A roar split the air.

  Then—

  Silence.

  Dust drifted over the ground, weightless, whispering as it fell.

  For a moment, the camp was still.

  Then the silence shattered.

  A shockwave burst outward—a ring of pressure that scooped the dust from the earth and hurled it skyward.

  The cloud curled inward like a breaking wave.

  Two silhouettes collided at its heart.

  Metal met wood.

  KLANG!

  TONG!

  CRUCK!

  Sound flooded back; violence claimed the air.

  The curved blade struck fast and vicious.

  Karlon was an offensive powerhouse, agile as flame—unleashing sword forms that flowed with lethal grace, each cut a masterstroke honed by blood and instinct.

  His weapon never lost momentum; even misses arced back into deadly orbits, force conserved with ruthless efficiency.

  Arion met him on the back foot—not from weakness, but from discipline. His style was born of strategy: measured distance, sweeping arcs, precise rhythm, surgical counters.

  A style his master hammered into his very being.

  He spun Recall in blinding flashes, snapping her through every angle to parry and redirect, feeling the rhythm of his opponent, one collision after another.

  It was a dance—tense, breathless, edged with razor margins.

  Karlon, strangely, was not brutish in any sense; he wielded the blade as an extension of his will. It wasn’t just a connection, but a symbiotic relationship between the two.

  The earth quaked beneath their feet, yet the two fighters existed in a sealed pocket of absolute focus—the surrounding chaos of toppling tents, scattering embers, and fleeing shadows reduced to distant noise.

  Dust exploded outward with every clash, as though the air itself recoiled from their private equilibrium.

  Karlon lunged, leading foot stamping down; the curved sword whipped from his left in a rising uppercut that sang through the dark.

  Recall met it mid-arc. The blade rode the shaft with serpentine grace, sliding past—just clearing Arion’s scalp. A few silver strands drifted free, severed clean.

  Instinct took over. Arion’s hands twisted, channeling the incoming momentum into Recall’s own swing. The metal fitting skimmed above Karlon’s nose, jerking his head back, scales rasping.

  They collided once more.

  “You impress me, friend!” Karlon laughed, breath hot with exhilaration.

  “I don’t see many quarterstaff wielders. Thrilled you’re my first!”

  “GRRR—” Arion snarled through clenched teeth, muscles burning.

  “Will you shut up!?” he spat, jaw tight. “I’m trying to focus here!”

  Karlon’s eyes flared wide with delight. “Yes! Let us step it up a notch!”

  His fingers clamped around Recall. Her pulse spiked erratically, violent—outraged at the alien grip.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Then Karlon’s scales hissed like coals doused in oil; crimson light bloomed along every ridge, radiance pooled outwards.

  Arion’s eyes widened.

  “Now,” Karlon rumbled, voice dropping to a guttural, demonic timbre, “how will you handle this?”

  “SCALE CREMATION!”

  “FROST SNAP!”

  The two spells synchronized, a flare of white swept over them—then, detonation.

  Flame and frost smashed together, birthing a roiling sphere of superheated steam that expanded with explosive fury.

  The backlash hurled them apart.

  Karlon dug heels into soil, blade carving the earth as he arrested his slide, sparks spitting from the edge.

  Arion fared worse. The steam cannoned him backward—skin scraping dirt, boots skidding, body tumbling until he slammed to a halt in a spray of mud and torn grass.

  Recall had spun free in the blast. He spotted her lying several metres away, wood gleaming wetly.

  Before he could reach out his hand, the steam curtain tore open.

  A curved edge sliced straight for his throat—Arion rolled aside, the blade whistling past his ear, close enough to feel the displaced air.

  He tumbled toward a stack of waterskins. No time to think. He lunged sideways as Karlon’s sword crashed down; liquid burst outward in glittering arcs.

  Desperation sharpened into calculation. Arion forced Luminary into the pooling water beside his arm. The liquid whirled alive, spinning into a translucent disc that hardened mid-motion.

  A round shield, rippling yet unyielding.

  It snapped into place just as the next strike landed. The impact rang through bone, but the shield held—barely. Karlon was driving him like prey.

  His other hand drove into the water’s current.

  Scald Burst.

  The water erupted into boiling fury; steam roared outward like a dragon’s breath.

  Arion waited for some sign of damage.

  Instead, laughter—deep, mocking—cut through the hiss.

  A hand plunged through the torrent, ripping into the water's currents. “You think some steam would hurt a Drakin?”

  Arion drew his right arm back, fingers splayed wide.

