Birthing Legends: My Womb Creates SSS Monsters

As the cool mountain air brushed against Red head face, the path finally opened up to reveal the breathtaking view of the high summit. For the first time in her life, she felt a sense of profound relief. She was actually going to step onto the sacred ground of the ritual, entirely safe and whole. Looking up at the starry sky, she felt a deep surge of gratitude for the fierce intervention of her older brother, knowing his protection had brought her to the brink of her destiny.

"Thank you, Big Brother… Draculues."

The biting wind of the high peak cut through the thin ceremonial robes of the candidates, but the redhead felt a chill far deeper than the mountain air. Even from the back of the massive procession, Sharpy's death stare seemed to pierce right through the darkness, radiating an unhinged, desperate malice.

The redhead forced her eyes forward, refusing to look back. She needed to focus entirely on the altar ahead. Being near the front of the line was her ultimate advantage. If she remained steady, she could move quickly when the time came, claiming the strength of the dragon before Sharpy could ever hope to close the distance or act on her hidden blade.

"I can do this," she whispered to herself, her breath puffing into white mist. "I will survive."

The heavy, expectant silence of the summit suddenly shattered as a grand, imposing figure stepped. King Drakovitch, their father, had arrived.

Instantly, a thousand children dropped to their knees, their voices rising in a synchronized, echoing chant that reverberated across the mountain:

"Our father, King Drakovitch."

As the redhead bowed her head, she stole a glance upward at the ruler of the realm. Up close, the sight was jarring. The king appeared noticeably paler and thinner than before, his imposing frame slightly withered under the relentless toll of the golden curse. The affliction was visibly draining his vitality, and for a brief moment, she could see the profound, agonizing strain reflected deep within his eyes.

The king stepped forward, his voice raspy yet commanding as he delivered the traditional, solemn speech of heritage, duty, and sacrifice. He spoke of the bloodline, the trial of the thousand, and the raw power that awaited those who proved worthy.

Then came the moment they had all been waiting for.

The clouds above the summit swirled violently as a massive, overwhelming pressure descended upon the peak. Out of the swirling mist, the magnificent, terrifying form of the primordial dragon, Tiamat, revealed itself, its ancient eyes looking down upon the assembly with absolute indifference.

With a practiced, unwavering motion, King Drakovitch drew a ceremonial blade and made a deep incision across his chest. The dark, magically charged blood welled up and spilled forth onto the pristine stone altar, mixing with the latent energy of the primordial beast.

At the sight and scent of the overflowing essence, an instinctual, overwhelming thirst awoke within the hearts of the thousand white-blooded children, their eyes locking onto the goal as the final trial truly began.

King Drakovitch looked out over the sea of his thousand children. He raised his arms, his voice booming across the freezing summit as he delivered his infamous, commanding line:

"Drink!"

The command shattered the silence. Instantly, all one thousand white blooded children surged forward in a chaotic, desperate stampede toward the spilling blood of their god.

The redhead did not hesitate. Utilizing every ounce of strength she had gathered from her first full dinner, and fueled by a burning eagerness to prove she was not an unworthy hybrid, she pushed her legs to their absolute limit. The sheer desire to change her fate gave her a burst of speed like never before.

She sprinted ahead, overtaking the others one by one, until she successfully seized the very front of the running pack.

"I am not a mistake!" she gasped out, her heart hammering against her ribs as the glowing altar drew closer. "I am not a pig's daughter! I will claim the blood! I am going to survive! I am going to be the one!"

The heat radiating from the spilled blood was intoxicating. The scent of their Primordial Dragon's spilled blood filled the redhead's senses, thick with the heavy, sweet iron of primordial mana. She could feel the warmth of the pool on her face, her outstretched fingers just inches away from the glowing stone basin. She was the first. She was going to win.

But the sudden heat of her victory was instantly cut away by a violent, freezing gust of wind.

"GET OUT OF MY WAY!"

A blood curdling shriek ripped through the chaotic roar of the stampede. The redhead's senses flared, sensing a terrifying spike of malice approaching from behind at a speed that defied logic.

It was Sharpy.

The lanky girl had completely abandoned the height order. She wasn't just running; she was sprinting with an unhinged, demonic desperation, her long limbs moving like the legs of a manic spider. The bandage around her head was unraveled, fluttering wildly in the mountain wind like a tattered flag of war.

SLASH!

"Move, you white blooded trash!" Sharpy screamed, her eyes completely bloodshot and wild.

She held the heavy, serrated carving knife she had stolen from the dinner hall. She wasn't even trying to maneuver around her siblings. With every stride, she violently stabbed and slashed at anyone within arm's reach.

A boy to her left gasped as the blade tore through his ceremonial robe, painting the white fabric in a sudden spray of red. Another candidate was forcefully shoved aside, tumbling into the dirt as Sharpy used their falling bodies as stepping stones to propel herself forward.

"The blood is mine! It belongs to the best! Not to a hybrid filth!" Sharpy's voice rose to a frantic, broken pitch, her teeth bared like a rabid animal.

She was completely out of her mind. The fear of Draculeus's threat had mutated into a suicidal obsession. She knew this was her last chance. If the redhead drank the blood first and ascended, Sharpy knew that there is only be one success... then her was the ninety nine percent failure.