Ash hit the rocky valley floor, boots grinding against loose stones, the Golden Amulet's heat searing his satchel like a burning coal. The towering walls boxed him in, their jagged edges slicing the sky, ideal for restricting the dragon's wings.
His arm throbbed, blood soaking the makeshift bandage, and his leg felt like it'd been crushed by a boulder, but Ash refused to back down. The dragon's roars echoed above, its shadow sweeping over the valley, molten-gold eyes locked on him like a predator.
The Fangs of the Blue Dragon, notched but humming with fire, ice, and lightning, were gripped tight in his hands. His wristband buzzed, ready for a weak shield, and the Grimoire pulsed, its summons eager to fight.
Magic was low, necromancy a risky move, but Ash's instincts pushed him to keep swinging, no matter how rough things got.
