The Unrivaled Holder: Rise of the Dragon Monarch

The heavy silence that followed Ingi's story was suffocating. Even Fafnir, who rarely found himself at a loss for words, remained still. Zarathorak stood, his crimson eyes locked onto Ingi, waiting for him to continue.

After a brief pause, Ingi exhaled and finally spoke. "Son, we seek you for a reason beyond mere reunion nor just fighting you," Ingi stated firmly. "The stigmata that plagues Fafnir and another has only one known cure—Dragon's Blood. But not just any dragon's blood… it must be yours."

A heavy silence followed. Fafnir's gaze remained steady, while Zarathorak's crimson eyes narrowed, his claws tightening slightly. The weight of Ingi's words lingered in the air as they awaited Zarathorak's response.

Zarathorak let out a low growl, his eyes flickering with suspicion. "My blood?" he scoffed, crossing his arms. "You wake me from my slumber, challenge me in battle, and now you demand my blood? Do you take me for a mere wellspring of power to be tapped at your convenience?"

Fafnir stepped forward, his tone measured but firm. "This is not a demand, Son. It's a necessity."

Zarathorak's claws scraped against the stone beneath him as he processed their words. His gaze flickered between Ingi and Fafnir before settling on me. "And what of you?" he asked. "You, the outsider who stands beside them. Why do you care about this curse?"

I met his gaze without hesitation. "Because it threatens not just Fafnir, but others as well. If we don't act, the curse will continue to spread, and we have no idea what consequences that might bring. You're the only one who can help. Please lend us your help."

Zarathorak exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly displeased but not outright refusing. His tail lashed behind him as he turned his gaze back to Ingi. "And what guarantee do I have that my blood will do what you claim?"

Ingi met his glare evenly. "Because Djinn knew. And Djinn never spoke of things without certainty."

Zarathorak remained silent, his piercing crimson eyes locked onto Ingi. The weight of Djinn's name hung in the air like an unshakable storm cloud. His tail flicked once, then stilled, his wings twitching slightly as if he were restraining himself from lashing out.

"You speak of Djinn," Zarathorak finally muttered, his voice lower now, almost unreadable. "But invoking her name does not mean I will simply give you what you ask. Do not assume I am so easily swayed by sentiment."

Fafnir clenched his fists. "This isn't about sentiment, Zarathorak. It's about survival—mine, the dragons of Norkiya, and possibly all of us. The curse isn't just a mark of humiliation. It's something far worse, something Djinn herself feared."

Zarathorak exhaled sharply, his eyes narrowing. "And what do you truly know of fear, Fafnir? Do you have any idea what it means to bear the weight of expectation, to hold the line while the world turns its back on you?" His voice dripped with bitterness. "You abandoned us. And now you return, asking for my blood as if I owe you something."

Fafnir flinched at those words but held his ground. "I left because I had to. If you think I did it for myself, you're wrong."

Zarathorak let out a deep, guttural growl, but before he could retort, Ingi stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Enough."

Both dragons turned toward him, but Ingi's expression remained unreadable. "We don't have time for this," he continued. "We are just simply asking for your blood, Son. If you refuse, then say it now, and we will find another way. But understand this—if your mom were here, she would have told you the same thing I just did. Whether you accept it or not, she entrusted me with this knowledge before I sealed her out."

"Tch… you ask much of me," Zarathorak muttered. Then, without another word, his form began to shift.

Zarathorak exhaled sharply, then without hesitation, began to shift. His massive dragon form compressed, bones cracking and reshaping, scales retreating into flesh. In moments, he stood before us in his human form—a towering figure with long, crimson hair, piercing red eyes, and a dark robe adorned with golden veins resembling flowing blood.

Wordlessly, Zarathorak raised his right hand, and with a sharp movement, he sliced his palm open with the edge of his clawed fingernails. Thick, dark crimson blood pooled in his hand, radiating an eerie energy. He held it up for all to see, then turned his gaze toward Ingi.

"You want my blood? Then tell me—how exactly do you plan to use it?"

Ingi, who had remained composed throughout the confrontation, stepped forward. His golden eyes flickered with certainty.

"The blood of a true dragon alone won't remove the stigmata," Ingi explained. "If we simply poured it over the mark, it would only suppress the curse temporarily, not destroy it. Instead, we must forge a purifying vessel using dragon's blood as the catalyst and imbue it with the essence of our Magicore."

