Chapter 54 - A Drop of Blood

Meanwhile, before the frustrated Alfons stood Lazrael, now in his new form, expressionless, devoid of any hint of emotion. His very presence, his fiery hair and blazing eyes, sent a chilling resonance through that desolate land, scorched and trembling beneath the roaring breath of molten lava.

"Nadragar," said Kaliga, his voice low but trembling, "is the half-humanoid, half-draconic transformation of the Kindu. It's essentially the true power of a dragon housed within a mortal frame. Its essence is that of a pure Draken. The Kindu created this form so they could more easily confront enemies too powerful for them to face in their full dragon shape. To actually feel such a presence... it sends shivers through my entire body."

"To think a dragon still lives in these times..." Kasama muttered, his tone uneasy. "Fortunately, not everyone can sense its aura. If all the dominions were to feel it, chaos would engulf our entire nation. Damn it! We can't just drop the barrier to see who or what that thing is!" He clenched his fists in frustration, his nerves fraying under the pressure.

"Let's just wait and see what happens," Kaliga replied through gritted teeth. "You've no idea how much I'm starting to hate this day."

Alfons watched Lazrael intently, his mind racing as he analyzed the situation before him.

"Didnae expect somethin' like this, especially from him," he muttered under his breath. "Tch! Gotta think o' somethin' quick before—"

Before he could even finish the thought, Lazrael vanished from sight. The air cracked as a crater formed where he once stood, the sheer force of his movement leaving a vacuum in his wake. In the blink of an eye, Lazrael reappeared right in front of Alfons, fist drawn back, ready to strike with murderous precision.

Alfons barely had time to react, he crossed both arms vertically, summoning a barrier of condensed flame to defend himself. The impact came like the wrath of creation itself. Lazrael's punch collided with Alfons' guard at a speed beyond comprehension, releasing a shockwave that tore the landscape apart. The very air screamed as Alfons was hurled backward with bone-crushing force, the ground beneath him disintegrating from the pressure of the blow.

The earth split open in fiery eruptions of molten rock. Alfons slammed into a mountain nearly four kilometers away, just beyond the scorched forest, the collision carving a massive cavern beneath its roots. The mountain's face collapsed over the entrance, burying him under a torrent of stone.

High above, Lazrael unfurled his massive wings, each scale glinting like black glass, and soared after him.

"Bloody hell..." Alfons grunted, shoving aside tons of rock with a surge of flame. "Me arms feel numb from that damn punch."

He glanced up. Lazrael was already descending, cutting through the sky like a hawk diving toward its prey.

"Oh, ye think ye can swoop down on me like that, eh?" Alfons growled, flames igniting around his body. He thrust his palms outward, conjuring a colossal ring of silver fire that circled the mountain. With a roar, he cleaved the entire peak free from its roots as though slicing through butter.

The mountain rose, and with a mighty push, Alfons hurled it toward Lazrael.

Lazrael halted midair, his expression unreadable. With one hand, he caught the tumbling mass, his claws sinking deep into the rock. Suddenly, veins of emerald Draken energy coursed through the mountain, binding its form together in an unnatural, molten glow.

Then, effortlessly, Lazrael swung the entire mountain as though it were nothing more than a boulder, and hurled it upward into the heavens. The mountain blazed through the clouds like a meteor forged by Ladnoria itself, streaking toward oblivion.

But it was only a distraction.

All around Lazrael, the air shimmered, and in an instant, hundreds of Alfons' clones appeared, circling like dark-winged predators, each armed with a flaming crossbow aimed directly at the dragonborn's heart.

"Got ye now, ye wee bastard," growled Alfons, as all his clones unleashed a storm of blazing spears toward Lazrael from every direction.

But Lazrael moved faster, far faster than the bolts the weapons could ever hope to fire.

"What—?!" gasped the real Alfons, standing below on the cracked earth, when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder.

He spun instantly, driving his left leg backward in a fiery kick, his heel bursting into blue flame as it struck toward Lazrael, but the dragonborn vanished in a blur, reappearing right before Alfons' eyes.

From above, the sky ignited. The clones rained torrents of blue fire down upon Lazrael like a blazing storm from the heavens. The world trembled beneath their assault, but Lazrael only drew in a long, deliberate breath.

Then he exhaled.

A cataclysmic surge of flame erupted from his lungs, consuming the sky itself. The blue inferno, the storm, the clones, all were erased in a single breath, reduced to cinders and silence.

Or so it seemed.

