The moment the last echo of steel against flesh faded, a great silence fell upon the peak of Mount Ashendir.

The Founder's Spell, the safeguard that had endured for generations, was no more.

All eyes were fixed upon the figure who stood over the Heart of Kaeryth, its once-pulsing radiance guttering out as the Hero From Another World drove his greatsword deep into its core. The air around the ancient vessel shuddered, magic unraveling as centuries of woven power dissipated into nothingness.

The Hero's presence was like a wound in reality itself, one that bled into every single mind.

The man looked the same as he had when he had faced off against Lukas and Rodan all those years ago, except now the Hero wore a jagged eyepatch concealing a vicious scar—a scar that the Leviathan of the Deep had given the Hero in his final moments.

The Hero From Another World stood bare-chested, doing away with the armor that he had once worn, his body itself the true testament to his durability. Every muscle was sculpted from war, forged in endless battle, each fiber taut as if coiled for violence; his body a mural of scarred flesh that told stories of a thousand victories that the Hero had won in the name of humanity and the Titan they worshipped.

In his hand was the greatsword that had once been buried within Lukas' own guts. It was no polished relic, no gleaming holy weapon. Its edge was jagged, its frame battered by decades of merciless use, and yet its craftsmanship radiated mastery undeniable. That blade had history, its steel baptized in the blood of countless foes. Tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of dragons had fallen to its edge during the Great War, their deaths carved into the weight that the weapon carried.

Long strands of dark hair, now streaked with gray, clung to the Hero's face in a tangled mess, crusted with salt, dirt, and sweat. His beard had grown wild, unkempt, as though grooming was a luxury abandoned long ago. His features remained sharp and cut from stone, but they were sunken and haunted; the visage of one who had forgotten the taste of peace or the comfort of rest.

His eyes—one hidden, one hollow—bore no light, only the echo of what he once had been.

Before them stood the Champion of Oceanus, the savior of humanity, the weapon that had turned the tides against Linemall in the darkest days of the Great War. He was the Hero summoned from another world, a world where magic did not exist and the gods were but myth and legend.

In that world, the Hero had simply been a man.

In that world, his name was Jakob Fronterra. In that world, this man was once one Lukas called his own father.

The Hero's eyes fell upon Lukas.

For the briefest moment, something stirred in those eyes—an echo, a flicker, the faintest sign of memory.

The Hero's lips parted, a single word rasping out, broken and uncertain. "You…"

But it was not Lukas who made the first move.

Because he was not the only one who had history with the Hero From Another World.

This was the man—the very man—responsible for the death of Rodan Drakos. This was the man who had murdered Katrina's father, ripping his body to shreds without mercy. The blade of negation descended with all her rage behind it, a strike to sever history itself. But the Hero did not raise his sword. He did not parry, nor did he retreat. Instead, he moved with the speed and finality of inevitability. His fist collided with her weapon as though it were nothing more than brittle glass.

The blade shattered.

Fragments of steel scattered like dying stars across the stone of the mountain. And in that heartbeat, as Katrina was rendered defenseless, it became terrifyingly clear what would follow.

The next blow would not break steel. It would break her and put an end to Katrina's life.

Seven years ago, Lukas had allowed the past to hold him back. The guilt of living a life that never felt like his own had paralyzed him. He had been shackled by guilt, drowning in a past that he could neither claim nor escape.

But those shackles had already been broken.

The past would not cause him to waver. Not here and especially not now.

There were people who Lukas had come to care and love so deeply and now, their lives were in danger. He would not allow the Hero to bring harm to these people, he would not let the past take away his future.

The Champion of Oceanus had the power to end kingdoms, to extinguish the draconic race in the name of the god who had granted him the strength he had wielded in the past and would continue to wield now. But Lukas, son of Linemall, had power too. The power to stand, to shield and to protect.

For that was what it meant to bear the title of Dragon Lord.

It meant to be the pillar that his people could rely on.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

It meant fighting against the powers that be when no one else could.

The Draconic Flow surged. It was like liquid flame, flooding every nerve, every bone and every breath. His body convulsed as flesh yielded to something older, something greater. The cracking of bones was like thunder within him, lengthening, reforging. His skin split, scales forcing their way outward—black as midnight, yet gleaming with veins of molten blue that shimmered in the light. His spine arched, vertebrae unfurling into ridges that tore upward into jagged spines. His hands erupted into claws, talons sharper than any blade. Wings burst from his back, vast, leathery sails that stretched wide enough to blot out the sun. His face elongated, human features dissolving into the ancient majesty of dragonkind. His eyes were like the sea itself, carrying the unimaginable depths of power within it.

