Talent Awakening: Draconic Overlord Of The Apocalypse

The reporter and her crew, now crouched behind the half-melted husk of a hover car, could scarcely believe what they were seeing.

The battlefield—a street once lined with neon signs and holo-billboards—had become something else entirely.

A charnel house drenched in sickly red mist, bodies littered like discarded mannequins, and structures carved open like rotten fruit.

Fires crackled from shattered storefronts, their light casting shadows that twitched and jerked with the movements of the creatures still standing.

And in the middle of it all—her.

The dragon woman.

She wasn't fighting. No, that wasn't the right word.

Fighting implied struggle, an exchange of blows, a dance where both partners led at times.

This was butchery. Cold, effortless, inevitable.

Her battleaxe blurred as she moved, cleaving through flesh and bone as if the monsters were made of damp parchment.

Each swing carried the sound of a storm caged in steel, thunder and lightning coiling along the blade, turning every strike into something more than mere force—it was execution, wrapped in light and fury.

One of the larger creatures lunged, its elongated, multi-jointed arms stretching toward her with taloned fingers, thick as knives.

It moved fast—faster than it should have been able to, its bones cracking and reforming mid-motion to allow for its unnatural reach.

But Fenris had already shifted, her dragon tail whipping behind her as she pivoted on one foot, armor glinting in the firelight.

The axe arced upward.

A flash of violet lighting.

The creature barely had time to scream before it was split from hip to shoulder, its torso peeling apart mid-air in a shower of steaming black ichor.

The two halves thudded to the pavement with a wet splatter, twitching, still trying to move despite lacking anything that resembled a functional body.

The reporter swallowed, gripping her microphone with white-knuckled fingers as if it were some kind of talisman.

One of her crew—probably the cameraman, judging by the frantic way he kept adjusting the lens—whispered, voice shaking, "Are we... are we seriously getting this on film?"

The woman didn't answer.

Because she wasn't sure anyone watching would believe it.

Not just the violence, not just the sheer unnatural speed of it all—but the way she moved.

There was no hesitation. No wasted motion.

Every step she took, every pivot of her foot on the ruined pavement, was deliberate. Calculated. An artist painting strokes of destruction across the battlefield, a musician plucking chords of carnage in perfect, unbroken rhythm.

It was as terrifying as it was beautiful.

Another monster, hulking and stitched together from what looked like multiple bodies fused at the ribs, barreled toward her with a howl—its footsteps cracking asphalt, a grotesque second mouth yawning open from the center of its chest.

It didn't make it within three feet of her.

She ducked low, armor scraping against the ruined pavement, and swung her axe in a perfect horizontal arc.

The blade caught the abomination just beneath the ribs. Purple lightning flared. Then, in a single gruesome instant, the upper half of the creature was no longer attached to the lower half.

The thing hit the ground in two separate pieces, one still flailing, the other convulsing as black bile spewed onto the street.

Somewhere in the distance, a collapsing neon sign sparked and exploded, sending a brief cascade of blue-white light across the battlefield.

It cast Fenris's armored silhouette in stark contrast—her wings spread, her battleaxe crackling, her gaze already locked onto the next target.

The reporter let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"...This isn't a fight," she murmured, voice barely audible beneath the distant screams and the crackling of burning wreckage.

The cameraman, still filming, swallowed hard. "What is it, then?"

She exhaled, gaze never leaving the battlefield.

"A slaughter."

Indeed... Indeed it was.

....

....

A silver wyvern cut through the night sky like a blade, its massive wings carving against the thick, tainted air.

The glow of fires below painted its polished scales in streaks of orange and crimson, giving it an almost molten appearance as it descended toward the battlefield.

On its back, Alister's team stood with practiced ease—because, really, by this point, turbulence and violent landings were just background noise.

Alister, however, narrowed his eyes the moment he saw it. The red mist.

It clung to the streets, swirling unnaturally, moving even when there was no wind. It pulsed in the dim light, thick and almost viscous, the way oil shimmered when spilled across water. And it wasn't dispersing—not properly, anyway. That was never a good sign.

"Don't inhale it," he ordered, voice sharp. Leaving no room for argument.

Anzo—because it was always Anzo—immediately waved a hand in dismissal. "Relax, Alister," he said, tapping the side of his head.

A barely audible hum followed as sleek, black material unfolded over his face, covering his nose and mouth. The nano-tech mask fit seamlessly, no clasps, no visible attachments—just smooth, adaptive polymer sealing against his skin like second nature.

"Lady Aiko had us covered before we even left," he said, tilting his head slightly, as if admiring his own reflection in the glint of the wyvern's scales. "Gotta hand it to her, it's crazy how she always has the right tech at the right time."

There was something almost amused in his tone, but beneath it, that same, familiar note of quiet awe.

Because this wasn't just "convenience."

It was pattern.

Aiko didn't "guess" what they would need. She didn't prepare blindly. She had a way of knowing, of securing exactly the right equipment for exactly the right crisis before anyone else even knew it was a crisis.

And if that wasn't terrifying, nothing was.

Alister didn't respond, but his silence spoke volumes. A sharp glance at the others. A flick of his fingers—subtle, wordless command.

Masks materialized.

No one argued.

Below them, the city stretched out like a canvas of ruin—firelight casting grotesque shadows over broken structures, blood-slicked pavement reflecting the distant neon glow of shattered signs.

The corpses of creatures lay sprawled in unnatural contortions, their flesh still sizzling from the wounds Fenris had carved through them. And in the center of it all, she stood, bathed in blood, axe still crackling with the remnants of purple lightning.

Anzo exhaled. "Yeah. We're late."