Birthing Legends: My Womb Creates SSS Monsters-Chapter 168: A Traitor Walks Among the Seven Houses.
Councilor Morgant stood in the center of the chamber, his suit untouched by the dust of the collapsing palace, his shadow stretching long over the rows of houses black blade weapons. He didn’t answer immediately; he simply looked at the two boys.
Only minutes ago, the chaos in the halls had been total. Sairant had been lagging behind, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Go!"
Sairant shouted to the Verdantwings and his Silverspine members.
"I can handle the injured on my own! Don’t wait for me!"
He shoved a group of panicked courtiers toward a hidden escape tunnel. Luavier hesitated for a heartbeat, eyes flicking back to his friend.
"Focus on the armory!"
Sairant urged, a desperate grin tugging at his face.
"Get the Black Blades. I’ll follow once the injured are safe. We need those swords if we’re going to survive the Gigante!"
Luavier had nodded, trusting in Sairant’s strength, and led the charge toward the vault to claim the only weapons capable of wounding a True Primordial. Sairant had watched them go, certain that the armory was the safest place in the palace...
Now, Sairant faced the bitter truth. By staying behind to save the weak, he had walked straight into a slaughterhouse. Luavier lay nearby, gripping his Black Spear, frozen in shock.
Sairant’s heart sank as he saw Councilor Morgant casually catch a swirling, razor edged fan of blackened steel as it returned to his hands. The fan’s ribs dripped with fresh blood.
Around him, the young warriors of House Silverspine lay slaughtered, their bodies pierced, slumped like discarded dolls. The scene was absolute, brutal silence—death had carved its mark with cold precision.
Morgant didn’t even look at them.
The members of House Verdantwings formed a living barrier around the remaining black blade weapons, their bodies tense, weapons ready. Two of the younger warriors stepped forward, black spears raised, eyes blazing.
"For Tiamat!"
One shouted, leaping forward with the speed and grace of a master of the winds.
They moved with so fast, wind whistling past their limbs, their mastery of aerial combat making them appear untouchable. Yet Morgant didn’t even flinch. With a single, deliberate flick of his wrist, the black steel fan spun from his hands.
It was gone in an instant.
The warriors twisted mid air, their momentum breaking as they threw themselves aside. The fan’s ribs hissed past their throats, close enough to draw a chill from their skin. They landed unevenly, but the near miss only fueled their arrogance.
"Is that all, old man?"
"DIE!"
Then, impossibly fast, the fan returned—a streak of black steel, precise and merciless. It tore across their wrists, severing tendons and muscles before they could react.
PSSSHHH!
Blood spouted from their wounds, their grip on their weapons slipping. They lost their footing and collapsed at Morgant’s feet, blood splattering across his pristine, expensive shoes.
Morgant bent slightly, letting the spinning fan settle into his hands again, as if nothing had happened, the carnage around him irrelevant. The Verdantwings froze, shock and horror painted across their faces, realizing that even their masters of the wind were no match for him.
"Fools! Give up and—"
He never finished.
"Die!"
Sairant roared. Driven by a blinding, senseless rage, Sairant lunged from the shadows behind him. He moved with the jagged, lethal precision of his Silverspine training—an assassin’s strike born of pure hate. He didn’t care that Morgant was a Councilor. He didn’t care about the odds.
In his hands, he clutched nothing more than two serrated kitchen knives, but he wielded them with the desperation of a man who had already decided he was dead. He threw his entire weight into the strike, aiming for Morgant’s nape.
Morgant didn’t even turn to face the ambush.
As Sairant’s kitchen knives hissed toward his nape, Morgant’s steel fan snapped open behind his head, the metal ribs catching the blades with a harsh, sparking grind. Simultaneously, his other fan swept across his chest, the heavy frame parrying Luavier’s spear tip just inches from his heart.
For a heartbeat, the three were locked—a chaotic triangle of steel and desperation.
Then, Morgant moved. He dropped into a low, coiled bend, shifting his weight with lethal efficiency. He lashed out with a kick that caught Sairant square in the chest, sending the assassin stumbling back into the dirt.
Before Luavier could recover his footing, Morgant’s fan blurred again. The edge caught Luavier’s shoulder in a shallow, jagged slash. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it was precise. Luavier’s fingers went numb, his grip failing as his spear clattered uselessly to the ground.
Luavier dived, ducking low as the remaining members of the Verdant Wings surged forward. He forced his leaden limbs to move, gripping his black spear with his good arm and lunging back into the fray. All thirteen were on Morgant now, a storm of steel and desperation.
Morgant didn’t flinch. He moved like a shadow through rain.
He didn’t aim for hearts or throats; he sought the machinery of the body. With a flick of his wrist, the fan’s edge severed a swordsman’s wrist tendons, making his blade drop as if it weighed a ton. Another member lunged, only to have the back of his knee opened with a surgical cut, dropping him to the stone.
One by one, Morgant bled them. He was a butcher. A slash across a forearm here, a puncture through a shoulder muscle there. He didn’t kill; he simply dismantled. The air filled with the wet sound of slicing flesh and the heavy thuds of disarmed warriors falling into their own blood, unable to even clench a fist.
Luavier charged again, the last man standing amidst the wreckage of his unit.
"By the winds of Verdantwings... I will take you with me!"
He swung the black spear with everything he had left. Morgant stepped into the strike, his fan poised to finish the job,
"So bold... to speak of your House motto... Every hair on my skin rises at your audacity, YOU TR—"
Before the words could leave Morgant’s lips, Sairant lunged forward, intercepting the strike.
