As the first rays of sunlight began to pierce the night, the cold light of dawn settled over the ravaged slope. The torn snow, the furrows carved by breaths and impacts, the streaks of blood formed a raw landscape stripped of any grandeur.
Anastasia slowly lifted her head toward Azharyx. Her face no longer showed fatigue or pain, but a bare hostility, focused and directed solely at him.
The mana around her gathered at several distinct points, compressed into spears of ice that shot toward the dragon. The bluish streaks struck the anti-magic domain and dissipated instantly, as if absorbed by an invisible surface. None reached their target. Azharyx watched the attempt without moving, suspended in the air, his black eyes fixed on her with glacial patience.
"Has your anger made you so foolish that you've forgotten what you've already learned?" he growled.
At those words, Anastasia's expression twisted sharply. Her jaw tightened, her shoulders tensed, and she launched herself toward him in a brutal, almost disorderly motion. Her charge seemed devoid of strategy, driven by blind rage. She did not answer. She closed the distance.
Perfect.
Her left arm hung useless at her side, her vision blurred by blood, and every breath sent a dull pain through her chest. Yet she accelerated again. The dragon brought a claw down toward her; she sidestepped too late, the tip grazing her shoulder and tearing flesh. She did not slow. She struck.
Tenkōsetsu's blade collided with the scales near the ancient scar. The impact was dampened by the domain, but the steel slightly cut into the pale surface that ran across the dragon's flank. Azharyx retaliated immediately. A second claw descended, which she barely deflected with her katana. The force sent her sliding across the snow, yet she rushed forward again without hesitation.
She struck the same spot once more.
Blows rained around her. A claw tore into her back, a sweep of the tail slammed into her ribs, a black breath grazed her side and scorched the air inches from her skin. She accepted the pain without retreating, as if she no longer registered the damage. At every opening, she returned to the scar, hammering the same area with near-mad obstinacy.
To the dragon's eyes, she had become nothing more than a being consumed by fury, incapable of analyzing the situation. Her strikes sometimes lacked precision, her evasions were imperfect, and her body bled heavily. And yet she persisted, returning again and again to the same point, driven by what seemed like irrational obsession.
Again. Just one more time.
A deeper gash finally opened in the scar. The blade sank further, revealing a dark gap between the scales. Azharyx roared—not in pain, but in irritation. He brought his claw down to crush her. Anastasia raised her right arm to block, then deliberately relaxed her grip on the katana. The claw deflected the blade aside instead of shattering it.
In the same motion, she lunged forward.
Her right arm plunged into the still-open wound up to the elbow, piercing flesh and the heat of black blood. A brief smile curved her lips despite the blood running from her mouth.
There it is. Your weakness.
The anti-magic domain was not a perfect shell. Throughout the battle, Anastasia had observed how it shifted whenever the dragon released his black breath, allowing his own mana to pass through. Moreover, the field did not engulf his body; it surrounded him, disturbing the outside while leaving the internal source untouched.
Within his flesh, Azharyx's mana remained stable. By driving her arm into the scar, she placed herself beyond the interference zone, directly in contact with that intact reserve. She gathered all her energy into her hand, compressing the flow to its breaking point before releasing it.
Then she unleashed the charge.
The explosion erupted inside Azharyx's body. A frozen detonation spread beneath his scales, fracturing the area around the scar. Shards of ice burst outward from the wound, mixed with black blood spraying in thick arcs. The dragon's roar shook the mountain, deeper and more violent than before.
His tail swept through the air with blind brutality.
The impact struck Anastasia head-on and hurled her several meters away. She crashed onto the slope, rolled across the blood-soaked snow, and came to rest half-lying, unable to rise immediately. Her right arm trembled, drained of mana, her body at the brink of collapse.
Azharyx pulled back into the air. Black blood flowed from the now-widened scar, and his breathing was heavier, less steady. He did not speak. He stared at her for a long moment, assessing the wound—and the one who had inflicted it.
On the ground, the Empress allowed a faint smile to appear beneath the blood covering her face. Her body no longer responded properly; every attempt to rise sent pain radiating from her ribs to her neck. She could no longer stand. Yet she had reached her target, and that certainty alone kept her gaze fixed on the sky.
Azharyx rose higher above the dawn-lit peaks. The air around him seemed to tighten, drawn toward his body. The ambient mana, mixed with his own, converged into his half-open mouth, forming a black sphere that grew denser by the second. Dark lightning struck it, collapsing instantly into the mass. The breath did not fire immediately; it formed methodically, swelling to absurd proportions, as though the dragon were gathering enough power to annihilate the entire region.
Anastasia tried to rise. Her muscles refused. Her right arm trembled, her side burned, and her torn back pinned her to the ground. She understood her body had surpassed its functional limits. Even her unstable mana would no longer respond with sufficient precision.
The sphere reached critical density.
The breath was released.
The day that had barely begun seemed to vanish as the black column unfolded. The surrounding light was swallowed by the technique, and a dense darkness spread, devouring the landscape. The beam descended toward her with apparent slowness but inescapable speed, crushing the air in its path. The ground trembled under the pressure.
