Starting out as a Dragon Slave

Time stretched.

Their bodies no longer truly obeyed them. Every movement had become an automatism etched into their muscles by years of combat. Mordred dodged a claw aimed at his neck—not because he had seen it coming, but because his left shoulder had moved on its own, recognizing the deadly whistle in the air. Maelor parried an elbow strike aimed at his ribs—not through calculation, but because his forearm had risen by reflex, guided by millennia of survival instinct.

They no longer thought. They fought.

Exhaustion had swept everything away.

Pain had become a constant background noise, like the buzzing of an insect one stops hearing. Wounds accumulated: Mordred's blood flowed from a cut above his eye, blurring his vision. Three of his ribs were cracked, each breath was torture. Maelor dragged his right leg, one of his wings hung askew, yet his claws continued to strike with mechanical precision.

They advanced.

One step after another. Blow after blow. Like two broken war machines that no longer knew how to stop.

Mordred staggered, his legs betraying him. But something in his gaze changed. A gleam. A final spark of determination that pierced through the fog of exhaustion.

His muscles, drained of all strength, found one last surge.

He clenched his fist.

Everything he had left. Every fiber, every nerve, every fragment of will concentrated in this final gesture.

The blow struck.

Not fast. Not lightning-quick like before. Just relentless.

His fist cut through the dust-laden air, crossed the distance separating them, and plunged into Maelor's chest. The scales yielded. Flesh tore. Bones cracked.

His hand disappeared into the dragon king's body.

Maelor opened his slitted eyes wide. A gasp of surprise and pain escaped his maw. Black blood spurted from his lips.

But his claws moved.

By reflex. By survival instinct. By refusal to die alone.

He seized Mordred's arm with both hands, his claws sinking into flesh down to bone, and with a violent, brutal, desperate movement, he plunged his own claw into the half-dragon's abdomen.

Steel met flesh.

Mordred felt the claw pierce his belly, rise between his ribs, seeking his heart. A taste of copper invaded his mouth. His knees began to tremble.

But his hand was still in Maelor's chest.

Regeneration activated.

Mordred's flesh began reforming around the claw, trying to close the gaping wounds. But it was too little, too late. Blood flowed faster than his body could replace it. His organs protested, his lungs filled with warm liquid.

They looked into each other's eyes.

Two dying men suspended from one another, held upright only by their hands buried in their opponent's body.

In Maelor's gaze, no more royal anger. No more contempt. Just pure, crystalline hatred that shone like a black diamond in his slitted pupils.

In Mordred's, the same flame. The same mortal purity. As if, in the instant of dying, they finally discovered who they truly were.

Mordred closed his eyes.

A voice resonated in his head. Cold. Mechanical. Familiar.

[CRITICAL STATE DETECTED]

[VITAL FUNCTION: 8%]

[SURVIVAL OPTIONS: NONE]

- "System," he murmured, his lips barely moving. "Can you... can you divide my strength? Split it into six pieces? For six different humans?"

A silence. Then:

[ANALYZED]

[STRENGTH DIVISION POSSIBLE]

[COST: ENTIRETY OF HOST'S VITAL FORCE]

[RESULT: IMMEDIATE DEATH OF HOST]

[CONFIRM?]

Mordred felt his lips stretch into a smile. His last smile.

- "Then do it."

His hand contracted.

In Maelor's chest, his fingers closed around something warm, pulsing. The dragon king's heart. Enormous. Powerful. And so vulnerable between his fingertips.

He squeezed.

The organ exploded in his palm like an overripe fruit.

Maelor let out a roar that shook the ruins, but it was already over. His eyes clouded. His claw slipped from Mordred's body.

And Mordred felt his life force leave him.

Like a river emptying into the ocean. Like a candle blown out by wind.

Six fragments of light burst from his body, crossed the air like shooting stars, and disappeared toward the horizon.

Toward six humans who didn't yet know they would inherit a power forged in blood and tears.

Mordred collapsed.

His legs gave way. His body fell backward, his hand sliding from Maelor's gaping chest.

The dragon king collapsed in turn, his wings folding one last time against his flanks.

Silence fell over the ruins.

Only the wind whispered between the broken columns, carrying dust and the smell of dried blood.

Two motionless silhouettes in the light of the nascent dawn.

When Mordred exhaled his last breath, six orbs of pure light escaped from his broken body. They burst forth like new stars, each carrying within it a fraction of the half-dragon's soul, his memory, his power.