  His wrist and arm tilted, twisted. Fingers moved in tandem—then, a snap.

  VHRMMMMM!

  Arion laughed between gritted teeth, “No. But this might.”

  Karlon’s eyes tracked the sudden blaze of orange threading through the water. A grinding disc erupted from the side, edge screaming as it carved through liquid and dust alike.

  In an instant the curved blade rose to meet it.

  KKTZZZZ!

  The disc gnashed against steel, sparks cascading in violent orange-white fountains. Arion poured every scrap of will into the push—yet the blade held, unyielding.

  “You’ll have to do better if you want to bite through Kavisli!” Karlon’s chuckle rolled like distant thunder.

  Rain arrived without warning. Fat drops struck the Heat Coil and vanished in angry hisses; they met Karlon’s scales and evaporated instantly.

  TSS–TSS–TSS—

  “Ahh, look what you’ve done,” Karlon purred. “You’ve made him hungry.”

  Sharp teeth lined his mouth.

  “He wants to show you something.”

  The Heat Coil faltered, rotation stuttering as its glow dimmed—siphoned away.

  Kavisli pulsed with stolen warmth, veins of orange tracing its length like molten rivers.

  Shit!

  Another stutter. Karlon shoved; the disc veered wide.

  “Kavisli’s starving now!”

  He swept low and hard. The blade sliced through the water currents—impact. Force lifted Arion clean off his feet.

  Pit-Pat.

  Pitter.

  THUMP—SLUSH!

  He struck mud, sliding across the slick surface in a spray of filth.

  He surged upright—

  WOOSH—BLASH!

  —Only to meet a right hook swinging like a siege ram.

  The world fractured into frames: fist, mud, rain, tent canvas, flame. A brazier toppled; ash and glowing coals scattered across wet earth.

  Droplets tip tapped along his dazed face. Earthquakes rolled through his skeleton.

  He groaned.

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  Karlon strode through the ruined tent canvas, boots crunching sodden cloth. He stepped into the next clearing and looked down.

  Arion lay sprawled, fighting to reclaim his rattled senses.

  The water shield spun one final, weary rotation before collapsing back into liquid and fading steam.

  Arion crawled backward until his shoulders met the overturned brazier. One hand clutched the Heat Coil; the other rose in front of him—palm out, a trembling ward against the predator above.

  “Ah, my friend,” Karlon said, voice warm with mock sympathy as rain steamed off his scales. “That frightened look doesn’t suit you.”

  Arion’s laugh came ragged, edged with pain. “’Cause it isn’t. Dipshit.”

  Karlon’s brow furrowed.

  A faint whistle sliced the downpour.

  Karlon spun toward it.

  He swept Kavisli upward—

  CLANG!

  The blade shuddered as Recall crashed into metal and scale, driving Karlon back several paces.

  Arion caught her on the descent, spun on his heel, and hurled the Heat Coil forward in a blazing arc.

  Karlon barely deflected; the disc grazed his cheek, drawing a sizzling line of blood.

  When his gaze snapped back, Arion stood waiting—faint smile curling his lips, two fingers leveled at the Drakin like a loaded gun.

  Rain fell harder, each drop glowing faintly.

  Arion’s Vitalis brushed the storm—a lattice of falling mirrors, every droplet refracting light in shimmering webs.

  He exhaled once. Steady. Controlled.

  A painful grin split his face—dangerous, reckless, cold as the rain that slid down his neck.

  I wonder…

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  Scale Cremation

  Tier 3 — Dragonblood Invocation

  Description:

  A volatile self-ignition technique unique to Drakin lineage. The caster channels Luminary Essence through the lattice of their scales, fusing external Essence with the body’s innate thermal Vitalis. The result is an over-saturation of stored heat — a chain reaction that combusts outward in a wave of incandescent fire. When triggered deliberately, the eruption incinerates everything within reach; when uncontrolled, it reduces the user to molten ruin.

  Essence Principle:

  Heat seeks equilibrium. When Vitalis refuses release, pressure turns inward until the boundary between self and flame collapses. Each scale becomes a micro-furnace, absorbing and amplifying Luminary until structural limits fail. The ensuing discharge manifests as a thermal shockwave — an outward translation of the body’s collapse into pure combustion.

  Practitioner’s Note:

  Mastery lies not in endurance, but in timing. Ignite too soon and you vanish; ignite too late and the enemy does. Contain the breath between skin and flame, guide the overload along the ridges, then let go before the flesh remembers pain.

  Maxim:

  “Burn the body, free the flame.”