Birthing Legends: My Womb Creates SSS Monsters-Chapter 143: Impossible… Are They Winning Against Draculeus?
Forsha gasped as the midnight blue light reflected in her heart shaped eyes.
"It’s beautiful..."
The explosion hit her squarely, her staff raised too late. The impact flung her backward in a swirl of golden sparks, robes whipping wildly as she tumbled across the stone. She coughed dreamily,
"Even your flames... are magnificent..."
Above, Luavier reacted instantly.
"Verdantwings—disperse!"
He kicked off the air itself, wind spiraling around his spear as he tried to ride the shockwave instead of resist it. Even so, the blast tore through his wind cushion and sent him crashing down hard, skidding across the arena.
On the ground, Sairant froze for a split second too long. His eyes widened.
"N-no—"
The blast swallowed the Silverspines. Their flexible bodies bent violently under the shockwave, spines arching unnaturally as they were blown across the floor. Sairant tumbled end over end, daggers flying from his hands before he slammed into the base of a shattered pillar.
Smoke rose. The living cage was gone. Warriors lay scattered across cracked stone, coughing, groaning, struggling to rise.
At the center of the arena, midnight blue flames slowly faded around Draculeus’ towering figure. The glow beneath his midnight scales dimmed little by little as he finally drew a deep breath. Smoke curled from his lips, his chest rising slowly after the explosive release.
And in battle, that single breath mattered.
After unleashing such a devastating attack, even the strongest warrior needed one second to inhale. One moment where the body reset itself. One moment where the monster breathed.
And that moment... was exactly what House Citrineclaw had been waiting for.
Arteè moved.
In a single second, he appeared in front of Draculeus, his triple blades slicing through the smoke like black lightning. His glasses flashed as his eyes locked onto the faint imperfection on the Dragonborn’s chest—the dented scale glowing softly beneath the fading fire.
"The selection..."
His blades shot forward.
"...is mine."
Behind him, the Citrineclaws moved instantly.
They burst across the cracked arena floor, bodies low, arms extended, their gauntlet blades snapping forward with metallic precision. Their movements were fast, precise, surgical—nothing like the brute strength of the other Houses.
They moved like executioners delivering the final blow. And every blade was aimed at the glowing dent in Draculeus’ chest.
SHING—!
Arteé triple bladed gauntlet struck the dented scale on Draculeus’ chest. Because the scale was already stressed, the black steel, forged from Tiamat’s blood, finally bit deep.
"UNGH!"
Draculeus grunted as a shard of broken scale snapped free, striking Arteè’s glasses.
Arteè clicked his tongue.
"Tch. Even weakened, his hide is tougher than I anticipated."
Clang-crack! Clang-crack!
Draculeus raised an arm to push them back, but another gauntlet slipped beneath his guard. A third blade stabbed the weakened scale again. The pressure stacked faster than his body could answer.
Across the arena, Percieval’s eyes widened.
"Amazing..."
The old knight slowly crossed his arms, watching the relentless assault with sharp interest. His lips curled into a proud grin.
"They actually drew Dragonborn’s scale."
Another strike landed. Draculeus staggered half a step, his talons scraping the cracked arena floor.
Percieval chuckled under his breath.
"These candidates... they’re far more excellent than I expected."
He glanced over the battlefield, watching the different Houses struggling to rise again.
"If this is the quality of the new generation... Then the future of the kingdom is bright."
Meanwhile, the Citrineclaws did not slow down.
Arteè moved again.
His gauntlet blades spun in a tight arc and struck again once more. The steel bit deeper into the fractured scale, forcing Draculeus backward another step.
"Keep the pressure."
Arteè said calmly. Another Citrineclaw drove his blades forward. Then another.
Clang!
Crack!
Draculeus’ wings flared violently as he tried to force space between them. But the hunters stayed glued to him, never giving the Dragonborn room to breathe.
"Do not stop."
Another strike landed.
Across the battlefield, Killian of House Asulfang staggered to his feet, blood dripping from his chin. His eyes widened as he watched the Citrineclaws swarming the wounded spot like sharks. His grip tightened on his longsword.
"Tch! Are you serious?"
He spat onto the ground and pointed his blade at them.
"You perfume freaks waited until everyone else broke his armor first! Now you jump in to claim the glory?!"
Cassandra of House Blackheart barked out a rough laugh beside him. She wiped dust from her cheek and leaned her morningstar across her shoulder, watching the precise strikes with sharp interest.
"HA! These clawed bastards are clever—I’ll give them that."
Meanwhile, from the sidelines, Percieval watched with a quiet smile forming under his beard. His sharp eyes followed every strike, every perfectly timed step of the Citrineclaws.
"Beautiful... House Citrineclaw has always fought this way—patience before all else. Study the prey... then strike when escape is no longer possible."
He folded his arms, clearly satisfied, a note of pride threading his voice.
"They did not rush with the others. They waited... and now they move to finish what the battlefield has already begun."
Another sharp impact rang across the arena.
CRACK!
His knees buckled, slamming into the fractured stone. A scream tore from him as his leg twisted beneath his weight, sending blood spraying across the dust.
From the sidelines, the watching warriors leaned forward, tense.
"...It’s happening," someone whispered.
Weapons scraped nervously against armor as several fighters tried to see through the cloud of smoke and bodies. He dropped hard to the ground, sliding across the stone with a painful grunt.
Percieval’s smile faded slightly.
"But even so... A Dragonborn... is not something they can defeat."
Around the arena, the surviving warriors reacted immediately. Killian leaned forward, squinting through the chaos.
"Wait... what?"
Cassandra frowned, gripping her morningstar tighter.
"...Hold on."
Sairant of House Silverspine tilted his head, blinking in confusion.
"Did they do it?"
Even Hank of House Crimsonscales narrowed his eyes, trying to see what was really happening in the center.
"Something’s wrong."
Forsha’s golden eye widened, the iris shimmering as it tracked the auras of the battlefield.
"The one being crushed... it’s the Citrineclaw. Arteè—they’re losing."
