Final Battle⑱

Shadow Dragon Reise's Perspective

I occupy a unique position among dragons.

Not only in the abilities designed to confront gods, but in the manner of combat itself, which differs significantly from other dragons.

My form is humanoid, unlike theirs.

While other dragons can assume humanoid forms, that is merely a borrowed appearance. Their true nature remains dragon-shaped.

There is no other dragon whose true nature is also humanoid.

Therefore, there is no other dragon who fights unarmed, as I do.

Palm strike activated—shadow attack.

Easily evaded.

Every attack I’ve made since earlier has missed entirely.

The difference in fundamental capabilities is too great.

Though the lower body appears spider-like, making the target seem large, that lower body enables sliding movements in all directions—forward, backward, left, right—making its motions unpredictable.

Just as I am an anomaly among dragons in fighting unarmed, my opponent moves in ways unique to its spider-like lower body.

Unfamiliar.

The opponent, meanwhile, gradually begins to adapt to my movements.

At first, it avoided my attacks with wide, effortless motions. Now, it is drawing them in, delaying evasion until the last possible moment.

It is beginning to read me.

In just this short span.

What combat intuition.

Not merely high base stats—this is refined instinct.

Defeat is only a matter of time...

I knew this would happen.

My abilities were designed with divine combat in mind, but that is only a theoretical framework. They are not practical in actual battle.

My existence is merely a desperate maneuver after the Master’s defeat.

Perhaps, just perhaps...

A fleeting hope.

The optimal strategy would be to avoid any situation requiring the Master to fight at all.

The Master should never have to fight in the first place.

To lose—absolutely unthinkable.

I have honed this intellect solely for the eventuality of an eventuality—further still, an eventuality of that.

The probability of this occurring is low.

Defeat is predetermined.

I do not believe my strength would be effective against an opponent even the master could not overcome.

There is no chance of victory.

So what if it is?

If I cannot prove my worth here, what is the meaning of my existence?

Is this power forged solely to ensure defeat?

No!

Absolutely not!

The White God turns their palm toward me.

A vortex of black energy swirled there.

If fired, it will deliver an attack far exceeding the Queen's Breath.

The game has ended, it seems.

Having sensed my heretical attack, they had been on high alert, avoiding confrontation entirely until now. But they’ve concluded I pose no significant threat and have come to end this swiftly.

That judgment was correct.

Between me and the White God lies an impassable wall.

A battle is impossible between a god and something less than a god.

We are merely using power borrowed from the system—gifted by the God.

To oppose a God with power borrowed from the God is impossible.

But I have my pride.

A torrent of energy erupts from the White God’s palm.

There is no time to dodge, moving at such extreme speed.

Nor can it be defended against, nor endured.

Then, do not dodge. Do not defend.

Move forward.

The torrent strikes my lower body—shattered, gone.

Too sudden. Too complete.

But my upper body, having avoided the direct hit, remains intact.

The energy’s force was too great. The lower body, struck directly, was cleanly pierced through.

Had the energy’s power been slightly lower, the shockwave would have scattered my upper body as well.

Following the law of sensation, my upper body propels forward.

Without a lower body, there is no leverage.

Striking with a fist here yields negligible force.

Yet this is the last vestige of will.

A single counterstrike.

My upper body, flying toward him, causes the remaining eye of the White God to widen slightly.

He raises a different hand, not the one that released energy, and extends it without pause, radiating white threads outward.

Caught in those threads, this forward motion will cease.

Only a fist’s width of space remains through the mesh.

The right hand is severed.

It is thrown through the gap in the net.

My upper body is caught in the web of threads.

Yet the thrown hand passes through the mesh and flies toward the face of the White God.

Shiro turns his face away in haste.

Still, he cannot avoid it entirely. The edge grazes just above the remaining eye, slicing shallowly through the brow.

Only that.

The result of my life wagered—only that.

Ah.

Disgusting.

The culmination of my existence amounted to nothing more than this insignificant wound.

Yet perhaps it was better than allowing this power to rot unused, to decay without ever being wielded.

With regret and a faint sense of satisfaction, my consciousness sank into darkness.