The air still shimmered with the fading afterglow of Makhulu's artifact. It had erupted into a searing, magical brilliance that blanketed the battlefield in an ocean of light. The warriors of the Morningeyes Clan screamed as one—shields and swords clattering to the earth—as their eyes turned pale and useless, robbed of vision in an instant. The desert plateau that had should have echoed with the clash of steel now resounded with the confusion of the blind.

They were strong, every one of these warriors trained to face armies, monsters, and gods alike—but no training prepared them for this. They staggered in the dust, swinging blindly at the wind, calling out to one another in terror.

"Hold formation!" someone cried, but the command was lost beneath the roar of chaos.

Makhulu stood at the edge of it all, calm as the storm's eye, lowering the obsidian talisman he had unleashed. The eldest of the Magopo Brothers looked upon his work without satisfaction. His expression was one carved from regret, not cruelty. Yet his voice, when he spoke, carried the weight of authority.

"I mean it when I say none of you are to kill a single soul," he ordered quietly. "But the Head of the Morningeyes dies here."

His brothers—each towering and hardened by countless battles—obeyed without question. The army the Magopo Brothers had brought with them was just a precaution rather than a necessity.

The five of Makhulu's younger brothers descended upon the disoriented warriors of the Morningeyes, delivering swift, punishing blows that shattered weapons and cracked bones but left their victims breathing. These were warriors of discipline, not butchers. They fought with precision, striking to end resistance, not to slaughter.

But Rowan was another matter.

The Head of the Morningeyes Clan had fallen to one knee the moment the light struck him and it was clear that he had been affected the most by the light.

The Eyes of the Morning was the source of Rowan's strength, allowing him to see things others could not.

Now that very vision betrayed the beastman.

Rowan clutched his face with trembling hands. His staff fell to the sand beside him, and his ruined knee collapsed under the weight of his body. The one they once called the New Conqueror of Khaitish—lay broken before them. The very beastman who had united the scattered warlords beneath a single banner was now crawling through the dust, blind and gasping. The Magopo Brothers surrounded him but even as they advanced, there was hesitation in some of their eyes. Rowan had once been their comrade, their brother-in-arms in battles long past.

But the order had been given and Makhulu's word was law.

Yet there was one who had not been affected by the light of Makhulu's artifact.

Again, it was the Blessing of Styx that protected him. The Legacy of the Robes had become the Mantle Lukas wore with pride. With it came the protection against all status effects, including the effect of blindness that had been placed on all around him.

His eyes still saw as it always did.

Scar moved first. The youngest of the Magopo Brothers leapt through the haze of dust with a feral snarl, claws drawn and teeth bared. His movements were fluid and fast, the predatory grace of a beastman at his peak. The moment his feet hit the sand, his body coiled and released, launching toward Rowan like a streak of black and silver. Still half-blind, still reeling from the pain in his head, Rowan could only raise an arm in reflex and even then, it would not have saved him.

But Lukas was already there.

The King of the Dragons stepped into the path of the oncoming blur and struck out in a single, explosive motion. His heel met Scar's chest with a dull, heavy crack—a front kick so forceful it sent the beastman hurtling backward through the air. Scar crashed into his brothers behind him, the five of them tumbling into a heap of limbs and dust before scrambling back to their feet.

For a heartbeat, the battlefield fell still again.

Then, five pairs of eyes fixed on the one who stood between them and their target.

Lukas said nothing. He didn't need to. The look in his eyes told them everything.

They had fought men before—hundreds, maybe thousands—but Lukas Drakos was not a man.

He was something older and far harder to kill.

Lukas did not have magic to call upon, the Draconic Arts and the Divinity of the Seas were lost to him. The flow of which had kept the mana within him from running rampant was gone along with Rowan's sight, the pain beginning to build as the seconds went by.

But none of it mattered.

Because Lukas had always been a fighter.

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As long as his heart still beat, the Dragon King would fight.

And fight he did.

The next brother rushed towards him, charging low and fast. This beastman was the largest among them, his size rivaling Lukas' own. The sand shook beneath his steps as he dropped to all fours, moving like a predator, closing the distance in an instant. The way this brother moved reminded Lukas of Soren as he fought Rosalia during the Duel that had taken place to decide the next Divine Knight Candidate—the same speed and fluidity combined with animalistic ferocity.

The beastman struck upward with a sweeping claw aimed at Lukas' head. Lukas caught it on his forearms just in time, his stance firm, the blow reverberating through his guard like thunder. Before he could counter, the beastman dipped low, feinting high only to lunge for Lukas' waist—a takedown attempt, clean and fast.

