Chapter 87 — Damian vs Lancelot
Back to the Present
The silence that followed the flashback was heavy. The air inside the ruined hall seemed thicker, burdened by the ancient pain Lancelot had just revealed.
Damian stood motionless, his sword still pointed at his opponent, but his expression had completely changed. His brows were deeply furrowed, his green eyes blazing with pure anger mixed with sincere, visceral disgust. His jaw was clenched tight, the veins in his neck bulging from the effort of containing his rage. He gripped the hilt of his sword so hard that his knuckles had turned white.
"So, if I understand correctly…" Damian began in a low voice, almost trembling with restrained fury.
"You didn't hesitate for a second to betray the man who took care of you? The one who took you in when you were nothing more than a starving, terrified orphan? The one who fed you, protected you, educated you, and taught you everything you know?"
Lancelot remained silent.
His face was a cold, distant mask, but his icy blue eyes betrayed a storm raging within him, one he refused to reveal. He simply stared at Damian without blinking, his lance firmly gripped in his hand.
Damian took a step forward, his voice rising, vibrating with rage and contempt.
"I don't care whether he killed humans or not! You were at war! Of course he fought to protect himself! Dragons and humans had been slaughtering each other for centuries! But you... you betrayed the one who gave you everything! The one who saved you from death! You sold him out to dragon hunters like an animal! You watched him die from afar without even trying to save him!"
Damian spat on the ground, disgust written across his face.
"You're truly a filthy scumbag. The worst kind of trash. You're no better than the monsters I've crossed paths with."
Lancelot still didn't answer. Only the slight tightening of his jaw showed that he had heard every word.
Then, without warning
BAM!
Damian lunged forward at blinding speed, propelled by an explosion of pure rage. His sword carved a powerful arc of light through the air, aiming directly for Lancelot's throat.
The battle resumed with renewed intensity, even more brutal than before.
Lancelot reacted instantly. He raised his lance in a fluid motion and blocked the strike. The two weapons collided with tremendous force, unleashing a shockwave that cracked the floor even further. Sparks erupted, briefly illuminating their faces twisted by fury.
"You dare judge me?!" Lancelot growled at last, his cold voice cracking for the first time.
"You know nothing about what I've been through!"
He retaliated with a flurry of rapid, precise strikes, his lance spinning like a white tornado. Every attack was lethal, aimed at Damian's vital points with deadly accuracy.
Damian dodged, blocked, and counterattacked with savage fury. His sword sang through the air, searching for an opening in his opponent's defense.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Every collision shook the walls.
Suddenly, Lancelot unleashed a barrage of white wind blades from his lance invisible, razor-sharp projectiles that sliced through everything in their path: stones, shattered furniture, even the air itself seemed to split apart with a shrill whistle.
Damian narrowly avoided several of them, but two struck him.
A deep gash opened across his left arm. Another tore into his thigh. Blood flowed freely. A third blade cut across his cheek, leaving a crimson trail down his face.
Despite the pain, Damian grinned fiercely.
"You talk about betrayal... but look at yourself! You sold out your own savior! You slaughtered dozens of dragons after becoming one yourself! You're nothing but a pathetic hypocrite!"
Lancelot clenched his teeth, his gaze growing even colder.
The battle intensified. The two men fought not only with their weapons but with their hatred, their pain, and their convictions. Every strike carried the weight of their pasts.
The hall trembled beneath the force of their clash. Pieces of the ceiling crashed down, dust filled the air, and blood began staining the fractured floor.
The duel between the descendant of dragon hunters and the traitorous dragon was far from over.
Suddenly, Lancelot attacked without a word.
He lowered himself into a combat stance, knees bent, body turned sideways, his lance held like a deadly extension of himself.
Then he exploded forward.
His first strike was a direct thrust, fast as lightning, aimed straight at Damian's heart. The air screamed around the lance.
Damian barely managed to block. His sword vibrated violently from the impact, the force surging through his entire arm.
Lancelot didn't stop.
He immediately followed with a relentless series of deadly Dragon Blade techniques: fluid rotations of the lance that created razor-sharp white wind blades, followed by merciless piercing thrusts.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Damian blocked, dodged, and retreated step by step.
Each parry sent painful shockwaves through his arms and shoulders.
