Josh Aratat's muscles coiled like springs under his skin before he suddenly burst forward—a blur of speed and fury. The earth beneath his boots cracked with every step, stones scattering in his wake. His breathing synced with the rhythm of his pounding heart as he closed the distance between himself and the towering Manticore King.
The beast stood upright, its monstrous lionlike body adorned with plates of bone and sinew. Its scorpion tail flicked lazily behind it, but its smirk was unmistakable—even with that grotesque face twisted in arrogance. Arms folded across its chest, the Manticore King tilted its head slightly, as if taunting, "Come, little warrior. Show me what fire burns in your fragile human frame."
Josh didn't respond with words. He leapt. His rod/kingly sceptre spun mid-air, slicing through wind and sunlight, arcing toward the Manticore King's snarling visage. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then, with terrifying grace, the Manticore King raised its massive left paw.
It was a lazy gesture on the surface—like swatting a fly—but beneath the illusion of ease lay the precision of a battle-hardened predator. The paw struck Josh square in the chest. A sickening CRACK split the air as bones strained under the impact, and Josh was flung backwards like a puppet with its strings cut.
He hit the ground with a dull, thunderous thud, his body skidding several feet before coming to a limp stop. Dust rose around him. The front of his tunic was torn open, crimson blood spreading fast across the shredded fabric. Blood continued to ooze from a wound where flesh had been scraped raw, and yet…
He moved.
Through clenched teeth, Josh growled. His fingers dug into the dirt, trembling but determined. One knee, then the other. He stood. Wavering. Bleeding. But standing.
Again.
This time, he charged with no war cry, no sound but the rush of wind past his ears and the beat of his own heart. The rod whirled once more, then lashed toward the beast's thick neck.
THWACK!
The rod connected. The force reverberated up Josh's arm. The Manticore King grunted as a bruise bloomed beneath its fur—a dark, swollen welt. It didn't roar. It didn't stagger. It simply turned its head, narrowed its eyes, and raised its arm.
Josh's next strike never came.
With lightning speed, the Manticore King lashed out again—its clawed paw raking across Josh's arm. Flesh tore. Blood spurted. The rod clattered to the ground as Josh fell to one knee, his left arm now soaked in blood, his fingers twitching.
He bit down on his lips, enduring immense pain as he stood up once more.
Again he attacked.
The Manticore king counter attacked and bruised his side.
And yet again he stood up went on the front foot.
Each assault was reckless. Desperate. But unwavering.
The beast grew irritated. This was no longer a fight. It was a mosquito buzzing at its ear. The persistence was infuriating.
With a snarl that shook the stones, the Manticore King lunged.
This time, it didn't wait to be attacked. Its paw met Josh mid-sprint, smashing against his skull with brutal finality. Before Josh could even hit the ground, a follow-up claw gouged deep across his back, lifting him off his feet.
His body flew like a broken kite caught in a gale, spinning mid-air before crashing against a boulder with a loud crack. He landed face-down, unmoving. A crimson pool spread beneath him.
The silence that followed was deafening.
From the edges of the battlefield, the remaining generals—who were rapidly recovering, gasped, although, many were still kneeling, bandaged and wounded, and their bodies were humming from the restorative potions Lola had distributed thanks to Josh Aratat's timely allocation—they stared in horror.
Their last hope… lay broken. If even he couldn't stop the manticore king, being their master, the strongest of them and also the revered black dragon, then, they were doomed to fall here.
He had been their storm. Their torch in the shadows. And now…
Their breaths caught in their throats. Some clenched their weapons tighter. Others bowed their heads, murmuring quiet prayers.
But Lola… Lola couldn't move.
She was a statue carved from grief and restraint. Though she shared the death level loyalty with the other 12 generals, she had something extra, and that was her love for the black dragon.
She had seen every moment. Felt every wound as if it were her own. Her nails dug into her palms, drawing blood, as her wide eyes locked on the body of the man she loved.
Josh had told her, moments before he walked into that living nightmare, "Lola… no matter what happens, don't interfere. This is an order." He knew her temperament and her habit of rushing head-first to take dangerous blows for him, but now was not the time to take such rash actions, it was a delicate and dicey time.
Those words were now shackles to her, preventing her from acting out the impulse that was stirring in her very soul.
Every fibre of her being screamed to run to him, to cast herself between the beast and his broken body. But she stood frozen. Torn. Powerless.
The wind blew her braid sideways. Her cloak flapped violently behind her. Yet she didn't blink. Her lips quivered. Her heart pounded.
Josh Aratat—the Black Dragon—lay still.
The once-mighty warrior was a ruin of his former self, sprawled across the cracked, blood-soaked earth like a forgotten weapon. His body was battered, his dark cloak shredded, fluttering weakly in the wind that whispered like death between the jagged stones of Manticore Mountain.
A shadow loomed.
The Manticore King—towering and terrible—began to advance.
Its claws, drenched in Josh's blood, glinted under the storm-streaked sky. Muscles rippled beneath its beastly hide as it took one slow, deliberate step after another, the earth groaning beneath its weight. Its wings folded behind it like a throne of bones, and its scorpion tail coiled with anticipation, dripping venom.
And then…
Movement.
A shudder.
Josh's fingers twitched. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes clouded by pain—but still burning with defiance. Blood trailed down from a deep gash across his brow, but even as the sting wracked his broken body, he gritted his teeth and rose.
First to a knee.
Then, trembling, to his feet.
Every breath was a battle. Every movement sent fire through his limbs. But he stood.
He stood.
The Manticore King halted, momentarily surprised.
Josh's hands reached for his rod—no, his scepter. The staff pulsed with an ancient energy, its golden body now veined with threads of white flashes that shimmered like a heartbeat. He gripped it, anchoring himself, willing the pain into power.
The wind howled.
Josh's voice, hoarse and thunderous, cut through the chaos:
"I… am KING."
It wasn't just a declaration. It was a summons. His words echoed against the mountain cliffs like a war cry from the age of titans. The very heavens seemed to still. Lightning crackled. Thunder grumbled like distant drums.
For the first time… the Manticore King hesitated.
A flicker of uncertainty passed through those infernal eyes.
But it was fleeting.
The beast scoffed, baring rows of jagged teeth.
"You're an arrow at the end of its flight," it growled, each word laced with ancient malice. "Spent. Broken. And utterly alone."
Its steps resumed—closer, closer—each thud of its paw like the toll of a funeral bell.
"I will kill you quickly… and feed your corpse to the river creature that waits below these cliffs," it spat, venom dripping from its fangs.
But Josh did not flinch.
Though blood ran freely down his arms, his chest, his back, and even all over his body, his legs barely held, he raised his head as well as his scepter high in defiance—and with it, a storm began to gather behind him, wild and primal.
Not just thunderclouds.
Power.
The kind of power born not from strength alone—but from unshakable will.
From a king refusing to kneel.
From a dragon refusing to die.