Starting out as a Dragon Slave-Chapter 175: The Shadow Strike

The Ignivara mothership was a floating cathedral of war, an aerial fortress whose architectural complexity defied understanding. Its labyrinthine corridors, ten meters wide and four meters high, stretched for several kilometers through the metallic carcass of the flying behemoth. The polished black steel walls, forged in the draconic blast furnaces of the Infernus mountains, reflected the bluish light of luminescent crystals embedded at regular intervals. These magical gems, as large as a man’s fist, pulsed with a constant glow that cast dancing shadows on the metallic surfaces.

The air vibrated with the incessant murmur of military activities: the metallic clatter of iron-shod boots on the steel floor, orders barked in the guttural draconic language, the hissing of pneumatic messages circulating through communication conduits, and above all, the dull humming of mana engines that kept this titanic mass airborne. The smell of heated metal mingled with the natural sulfur emanations that dragons gave off, creating a heavy and oppressive atmosphere.

Mordred advanced through the heart of this organized chaos with the measured gait of a predator observing its prey. His dark scales, of a deep black tinted with purple reflections, blended perfectly among those of the dragon soldiers surrounding him. His transformation was so perfect that even his own human brethren would have had difficulty recognizing him. His horns, elegantly curved backward, bore the ritual engravings typical of minor draconic nobility, a detail he had carefully reproduced after hours of observation.

Every step was calculated, every breath controlled. He had spent weeks studying the habits, speech patterns, postures, and even the specific gait of draconic military messengers. His cover was so deep that he even thought in their language, unconsciously modulating his facial expressions to reproduce their natural arrogance.

At his reinforced leather belt hung the enchanted scrolls he had recovered from the messenger he had intercepted three hours earlier. The elimination had been silent and efficient: a single strike to the base of the skull with surgical precision, the body hidden in a rocky ravine where it wouldn’t be discovered for several days. The scrolls were sealed by complex protection runes, but Mordred had taken the time to decipher them during his ascent to the upper deck, using his deep knowledge of draconic magic.

The content of these documents was invaluable. They detailed with military precision the current situation at the front: exact positions of the last human resistance units, state of enemy fortifications, assessment of the combat power of surviving S-rank hunters, available mana reserves, identified weak points in the defenses, everything the supreme commanders needed to deliver the final blow to human resistance.

Even more worrying, the reports indicated that human resistance was much weaker than he had imagined. The losses were catastrophic, food and ammunition reserves practically exhausted. According to draconic estimates, the final fall was only a matter of hours, not days.

Mordred climbed the last stairs leading to the command bridge, his claws clicking slightly on the ridged metal. The elite guards posted at checkpoints saluted him respectfully, recognizing without hesitation the uniform and insignia he wore. His disguise was so perfect that he naturally emanated the aura of authority of an experienced messenger accustomed to rubbing shoulders with high-ranking leaders.

The heavy armored doors of the command bridge opened before him with a hydraulic whisper, revealing one of the most impressive rooms on the ship. The space was gigantic, circular, with a vaulted ceiling that rose fifteen meters high. Elevated observation balconies allowed subordinate officers to monitor operations from the upper levels. At the center stood a six-meter-diameter holographic tactical table, where a three-dimensional model of the battlefield slowly rotated, marked with thousands of luminous points representing moving units.

Varnor Ignivara dominated this room with his imposing presence. The patriarch of House Ignivara was a dragon of exceptional stature, even by the standards of his race. His deep red scales like molten lava reflected the light from the hologram, creating plays of shadows and reflections that accentuated his aura of power. His horns, a meter long and adorned with gold rings engraved with family coats of arms, testified to centuries of undisputed domination. His eyes, amber yellow with reptilian pupils, analyzed every detail of the battlefield with the acuity of a consummate military strategist.

He stood upright, arms crossed, in a posture that expressed both absolute confidence and indisputable authority. Every line of his massive body breathed power and contained violence. His powerful tail, three meters long and thick as an oak trunk, swayed slowly behind him, a sign of intense concentration.

At his side stood his daughter, Syléane Ignivara, heir to the lineage and formidable warrior in her own right. Smaller than her father but no less impressive, she possessed the deadly grace of a born fighter. Her slightly lighter red scales were marked with golden streaks that drew complex patterns along her arms and neck, a sign of her noble lineage. Her eyes, identical to her father’s, shone with keen intelligence and devouring ambition. She wore light but elegant armor, adapted to her fast and precise fighting style, and a draconic sword forged from stellar steel hung at her right hip.

Around them, a dozen senior officers studied different aspects of the battle, manipulating holographic data and coordinating the movements of different squadrons. The atmosphere was tense but confident, that of an army about to win a decisive victory.

- "Report," ordered Varnor in a deep voice that resonated throughout the bridge space.

His voice naturally carried the authority of decades of command, each word weighed and pronounced with the precision of a blade. He didn’t even deign to turn his head toward the new messenger, entirely absorbed in analyzing the tactical movements unfolding before his eyes.

Mordred bowed with the exact deference required by draconic military protocol, neither too deeply, nor too superficially. His salute was that of a seasoned messenger accustomed to dealing with high nobility.

- "Our forces are progressing according to strategic forecasts, Lord Ignivara," he declared in a perfectly modulated voice.

He had subtly altered his vocal cords with his mana to reproduce the typical accent of the eastern regions of the draconic empire, from where the messenger he had replaced supposedly came.

- "The human S-rank hunters are putting up fierce resistance, particularly in the northwest sector, but their coordination is rapidly deteriorating. Our analysts estimate that their last defensive line will collapse in less than forty-eight hours."

