Chapter Ten – Scars Of The Inferno
King Michael turned to Ethan. His voice was low, but carried the weight of stars.
"It's time, my son."
He gestured in the air—no words, no incantation. Just a flick of his fingers.
Intent.
The vision began in silence.
One moment, Ethan stood in the cold shadow of his father's presence—breath slow, back straight, the weight of Jonathan's awakening still heavy in the air.
The next, the world turned inside out.
There was no magic circle. No flash of light. Only raw power.
Ethan didn't blink—he couldn't. Time itself bent. The air shimmered. And then—
He stood beneath an impossible sky.
Blue. Endless. Sacred.
It stretched over a kingdom that gleamed like a jewel between the mountains. White marble towers rose like fingers toward heaven. Sunlight danced across shimmering bridges suspended by magic. Floating gardens spun slowly in the breeze. Golden banners bearing the Flame Throne's crest—his family's crest—rippled in the wind.
Ethan drew a shaky breath. The mana here was thick. Ancient. It hummed in his bones.
"This place…" he whispered.
A voice beside him answered.
"The capital of Caldrithos. A kingdom that loved its king too much."
He turned—and saw his father.
Not the stoic monarch he knew, but younger. Proud. Alive.
Michael stood draped in crimson and gold, dragon-scale armor gleaming. His hair was bound in a warrior's braid. He sat upon a throne carved from obsidian and starlight, surrounded by knights and nobles.
There was no crown on his head.
He didn't need one.
The hall buzzed with debate—strategists arguing, voices rising with panic.
A demon horde marched from the deadlands. Vast. Ravenous. Days from the capital.
"The armies of Caldrithos will not hold," one noble stammered. "Their magic outstrips ours. We beg you—High King—flee to the skies. Survive. We will hold the walls."
Michael stood.
The room fell silent.
"No."
Just one word—and it silenced the world.
"I will go," Michael said. "Alone. And I will erase them."
The Field of Fire
The vision convulsed—dragging Ethan through wind and flame.
Now, he stood on the edge of annihilation.
A blackened field stretched for miles, crawling with demon beasts—hulking things with bone masks and serpentine spines, fire-bellied giants, sky-worms with wings like torn flesh.
Then—
He came.
Michael descended from the sky like a falling star. His body morphed mid-flight—exploding into a monstrous, god-sized dragon.
A titan of black and crimson, magma veins glowing beneath obsidian scales. Wings spread wide—blotting out the sun. His horns spiraled back like crown-thorns. His tail cracked the sky.
He landed like a meteor.
The shockwave shattered mountains.
Hundreds died on impact alone—ripped apart by the pressure, flung into the sky like ash.
Then he moved.
A slash of his claws tore demons apart by the dozens—limbs flying, bone crunching under the weight of celestial fury.
A whip of his tail snapped necks like dry twigs, sending bodies tumbling for miles.
He opened his mouth—
And the sun screamed.
A breath of solar fire—pure arcane plasma—unleashed in a roar so loud it broke time for a heartbeat. Demons disintegrated mid-charge. Those too close didn't even scream—only turned to red mist.
They tried to run.
They died screaming.
They tried to fight.
They were ripped apart.
Michael plowed through their ranks like a god of extinction—biting, tearing, rending. Teeth closed around an armored demon general—crack—its skull splintered like glass. He spat the remains aside, his maw dripping molten blood.
His wings snapped forward, slicing entire battalions in half—blades of bone and burning wind. He caught one beast in midair and slammed it into the ground so hard the earth folded.
Ethan watched—awestruck and horrified.
Demons clawed, burned, and vanished.
But something was wrong.
Michael wasn't roaring in fury anymore.
He was laughing.
At first, it was a low growl. Then a deep, guttural sound. Then full-throated hysteria—like a god who had remembered what joy felt like through bloodshed.
His eyes turned white. Infernal.
And in his mind:
BLOOD!
MORE BLOOD!
RIP THEM! BURN THEM! TEAR EVERYTHING!
I AM THE END!
His body pulsed. More power. More destruction.
And then—
He turned.
Slowly. Terribly.
Toward Caldrithos.
The floating gardens. The white marble. The spires.
The scent of fear from his people… reached him.
Delicious.
Ethan's heart snapped.
"No… no, don't—Father—!"
Michael moved.
A single wingbeat shattered the clouds.
His body arced over the walls. He inhaled—and the sky lit with red.
The first breath erased the outer gates. The walls were gone.
The second melted towers of crystal and steel. The mages didn't have time to scream.
The third—
Ash.
The palace was erased.
Nobles. Children. Clerics. The court.
Gone.
Slaughtered by their god-king.
And below—horrified faces looked up at him from the courtyards, from the temples, from the shattered halls of knowledge.
Eyes full of love.
Turning to fear.
"He's lost his mind—"
"Our king… our king has turned on us—"
"Run!"
Michael's madness screamed:
MORE!
BURN THEM ALL!
BETRAYAL IS NOTHING. BLOOD IS EVERYTHING.
He wasn't just destroying them.
He wanted to.
The madness faded only when there was nothing left to kill.
He hovered above the ruins, chest heaving. His claws dripped with the blood of his own people. His wings beat slowly—exhausted.
And in the silence…
Clarity.
The laughter stopped.
The white light in his eyes flickered.
Michael looked down—and saw ash.
His ash.
His people's.
His son's name etched in the palace he just erased.
And for the first time in his immortal life—
He collapsed.
His wings folded over his body like a funeral shroud. His claws shook. He tried to speak.
But only weeping came.
He wept. For days. Alone.
The Present
Ethan snapped back into his body like a drowning man breaching the surface.
He fell to his knees. Gasping. Hair in his fists. His chest burned like fire had nested inside it.
"It was an accident," he whispered. "You didn't mean—"
"No," Michael's voice cut in—iron, flat. "I meant it."
Ethan looked up.
Michael stood tall—the same man who had just destroyed a kingdom in his mind.
"I wanted them to burn," he said. "That is what Blood Rage does. It makes wrath taste like honey. It twists honor into vengeance. Love into slaughter."
"And when it ends… there is nothing left to love."
Ethan's voice shook. "But you came back."
Michael's silence said everything.
"Barely."
Then—impossibly—he walked forward and knelt.
He, the Iron Wyrm, knelt before his son.
His hand pressed to Ethan's heart.
"You carry the essence of a Great Wyrm. That fire will scream to be let loose. And one day… it will be."
His eyes narrowed.
"You must master it—or it will master you."
Ethan, trembling, laid his hand over his father's.
"I won't let it consume me."
Michael nodded. "Then start now. Cultivate your mind—not just your fists. Learn restraint. Compassion. Even when it hurts."
He rose, turning toward the door.
"And if you lose control…"
Ethan's voice cracked. "You'd kill me?"
Michael paused.
"No," he said quietly. "I'd hold you—until the fire remembered who you are."
And then he was gone.
Beyond the Door
Outside, Jonathan sat frozen against the wall.
He hadn't seen the vision.
But he'd heard enough.
His hands trembled. He stared at the glow in his veins—at the memory of burning. Of pressure. Of awakening.
And now, he understood.
The boys he called friends weren't just dragons.
They were gods in disguise.
And yet somehow… still human enough to cry.
The Return
Footsteps.
Michael's cloak whispered like shadowfire as he returned.
"I've left a note on the table excusing your tardiness," he said. "Maureen called your mother, Jonathan. She explained the delay."
He looked them over.
"I'll meet you at the car. Five minutes."
And then he vanished again—
Like the storm he once was.