Time crept by like a hesitant breeze in a war-torn land.
Within the inner sanctum of the Kingly System, David Stormborn—the avatar of regality and intellect—stood tall, radiant with golden fractals dancing across his skin like embers of divinity. His hands moved in a blur of precision, mixing ancient digital runes and translucent liquids inside a crystalline vial suspended in the air. At last, the antidote was complete—a shimmering elixir of pulsating green, swirling with threads of ethereal energy.
David Stormborn raised his head, his expression solemn.
"Josh Aratat," he whispered into the ether—not with his voice, but through the mind-link tethered to Josh's consciousness. Yet no response came. On the other end, Josh's awareness teetered on the edge of a dark chasm.
His breathing was shallow. His skin glistened with sweat, and his limbs trembled from the venom coursing through his veins. He was slipping more and more into a land of no return.
If he lost consciousness now, it wouldn't just be his own life at stake. Shammah, who was still battling the rapid spread of the manticore toxin, would die. The others who were also recently poisoned might also follow.
David's brows furrowed. "What to do? Think, Stormborn... think!"
Then it struck him—like lightning across a midnight sea.
"The system notification!" he exclaimed.
Focusing his will, he sent a pulse through the core interphase.
DING!
A chime as loud and sharp as a gong shattered the fog in Josh's mind.
"Josh… wake up," echoed David's voice, laced with authority and a hint of desperation. By making use of the notification sound, David Stormborn had gone beyond just Josh Aratat's mind, but also entered a bit of his conscious self.
Josh's eyes shot open—bloodshot, unfocused, but open. His chest rose and fell sharply. He groaned, voice cracked, "Is it ready…?"
David Stormborn's form materialised in a flickering holographic projection in his mind's eye, regal and commanding.
"It is. This," he gestured to a hovering icon of a goblet filled with green liquid, "is the antidote to the manticore poison in your system. Drink it, and you'll feel your strength return. But there's more…"
Another vial floated beside it—dark crimson, rimmed with golden flame.
"This secondary concoction is lethal to manticores. Even a drop—just a whisper of it—will reduce them to dust. Use it sparingly. It's all I could craft in time."
His form began to fade, voice echoing like a dying fire.
"I've done what I must. The rest is in your hands, Black Dragon."
Josh blinked slowly, his body weighed down by the venom. His fingers trembled as he reached out through the system's interphase. With a thought, the antidote appeared in his palm—a cup, warm to the touch, glowing green and bubbling gently like a calm spring kissed by morning sun. A sweet, herbaceous steam curled into the air.
He brought it to his lips. The first sip was smooth—warm, with the comforting taste of honey and mint. As it slid down his throat, his chest fluttered. The sensation was instantaneous.
On the surface of his skin, green veins pulsed and brightened. The liquid surged through his bloodstream, purging the darkness. Black toxin recoiled, driven back by the wave of healing energy until it reached the skin, seeping out in foul, tar-like patches. The corrupted sludge hardened, cracking like clay before falling away from his body in jagged pieces.
Josh exhaled deeply, strength returning to his limbs like floodwater through a dry riverbed.
With renewed purpose, he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled toward Shammah, who lay pale and still, his chest barely moving. Josh dropped to one knee, cradling his comrade's head and pouring the antidote gently into his mouth.
"Come on, brother," he whispered. "Stay with me."
Lola and the other generals, scattered in the battlefield's perimeter, turned to watch. Relief flooded their faces as they saw movement from both Josh and Shammah. No one understood how he'd acquired such a cure, but they didn't question it. Josh Aratat—Black Dragon of the Thirteen—had done the impossible yet again.
Moments later, Shammah's eyes fluttered open, his lips curling into a grin of disbelief. "Thank you Master, You saved me…"
Josh nodded, already rising to his feet. "No time for thanks. We're not done yet, there is still a lot of manticores to kill."
He raced through the battlefield, sharing doses of the antidote with the fallen. Each of his general who drank was reborn with renewed fury in their veins. The tide began to shift.
Then came the other vial.
Josh uncorked it and flicked a single drop into the heart of a charging manticore.
BOOM!
The creature didn't simply die—it detonated into a mist of ash and light. The soldiers gasped, then roared with newfound hope.
Josh wielded the lethal liquid like divine judgment, striking down the beasts one by one with surgical precision. The balance of the battle began to turn.
From over a thousand manticores, only 269 remained.
The Thirteen Generals—now bolstered by Shammah—and Josh Aratat stood like titans. With each beast that fell, their resolve surged. The manticores faltered, their once-relentless charge reduced to scattered, panicked lunges.
Hope became power. Power became momentum.
And the legend of the Black Dragon grew even darker, brighter, and more terrifying in the hearts of friend and foe alike.
A low rumble vibrated through the bones of the mountain—deep, ancient, and ominous. It began as a whisper on the wind, then grew into a monstrous growl that echoed like thunder across the scorched valley. Trees bent, stones trembled, and even the air seemed to draw back in fear.
Then he emerged.
A colossal beast lumbered forward from the shrouded mists—a manticore unlike any other. Towering nearly three times the height of the others, his mane was like molten obsidian streaked with silver, flowing and snapping in the wind like a banner of death. His eyes—twin furnaces—blazed with infernal light, casting flickering shadows that danced like tortured souls across the battlefield.
The Manticore King.
He moved with a terrifying stillness, each step deliberate, each claw gouging deep scars into the blackened earth. Behind him, silence fell like a shroud. Not even the wind dared whisper. The lesser manticores bowed their heads, their snarls swallowed by reverence. Their king had come, and even rage obeyed him.
He stopped, lifting his massive head, his horns gleaming like carved bone in the ash-hazed sun.
Then he roared.
"Grooooooooowwwwwlllllllllll—!"
The very mountain seemed to shake with the sound, an avalanche of fury wrapped in primal power. Birds fell from the sky. The remnants of the battlefield quivered under the weight of his voice. Smoke curled from his nostrils like incense from a funeral pyre.
"Sons of men..." his voice boomed like a curse, deep and grinding, as if pulled from the pit of the earth itself. "Have you come to die on my mountain? You think you can spill the blood of my children and leave this place alive?"
He cast his gaze slowly across the war-torn slope. Blood stained the rocks. The air was thick with the stench of burnt fur and scorched steel. Over five hundred of his kin had turned to ash—only vapor and embers remained to speak for them. Another hundred and thirty-one lay twisted and broken, their bodies scattered like fallen idols.
And then, a figure stepped forward from among the silent formation of thirteen.
Josh Aratat.
His boots crunched against gravel and bone as he emerged, calm and unhurried. His coat fluttered gently in the mountain breeze, untouched by blood or dust. Not even a strand of his hair dared to move out of place. He stared up at the beast, unflinching, as if looking into the sun and daring it to blink first.
When he spoke, his voice was low—too low, almost a whisper—but it carried weight, like a blade being unsheathed in a silent hall.
"On you..." he said, eyes sharp as tempered steel, "...I will bring the wrath of the empire."
The Manticore King bared his fangs, lips curling in fury. Smoke poured from his maw as his wings unfurled like stormclouds behind him.
"Son of man," he growled, lowering his massive head until his burning eyes were level with Josh, "you seem to lead this swarm of arrogant vermin. I'll show you why your kind is fit only to serve as toothpicks... between my teeth."
Then he charged.
With a roar that shattered stones and sent tremors down the mountain, the Manticore King lunged forward. Rage was no longer a thing of emotion—it had become flesh and fury, and it was coming for Josh Aratat.
Words had ended.
War, once again, had begun.