Fafnir furrowed his brows. "A vessel?"

Ingi nodded. "Yes. It will act as a medium to extract and destroy the curse rather than let it linger within us. However, this process isn't simple. First, the blood must be infused with our combined Magicore, specifically mine and Zarathorak's, to attune it to our nature as dragons. Then, the vessel must be heated to its most volatile state using raw dragonfire."

Zarathorak narrowed his eyes. "You're talking about forging a Blood Pyre—a technique lost to time."

Ingi crossed his arms. "I never forgot it."

Zarathorak let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Of course, you didn't." He turned his gaze to the wound in his palm, watching as the blood slowly dripped to the ground. "And what will become of the curse after it's extracted?"

Ingi's expression darkened. "It won't be destroyed so easily. The stigmata is a construct of the demon's will, meaning that once it is expelled, it will seek another vessel or attempt to return to its source." He clenched his fists. "In short, we will have to contain it long enough to eradicate it completely."

Fafnir scoffed. "Great. As if this curse hasn't been enough trouble already."

Zarathorak sighed before finally extending his bloodied hand toward Ingi. "Then take it. If this is what it takes to rid us of this wretched curse, so be it."

Ingi reached out, cupping his hands beneath Zarathorak's wound as the thick dragon's blood pooled into his palms. The process to remove the stigmata was about to begin.

With Zarathorak's blood collected, Ingi wasted no time. His expression was sharp, calculated—there was no room for error. He turned, stepping forward, where the ground was the most stable.

"We begin now." His voice carried an undeniable authority.

Fafnir stood beside him, tension clear in his body. The cursed stigmata still burned on his hand, a reminder of the demon's mark that had plagued him. He flexed his fingers, exhaling slowly.

Zarathorak, still in his human form, crossed his arms, watching in silence.

I stood further back, observing everything unfold. There wasn't anything I could do here—this was their battle to fight.

Ingi knelt down and pressed his palm to the cold stone floor. A pulse of golden Magicore spread outward, and the ground trembled in response. Slowly, a ritual basin formed from the rock itself—a perfect vessel to hold the blood.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, Ingi conjured a small flame, golden and steady. "Fafnir. Zarathorak. You know what to do."

Without hesitation, Fafnir extended his cursed hand. His Magicore surged forward in dark violet tendrils, wrapping around the thick dragon's blood within the basin. Zarathorak followed, his crimson energy interweaving with Fafnir's.

The blood reacted immediately. It began to swirl, shifting colors—red, black, gold—unstable yet brimming with raw power.

A massive pillar of fire shot upward, twisting unnaturally, burning with hues of gold, red, and black. The sheer force of it made the ground tremble. The flames weren't ordinary—they were alive, pulsing with power beyond comprehension.

Fafnir gritted his teeth, staring into the inferno. He knew what was coming.

Ingi's voice was steady. "The fire will consume the curse. But first, you must draw it out."

Fafnir exhaled sharply. Then, without hesitation, he extended his cursed hand and plunged it into the flames.

The reaction was immediate.

A guttural growl tore from Fafnir's throat as pain seared through him. The fire latched onto the stigmata like a living beast, burning away at the demonic corruption. The mark resisted, writhing violently as if trying to escape.

Zarathorak narrowed his eyes. "Tch. Weakness is unbecoming of you, brother."

Gritting his teeth, Fafnir shot him a glare but refused to pull away. He endured, even as the pain grew unbearable. The stigmata flared, glowing an unnatural crimson, trying desperately to hold on.

Then, it screamed.

The ground trembled as a shockwave burst from the pyre. A dark, writhing mass—pure, cursed energy—was forcibly torn from Fafnir's flesh. It twisted violently within the flames, shrieking in defiance, but the Blood Pyre roared louder, consuming it whole.

The mark was gone.

Fafnir staggered back, clutching his hand, his breath ragged. He flexed his fingers, staring at the now unmarked skin. Slowly, realization dawned in his eyes.

Zarathorak scoffed. "Hah. I half-expected you to fail."

Fafnir smirked weakly. "And yet, I'm still standing."

Ingi, who had been watching closely, let out a breath. "It's done." His golden eyes flickered toward the last dying embers of the pyre. "The curse is eradicated."

I exhaled, my body finally relaxing. It was over. The demon's mark was gone.