The Lord of the Seas - An Isekai Progression Fantasy [ Currently on Volume 2 ]

The collision was a brutal sight to witness.

The sheer violence of it was blinding, a shockwave ripping outward as though the air itself recoiled from the impact. The shield, having just reflected Lukas' strike, could not trigger its magical effect again so soon and the reflection that the Mantle sent back towards Rysenth was monstrous.

Lukas' fist crashed through the shimmering barrier of force. Shards of fractured light burst outward, scattering across the arena floor as if the heavens themselves had broken. The sound was like iron being ripped apart, a ringing detonation that stabbed into the ears of the onlookers. Behind that failing shield, the solid plate of Rysenth's armor groaned under the blow before twisting inward with a dull, sickening crunch.

Then came the breaking of flesh and bone, Rysenth's arm could not hold up against the force of Lukas' blow.

The bone cracked first under the pressure, then shattered completely, splintering inside the skin. The limb bent at a grotesque angle, as if it no longer belonged to him, and the shield he bore fell away in jagged pieces. Blood seeped through the rents in his armor, a sharp crimson against the bright copper sheen. The scream that followed was muffled by the roar of the crowd and the thunder of the strike, but it was real, tearing from Rysenth's throat as his body was hurled downwards.

The Dragon Lord of the Flames hit the arena floor like a meteor. Stone fractured, earth split, and the ground cratered beneath the weight of the blow. Dust erupted in a choking cloud, the shock of the impact carrying into the stands.

Rysenth lay at the center of the crater, his chest heaving and his broken arm hanging limply at his side. The force of Lukas's strike had left him battered beyond recognition, his armor warped, blood streaking the fractured plates and his body sprawled like a discarded husk.

Rysenth was still alive—but barely.

The Dragon Lord of the Flames no longer had the strength to rise from where he lay.

Above, Lukas staggered on the platform of water that had formed beneath his feet.

Lukas clutched at his own arm, pain radiating in waves down the limb that had delivered the devastating strike. His bones ached, and every nerve screamed at him in agony. It was possible that his own arm had broken from the impact of that attack but Lukas did not know for sure. What Lukas did know, as he forced air into his lungs and steadied himself, was that Rysenth Ishtar was in far worse condition than he was.

The platform lowered Lukas gently until his feet pressed against the stone again, only feet away from where his opponent lay gasping in the crater. The crowd was already hushed into an anticipatory silence. They knew as well as Lukas did, they knew that this fight was over. All that remained was for Lukas to carry out the final act that would end Rysenth Ishtar's life and crown the Lord of the Seas as the victor as this Rite of Talons.

Rysenth, fighting against the tide of unconsciousness and agony, extended his one good arm. His fingers brushed against the hilt of his fallen blade, trembling as he tried to grasp it. Before the Dragon Lord of the Flames could, Lukas stepped forward and kicked the sword away. The steel scraped against stone as it spun from Rysenth's reach.

Their eyes met then—Rysenth's filled with desperation and defiance and Lukas's with the weight of what he knew he had to do.

Here lay the Dragon Lord of Flames, the head of House Ishtar, the tyrant who had left so many scars on this Kingdom.

Here was the one who had wounded those Lukas loved, who had brought suffering and destruction. The promise Lukas had made to Valkari surged in his mind, a promise to make Rysenth to pay for what he had done.

And yet standing above him, Lukas found his hand stilled. Knowing what he had to do now was heavier than any Mantle, any blow that he had been dealt during this fight. Rysenth's life was Lukas' to take, and still, he could not bring himself to end this battle. There were so many things that did not make sense, so many pieces of this that felt so wrong.

Lukas's chest heaved, every breath shallow as the weight of the decision pressed against him.

Was killing Rysenth Ishtar truly the answer? Would striking him down here, before the eyes of thousands, solve anything?

Would it heal their wounds…or would it only deepen them?

Lukas looked past Rysenth for a moment, above to where the Dragonborn of the Flames watched with bated breath. Their eyes were wet with sorrow but sharpened with hate. They knew they were watching the end of their Lord. They knew that the dragon who had commanded them, guided them and bound them in flame would not walk away from this arena.

Yet their grief twisted into something darker, a fire directed at Lukas himself.

They hated him, for Lukas was the black hand that would deliver the sentence of death upon their Lord. And if Lukas slaughtered the Dragon Lord of the Flames here, before their very eyes, what would remain between them but more hatred, more blood waiting to be spilled?

It was then that Lukas heard her voice—his mother's voice—echoing within his mind.

Selene of Dawn, soft yet unyielding, from the conversation they had shared before everything had descended into chaos. "For what greater justice is there than ensuring you create a world where our people are free? A world where this cycle of hate between our people and humanity can be put behind us."

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The words cut deeper than any blade.

How could Lukas dare think of ending that cycle between humans and dragons if he could not end the cycle within his own people? How could there be peace if his every step was paved with blood and vengeance?

The Rite of Talons demanded death.

But did justice?

Did honor?

The crowd murmured uneasily. Their voices rose in a low tide of confusion and restlessness.

Why was Lukas hesitating? Why had he not yet struck the final blow?

