Savage Awakening 529. Shards

Bonus chapter!

//

There was one thing Zane did want to ask. It’d been baffling him for a little while now.

“What’s that Patriarch fellow’s deal?”

“Lyxandor?” Noughtfire leaned back. “Where to begin… as it concerns you, disciple, he’s certainly using you as motivation for his son.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Though Zane still didn’t know why the fellow seemed so hell-bent on him. He’d never even met the guy, as far as he knew.

“As for Patriarchs in general… he’s not the first I’ve dealt with. Some are more of a nuisance, some less. Most are wise enough to leave me to my research. You’ll have noticed, disciple, that I tend not to pay much attention to the goings-on of the outside world. It’d have to inconvenience me personally.” 

“Reina said you helped a lot with the strategizing last war,” Zane pointed out. 

Noughtfire shrugged. “The end of the world would prove quite the inconvenience.”

“That’s fair.”

The old fellow definitely was a hermit. But Zane did get the feeling Noughtfire was less live-and-let-live about these things than he let on. He’d gone out of his way for Zane quite a few times, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t just because of his Stormfire potential. Though it was always hard to say with the old fellow.

“You look as though you’re chewing on something, disciple,” said Noughtfire.

“You’re crusty,” Zane informed him. “But you’ve got a heart of gold.”

Noughtfire actually chuckled at that. Then—“...No.” 

Zane figured he’d carry on believing it anyway.

“Where were we?”

“The Patriarch,” said Zane. 

“Yes, yes. Personally, I find Lyxandor a waste. Careless. There is something to be said for that style of fighting, which is also a style of living—brutish aggression, combined with a keen eye for your enemies’ weaknesses, and doubly so those of your friends. So long as you manage to dominate everything and everyone within arm’s reach, you might well do fine for yourself! And that has been Lyxandor’s governing strategy for the past… well, since he was six years old.”

Noughtfire snorted. “I knew him then. He hasn’t changed much. If he sees a threat, he tries to crush it.”

“And… he feels threatened by me?” That seemed strange to Zane.

“He sees you as a threat to his son’s supremacy. And he’s one of these men who lives through his son. In that way, you are a threat to his ego, by proxy… He sees his son as his own property, to be broken and reforged as he pleases. Lyxandor has a fairly common psychology among Dragon patriarchs, in truth—that of the tyrant. The dragon is a tyrannical species; he is simply the peak of it. Combined with a certain power base and certain inherent gifts, that psychology can do very well for itself—in a limited setting, that is. And I do count Dragonspire, in this era, as limited in the grand scheme.” 

Noughtfire took a sip of tea.

“The question is: what happens if that mentality meets something it cannot dominate?”

Zane was finding this quite a motivating conversation.

“I guess we’re about to see.”

“I guess so.” 

There was another silence in which they both enjoyed their teas. “There’s an old saying from my homeland which has been misattributed to half a dozen sages,” said Noughtfire. “Never interrupt an enemy as he’s making a mistake. And I expect Lyxandor’s making a rather significant one. It’s hardly my job to get him out of it.”

The old fellow ‘hmph’d. “It was only a matter of time. Lyxandor is a big fish made for small ponds. But that pond is about to break open. The floodwaters are coming. I’m speaking of the End, disciple, and the Monsters that strain at their chains in that Superdungeon! Sooner or later, he would have run across a creature from greater seas… and nature would tell.”

“Makes sense.”

“It is a shame about his son,” sighed Noughtfire. “But that is not really my business either.”

“Yeah, he seemed an alright type…” Zane had a strange thought. “The Patriarch—he’s never tried anything on you, has he?”

“Lyxandor?” Noughtfire snorted. “I exist out of arm’s reach for him. I can go tens of thousands of years without seeing that dragon. Recent events have brought me to his attention…but no. He’s never crossed me.”

“You’re stronger than him, though… right?” 

“Stronger, weaker… we are both existences that near the apex of Empyrean. Physically, he is more robust. I have the deeper Law, for instance. The wise man knows that at such levels, things are never so simple… so that would be his answer. That it is impossible to know for certain.”

Noughtfire paused. “But if I had to make an educated guess,” he said slowly. “I would annihilate him.” 

“Nice.” Zane grinned. 

“Then again,” Noughtfire said with a slight smile. “The wise man would not brag. Or speak out in pride.”

“I never bought into all that ‘wise man’ stuff anyway,” Zane informed the old fellow. Though he did consider Noughtfire quite wise. His own stance on ego was that he found it rather useful. Life would be pretty dull without a bit of pride.

“Oh, it has its uses, now and again. It makes your enemies far more frightened of you than necessary, for one. It also makes men believe outrageous things simply because you’ve said it. You’d be surprised how often that comes in handy.”

“I could see that, actually.”

They kept on chatting. The sun faded to mid-afternoon, streaming soft orange through the dusty glass, and still the shadows showed a rather bulky man and a wizened, thin one having tea.

Soon the tea grew cold and it was getting to dusk.

“So there’s this Skill I’ve been working on…”

Zane explained his issue with Chainstorm Cage to Noughtfire, who made a ‘hmm’ sound. He wondered if the old fellow would have any tips.

