Devouring Dragon Heir

The battlefield was silent.

The silence wasn't natural.

It was the silence of disbelief, the kind that choked the throat and froze the heart. Tens of thousands of eyes, bloodshot and weary, stared at the impossible scene before them.

The Duke of the Falcon Empire, Transcendent, Conqueror, and Warlord, was on his knees.

Blood gushed from his mouth, dribbling down his chin, staining the once-proud crest upon his silver-crimson breastplate.

His body twitched, spasmed, and shuddered violently, each breath weaker than the last. His thunderous aura, the power that had made armies tremble for decades, was gone.

Snuffed out.

What remained was just a man choking on his mortality.

And in front of him stood Klaus.

Every step Klaus took carried across the plains.

Thud

Thud

Thud

Soldiers closest to the scene flinched as though the sound were hammering their skulls. Even those stationed far at the rear swore they could hear it.

Each step was heavy and deliberate, as if the earth itself acknowledged its master.

Klaus did not hurry. There was no need.

The Duke was already finished.

When Klaus stopped before him, the world seemed to hold its breath.

He lowered his left hand and rested it on the Duke's trembling shoulder.

It was not a violent gesture. Not a strike, not a push.

It was the calm, almost casual touch of a god consoling a defeated mortal.

The Duke's eyes bulged. He tried to speak, to curse, to scream his denial. But only a wet gurgle escaped his bloodied lips.

His body convulsed once more, his back arching, his muscles tightening… and then loosening all at once.

In that kneeling position, Duke Albrecht took his final breath.

His head slumped forward. His once-mighty frame sagged like a puppet with its strings cut. Blood continued to drip, but life had already fled.

The Transcendent of the Falcon Empire was now dead.

For a moment, no one moved.

The Falcon soldiers stood frozen, mouths agape, their victory cheers stillborn in their throats.

Their Duke, their invincible warlord, the living proof of their empire's dominance… was nothing more than a corpse on his knees.

One commander dropped his sword. It clattered against the blood-soaked ground with a sharp clang. The sound snapped others back to reality. Terror swept through them like wildfire.

"This… this can't be real."

"The Duke… the Duke is dead?!"

"No… he's not… He's not supposed to."

The words turned into frantic cries.

Some soldiers stumbled back, others fell to their knees, clutching their helmets, unable to comprehend.

An empire's pride had just crumbled before their eyes.

Meanwhile, atop Riverdale's wall, Queen Andrea gripped the battlements so hard her knuckles split open.

She felt the sharp sting of stone cutting her palms but didn't release her grip. Her chest heaved.

Dead.

He's really… dead. The Almighty duke is dead.

Her eyes locked on Klaus. The man who had made the impossible possible.

She wanted to cheer, to laugh, to cry, but none of those emotions came. Only awe. And fear.

Beside her, General Caesar swallowed hard. His throat was dry, his eyes wide.

"A… pseudo-transcendent? Nope, that attack was something else; we couldn't even sense what happened," he muttered, his voice trembling.

"No… not pseudo. That… that was something else."

For a man who had lived his entire life under the shadow of powers greater than himself, this moment shattered everything.

He had braced for annihilation, for Riverdale's obliteration, and yet, here they still stood. Because of that one man and his invisible skills or weapon that made survival possible.

Further away, the painter's hand shook as he dragged his brush across the canvas. His masked face hid his expression.

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Klaus stood over the corpse without a word. He looked down at it as though inspecting an insect he had crushed beneath his foot.

No gloating.

No rage.

No triumph.

Only silence.

The aura of Dragon's Might still lingered faintly, pressing down on the battlefield. Soldiers on both sides struggled to breathe under its weight.

Even without him exerting it fully, the sheer dominance of that mythic skill was undeniable.

Slowly, Klaus raised his eyes. They swept across the battlefield, across the sea of soldiers. Every gaze he met faltered instantly.

Men who had once thought themselves warriors of empires looked away like chastised children.

Then he spoke.

Just one word.

"Kneel."

His voice was calm, but it cracked like a whip across their souls.

The weight of Dragon's Might intensified for just a heartbeat. And then, as though commanded by their very instincts, soldiers of the Falcon Empire dropped to their knees. Thousands of armored men, hardened veterans of war, bowed in unison before the lone figure on the throne of corpses.

The silence returned, but this time it was finally the end of the battle.

Among the kneeling soldiers, Falcon commanders exchanged frantic looks. Their leader, their transcendent, was gone. And now, before them, sat a new ruler.

One commander clenched his jaw until blood trickled from his gums. His pride screamed at him to stand, to resist.

But his body refused. It was crushed beneath a will older, stronger, and heavier than anything he had ever known.

On the wall, Andrea's lips parted, but no words came out of her lips.

