Birthing Legends: My Womb Creates SSS Monsters

Drakovitch didn’t pull back. Instead, he leaned into the strike, letting the shockwaves of her borrowed power rattle his own frame. He was playing her game now, granting her the one thing a warrior like Gin craved more than life itself: a glorious, soul shattering battle where every blow felt like it could be the last.

He allowed her to believe she was reaching him, letting her calcified fists dent the air around his head, pushing her to the very limit of her stolen evolution.

For a heartbeat, Gin truly believed she had found the opening. She saw a flicker in his guard, a momentary lapse in the King’s absolute defense. She coiled her muscles, her dragon bone reinforced heart hammering against her ribs and threw everything she was into a final, killing thrust.

"FOR THE GROUNDED! FOR THE SKY THAT THEY NEVER REACH! DIE, YOU TYRANT!"

But in that swift second of her supposed triumph, the atmosphere changed. The "amusement" in Drakovitch’s eyes vanished, replaced by a suffocating cold.

He drew upon his primal lineage, calling forth a Dragon Art that bypassed mere physical limits. His skeletal structure groaned and shifted beneath his skin, the sounds of snapping wood and grinding stone echoing through the rain.

"Dragon Art: Hammerhead!"

His head and neck surged forward, the bone flattening and extending outward into a broad, armored T-shape. As Gin’s fist neared his chest, Drakovitch swung his massive cranium with a violent, whip-like snap. The heavy lateral edge of his skull caught Gin’s calcified shoulder, delivering a concentrated shockwave that shattered her dragon-bone armor into a thousand grey splinters.

"Gah—!"

Gin gasped, the impact rattling her very soul as she was sent reeling backward. Drakovitch didn’t give her a moment to breathe. His forearms elongated, the radius and ulna fusing and sharpening into a singular, gleaming point. His hands vanished into the transformation.

"Dragon Art: Sword Fish!"

The bone blade was denser than any steel, vibrating with the high frequency hum of his internal mana. With a precise, lunging thrust, he drove the serrated bill through the center of Gin’s chest. The jagged edge bypassed her hardened exterior, piercing the heart that had been hammering so loudly moments before.

The momentum of Gin’s charge died instantly. She hung suspended on the bone blade, her "evolution" crumbling into grey dust. Drakovitch looked into her fading eyes, his features slowly returning to their human form.

"Is this the end you envisioned?"

Drakovitch asked quietly, his eyes locked onto hers. Gin coughed, a thin trail of blood escaping her lips, but she managed a weak, bloody grin.

"It’s... a hell of a way... to go out... isn’t it?"

"It is," the King replied, his voice devoid of malice. "A glorious warrior’s end."

As the light left her eyes, the oppressive, choked clouds of the battlefield finally began to fracture. The unnatural storm that had witnessed the death of a giant and the fall of a rebel started to bleed away.

A single, sharp needle of gold pierced the grey, followed by another, and another, until the sky was no longer a shroud of soot and lightning. It was a vast, open blue, filled with the warmth of a rising sun that cared little for the blood spilled on the stones below.

The transition was instantaneous, the brutal silence of the aftermath replaced by the sound of hammers and the guttural shouts of laborers rebuilding the city’s bones.

Inside the throne room, Percieval stood before the high dais, his armor stripped away to reveal bandages wrapped tightly around his ribs. A weathered scroll rested in his hand, his voice rough as he addressed Drakovitch, who sat motionless upon the throne.

"The butcher’s bill is in, Sire... We have lost fifteen warriors from our Great Houses."

Percieval cleared his throat, emotion threatening to break through, but he forced himself to remain composed. His expression darkened as he continued.

"They fought with honor, to their last breath... Two from the House of Crimsonscales. One from the House of Goldensight. One from the House of Asulfang. And... from the House of Silver—"

He faltered. The silence that followed grew heavy, suffocating.

"Silverspine... continue," the King said, his voice a low, steady vibration.

Percieval’s shoulders sagged.

"The worst of it, Sire... The House of Silverspine was... decimated. Eleven of them are gone."

A pause.

"Only one survivor remains."

He drew a slow breath before continuing, voice quieter now.

"Beyond the Great Houses... four knights have fallen in the chaos."

Another brief pause.

"...Fortunately, none of the guests were lost."

Drakovitch looked out through the high windows at the rising sun, its golden light catching along the sharp edges of his features.

"A total of nineteen lives..."

His gaze remained distant, fixed on the horizon yet his thoughts churned beneath the surface.

"Primordial-blooded are no joke in this world...It was only five Gigantes... and yet they claimed nineteen lives.

A faint tightening crossed the King’s jaw.

"This proves it... I need more Dragonborn. Without them... this kingdom will surely fall."

Their solemn moment was shattered as the heavy doors of the throne room creaked open. The sharp snap of a folding fan echoed across the marble floor.

Morgant sauntered in, his black robes immaculate despite the carnage outside. A thin, mocking smile curved his lips—one that never reached his cold eyes.

"You’re missing half the receipt, Percieval," Morgant interrupted. "The cost of this little rebellion isn’t just fifteen highborn warriors... it’s thirty in total."

He flicked his fan toward the grand entrance as Drakovitch and Percieval turned to face him.

"Fifteen loyalists died for the crown..." he continued lightly, "and fifteen rats from the House of Verdantwing—no... let’s call them by their true name now."

His smile sharpened.

"The House of Traitors."

A brief pause.

"They’ve already been... collected for your viewing pleasure."

On Morgant’s signal, a squad of Royal Knights marched into the hall. They weren’t carrying bodies; they were dragging them. Fifteen warriors of the Verdantwing, including their House Leader, were thrown onto the cold floor before the high dais.