Draconic Awakening

The Mother of the Nest slowly neared Ragnar thanks to the help of both of its newly born, mangled Wretchborns that made their way to him.

Still, Ragnar kept silent and stayed in the same spot, racing his mind through his possible best moves to get out of this situation. He was short on options, thanks to this being a Grade Three and two other Grade Ones—which was a number too many for him to defend against.

Going back too was not possible, since that would create enough noise for the Mother of the Nest to track him down, and he doubted he was faster than a Grade Three Wretchborn.

After some more pondering, the young Lord gritted his teeth and released one hand from his blade, raising the palm up to the side of the wall. Then a red flame started to pour out of his skin, forming a searing ball of fire in his grasp.

He waited for a bit, watching the Wendigos and the Mother of the Nest grow closer to him, and then he blasted the ball of fire toward the wall.

The attack was strong and collided with the wall with a loud explosion, sending multiple boulders crashing down from its top and falling into the crevice.

Each stone that came down made a large cracking noise as it collided with the ground—some rocks the size of a fist, others quite large and able to crush a grown man under their weight.

A large rock even struck the Mother of the Nest, causing it to stagger and let out a strained shriek, swiping its claws in anger as though trying to gorge out the throat of an invisible being that stood before it—but nothing was there but the cursed wind to swipe at.

Relying on sound for movement and attacking was a very crude technique. Although, when planned out by a strategic opponent, skills like keen hearing and smell turned out to be useless in combat.

But the rock crashing into the Mother of the Nest was never Ragnar's goal—only the flurry of noise created from the plummeting rocks.

It was at this moment he made his move, racing forward with incredible speed and reaching the limping Grade One Wretchborn.

He dashed at it at full speed, and when he reached it, he quickly sank the end of his blade into the throat of the Wretchborn and slit halfway through it, letting dark crimson blood pour out of its being. Then it staggered, gurgling on its blood before falling to its side—dead.

One down...

Ragnar's gaze latched onto the Mother of the Nest beside him, still reeling from the stone rain that had just ended. Yes, his distraction had worked—however, he knew it wouldn't last very long.

Ragnar raised his hand once more and did the same as before—blasting a ball of flames at the wall, creating a large explosion and more rocks plummeting down on the Wendigos. However, this time, he was also in the crossfire.

Rocks—large and small, a handful and too many—came tumbling down, many missing the young Lord, who raced toward the other Grade One Wretchborn. But while many missed, still, he was struck by more than enough to get him biting his lips and feeling his body ready to succumb to the pain of the stone rain.

He raised his hands overhead to protect his head, knowing one lethal hit from a larger stone would surely kill him. But this was something he had to endure. If he was to win the battle and survive Wendigo's Crust, he had to kill this bitch of the Nest.

The Mother of the Nest was not doing any better than Ragnar—actually, it was in worse shape than he was. Since it was larger, it had become a big target for the rocks. While it was able to swipe at different large rocks to protect itself out of instinct, many larger ones still made impact. Some made shallow wounds in its rotting green flesh, others deeply wounded it, and finally a large boulder—greater than all the rest—came down from above. It passed through the Mother of the Nest's defenses and plummeted right into the Realmbeast's back with such weight that it fell face-first, pinned to the floor…

No, it was not pinned—it was crushed. The rock had crashed into its body, separating it into two halves, sending green blood and guts flying everywhere with a horrid smell that felt almost suffocating.

Almost...

Ragnar had not expected such a result to come from his attack. He only hoped it would injure the Mother of the Nest. However, his plan had worked all too well, and the Grade Three Wretchborn now lay on the floor split into two halves.

Still, his plan had worked all too well.

With the Mother of the Nest neutralized and no longer blocking the flurry of raining rocks, Ragnar came to learn that most of the rocks had been blocked by the behemoth he had ruefully taken down. And now, the full brunt of the stone rain was on him.

"Ahhhh! Gaaarrrh!" the short screams escaped the young Lord's lips as two rocks struck him quickly—one hitting the arm blocking his head so hard he instinctively dropped his blade in pain, the other striking him directly on the leg.

The agony through the leg was the greatest Ragnar had felt in his life—as Ragnar. And this made him scream at the top of his lungs, losing his footing and falling to his side.

"ARRRGHHHH!!!"

Despite the pain, the flurry of rocks continued. Now that he was on the floor, exposing most of his body, he took the full force of the despicable rain of rocks. Some smashed into his ribcage like a hammer driving a nail with force. Others struck his gut, and more hit his head, which he tried to protect with both hands.

At the end, when the plummeting rocks finally stopped, Ragnar emerged with his worst injuries: bruised ribs, arms so sore they felt like they would fall off just by moving them, legs throbbing in pain and stiffness, and his groin—having taken a few hits—felt as though he had gained two more rocks as eggs in his sack.

All in all, I'm still alive. That was the single good news he could speak of from this battle so far. To believe he had been inflicted with torment of his own doing—life was truly cruel.

Still, it wasn't over.

Growling came from not too far away, and in the next moment, before Ragnar could recover, he felt a sharp pain in his ankle that jolted him, letting out another groan of pain.

He quickly sat up, anger plastered on his face, and stared in utter awe at what had caused his pain.

It was the Grade One corrupted Wendigo—far more damaged than it had been originally, having small holes through its being, half of its lower body already torn away and bleeding profusely. It should have died from its wounds.

However, This rotten devil... of course you survived a rain of hell! Ragnar thought, glaring at the beast as it crawled toward him with desperation in its eyes—for a kill.

He opened his hands wide, and his Ember mark appeared right in his grasp—his small sinister blade ready to do his bidding.

The young Lord pulled back his hand and thrust the blade into the head of the Wendigo till the guard was directly against the skull of the beast. Then he stopped, watching it go completely limp, its crimson blood oozing all over Ragnar's clothing.

"The realm consumes all that is of the realm. Only that which is not of the realm lives. Rest well," he gave his last words to the Wretchborn as it died—a short prayer, not out of pity, but of respect.

***Author's note***

A massive release will be happening soon. Please comment if you are enjoying the story. And review the book well.

Thanks for reading till this moment, this is halfway through the first Volume.