Her heart pounded in both terror and exhilaration.

Klaus finally broke the silence.

He bent down and gripped the Duke's lifeless body by the collar.

With one hand, he lifted the man who had once been a transcendent as though he weighed nothing at all.

The corpse dangled limply. Blood dripped onto the mud.

Klaus's eyes swept the crowd again.

"This," he said coldly, shaking the body once like discarded meat, "is what happens to dogs who overstep."

With a casual flick, he threw the Duke's body aside. It crashed onto the ground with a dull thud, face buried in the mud. The symbolism was not lost on anyone.

A transcendent, humiliated even in death.

Behind the death monsters, under Klaus, appear and take the duke's body to the sanctuary with them. No one resisted this; they could not.

The Riverdale soldiers erupted. First gasps, then cheers. Tears spilled as men who had accepted their deaths moments ago roared with new life.

"HE'S DEAD!"

"THE DUKE IS DEAD!"

"RIVERDALE STANDS!"

Their voices carried across the battlefield, growing louder and bolder, a tide of hope that had been buried for too long.

In Klaus's mind, the system stirred.

[Warning: Host, your body is injured. Immediate rest is recommended.]

[New Title Acquired: Sovereign of Ruin.]

The notifications flickered, but Klaus ignored them. His gaze was fixed outward, surveying the kneeling masses.

Finally, Klaus turned and walked back to the throne he had created earlier. His bloodied footsteps painted the ground red as he ascended the steps and sat down once more.

The black throne loomed against the burning horizon, and upon it sat a man no one dared to call human.

The battlefield still shook with chants of Riverdale's victory, though none of those cries truly belonged to Riverdale alone.

For both sides, for all who lived to see this day, there was only one truth left standing, Klaus.

And yet, as Klaus sat upon the jagged black throne, blood drying across his chest, his thoughts were distant.

His gaze was cold, his breath steady, but inside his body screamed.

The clash with the Duke had pushed his frame beyond limits, not in wounds alone, but in the toll of releasing that sliver of dragon's might.

His veins burned, his muscles ached with phantom tearing, and his organs trembled beneath the strain.

He could not linger here anymore, or he might collapse from the sheer exhaustion.

The Duke's corpse had already been swallowed by the abyssal maw of Klaus's summoned monsters, silent, obedient shades that had risen when death claimed the transcendent.

They carried the body to the Sanctuary, their clawed feet leaving no tracks as they vanished.

From the shadows of that abyss, something else had risen too.

Nine towering figures, armored husks of deathly aura, each radiating a pressure akin to a pseudo-transcendent aura.

Their helms were faceless, their movements stiff but terrifying.

Behind them walked one more robed in tattered finery, his skeletal visage hidden by a blackened crown. Unlike the others, his eyes gleamed with intellect, cold but calculating.

The Necrolord.

Klaus had summoned him after devouring the SS-rank gate back home. After using the Death Monarch skill, the lich had ascended to SSS rank.

Klaus's lips moved barely above a whisper as he rose from his throne.

"Necrolord. manage the kingdom well and resolve the mess left; I am going to rest for a few days."

The crowned skeleton bowed deeply, voice echoing like a hollow drum. "As you command, my liege."

The nine pseudo-transcendent minions shifted into formation behind him. Though they spoke nothing, their armored bodies radiated obedience.

The Falcon soldiers, still on their knees, dared not even breathe as the ten death abominations marched forward.

No one moved to resist. No one could.

With his forces now placed, Klaus turned.

He descended the throne and walked without ceremony back through the city gates of Riverdale. Not a soul dared to stop him.

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The streets of Riverdale were eerily still as Klaus walked. The fires of battle still smoldered, corpses lay untouched, and the air reeked of blood.

Yet the citizens who survived dared not even peek from their hiding places.

They felt him pass.

He reached the royal palace, and when the soldiers saw him approach, they greeted him in confusion but did not push their luck.

"My lord," they greeted.

But Klaus walked past without a glance, ascending to his chamber.

Inside, he stripped off his tattered, blood-soaked garments and let them fall into a corner. His body was marred with bruises, though none fatal; each throbbed with accumulated strain.

He drew the bath himself, pouring steaming water until the huge royal basin filled. He sank into it slowly, exhaling as the warmth seeped into his aching muscles.

For the first time since the battle, his eyes closed.

After a long silence, he reached for the drawer beside his bed. From within, he produced a handful of lustrous pills shimmering faintly with green and gold hues.

These were healing elixirs, purchased through the system's draw for some DP. He popped them into his mouth, feeling their bitter essence dissolve across his tongue.

A faint smile touched his lips. The death of a transcendent had yielded far more points than anticipated. Combined with the slaughter of thousands, his DP balance was huge.