“I was thinking I could get it with practice in battle,” he said. “I feel like it’s the kind of thing you need to feel to get.”

“Yes,” said Noughtfire. Zane waited for more, but that looked to be it.

He thought about it.

That was… surprisingly useful, actually.

“Thanks,” said Zane. 

“Anytime, disciple.” 

Zane made for the door, but he stopped just by the exit. He hadn’t really wondered before. But somehow being closer to Empyrean and finally feeling like he was getting a handle on that kind of power made him curious.

“So… you can get 1024 shards of Destruction, right?” he began.

“You can.”

He wondered if it was like asking a woman her weight or something. He figured he should just ask. “How many shards do you have?”

“Nine hundred and twenty-seven.”

“…Neat.”

“I like to think so.” Noughtfire seemed amused—which seemed to happen pretty often when Zane was here. “Is there anything else?”

“That’s about it, I think.”

With that, he gave the old fellow a wave and headed off.

***

Deep in the bowels of Planet Verxes, the ancestral homeworld of the True Dragons, there was a training ground. A lair reserved for the most elite of the True Dragons—those that crested Empyrean. 

The names of every Empyrean dragon were etched down its walls, and statues of its greatest cfigures towered over it all. LEONIDAS. KARAGAS. DRAEKAR. JAXARYS, read the names on the plinths. All glaring down on the arena below, where two top-tier dragons clashed. 

Elder Syrax Crystalscale had his own statue. He was a renowned duelist of the Deep Earth Hall—one of their fiercest front-line fighters in the Beginning of the End, taking down Endbringer after Endbringer with his signature crystal Laws. He’d even been a rival to Patriarch Azure Flame back when they were the two most talented dragons of their era, all those years ago.

But they’d dueled at early Empyrean, and that’d changed their trajectories forever. Now Lyxandor was peak T3. Syrax was still stuck in T0; he’d never recovered. The lore was that Lyxandor took a piece of his soul that day, just like he did all his foes.

Right now, Syrax looked nothing like the august figure shown by his statue. His namesake scales were badly cracked, like a pane of glass about to shatter. He howled and struck with desperation.

He slashed a Crystalline Claw.

Four giant crystal-essence claws materialized over Haxorax, the First Prince of dragons. Each tipped bright with Destruction, ripping reality as they fell…

The First Prince just let them land. They CLANG’d off with a shower of sparks. They managed four long white gashes against those golden scales.

But they couldn’t break them.

A host of Elders watched on, perched on the ledges above. They looked like they didn’t know quite what to think.

It seemed it was dawning on them just what kind of creature they’d made.

Elder Syrax looked crestfallen.

Patriarch Azure Flame grinned.

He almost felt sorry for the poor bastard. 

All that effort, all that Destruction… and nothing. Nothing but the evidence of his own weakness. Some things never changed.

Haxorax unhinged his jaw.

A pillar of Golden True Dragonflame cleaved the battlefield in two. Then it split, split again, began spinning madly, covering nearly the entirety of the battlefield in its scythes. Slashing the Crystalscale over and over, until the Elder was smashed out of the arena, spitting blood—

Syrax Crystalscale has reached critical health

Winner: Haxorax, First Prince of Dragons

Haxorax roared. 

“Syrax wields three Shards,” said Elder Jaxanor hoarsely. “And he could hardly leave a scratch…”

“And Noughtfire still thinks his little whelp will win, with his mere five! What’ll Zane Walker do? Tickle the boy?” said Elder Kraven.

“This duel is already over,” said Elder Greex.

They fought like starving crows for for his approval. 

“You’ve godsdamned outdone yourself, Sverrex!” Lyxandor gave Archpriest Sverrex a harder-than-necessary slap on the back. The Archpriest wheezed.

“I’m honored, Master Lyxandor.” The Archpriest looked relieved. He was the most capable of the dragons in matters of the soul.

“And these feckless rats had the nerve to doubt!”

The Elders all flinched. Lyxandor wasn’t truly angry; he was too delighted for that. But he liked keeping them on their toes. 

“I knew you’d manage it. His soul’s still there, is it not? It’s still damn near whole, is it not?” The Patriarch laughed. “As if one damned ritual would stop a dragon like my son!” 

“Yes, well—” Sverrex was sweating a little. He dabbed at his brow. “It took a few Draughts of Living-Death to calm him, as it were. But the Prince has stabilized, and… with rest—I must emphasize, again, with rest, my Patriarch, there is a chance at partial recovery. At present, he’s still in and out of lucidness—”

“Tell me he’s not in fighting shape.” 

“I… suppose…” 

Dya, Princess of the True Phoenix, shouldered her way past a few Elders. Before anyone could stop her, she leaped down into the arena.

“Haxxy!” she cried. “What’d you take so long in that blood pool for? You didn’t even say anything that time I came to visit! And don’t you think I forgot! Well, now you’re out, so you’ve got no excuse at all…”

She trailed off, blinking. “…Haxxy?”

Haxorax attacked.

Dya screamed. He had a claw around her throat when he froze. Then there was shock in his eyes, horror. He stumbled back, clutching at his head—

“Where—” he snarled. “Where am I?”

His eyes found the Patriarch’s and narrowed. “What have you done to me? Answer me!”