Birthing Legends: My Womb Creates SSS Monsters-Chapter 132: After 1,000 Dead Children… Drakovitch’s First Dragonborn Is Born — Part 3.
King Drakovitch’s voice rolled across the Grand Cathedral, deep and cold, carrying a weight that silenced even the murmurs of the nobles. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢
"In the old days, my own siblings mocked me. They saw my white blood and called me a ’bitch.’ A name born of shame, for I was the son of a slave... born from weakness. They laughed, twisting it into ’Drakobitch,’ mocking the dragon name I had not yet earned. They believed a half-blood like me was doomed—that no one like me could ever survive, that I was destined to burn. They saw failure before it even had a chance to grow."
The hall fell deathly silent. Morgant’s face, for the first time, paled slightly, though he dared not move... for everything Drakovitch was saying was no secret to him.
"But look at me now. I did not change the name they gave me to spite them. I only changed the ’B’ to a ’V.’ Why? Because I am no son of a bitch. I am the son of Victory. I turned their insult into a crown, a title that makes the world tremble beneath it."
He spread his arms, his gaze sweeping the hall, and finally rested on the statue of Tiamat.
"And those siblings who teased me? Where are they now? Ash. Nothing but cinders. I am the one left standing. The one the fire could not claim. The one the Dragonrite could not break. I am Victory incarnate, and all who doubted me have become nothing."
The nobles shivered. Even the High Priest lowered his gaze, sensing the raw force in the King’s proclamation. Spike, standing behind him, felt the weight of his father’s words press upon him—the unyielding truth of survival, power, and the cost of victory.
Drakovitch turned his focus back to Spike.
"Tell me, boy. In the dark of the courtyard, away from the priests and the guards... what did your siblings call you?"
The young Dragonborn looked up. His midnight blue eyes shimmered.
"They called me... Spike."
The King paused, then let out a thunderous laugh. Following his lead, the nobles began to chuckle, the sound filling the hall.
"Spike!"
The King wiped a tear from his eye.
"Children truly have no creativity. A nickname for a brat with messy hair. Do you wish to keep it? Do you want your royal name to carry that memory?"
Spike’s chest heaved. He thought of Knots pulling his hair. He thought of Big Arms’ heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Yes. I want to keep it, father."
Drakovitch nodded, his mind spinning. He remembered Maddy, his wife back in that other world and her obsession with biology and insects. He remembered the words she used to read late at night.
"Then you shall be named. The prefix DR is the mark of our blood. It stays. For the rest, we shall use the old tongue. Aculeus—the sharp, stinging point that pierces the dark."
The King raised his hand.
"DRACULEUS! That is your name! The bearer of the Dragon Spike Wings of Primordial Tiamat."
Spike, now Draculeus, felt the weight of the name settle on him. It sounded mighty, like a weapon, but hidden inside was the nickname his family had given him. He bowed his head, his horns catching the light.
"I am Draculeus..."
The crowd erupted in a roar. The young nobles from the great houses shouted his name even louder.
"LONG LIVE DRACULEUS!"
The Cathedral bell rang out as loudly as it could, commemorating the naming of King Drakovitch’s firstborn.
While the bells celebrated Draculeus, the massive iron gates of Drakaria swung wide for a different kind of harvest. A river of women poured into the city, each hoping to be the next to carry the King’s "Seed."
Suddenly, the crowd parted. Two towering women stepped through the archway. They didn’t wear the silk dresses or lace veils of the other nominees. They wore tribal leather, heavy furs, and bone ornaments that rattled with every step. Their muscles were lean and defined, like hunters who lived in the wild.
The crowd instinctively drew back as the two women approached. Whispers rippled through the nobles, their jeweled collars clinking nervously. Most of the younger daughters pressed closer to each other, eyes wide, jaws slightly agape.
One of the towering women, her skin dark as obsidian and her hair a faded gold, cut short like a boy’s, was adorned with exotic accessories from head to neck to arms, even trailing down to her feet—each piece seeming to swallow the sunlight. Her sharp gaze swept across the assembly, taking in every detail.
Beside her, slightly shorter but equally imposing, stood her companion, bronze skinned, with a shock of long, vibrant pink hair. Instinctively, she stepped closer, looping an arm around her friend’s waist in a protective, familiar gesture.
She offered a small, awkward smile and waved toward the cluster of young noblewomen who had frozen at their approach. The nobles stiffened, some shifting uncomfortably under the combined intimidation of raw physicality and confident presence.
"You... are not from here, are you? Judging by both of your... patches, you might be coming from the ogres’ village."
One of the older women, probably in her forties, yet still hoping to be seeded by the King, said, fanning herself with a colorful fan. The other women with her laughed along, joining in her amusement.
The taller woman’s eyebrow lifted sharply.
"What did you say... OLD LADY?"
Her accomplice jumped slightly at the outburst, then squeezed her arm reassuringly, whispering with a sheepish tilt of her head,
"Take a deep breath... Relax... they’re just curious."
Even so, the effect was immediate. The assembly’s whispers carried a mix of awe, fear, and fascination, as the pair’s wild, untamed energy contrasted sharply with the clothing and posture of the women around them.
Not just the women noticed—the blonde one stopped before the gate guards, her golden eyes flashing with a dangerous heat. The lead guard stepped forward, halberd crossed defensively. His voice shook slightly as he barked:
"Halt! You... you look like savages from afar! I must... ensure that you are... real..."
He circled them slowly, eyes lingering on their unusual, imposing physiques.
"Just... making... sure that... the King... won’t bed an ogre who... shapeshifted... into a fine... lady... wearing rags."