One invisible wind blade carved deeply into his left shoulder, sending blood spraying into the air. Another tore through his right thigh, shredding both fabric and flesh.
Blood already poured from multiple wounds, staining the cracked floor beneath him.
"You're slow!" Lancelot sneered, his voice cold and mocking.
His lance spun in deadly circles, almost hypnotic to watch.
He unleashed another wave of White Bladesenergy projectiles so sharp they split everything apart. Stone columns were sliced cleanly in half. Flying debris was severed instantly. Even the air seemed to tear apart with an eerie shriek.
Damian dove sideways in a desperate roll, feeling the blades brush past his back.
He sprang up and counterattacked with a series of powerful, rapid slashes. His sword glowed with an intense blue aura, seeking to break through Lancelot's defense.
The battle became increasingly violent, almost feral.
Lancelot wielded his lance with terrifying mastery: piercing thrusts aimed at joints, wide sweeping rotations that generated storms of white blades, and lightning-fast stabs. Every movement was calculated to kill.
Damian endured.
He bled But he refused to fall.
The angrier he became, the stronger he grew. His rage made him faster, more powerful, and more unpredictable.
He countered several attacks in succession with growing ferocity before launching an offensive of his own using techniques inherited from his dragon-hunter lineage: defensive parries followed by explosive ripostes, low feints leading into vicious upward strikes, and acrobatic leaps that allowed him to attack from impossible angles.
Lancelot recognized the style instantly.
His eyes narrowed dangerously.
"That style... You truly are descended from a lineage of dragon hunters."
Suddenly, a blurred face flashed through Damian's mind a painful memory from his childhood.
A voice shouted:
"You'll never be one of us!"
A single moment of distraction.
Fatal.
Lancelot seized the opportunity without mercy.
He slammed the reinforced shaft of his lance into Damian's abdomen, then followed with a devastating thrust that launched him backward with monstrous force.
CRACK!
The impact was brutal.
Damian was hurled across the hall like a ragdoll. He smashed through a weakened wall in an explosion of stone and debris before crashing onto unstable floor tiles leading to a lower level of the palace.
Both warriors fell into a vast new chamber as rubble rained around them.
Suddenly, countless beams of white light erupted from the walls and floor ancient defense mechanisms triggered by the destruction.
The room had become a deadly trap.
A chaotic battlefield of lethal energy beams.
Despite his injuries, Damian moved with astonishing agility.
He slipped between the deadly rays, rolled across debris, leapt from shattered pillars, and used falling rubble as temporary shields.
Every movement was precise.
Desperate.
Beautiful.
Lancelot pursued him relentlessly, his lance spinning like a white tornado and launching waves of energy blades that exploded against walls and floors.
"Stop running like a rat!" Lancelot shouted, his voice dripping with contempt.
He moved at incredible speed, performing acrobatic feats that seemed impossible: backflips, aerial spins, midair direction changes all while continuing his relentless assault.
The battle had become a magnificent and deadly chaos.
Damian's mind raced.
His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest.
Despite the agony radiating from his wounds, he forced himself to analyze every movement, every stance, every subtle shift in Lancelot's balance.
He's too perfect... too precise. Every attack is calculated. There's almost no opening. But there has to be one... I just need to find it.
Lancelot seemed to be enjoying himself.
A faint, cold smile spread across his face as he slowly spun his lance between his fingers.
A blinding white light began enveloping the weapon.
The energy grew denser.
Heavier.
The air around the lance warped under the pressure.
"It's over," Lancelot whispered in a low, icy voice.
Then he struck.
SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
The attack erupted like a beam of death.
A concentrated spear of white energy tore through space at unimaginable speed, leaving behind a blazing trail that burned everything in its path.
The floor cracked.
The air screamed.
The entire chamber seemed to shrink beneath the pressure.
Damian had no time to dodge completely.
The attack struck him directly in the chest.
The pain was indescribable.
It felt as though a white-hot spear had pierced straight through his body.
He was hurled backward, smashing through yet another wall of the palace in a catastrophic explosion of stone, metal, and dust.
His body carved a massive crater into the next chamber, sliding several meters before finally coming to a stop amid the wreckage.
The pain stole his breath.
Blood spilled from his mouth.
For a moment, he remained lying there, the world spinning around him, his vision blurred...
He was about to be killed.
To be continued...