Chapter 140: The Blood of the Dragon
The ritual chamber was dark, vast, and circular, hidden deep beneath the Palace of the Burning Fangs. No natural light ever penetrated it. Only blue flame torches and mana crystals embedded in the walls diffused a cold, surreal glow, creating a play of moving shadows that seemed almost alive.
Mordred stood motionless, aligned with the last survivors of the slaves trained to become weapons. They were only a handful left. All had become cold, precise killers, devoid of visible humanity. Yet, even among them, Mordred was different. Something in him was already dormant, simply waiting for the right moment to fully awaken.
Before them stood the dragon priests. Long black robes covered their reptilian silhouettes. Their faces, partially masked by hoods, revealed yellow, implacable, and icy gazes.
One of them, clearly the ritual leader, slowly stepped forward. In his hand, he held an obsidian cup engraved with runes, filled with a dark red liquid, almost black.
- "You have reached the end of your transformation," he declared in a deep, guttural voice. "Today, you will definitively abandon what remains human in you. You will become half-dragons, the perfect instruments in service of our reign."
The slaves made no sound. Mordred also remained silent, seemingly impassive. Yet, deep inside him, a strange pulsation was already awakening, as if his blood instinctively recognized this moment.
One by one, the slaves stepped forward and drank from the cup. When they swallowed the dark liquid, they immediately screamed, collapsing to the ground in terrible convulsions. Their bodies twisted, their skin tore to reveal glistening scales. Claws pierced the tips of their fingers, fangs grew in their mouths. Some did not survive the transformation, collapsing lifeless in a pool of blackened blood.
Then came Mordred’s turn.
He stepped forward slowly, outwardly calm, but his heart suddenly raced. The dragon-priest offered him the cup, the blue torchlight reflected on the thick liquid. Mordred took the cup, slowly brought it to his lips, and swallowed the brew.
An icy fire immediately surged through his entrails.
The pain was immediate, immense, indescribable. His entire body seemed to ignite, his nerves screamed, his bones broke and instantly fused back together, his muscles tore to rebuild themselves stronger, denser. He felt scales growing through his skin, gradually covering his body, black as obsidian, traversed by a dark scarlet glow. His pupils became vertical, his teeth changed into sharp fangs. But unlike the others, Mordred felt something even more intense awakening within him.