He made a calculated pause, letting the weight of the information spread through the room, before adding:

- "Enemy losses are substantial. They have lost sixty percent of their effective combat power since the beginning of the final offensive. Their mana and food reserves are reaching critical minimum."

Varnor nodded slowly, a smile of cruel satisfaction forming on his reptilian lips. His fangs, long as daggers and sharp as razors, gleamed in the holographic light.

- "Excellent. Humans have always had this pathetic weakness: they fight with their emotions rather than their intellect. Once their morale is broken, they collapse like a house of cards."

Syléane, who was carefully observing the tactical data, looked up at the hologram.

- "Father, our spies report unusual movements in the eastern sector. It seems they’re trying to regroup their last elite forces for a desperate attack. Wouldn’t it be prudent to accelerate our offensive to outmaneuver them?"

- "Patience, my daughter," replied Varnor, manipulating the hologram to enlarge the area in question. "Let them gather. This will allow us to annihilate them all in one fell swoop, rather than hunting them one by one across the entire continent. A well-set trap is worth more than a thousand pursuits."

Taking advantage of this exchange that captivated the full attention of both dragons, Mordred discreetly stepped forward toward the tactical table. Each movement was measured, natural, that of an experienced messenger who knew perfectly his role and place in the military hierarchy. He slowly unrolled the first enchanted scrolls on the holographic surface, their magical seals briefly shimmering upon contact with the table’s energy.

- "Here is the entirety of intelligence collected in real time by our reconnaissance units, Master Ignivara," he declared with appropriate deference. "These documents contain the exact coordinates of their last bastions, the precise state of their military and civilian resources, as well as the psychological assessment of their commanders. Our infiltrated agents have also provided detailed information on their morale and tactical intentions."

The patriarch extended a clawed hand toward the first scroll, his eyes still riveted on the hologram where the pieces of the grand military chessboard evolved.

- "Excellent work, messenger. This information will allow us to deliver the final blow with maximum efficiency."

This was the instant Mordred had patiently awaited, orchestrated, provoked. The exact moment when his target’s attention would be entirely focused elsewhere, when the veil of authority and vigilance would lower just enough to offer him an infinitesimal but decisive window of opportunity. Weeks of preparation, observation, and meticulous planning crystallized in this unique instant.

His heart slowed until it became almost silent, his circulatory system automatically adapting to deadly combat mode. Every muscle fiber tensed like a steel spring. His mana, until then perfectly concealed and dispersed throughout his body to maintain his disguise, concentrated brutally at a focal point of terrifying density, invisible but ready to explode like a time bomb.

[Instinctive Awakening activated]

[Shidensen triggered]

Time itself seemed to crystallize, to freeze in a bubble of slowed reality where each fraction of a second stretched like an eternity. Mordred perceived every detail with supernatural acuity: Varnor’s heart rhythm, the movement of his ribcage, the exact position of his vital organs, the micro vibrations of the air around him.

He propelled himself forward with a speed that defied the laws of physics, his body becoming a deadly projectile guided by his days of survival and training. The three meters separating him from the patriarch were crossed in less than a tenth of a second, so quickly that the officers present perceived only a dark blur.

A destructive energy, accumulated and compressed for hours, exploded in every cell of his being. His muscles contracted with the power of a steel spring releasing all its tension at once. His bones instantly strengthened, his reflexes reached superhuman levels.

His right hand, transformed into a deadly weapon by magic and determination, plunged with the precision of a surgical scalpel into the patriarch’s chest. The blood-red scales, though reputed more resistant than the finest steel, tore like parchment under the force of impact. His fingers, become claws of supernatural sharpness, traversed flesh and bone to close violently around the dragon’s beating heart.

Direct contact with the vital organ allowed him to physically feel each beat, each contraction of the massive cardiac muscle. A dragon patriarch’s heart was as large as a human head, and its pumping power was proportional to the gigantic size of these creatures.

[Toxic skill activated: Maximum level Mortal Paralysis]

[Neurotropic poison injected directly into the circulatory system]

[Estimated action time: 15 seconds]

[Target resistance: high but insufficient]

The magical poison instantly spread through the patriarch’s circulatory system. Unlike ordinary toxins that had to cross natural biological barriers, this one was injected directly into the heart of blood circulation, guaranteeing immediate and total diffusion.

Varnor instinctively tried to grip his attacker, his powerful hands rising to crush what was attacking him, but his muscles were already beginning to paralyze. The neurotropic poison blocked nerve signal transmission, progressively transforming his massive body into a prison of insensible flesh. His eyes, still perfectly conscious and alert, dilated with horror as he realized the extent of what was happening to him.

His reptilian face contorted in an expression of extreme pain and absolute incredulity. Paralysis crept up his limbs, but his brain remained fully functional, allowing him to feel every second of his agony with terrible clarity.

- "Who... are you...?" he managed to whisper, his voice barely audible, each word costing him superhuman effort. His vocal cords, partially paralyzed, produced nothing more than a hoarse and desperate breath. His eyes, bloodshot from the effort to fight against the poison, fixed on Mordred with a mixture of helpless rage and morbid curiosity.

Mordred brought his face within inches of the dying dragon’s, his own eyes gleaming with an icy and implacable light. His voice, returned to its natural state now that his disguise no longer mattered, resonated like a funeral knell:

- "I am the one who signs your end, Ignivara. The last face you will see before sinking into eternal darkness. I am the vengeance of all those you have massacred, the incarnation of the justice you have so long evaded."