The orbs rose above the palace ruins, circling for a moment around the motionless bodies of Mordred and Maelor, like a final tribute. Then they separated, streaking toward the six cardinal points with lightning speed, guided by a will that transcended death.

The blood-red orb split the sky eastward, crossing oceans and continents. It dove toward the jade mountains where magical crystal extraction mines sprawled. In the rotting wooden barracks, between chains and grime, it found its target.

Lin, eighteen years old, hands slashed by sharp crystals, back covered in scars. She was raising her pickaxe for the thousandth time that day when the orb struck her full in the chest.

Light exploded in her veins.

Mordred's memories flooded in: his first battles, his sword technique, his knowledge of draconic weak points. Her body transformed, her muscles densified, her reflexes increased tenfold. When she reopened her eyes, they shone with a golden gleam.

The chains that bound her wrists shattered like glass.

The azure blue orb streaked west, beyond the raging seas. It struck the Twilight Isles where ice dragons exploited mithril mines. In the frozen tunnels, it found its chosen one.

Kael, twenty-two years old, lungs burned by toxic vapors, face marked by eternal cold. He was collapsing under the weight of a mineral cart when the orb struck him.

Mordred's energy flowed into him like molten honey. Close combat techniques, weapon mastery, the ability to read enemy intentions in micro-expressions. His thin body swelled with muscle, his pale skin took on a pearlescent glow.

The bars of his cell melted under his bare hands.

The silver orb climbed toward the frozen lands of the north, where white dragons extracted winter essences in immense open-pit quarries. Among the slaves digging eternal ice, it chose its recipient.

Yuki, twenty years old, fingers frozen to the bone, lips blue with cold. She was leaning on her hammer-pick to keep from collapsing when the orb pierced through her.

The warmth of Mordred's spirit heated her frozen body. She inherited his superhuman resistance, his ability to ignore pain, his knowledge of draconic anatomy. Her white hair began to shine like snow in sunlight.

The dragon guards rushing to the noise were hurled against walls by her mere presence.

The golden orb descended toward the burning deserts of the south, where red dragons exploited iron veins in volcanic craters. In the furnace, it discovered its bearer.

Zara, nineteen years old, skin burned by lava flows, hands covered in festering blisters. She was carrying a bucket of molten metal when the orb struck her heart.

Mordred's heritage deployed in her cells. His striking speed, his surgical precision, his ability to anticipate enemy movements. Her body remodeled itself, becoming both supple and powerful, her eyes took on a hypnotic amber tint.

The bucket of molten metal froze in her hands, cooled by her simple will.

The purple orb plunged toward oceanic abysses, where sea dragons forced their slaves to extract mana pearls from the depths of trenches. In magical air bubbles that allowed breathing underwater, it found its chosen one.

Naia, twenty-one years old, lungs forcibly adapted to aquatic breathing, skin marked by deep-sea pressure. She was gathering sharp pearls when the orb bathed her in its light.

She absorbed Mordred's tactical mastery, his understanding of energy flows, his ability to transform any object into a deadly weapon. Her body elongated, became hydrodynamic, her hair undulated like living seaweed.

The water around her began to boil, repelling abyssal creatures.

The last orb, pure white, rose higher than all others. It climbed to floating citadels where celestial dragons exploited crystallized clouds. In chains suspended above the void, it discovered its final target.

Aiden, twenty-three years old, vestigial wings torn away since childhood, back carved with furrows where his feathers should have grown. He was harvesting mist crystals when the orb enveloped him.

He inherited Mordred's purest combat instinct, his controlled rage, his absolute determination. His body straightened, his muscles corded, and in his eyes was born a flame that belonged only to dragon killers.

The chains holding him above the void broke, but he didn't fall. He floated.

The Awakening

In the six corners of the world, six slaves opened their eyes with the same expression.

They now knew their true name. They remembered battles they had never fought. They mastered techniques they had never learned.

But above all, they burned with the same hatred.

Hatred against those who had chained them. Hatred against those who had broken their bodies and spirits. Hatred against dragons.

Six SS-rank hunters had just been born.

And in their gazes shone the promise of a war that would shake the entire world.

The dragons, in their golden palaces, didn't know it yet. But their reign had just received its second crack.

A crack that would bear the name of Mordred. And soon the news of Maelor's fall would shake their world.