The night sky above Camelot was on fire.

The dragon's wings beat with great force, spreading the already existing flames across the shattered city.

Below, the streets had become rivers of fire, the air thick with smoke and the smell of blood.

All available warriors, the knights, mages, and hybrids, fought hard, driven by desperation rather than hope.

Each spell that struck the beast was like a pebble hurled against a mountain.

Bolts of lightning, torrents of ice, blades of wind, all collided against the dragon's hide and most burst harmlessly across its scales, with only a few causing real damage.

Still, they fought.

The dragon, wounded yet unbroken, reared its head and bellowed. The force of the roar sent men flying.

Its tail swept through the streets, demolishing buildings and reducing entire platoons to mangled remains.

A line of archers on the rooftops unleashed a storm of arrows infused with spells or skills.

The shafts burned like stars, streaking through the smoke and striking the dragon's chest.

For a moment, the glow lit up its scales. Then the creature roared, turned its gaze upwards, and answered with fire.

Mages snapped into action, raising their shields. The protective domes bloomed to life, brilliant against the darkness, and held for half a minute.

Just half a minute.

Then they shattered, dissolving into sparks as the inferno consumed the streets beneath them.

When the flames faded, only ashes remained.

The dragon's eyes glowed with hate and hunger. It spread its wings, letting out another roar, and continued moving deeper into the city.

And the defenders broke before it.

At the center of the command post, King Cillian stood, his cloak torn, his golden armor cracked and blackened. His breathing was heavy, his hands trembling.

He stared down at his right hand, the dark veins standing out against his pale skin.

Demonic energy.

The infection was spreading.

He could feel it, the heat crawling through his veins, promising both strength and ruin.

His reflection in a shard of polished steel nearby showed what he dreaded. Faint lines of darkness creeping up his neck, and the red hue tainting his eyes.

He clenched his fist until blood dripped from his palm.

It burned his pride. The king of Camelot, bearer of the divine bloodline, savior of his people, now stained by the very corruption he had sworn to eradicate.

He thought of the generations of kings who stood before him. They had built Camelot as a sanctuary against the abyss.

And now its ruler bore the mark of that very abyss.

He wanted to scream. To tear the infection out with his own hands.

But then, a general stumbled through the smoke, his armor dented, his face streaked with ash.

"Your Majesty!" he shouted, kneeling despite his injuries. "The beast is heading for the merchant quarter! We've reinforced the lines, but it's breaking through faster than we can hold. What are your orders?"

Cillian didn't answer immediately.

His eyes drifted to the distant horizon, where the fire glowed brightest. The heart of his city, the place where his people lived, laughed, and dreamed, was being devoured before his eyes.

He exhaled slowly.

"Tell them to fall back," he said. "I'll handle it."

The general's eyes widened. "Your Majesty, you can't—"

"I can," Cillian interrupted, his tone firm but weary. "And I will."

The general hesitated, torn between obedience and fear. "You're the King," he pleaded. "Camelot needs you here. If you fall—"

Cillian's gaze hardened. "If I fall, then Camelot will rise with my death."

He turned away, drawing his sword from its sheath.

The golden blade shimmered faintly, responding to his touch, to the energy that once flowed through him.

Now, it hummed with something darker.

The infection had reached his heart, and yet, it made him stronger.

He didn't know if it was madness or mercy that made him accept it.

But what mattered now was not purity. It was survival.

He broke into a run.

As he charged towards the burning quarter, the night air whipped against his face, stinging his skin.

His armor flared with light, his mana merging with the corrupted energy in his veins.

It should have torn him apart in the same way it had done to his younger brother, Cecil. Instead, it fused, glowing gold shot through with red.

The soldiers saw him coming and parted, their cries echoing across the ruined streets.

"The King!"

"Our King fights!"

Cillian didn't slow down.

The dragon turned as he approached, its eyes narrowing. It roared, unleashing another wave of fire.

Cillian raised his sword. "Radiant Aegis!"

A golden barrier enveloped him just as the flames struck. The fire rolled over it, roaring in fury.

The heat was unbearable and the light blinding, but Cillian held firm, teeth clenched, feet digging into the scorched ground.

When the flames subsided, he leapt through the smoke.

His sword shone brightly like a fragment of the sun.

He struck.

The blade met the dragon's scales and sank deep. The dragon shrieked, thrashing violently, tail smashing into a tower and reducing it to rubble.

Cillian didn't stop.

Every swing of his sword tore through scale and sinew. He was faster and stronger now. The demon blood within him surged, flooding his limbs with power.

And for the first time, the dragon slowed.

"Secure the streets!" Cillian roared between strikes. "Raise barriers! Protect the civilians!"

The soldiers obeyed, their king's presence rekindling their courage. Mages raised shimmering shields of light, enclosing the battlefield as the two fought.

Cillian's blows landed with more strength, the energy around him glowing brighter.

He felt it. The breaking point. The moment he crossed the threshold.

His body burned from the inside, mana and demonic energy twisting together until they were indistinguishable.

His power ascended.

From S-rank to something greater.

SS-rank.

The streets trembled beneath his steps. The dragon tried to retreat, but Cillian was already upon it, driving his sword through its wing and pinning it to the ground.

The creature screamed, its tail flailing wildly, knocking soldiers aside like dolls.

Cillian leapt onto its back, golden fire wreathing his body.

He raised his sword high, channeling every last drop of power he possessed.

"Heaven's Sword," he whispered.

That was the spell of his ancestors, the might of Camelot's first kings.

Light gathered around him, brilliant and pure, piercing the darkness.

The dragon sensed death. It inhaled deeply, abyssal fire gathering in its throat.

For one moment, light and darkness met.

Then, the world exploded.

The sky turned white. The air split apart and a roar filled the air.

When the light faded, both figures fell.

Cillian's armor was cracked and scorched, his flesh burned, and his body impaled by shards of the dragon's scales.

Still, his hand clenched the hilt of his sword, which now protruded from the dragon's skull.

The beast convulsed once, twice, and fell still.

Its eyes dimmed. Its wings collapsed.

The King's final blow had pierced through the monster's skull, ending its rampage.

Cillian fell beside it, his body broken but his gaze calm.

Above them, the city burned.

Soldiers rushed to the fallen dragon, their cheers trembling through the smoke.

"The dragon's dead!"

"We've won!"

But when they reached their King, they found him lying still, his eyes half open, reflecting the firelit sky.

And as King Cillian passed from the world, he did it with a smile on his face.

His daughter would rule in his stead.

Princess Ines.

His pure, uninfected legacy.

Just as it should be.

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