From within the smoke, one clone survived, barely. It lunged forward, wrapping its dark wings around Lazrael from behind. In a final act of defiance, it exploded, engulfing them both in an ocean of blue fire.

Alfons watched the blast from below, shielding his eyes as the flames consumed the sky.

But then... Lazrael stepped out of the fire, utterly unharmed. Instead of resisting the flames, he began eating them, swallowing the blue fire like it was nourishment, like it belonged to him.

"Bloody hell..." Alfons muttered, his voice low and grim. Above him, the heavens themselves seemed to burn, as though the sun had descended and taken control of the sky.

Lazrael began to walk toward him, every step cracking the scorched earth beneath his feet.

(If this fight keeps goin'... Zagros'll be in real danger...) Alfons thought to himself, watching the creature approach.

Then Alfons spoke, his voice like an echo from another world:

"Chrakati'i Zratufra."

And in an instant, everything changed.

The battlefield vanished. The shattered wasteland dissolved into mist, replaced by a vast forest glowing with shades of pink and lilac. The sky turned aquamarine, streaked with soft blue clouds.

Tiny spirits, faint green phantoms marked with red dots, floated among the trees, watching Alfons and Lazrael curiously from behind the glowing leaves.

Lazrael turned his gaze around, quiet and composed, the faintest trace of curiosity flickering in his molten eyes.

"Chrakati'i Zratufra," he murmured. "The lost realm of the fae."

Note: There exist nine lost worlds scattered throughout Ladnoria.

The first was Daugranki, the lost world of the dark goblins; the second, which we have just been introduced to, the world of the Titans; Gribbi Dughna, the world of the dwarves; Prehty Evankrar, the world of the Valkyries; Dhagan'de Thronu, the world of the trolls; Ham Prij Grun, the world of the sirens; I'I Kala Mintra, the world of the harpies; Zrarika, the world of the witches; and Gehenna, which they once used as an astral world to store the overflowing magic they possessed.

Compared to the historical world, these nine realms were smaller, yet each carried its own unique geological and vital characteristics. Not everyone could enter them, only mortals who managed to master a vast amount of magic. It is said that the shamans who lived on the eastern isles near Zagros were known for accessing these realms, though what became of them remains unknown.

Alfons trained for hundreds of years to be able to use only the first three worlds, which are considered to have the lowest quantum structure of the remaining six. What exactly happened to these realms that turned them into lands ruled by mysterious decay is unclear to anyone.

"Aye... seems like yer logic an' speech've gone dull, lad," said Alfons, staring hard at Lazrael. "Guess that Nadragar form o' yours is still a bit half-baked, eh?"

Lazrael gave no reply, no flicker of emotion. He simply stood there, his burning eyes fixed forward, unbothered by Alfons' provocation.

(Aye, but that's even worse for me... the most dangerous thing in battle's a madman's mind.)

Lazrael slowly approached a nearby tree. Alfons' gaze followed him as the dragonborn touched the trunk with quiet curiosity. Then, without warning, Lazrael drove his hand into the wood. The tree's bark began to change color, turning to the same scaled hue as his skin.

With terrifying ease, Lazrael ripped the entire tree from the earth and hurled it straight toward Alfons.

"Bloody hell!" Alfons shouted, dartin' to the side in a burst o' flame. The massive trunk tore through the forest, smashing through every other tree in its path until nothing but splinters and smoke were left in its wake.

"What the hell are you think—Hmm!?"

In that instant, dozens of trees lunged toward Alfons from every direction, attacking in the same furious manner as before. He dodged with effort, the sheer speed and force of the Draken-infused trees pushing him to his limits. Ordinary trees shattered on impact with those imbued by pure Draken essence. One of them was faster than Alfons expected, he had no choice but to block it with his arms.

But his earlier blow had weakened him. Unable to channel his full strength, he was hurled backward dozens of meters, crashing through debris and earth.

"Bloody hell!" he roared, forcing himself back to his feet.

Yet Lazrael was already waiting for him, having laid a cunning trap. Alfons' eyes widened in shock, but before he could react, instinct took over. He spun midair, catching the onrushing tree with both hands, twisting its trunk as he hurtled toward Lazrael.

He thrust his legs forward, igniting a torrent of blue fire from the soles of his boots. The blaze launched him like a missile, propelling both himself and the massive tree backward toward Lazrael. The shockwave of heat ripped across the battlefield.

But Lazrael moved faster than thought. He soared above Alfons, and with both legs, struck down.