It should have worked. But it would not work against one who was once Julien Fronterra.

As the beastman dove in, Lukas shifted forward, pressing his weight down through his hips, framing his elbows against the beastman's shoulders. It stopped the momentum cold. The beastman grunted, muscles bulging as he tried to complete the drive, but Lukas' posture held true. The sand beneath their feet tore apart from the force, yet neither yielded.

Unable to bring Lukas down, the beastman changed tactics—snapping a knee upward toward Lukas' chin, exploiting the narrow opening left by his high guard.

But Lukas had already moved. He stepped to the side in one smooth motion, the knee grazing past harmlessly, and before his opponent could react, Lukas struck back. His leg swung low and sharp, his shin slamming into the beastman's standing leg. The kick connected with a dull crack. The beastman's balance vanished, and he fell hard, crashing into the sand.

The entire exchange lasted no longer than a few seconds—a blur of movement, instinct and technique.

Lukas was already drawing back his arm, ready to finish the downed beastman, when movement flashed at the edge of his vision.

Two of the Magopo Brothers were upon him, claws slicing through the air. He was forced to retreat, twisting aside as their strikes tore trenches in the sand where he had just stood.

The moment's hesitation spared the fallen brother's life and cost Lukas his advantage.

He was outnumbered here.

That was why Lukas could not let himself be dragged to the ground. Even if that was where he fought best—where leverage, grip, and power was in his favour—going down meant giving the other brothers who fought alongside this one an opening. If one took him down, the rest would be on him in seconds and no amount of technique or grit could keep him alive then.

The strength of a dragon placed him in a league above the beastmen who surrounded him, even in this human frame that disguised what he truly was. But that did not make him untouchable.

Their claws were real. Their strikes had weight. Lukas bled as they did and if he slipped up even for a second then every drop that hit the sand would remind him of his mortality.

And to think once he had brought down a man wielding the power of a god.

Right now, all Lukas needed to do was hold the line. Around him, the warriors of the Morningeyes Clan still fought. Blind and wounded, they swung their weapons at the unseen, guided by sound, by faith and fury. Their defiance kept the Magopo's lesser ranks from overrunning them entirely.

If Lukas could just endure a little longer, their sight might return. They might be able to escape from the Magopo Brothers and their army.

But time was running short.

Lukas' breath hitched and his knees buckled.

Suddenly, he dropped to the ground, one hand clutching at his ribs as if trying to tear the pain out.

The brothers saw it instantly and they pounced.

Five dark shapes converged on him, dust rising in plumes around their feet. Lukas barely had time to raise his arms before Scar reached him first, slamming into him with the force of a falling boulder. The impact drove the air from Lukas' lungs and sent him sprawling. He hit the sand hard, the sky spinning overhead. Scar's claws dug into his shoulder, pinning him down. Through the blur of pain, Lukas tried to push back, to throw the beastman off, but the pressure on his chest only deepened the pain that was already tearing through him.

And then, it stopped.

Scar himself never even realized what had happened.

A shadow fell over the youngest of the Magopo Brothers, and before the beastman could even turn to face whom that shadow belonged to, a clawed hand burst through his chest.

The motion was clean, precise and terrifyingly final.

Jesse Sterling stood, his eyes still a milky white, the magical effects of Makhulu's artifact still erasing the dragonborn's vision. But that did not matter for the Crown had already done its work. Jesse had been the one to establish the link between their minds even before the light had blinded them all, and through it, the young dragonborn saw through Lukas' eyes.

The dragonborn could see the enemy.

Jesse saw that his Lord, his King was in danger.

The very reason why Jesse had insisted he travel with Lukas to the Kingdom of Khaitish was to keep him safe. And that was what the dragonborn would do, no matter who stood in their path.

For an instant, no one moved. The sound of wind over the desert drowned everything else.

Then the body was lifted up and thrown to the side.

It hit the ground with a heavy, lifeless thud, crimson spreading quickly into the pale sand.

Jesse stood over Lukas, blood running down his arm.

His expression was calm, almost cold, but his aura seethed with fury.

Just like that, the youngest of the Magopo Brothers lay dead at the dragonborn's feet. The others stared at him in disbelief, frozen by the suddenness of it.

One heartbeat passed.

Then two.

Then Jesse's gaze lifted to the remaining brothers who stood around him.

His voice, when he spoke, was low but carried across the field with perfect clarity. "You four are next."

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