Anastasia's mind accelerated.
She analyzed the trajectory, the width, the internal compression. A lateral dodge—impossible. A counter-condensation—unachievable with fragmented mana. A brute defense—insufficient. No scenario led to the outcome she desired.
So this is the end.
She did not look away from the descending beam.
I had everything to succeed. A perfect body. Exceptional mana. A divine weapon. And yet I believed myself too great. Too strong.
An image crossed her mind: Lily's face, humming softly while eating sweets.
At least I enjoyed it while it lasted.
The breath was only meters away.
Then a distortion appeared before her.
Space bent violently, forming a stable aperture that engulfed the entire black beam at the precise moment it would have struck her. The energy was absorbed without immediate explosion, compressed into the rift as though reality itself were swallowing it. A fraction of a second later, the discharge reappeared in the sky, redirected above Azharyx.
The impact transformed the horizon.
The inverted black mass first contracted into a singular point, dragging air and clouds inward under crushing pressure. The sky warped around the dark sphere before a detonation erupted—silent for a fraction of a second, then followed by a delayed thunderclap that tore through the air. The explosion produced no white light, only a black expansion that darkened the heavens. Clouds were ripped apart, sunlight filtered through a veil of shadow that gradually dissipated.
On the ground, Anastasia watched the phenomenon, unable to move.
So this… is absolute power.
Footsteps crunched on the snow near her. She recognized the spatial signature before identifying the silhouette. Ophar stood firm, arm still extended after sealing the distortion. Lily was at his side, the twins slightly behind, forming an instinctive perimeter around their sovereign.
Anastasia's vision blurred.
Her breathing grew irregular, her consciousness already drifting under the weight of her wounds and exhaustion. Gathering what remained of her lucidity, she murmured in a low but firm voice:
"He is mine…"
Her eyelids closed.
She collapsed into unconsciousness.
~
Anastasia opened her eyes to a ceiling of carved stone, immediately recognizing one of the inner chambers of the White Fangs' fortress. Her body was fully bandaged, medicinal salves applied to her deeper wounds. The pain was present, constant, but controlled. Nothing irreversible.
She inhaled slowly, testing her ribs, her back, her left arm. Functional. Weakened, but intact.
Her katana rested beside her, perfectly aligned along the bed. She took it carefully, inspecting the blade without fully drawing it. No abnormal marks. No damage.
Ophar must have teleported it without touching it.
She left the chamber without summoning anyone. The fortress corridors were already active, yet at the sight of her, conversations ceased. Clan members instinctively stepped aside, forming a silent path. No one spoke. No one looked away. She walked with measured steps toward the throne hall.
This time, the doors were open.
All were present: confirmed members, elders, warriors, even several non-confirmed permitted to witness the recognition. When Anastasia entered, the entire hall knelt in perfect unison, leaving a clear path to the stone throne. She did not slow. She crossed the hall without glancing aside, ascended the steps, and took her place upon the seat Skarn had blocked the previous day.
The chief of the White Fangs stepped forward and knelt on one knee.
"You have passed the trial with distinction," Skarn Valdrökk declared in a deep, clear voice. "You returned alive from a confrontation with one of the Three Abominations of the White Fangs—and you grievously wounded it. Thus stand the peaks."
He lifted his head slightly.
"Glory to Empress Anastasia Valen Keral Morne."
The hall echoed in unison:
"Glory to Empress Anastasia Valen Keral Morne."
Anastasia did not answer immediately. She studied the faces before her, registering the difference. This was no longer cautious acknowledgment. It was acceptance.
The celebration that followed lasted until nightfall. The clan opened its reserves, slaughtered several beasts, and lit great fires within the inner courtyards of the fortress. War chants alternated with hunting tales, and even the non-confirmed were allowed to participate. The atmosphere was not exuberant, but dense—marked by a new respect.
During the evening, Anastasia learned that Ophar had spoken with Azharyx. He had explained what she truly was: not the First Heroine, but a being fashioned from her body. The dragon had listened and accepted the information without further exchange. She immediately understood why. Compared to the former heroine, her weakness made the distinction self-evident.
She felt no humiliation at that realization.
Instead, her resolve sharpened.
She would return—not for vengeance, nor to settle an emotional debt, but to impose her authority over these lands. Azharyx had dominated the battle. That fact would not be denied. It would be corrected.
She thought of the masters she had yet to meet, the techniques she had yet to master, the domain she was still incapable of manifesting. Her objective became simple: eliminate every technical limitation, every structural weakness, until no being could stand above her.
Wine flowed more freely as the hours passed. Voices deepened, songs slowed. Anastasia remained sober despite the repeated toasts, watching the flames dance across the clan's faces. She had been accepted by force. She would now be recognized by mastery.
By morning, after a night heavy with drink and stories, the celebration came to an end. Ophar opened a stable distortion at the center of the courtyard, Lily and the twins already prepared to depart. Without unnecessary ceremony, the Empress left the White Fangs' fortress.
They resumed their journey across the Demon Empire.