"KHOHHHKK!"

The impact thundered through the barren land. Every nearby tree shattered; the ground itself split open, forming a vast crater beneath Alfons' battered body. Lazrael landed atop him, one foot pressed against Alfons' abdomen, declaring wordlessly that the duel was his.

Inside his cracked helmet, Alfons gasped for breath, exhaustion clawing at his lungs. His armor hissed with the heat of battle. Slowly, he lifted his left hand and grabbed Lazrael's leg, the one pinning him down.

Lazrael looked down with cold indifference, watching Alfons struggle.

Through gritted teeth, Alfons growled, his accent rough and heavy, "Heh... ye think ye've won, do ye, bastard? I'll tear that smug look off yer face... even if it's the last bloody thing I do!"

Lazrael said nothing. He merely pressed his foot harder against Alfons' stomach, forcing a guttural growl from him as the ground trembled beneath their clash.

"AAHHHKKK!" Alfons howled, the cry tearing through the scorched air as pain rippled across his body.

But suddenly, Lazrael felt something shift. The crushing force he was exerting with his leg began to fade, as if an invisible weight now held him in place. Alfons' grip on his leg grew tighter by the second, veins of molten light running across his armored gauntlet. Lazrael instinctively tried to wrench his leg free, but it wouldn't budge.

Then came the voice. A deep, trembling growl from within the lion-shaped helm.

"This... is the fifth armor I've worn..." Alfons rasped, his tone thick with fury and exhaustion. "Ye really think... ye can bring me down... that easy... lad?"

Lazrael's eyes widened, just before a wave of raw power erupted from Alfons' body. The ground cracked, the trees bent, and Lazrael was flung violently backward, smashing through the enchanted woods of the fairy realm. Ancient trees splintered and crumbled as his body carved a blazing path through them until, at last, he skidded across the ground and rose to one knee, panting.

From the smoke beyond, heavy footsteps echoed, each one louder, heavier, as if the very world trembled beneath them. The mist parted, revealing a shifting silhouette cloaked in flame and gold.

Alfons stepped forward.

His new armor gleamed like molten sunlight, a lion's helm of gold, its eyes weeping tears of blood. Upon his shoulders rested two great pauldrons carved with humanoid faces: the left weeping in sorrow, the right laughing in manic joy. Across his chest, a massive crimson eye opened, its vertical black iris pulsing with hatred, alive, hungry. His knees bore faces as well: wrath on the left, fear on the right. A crimson cape billowed behind him, half-shrouding the golden armor, its edges flickering like burning silk.

In his hands he held a monstrous weapon, a hybrid scythe and axe, fused together by the snarling skull of a fox, one blade black and red, the other gold and black. The weapon seemed to breathe, whispering faintly in the silence.

Alfons raised his head, voice echoing through the void: "Armor Number Eight... Sycophanta Pugna."

The entire realm shuddered. Even the trees wilted, their leaves crumbling to ash at the overwhelming pressure radiating from the two warriors. The spirits of the fae gathered, silent and trembling, drawn to the sight of these beings whose presence alone distorted their tranquil world.

Lazrael staggered to his feet, staring in disbelief at the knight before him. The power rolling off Alfons was suffocating, ancient, vengeful, divine.

Alfons slowly placed his weapon aside, then pressed his clawed gauntlet into the burning red eye at the center of his chest.

"The biggest mistake yer mother ever made..." he growled, his voice now low, guttural, thick with that rasp, "...was givin' me this bloody power."

The iris of the crimson eye widened, then twisted, pulsing like a living thing. A guttural hum rippled through the air. Alfons drew his weapon once more, and this time its true form was revealed: the scythe, veined with molten yellow lava, and the hammer, coated in crimson frost that bled heat and cold alike into the trembling air. Every droplet of lava melted the ground beneath him as if it were parchment; every flake of that blood-red frost froze falling leaves in midair before they shattered into dust.

Alfons began to walk forward, each step a promise of ruin, the echo of his boots like a funeral march. Then, in a blink, he was gone.

Lazrael's eyes darted wildly, searching. And then he saw it, only for an instant. The blade of the scythe, glowing like molten sunfire, hovered a few millimeters from his throat, gripped firmly in Alfons' hand.

Lazrael ducked instinctively. The blade hissed past, close enough to shear several burning strands of his hair. Alfons spun the weapon in a deadly arc, shifting its weight from scythe to hammer in a single fluid motion, and brought it crashing down with impossible speed.

