Birthing Legends: My Womb Creates SSS Monsters-Chapter 121: The Dragonrite: Drakovitch’s Brutal Method of Creating Children.
The sheer presence of Primordial Tiamat pressed down on the White Blooded offspring.
Raspy and Sloppy stopped breathing entirely, their mouths hanging open in paralyzed awe. Big Arms, for the first time in her life, looked small. Her massive shoulders trembled, not from cold, but from the primal realization that she was standing before the apex predator of existence.
Only Knots remained standing with a semblance of dignity, though his knuckles were white as he gripped the hem of his ceremonial robes. His mind was screaming, trying to calculate the mana density of the eleven heads, but the math kept coming up as "Infinite."
"I–I..."
He stammered, his voice trembling despite his effort to remain composed.
"I never imagined that the mere presence of Tiamat could possess such magnitude..."
His eyes lifted slowly, trying, failing, to comprehend the colossal monster beyond the fog.
"I once read an ancient account... During the Age of War, dragons... were hunted... one by one by beings whose names have become a taboo even to whisper."
The white blooded teens leaned in, their breathing shallow, drawn toward him by the gravity of his words.
"That main head of Tiamat, the obsidian black one, was once the only dragon that survived the onslaught. It fought back... it tore through their ranks... but even a god of the sky can be buried by numbers. The extinction of all dragon kind was inevitable."
His voice darkened, turning cold.
"But a woman intervened."
The wind howled.
"She saved the survivors from the end. She gathered all of the last dragons and did the unthinkable: she fused them. Their power, their blood, their very souls, stitched together into a single, terrifying entity."
His breath trembled as he stared into the gray void.
"That fusion gave birth to a Primordial Dragon. Tiamat became the strongest Primordial in existence."
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the whistling wind.
"And from that Primordial, our blood was born. Our species wasn’t just created to exist; we were engineered to defeat that ancient enemy. With the birth of the first Dragonborn, the hunters became the prey."
He turned back to his siblings, his eyes narrowing with a sharp, predatory pride.
"That is why we stand as the apex of the apex. That is why every kingdom in this world trembles when they hear our name.. We were not merely born to rule... we were born to end the things that even gods feared."
Then, the central head, the Obsidian Blackm, lowered its snout until its hot, sulfurous breath ruffled the King’s hair. Its voice didn’t come from a throat; it was a telepathic roar.
"SO... THESE ARE THE SEED YOU HAVE SOWN, LITTLE KING? ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY THREE WHITE BLOODED SONS AND DAUGHTERS... HALF BLOODS BORN OF COLORED HUMANS."
The dragon’s massive eye narrowed, its slit pupil focusing on the trembling teens.
"THIS IS... UNPRECEDENTED. THE KINGS BEFORE YOU SCARCELY BROUGHT US TEN AT A TIME. YET YOU HAVE MANAGED TO SEED AND HARVEST THESE NUMBERS."
King Drakovitch smirked, a proud glint in his eyes. He lifted his gaze to the Obsidian head, his white-silver slit eyes reflecting the abyssal scales of the dragon.
"They are merely the first batch, Primordial Tiamat. One hundred and forty three who have reached the ripeness of the blood. But do not be fooled by their diluted lineage."
He turned his gaze toward the horizon, his silhouette cold and sharp against the dying light.
"From this sunset forward, I shall march a thousand more to this peak every single day. A river of white blood to be dyed in your glory. We will drown the world in our numbers until the sheer weight of our existence forces a new evolution. We will breed the weak until their very struggle births the peerless... until our kingdom is once again a land of true Dragonborns, and the world remembers why it fears our name."
The obsidian head of Tiamat lowered further, a low vibration of approval rattling the stones.
"YOU ARE INDEED A MAN OF YOUR WORD... YOU HAVE BRED AN ARMY IN THE BLINK OF AN EYELID. YOU HAVE TURNED THE WOMB INTO A WEAPONRY!"
The dragon paused, its abyssal eyes reflecting the king’s ambition.
"PERHAPS YOU ARE INDEED THE NEW HERO OF THIS AGE, DRAKOVITCH. A KING WHO BREED HIS OWN... LEGENDS."
Drakovitch reached down, his fingers locking around the hilt of the black sword embedded in the stone. With a slow, grating shriek of metal, he pulled the blade free.
"I am no hero. I am just a father. And my children? If they can survive what comes next, if they can hold your blood without shattering—they shall be the tools I use to hunt the other Primordial Rulers."
Without further ado, Drakovitch raised the black sword high above his head. The eleven heads of Tiamat suddenly pulled back, rising into the violet clouds until they vanished, leaving only a haunting, rhythmic thumping, the beating of a heart the size of a cathedral.
"The Dragonrite is not a miracle! Not a gift of life!"
Drakovitch roared to his children.
"It is not something you receive without effort! It is the death of the human! You will take the blood of the Primordial, and you will force it to obey you!"
He fixed his gaze on the black blade, his expression darkening.
"If you are unworthy, you die! If you are worthy, you ascend!"
Suddenly, he swung the sword in a massive, vertical arc.
SHHH-LINK!
The air itself seemed to scream. A massive, invisible veil was sliced open, and suddenly, a torrential waterfall of glowing, viscous crimson blood erupted from the empty air. The "void" bled. The strike had been so precise, so powerful, that it had bypassed the physical world to strike Tiamat’s hidden, ethereal chest.
The White Blooded offspring screamed... not in terror, but in frenzied, fanatical ecstasy. The glowing blood seemed to hypnotize them all; their throats were parched, desperate to taste the dragon’s essence, their mouths hanging open, ready to gulp every drop.
Drakovitch plunged the sword into the ground and commanded:
"DRINK!"
