Apocalyptic Dragon Riders

chapter 9

The gold dragon was born to kill. The fact that it didn’t go looking for trouble on its own was already a blessing from the heavens — so why would it risk its own life to save someone else?

Its dinner-plate-sized eyes blazed with wild defiance and feral fury. Every scale on its body seemed to scream its hatred as it nearly bucked Morin off its back, itching to rip him to shreds right then and there — even if it meant breaking their sacred contract and facing the punishment of the Dragonkin.

Morin slowly raised the strange, seven-inch-long dragon flute, his face like carved ice.

“Say one more word of refusal,” he said coldly, “and I’ll lock you inside this flute and throw it into a spatial rift. You’ll wander the void until the end of eternity.”

His voice sounded like it came from the depths of hell itself — cold, implacable, and absolutely resolute. This wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. If this dragon dared to defy him like always, he would drag it down with him, even if it meant dying together.

“You—!” The gold dragon choked, its voice strangled in its throat as rage boiled in its molten-gold eyes. Morin’s words were a threat more terrifying than any curse. The dragon believed him. Being sealed inside a dragon flute meant eternal darkness — and being cast into the chaotic void meant never waking again. For a creature with an endless lifespan, this was worse than death. For the first time in centuries, true fear gripped its heart.

Dragon flutes — sacred witnesses to the Dragon God’s contracts — were priceless treasures. No one used them as prisons for their own bonded partners. Only Morin had been mad enough to devise this last-resort weapon. Sealing a dragon would render the flute useless for as long as the imprisonment lasted — a price so steep that no one would ever pay it, especially with the number of dragon flutes dwindling year by year.

“Morin… you… you ruthless bastard!” the gold dragon — Goldcoin — hissed, its armored body heaving as it fought to suppress its killing urge. It knew Morin’s nature. The man meant every word. Snarling in impotent fury, it twisted its body and banked toward Arka and the fire dragon Misair, who were being dragged toward the screaming maw of a spatial rift.

Death now or death later — those were its only choices. Morin had forced its claw.

“Hit them! Blast them with everything you’ve got! Full magnetic output!” Morin’s order cracked like a whip. Even if it meant shattering their bond, even if it meant becoming a dragonslayer hunted by every wyrm on the continent, he would do it.

The gold dragon’s magnetic field flared to life, shimmering in visible ripples, countering the rift’s monstrous pull. It shed its bladed armor, streamlining its body, slipping between the questing tendrils of warped space.

Arka saw what Morin was doing and understood instantly.

“NO!” he screamed hoarsely. “Morin, you’re insane! Don’t come near! Get out of here while you still can!”

“ROAR!!” Misair the fire dragon let out a bellow of disbelief as its old rival hurtled toward it — and then agony ripped through its body as Goldcoin’s magnetic field slammed into it, knocking it farther from the rift’s event horizon.

But the two-headed wyvern clutched in Misair’s claws — and Lord Grolan, the Minister’s pampered son — weren’t nearly as lucky. Blood spurted from their mouths as they were thrown about like ragdolls.

“You filthy commoner!” Grolan screamed with the last of his strength, spitting curses at Morin. He had no idea how deadly this place was.

Morin ignored him entirely. Saving that spoiled insect was the last thing on his mind.

Shoving the dragon flute into his breastplate, he roared, “Not enough! Goldcoin, blast the field — tear space open if you have to! If we live through this, my life is yours!”

The pull of the rift was stronger than he had anticipated — and Morin would not watch Arka and Misair vanish into nothingness.

“Morin! You suicidal maniac!” Goldcoin howled, despair twisting its voice. What had it done to deserve a knight like this? Of all the humans in the world, it had to be bound to the one who would drag them both into oblivion!

But the flute was in Morin’s hands. Refusal was not an option.

Grolan soiled himself, stinking up his shining mithril armor, shrieking in terror as though death itself had come to reap his soul.

Goldcoin’s body flared like molten metal, its void-magnetic field spiking. A double-coned barrier exploded outward, sending shockwaves rippling in every direction — visible waves of warped light shredding the air.

Morin’s holy battle-aura burned so hot it became a golden inferno, hotter and more savage than dragonfire. Goldcoin’s armored scales turned cherry-red, smoking as though about to melt.

The dragon roared in pain, but survival instincts drove it on. Nothing mattered now except escaping that pull.

Misair and Arka were hurled away like fired cannonballs, flung clear of the rift’s influence.

Grolan and the wyvern were knocked unconscious by the shockwave — Morin didn’t even glance their way.

“Morin! You damned fool!” Arka’s shout was torn away by the wind as he reached out toward Morin, despair twisting his face.

The rift swelled in response to the magnetic burst, as though enraged, ballooning to ten times its previous size. The pull intensified until even Goldcoin’s field and Morin’s burning aura couldn’t hold.

Morin smiled — calm, almost serene.

“Arka,” he called, “live for me too. Love Onisa and Luna with everything you’ve got.”

Then he waved, as if bidding farewell.

A shadow blurred behind Misair — an umbral dragon and its rider, Gedael, emerging from half-invisibility. The shadow dragon grabbed Misair in its claws and dragged it clear of the rift, along with the other fleeing riders — even Grolan and his wyvern were snatched to safety by sheer dumb luck.

Behind his visor, Gedael’s dark-green eyes were calm, regretful — but he didn’t speak. Saving Morin was beyond even him.

Morin smiled faintly. Arka has Onisa and Luna. Me? I have no one. Maybe that’s a blessing. No one will mourn me too long. Looks like I came out ahead in the end.

Goldcoin thrashed, roaring in mindless panic, beating its wings desperately.

And then —

Darkness swallowed them whole.

BOOM.

The “Spatial Oblivion Grand Curse” reached its final form — a pitch-black sphere, its surface webbed with cracks like a shattered eggshell. When the Tessi mages could feed it no more mana, the sphere wavered like a soap bubble, then turned transparent, and was simply… gone.

As if it had never existed.

The clouds above were ripped apart, revealing a vast hole of clear blue sky. Sunlight spilled across the battlefield. Soldiers on both sides stared blankly at the yawning, circular crater that now scarred the earth — a wound so vast it nearly spanned the entire front.

Years from now, a beautiful lake would fill that crater.

The wind howled across the dead field. Neither army had any strength left to fight.

Somewhere far above, the sound of a lone dragon cry echoed, hollow and grief-stricken.

For now, the war was over.

Perhaps this was an ending.

Or perhaps… this was only the beginning.