In the blink of an eye, Lukas Drakos was gone. In his place towered a Dragon Lord of Linemall, vast and terrible, the very vision of power made flesh. A roar tore from his throat, a sound that split the heavens. The mountains trembled, the seas shuddered and even the wind seemed to scatter in terror. That cry was defiance incarnate, the declaration of Linemall for all to hear.

The Hero had scarcely a heartbeat to process what had happened before the dragon was upon him.

Lukas' massive frame crashed into him, claws digging deep into flesh that felt tougher than steel. The force carried them off the summit of Mount Ashendir, tearing through rock and cloud alike, a living tempest of fury and defiance.

The Hero's one eye widened, his body buckling beneath the sheer momentum of the dragon's assault. They plummeted down the great mountain together, the world reduced to a blur of wind and violence. Yet even as Lukas carried him beyond the mountain's shadow, the Hero did not allow shock to take hold of him for much longer.

A fist lashed out, the power behind it so immense it rattled the dragon's ribs, driving pain deep into Lukas' core. The Hero's greatsword remained within the Heart of Kaeryth but even then the man did not need his blade. The Hero's strength was beyond mortal, beyond reason, a force that seemed to mock even the gods themselves. He struck again and again, fists hammering into scale and sinew, each blow threatening to rip Lukas apart.

Still, Lukas held onto him; his claws digging into flesh yet no blood was drawn.

Locked together in primal combat, they tumbled through the sky and their descent ended in catastrophe.

With a final heave, the Hero's force collided with Lukas' momentum, both of them crashing downward before finally slamming into the golden sands of Linemall's shores.

The world shook. Sand and sea erupted skyward. The land itself seemed to reel from the impact.

There, on the shattered coastline, Dragon and Hero faced one another yet again, the battle between past and present only having just begun.

Every breath that Lukas took burned, every muscle screamed at him to end it all and his Pool of Mana was like a hollow pit, all of his magical energy having been exhausted from the Rite of Talons and his battle against the Hydra. Lukas' body quivered beneath the weight of exhaustion, his limbs heavy as stone.

But none of that mattered.

Because before him stood the Hero From Another World.

Lukas knew better than anyone else the power that Jakob Fronterra commanded. Not even Rosalia and the Lady Kaitlyn Drakos—with their ability to speak to the force of nature that was Mana itself—would be able to stand against him. The Hero could turn this Kingdom to ash. He could wipe the draconic race from existence in the name of Oceanus, the god whose power he bore, and not a single soul could stop him.

Not a single soul except Lukas Drakos himself.

Lukas had always known this day would come. He knew that he would have to meet his father once more and this time it was clear that only one of them would be walking away from this alive.

This was his fight and his fight alone.

The Hero was not the only champion who bore the weight of immortals.

Lukas' veins did not carry the divine power of Kronos but the The Trials of Kairos Castle had stripped him of all weakness, the test of Time itself forcing him to become something beyond mortal measure and remaking him into something more. No longer could he be called merely human, no longer bound by the limits of ordinary flesh. He had endured those Trials not for glory, not for dominion, but for one reason alone: to protect his people.

And he needed that strength now, more than ever before.

So Lukas called upon the very Legacy that he had hoped he would never have to use again. He reached deep into himself, past the ache of spent mana, past the pain of weary bone and blood, and summoned the third and final Legacy. The Crest of the Lords flared to life within him, ancient and immutable. At once, his body surged with power, his veins igniting as though rivers of magic flowed through where blood once had.

It was not his strength alone that answered the call.

In an instant, Lukas felt the steady hand of his brother Rodan, the unwavering presence of his father Jaren. He felt the bloodlust of the Monarch, the fury of Valerion and the indomitable will of Thalarion Drakos himself. His forefathers, every Lord who had once led House Drakos and ruled over the Seas of Linemall, answered his call. Their spirits rose within him, their power flowing into his own until he was no longer one dragon but the culmination of all those who had come before him.

The air shuddered, trembling beneath the force of his awakening.

Magic blazed from his form, so dense and so vast, it rivaled even the oceanic might of the Hero.

And the Hero felt it.

Recognition, and perhaps a flicker of respect, gleamed within the Hero's one eye as he sensed the torrent of energy surging from Lukas.

This was not the uncertain foe who had once fought the Hero in desperation upon the open waters alongside his brother.

This was something more.

This was a Dragon Lord who had claimed his birthright.

The past would not define him. Not anymore.

This battle was not what Lukas had lost but what he had found.

It was for the living. It was for their future.

Lukas raised his head, his breath steady despite the storm raging within him.

The Hero shifted, muscles tightening as he braced himself for the battle ahead.

Then, they moved, colliding with force beyond anything Hiraeth had ever seen before, their duel lifetimes in the making. And so the battle between Lukas Drakos and the Hero From Another World began and it was one that would decide the fate of Linemall and all who called it home.

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.