Lazrael had no choice but to catch the hammerhead with both hands, his scaled palms clamped around the iron shaft. But the frost, that cursed, blood-red frost, bit into his flesh at once, numbing him to the bone.

With a snarl of pain, Lazrael opened his jaws wide and exhaled, a storm of fire and molten stone, raw and unrestrained, surged toward Alfons. The entire forest ignited in an instant. The ground cracked and bled magma as fiery rain poured from the heavens. Every tree, every root, every living thing within sight was reduced to ash.

Yet when the flames began to fade, Alfons stood unmoved, unchanged. The frost of his hammer glimmered in the inferno's glow, untouched by the dragon's fury.

"Like it or not," Alfons growled, "ye dragons are still reptiles at heart. Yer weakness'll always be the same, ye cannae handle the cold."

He gestured toward Lazrael's wings, now pale and brittle from the freezing aura of the hammer.

"RRAAANKKHHH!" Lazrael roared. His physical body dissolved into a pool of dark, boiling blood, then, with a sharp crack of energy, reformed right before Alfons, whole again but visibly strained.

"I see ye're learnin' tae use that new power o' yers," Alfons muttered, tightening his grip on the weapon. "Then let's see what ye can really do."

He lunged.

The scythe sliced from the left, Lazrael barely dodged, shoving himself backward. Then came the hammer from the right, again, a narrow escape. The exchange repeated, relentless, a blur of molten arcs and frozen trails, until Lazrael's movements became purely instinct.

Suddenly, Alfons thrust his left hand to the ground. A roar of energy burst outward, a crimson blizzard, blood-colored snow cascading forward like a living avalanche. Trees shattered, boulders split apart, and the land itself seemed to be swallowed by the storm.

Lazrael spread his dark, scaled wings and surged upward, only to be met by dozens of molten spheres rising from beyond the blizzard, each one bursting with deadly heat. He twisted, weaved, dodged through them in midair, but the rain of lava was merciless. The clouds themselves boiled away into aquamarine steam.

One molten orb grazed his right wing, instantly, it melted halfway through. Lazrael cried out, spiraling downward toward the blood-red avalanche below. In desperation, he struck his chest with his left fist, an explosive burst of energy shot through his body, altering his fall just in time to avoid the torrent.

He slammed into the side of a lonely mountain, clutching at its jagged face with both hands as boulders cascaded below. When he looked back, the forest was gone, devoured by the avalanche and the molten storm that followed it.

But before he could breathe, clang!

The tip of Alfons' weapon struck, piercing into the mountainside just beside Lazrael's head. Alfons was above him, pressing forward with monstrous strength. Lazrael caught the shaft between both hands, straining to hold it back, but the agony was unbearable, his left hand froze solid, his right began to melt. The sheer conflict of heat and cold warped the stone around them, one side of the mountain glazed with ice, the other dissolving into molten rock.

With a roar, Alfons drove forward, shoving Lazrael clear off the cliff. The mountain cracked apart, the frozen half and the molten half collapsing into the forest below in a cataclysmic descent.

From above, Alfons descended through the smoke, striking Lazrael square in the chest with the hammer. The impact was immense, but Lazrael's instinct saved him again. His right wing folded forward, taking the blow. It shattered in half, torn and burning, as Lazrael screamed in pain.

Then, something shifted in his eyes. A flicker of alien light. His vision began to blur. The world darkened. Alfons' towering figure, cloaked in gold and crimson, began to fade before him, like a phantom dissolving into flame and frost.

Lazrael found himself floating face-up toward the sky, adrift on an endless dark ocean. Around him, lilies shimmered with green light, their glow spreading softly across the waves. Black petals drifted down like slow rain. The sun above was dim, the sky a deep brown.

He lifted his hand to catch a petal before it touched his face, and only then realized he was no longer in his Nadragar form. He was himself again.

Beside him, a throne carved from ancient wood hovered motionless above the ocean's surface. Slowly, the shape of a person took form upon it until it became whole: smooth, feminine legs; a red gown draped over the aged branches of the throne.

"I expected more from you, Lazarus. I've grown tired of calling you by that false name," said the Twelfth Kindu, leaning upon her throne above the black waters.

"M-Mother... Where am I? Where are we?" Lazarus asked, fear and uncertainty trembling in his voice as his words rippled through the dark sea.

