds rushed abound, forcing him to withdraw further, the winds belting him. He propped his arm over his shoulder and shielded his eyes, straightening out and looking up. There, staring straight at him from less than a mile away, perched at the side of the ruined mountain, was a beast unlike any other. Its scales were dark and metallic-like, traces of fiery red pulsing at the edges. They wound a tall and robust frame, one that easily spanned three-four hundred feet across. It had four limbs, all bent out toward the side of its main body, and two wings that were wholly unfurled, adding extra weight to its posture.
The wings themselves were, however, strange; all across, Cain saw signs of wear and tear, and not the ilk just gotten from fighting. Those were signs of age, the inescapable devil breathing down the necks of all the living.
Beyond that, Cain’s focus swiftly shifted over onto the head-- it pulled toward the nostril, faintly triangular. Above, a pair of luminous, gem-like eyes stared wide opened. Their colors were difficult to discern as they changed, from opaque cyan to robust crimson, and all the shades and hues in-between. Almost as though the surrounding storm was replaying in the creature’s eyes.
Its maw was faintly gaping, the teeth faintly visible within. Age showed itself here, as well, since the maw was quite disfigured, slanted toward the left, a whole chunk of it missing where a ‘chin’ would be.
“Ah, yes, a baby,” Cain mumbled a prayer to a God. “A bajillion-freakin’-years-old baby... oh goddammit, I’m about to lose my anal virginity, aren’t I? Shit!”