The sound built into a restless hum until it was broken by a single voice—sharp and furious. Valkari Ishtar's voice rang out like a whip, thick with anger. "Do it! Kill him, Lukas! Kill the Dragon Lord of the Flames where he lies!" The words lashed across him, a reminder of his promise he made to her, of the pain he had sworn to avenge.

Lukas's gaze dropped again to Rysenth.

The Dragon Lord of the Flames was grimacing in pain, his body broken and his breath shallow. And yet, there was no plea for mercy in his eyes. Rysenth would not beg for his life like some kind of coward. With a slow, agonizing effort, Rysenth dragged himself up onto his knees. Blood stained his lips, his good hand pressed to the earth to hold him steady.

The Dragon Lord of the Flames shook his head, his voice raw but steady. "Be done with it, Lukas Drakos." Rysenth rasped. "Take my life and be done with this."

But Lukas could not.

His fists trembled, his heart thundered as he stared into Rysenth's eyes and felt no satisfaction. Only the endless weight of what this act would mean—that the cycle would continue, that nothing would truly change.

Lukas could not do this.

Then the roar came. Erandyl's bellow split the air, shaking the arena to its foundations. The Dragon Lord of the Earth towered from her vantage, her presence commanding all to silence. Her Crown flared, and suddenly her voice was not just a sound—it was in Lukas's mind, booming, heavy and undeniable.

Erandyl spoke only two words, simple and absolute. "Finish this." The command reverberated through him, demanding compliance.

But Lukas's Crown ignited in response, flaring so brightly it was as though his very soul fought back. Lukas shouted against the mountain of her will and the force of it sent shockwaves through the arena. Even Erandyl herself recoiled at the sheer might of Lukas' Legacy.

"NO!" Lukas's voice thundered, amplified by his Crown until it shook the air, reaching every ear, every soul within the coliseum. "No! I will not finish this!"

The words echoed across the arena and up into the air for them to hear, burning with conviction. Not a single soul dared to speak.

The arena—once roaring with steel, fury, and expectation—was now smothered in silence. Every gaze was upon Lukas, every breath caught in their throats as his Crown blazed with a light that seemed to pierce the very marrow within their bones. Even Erandyl, whose command had always been unquestionable, said nothing.

The Dragon Lord of the Earth did not interrupt him. She did not dare.

"What will killing him do for us?" Lukas's voice rang out, strong and resonant. He gestured down to Rysenth, broken and bleeding in the crater. "Will that heal the wounds of our people? Will it mend what is broken between us? Or will it only sow more hate, more bitterness, and more division between our race?"

For a heartbeat, the silence held. Then the voice of the Elder broke through—the same Elder who had announced the Rite, who had spoken the Testaments and demanded the commitment of Lukas and Rysenth to this Rite before the battle began.

His voice was sharp with authority, brittle with outrage. "Enough! End this!" the Elder commanded, his words echoing through the arena. "The Rite of Talons is tradition! You swore upon it. Finish what you began, and bring the Rite to its rightful close!"

Lukas' answer came as a roar that shook the very stones beneath their feet.

"And what has your gorydamn tradition brought us?!" Lukas thundered, his voice amplified by his Crown until it was as if the world itself listened. "What has this Rite done for us in all these years? Has it united us? No—it divided us! It has cost us the lives of those we loved. This Rite is a relic of another age, of a time before Linemall even existed. But this Kingdom exists now."

His words struck the crowd like hammer blows.

The Elder faltered, his lips pressed tight, but Lukas did not relent. His arm shot forward, finger aimed squarely at the man who had challenged him.

"You call yourself an Elder? Yet you are as foolish as a youngling!" Lukas spat. "You cling to old ways as though they will shield you from the truth. The truth is that we are weaker than we once were. The truth is that we lost the Great War. The TRUTH IS that we have hidden within these borders while our own kin cry out in chains beyond them!" His voice broke like fire on stone, every word cutting deeper. "We cower here, divided, fighting amongst ourselves, while our people suffer under slavery! And you dare tell me this tradition is worth more than their freedom?"

The silence was now a living thing, pressing against every chest, burning in every soul. Not one Elder spoke against him—for in their hearts, they knew his words were true. They had buried their shame in tradition, masked their fear with rituals.

And it was about time someone tore that mask off.

"I am a Dragon Lord of Linemall!" Lukas declared, his voice soaring like a battle cry. "I am a ruler of this nation we all call home. And I declare this Rite finished. Finished!"

Lukas turned now to his fellow Dragon Lords. "So I ask you now—will you stand with me? Will you stand as one, as rulers not only of Linemall but as leaders of our people? Will you help me set our people free?"

Lukas met Erandyl's gaze.

The Dragon Lord of the Earth, who had demanded his compliance only moments ago, bowed her head and nodded.

Lukas turned then to Rysenth, broken and battered, who stared back at him with eyes clouded by pain but sharpened by clarity. For a long, breathless moment, Lukas did not know how the Dragon Lord of Flames would answer his call. But at last, slowly, heavily, Rysenth lowered his head.

And with that, the Great Houses of Linemall were no longer divided.

For the first time in a very long time, they stood together. And in that unity was the promise of something greater: a future where their people would no longer suffer in chains.

A future where they would fight not against one another, but for the good of all dragonkind.