"Ah, yes. I never told you about this place. Hagria Rayuka. It's a path, a telepathic realm that exists between a Kindu and one whose spirit is bound to theirs. Your Nadragar form connected us subconsciously. Perhaps it's seeking something even you don't understand. Perhaps it's asking permission to release its true potential. Or perhaps it's trying to learn how much you're worth to me. That's what I find most fascinating about the Nadragar, it acts on its own, as if two souls share one body. My Hagria Rayuka has taken the shape your Nadragar envisions. Truly remarkable," said the Twelfth Kindu.

Lazarus drifted silently above the ancient sea, listening to his mother's voice. He didn't know what to do, only to stare at the dim sun that cast wet shadows over this false world.

"'I'm glad you trust your mother so much. You've served me faithfully for thirteen thousand years. You are everything to me. The reason I live.'"

Her tone hardened.

"Are those the words you want to hear? How pathetic. Any other child would have fled, or taken their own life, if they had a mother like me. But you... you still try to help me. Still cling to me. You've become an annoyance. A parasite. A reflection of my failures. I wish you'd drown in this ocean instead of hovering there, searching for hope in that fake sun. Every time I see you, I want to strangle myself. Lazarus, you are the reason I am so vile. You are the reason this world must be remade by my hands. You don't deserve to live in the same world as me.

I hate you... I hate you with every fiber of my soul... Lazarus, my son... I hate you."

In that moment, Hagria Rayuka vanished from Lazarus' sight. In its place stood Alfons, his scythe buried deep in Lazarus's throat.

Lazarus was crying, but his tears evaporated as the fire burned in his eyes. Alfons withdrew the scythe, and Lazarus's body fell from the air, down into the ruined, burning forest below. Like an Icarus who sought the love of the sun, he descended betrayed, lost among the scales of no one.

Alfons descended after him, landing beside the fallen body. The scales covering Lazarus began to melt away, revealing pale skin underneath as time passed. His lifeless face stared upward, the wound in his neck still bleeding freely. His dark, uncoagulating blood spread across the scorched soil of that unknown world like a river searching for its sea, searching for a reason to exist.

From the wound, a single blue chrysanthemum began to bloom, the chrysanthemum of the fairy realms, those who adore the scent of foreign blood. The flowers spread, covering the blood and encircling Lazarus in a sorrowful embrace.

Alfons deactivated his armor. It disintegrated into a vast cascade of sand, its grains carried away by the wind. Beneath it, the Black Lion, his true form, stood revealed at last.

"I won, Lazarus," Alfons muttered, his voice low and mournful as he gazed down at the cold, lifeless body.

The world fell into silence. The spirits of the fairies hovered at the edges of the scene, watching with their pinprick eyes from every direction. Alfons sank to his knees, exhaustion pressing down after the battle. His breathing was heavy, deep. He looked at Lazarus' face, empty now, stripped of ambition, of even the will to breathe in that little meadow drenched in despair.

"Hm?" Alfons frowned as he noticed a small wound on his abdomen, a remnant from the fight, right beside the gaping mark left from his battle with the guardians of Hell. He touched the wound, and a single drop of blood stained his fingertip.

"Must've hurt masel' when he kicked me wi' tha—no... NO! Smakra!" he gasped suddenly.

Acting on instinct and fear, Alfons recited the phrase of the Gate that led to the Morlock Library. Before him appeared the door with a baboon's skull for a handle. He grasped it and threw it open in a panic, rushing through—

"No! Oh, NO! Damn it! DAMN IT ALL!!!"

Alfons roared, his voice cracking into madness as he looked upon the horror before him. Every Morlock was dead, slaughtered in unspeakable ways. The library was entirely burned, not a single book left intact. But worst of all, the Egg was gone.

"Bloody hell! I knew it! The Twelfth Kindu used her own son just tae wound me, not tae kill me, so she could take ma blood and find the Egg's location! DAMN YE!" Alfons bellowed, slamming his fist into the ruined shelves, his voice echoing with fury and despair.

"For once, you're right, Alfons," came a calm, echoing voice behind him.

"YOU!!! KINDUUUU!!!" Alfons shouted, sprinting instinctively toward one of the spiritual fragments of the Twelfth Kindu.

"You said my greatest mistake was granting you this power," Kindu's voice coiled from behind the closing door of the library. "But you must know something... I never make mistakes..."

The door slammed shut before he could reach it.

Alfons stopped. He stood frozen before it, powerless. Mentally broken. Never before had he felt such despair. The strongest mortal in all of existence, reduced to nothing more than a mortal again, trapped in the gods' cruel game.

And all it took... was a single drop of blood...