Misbegotten world

The fall of the Demigod

Garvath's hunt stretched on, the trail of the Named Dragon Lord turning from a short pursuit into a desperate obsession. Days blurred into weeks, and weeks into years as he scoured the Northern Snow, repelling waves of assassins sent by his mother. She wanted him dragged back to her grasp, to break him from his single-minded lust for glory, but her agents were mere insects before his might. None could match his rage and skill, and all who tried fell swiftly to his blade.

But as the seasons turned and Garvath ventured further into the mountains, he grew restless, his patience thinning. Then, on a night as dark and silent as a dragon's breath before dawn, he saw it: a glimmering shadow against the white peaks, almost hidden within the tallest mountain in the North. He knew instantly, with a thrill of certainty that this was the dragon's lair.

Garvath's pulse quickened as he climbed the mountain. The cold bit through his armor, the winds howled, but he felt nothing but the raw heat of his own anticipation. The air thickened with an ancient energy, heavy and powerful, and as he approached the entrance, a deep rumble echoed from within, resonating through the mountain like thunder. The Named Dragon Lord was there, waiting.

He stepped into the vast cavern, dark and icy, its walls glittering with veins of silver and blue. There, in the shadows, he saw the immense shape unfurl. The Dragon Lord was massive, its scales rippling in a storm of white and silver, eyes like molten gold fixed upon Garvath with an intensity that could have shattered steel. Its voice boomed, rich with disdain and a hint of amusement.

"So," the Dragon Lord said, its voice filling the cavern with a deep, ancient resonance, "a demigod has come, burning with ambition, seeking to etch his name in history."

Garvath grinned, his fingers tightening around his Greatsword. "No dragon, no matter how ancient, can escape me. I am Garvath, Demigod of War, and I've come to end you."

The dragon let out a low, rumbling laugh, reverberating through the stone like a growing storm. "Foolish mortal arrogance," it hissed, flames smoldering in its throat. "You think strength alone is enough to bring down a Named Dragon?"

Garvath's eyes narrowed, his excitement building. "Strength is all that matters. Your blood will stain my blade as all others have."

The dragon's laughter grew louder, each note filled with contempt. "You think you can fell a Named Dragon without knowing its true name?" it sneered, its eyes narrowing, radiating power and a fierce intelligence that had seen ages pass.

The words electrified Garvath, his entire being searing with eagerness. The concept of a dragon's true name was something he'd only encountered in whispers and half-forgotten legends. To know the name of a Named Dragon was to hold the very essence of its being, to understand the key to its immortality and its power. He had hunted dragons his whole life, slain them by the dozens, yet here was a secret, one that promised a challenge greater than he had ever known.

"Then tell me your name," Garvath snarled, his blood thrumming with anticipation.

The dragon chuckled, smoke billowing from its nostrils. "To know a dragon's name is a right to be earned, not taken by mere force. Come, if you wish to learn it—you will have to make me reveal it."

Garvath lunged, his greatsword flashing through the air, and their battle began, a clash of unrelenting fury and ancient strength. The dragon lord fought with both cunning and power, each movement precise, every strike filled with ages of wisdom. It taunted him, its roars filling the mountain, daring him to earn the knowledge that would determine the fate of this duel.

The battle raged on, each clash echoing through the mountains, a thunderous symphony of fury and fire. Garvath's strikes fell with unmatched ferocity, his bloodied form relentless, forcing every ounce of his strength into each swing of the greatsword. Yet, even after days of fighting, his enemy-the Named Dragon Lord-stood untouched, a living embodiment of ancient power and impenetrable scale.

Despite his blood-slicked armor and the bone-deep exhaustion gnawing at him, Garvath's grin never faltered. His spirit fed off the thrill of this ultimate battle, and the prospect of a hunter's death-one worthy of a dragon slayer. His vision blurred, limbs heavy as lead, but his heart was filled with a savage joy. It had been centuries since he felt this alive.

On the fourth day, the mountain air was thick with his labored breaths. Garvath staggered, but his stance remained defiant. He could feel the last reserves of his strength slipping away, and his flesh was shredded, his life seeping from countless wounds. But he would not yield. He knew this was the end, yet he welcomed it. If his life was to be claimed here, in pursuit of such glory, then so be it.

As his body neared its breaking point, a dark, wild light flashed in his eyes—a final, desperate resolve. He would not fall quietly. With his last breath, he would claim his place in history, even if it cost him everything. Garvath summoned the one power he had avoided all his life, a force that dwelled deep within him, bound to his essence. The Entrance of Rage.

He threw back his head and roared, a sound that shook the mountain and echoed through the frozen peaks. The power flooded through him, his flesh and spirit burning as his life force was consumed, his body ignited with a raw, destructive energy that rippled across the ground in waves. His muscles surged, his veins pulsing with fire, and a dark aura enveloped him. The power fed his strength, but it took something in return, devouring fragments of his very being with each heartbeat. The dragon paused, sensing the shift in his adversary's aura. Its ancient eyes narrowed, a flicker of respect flashing within them.

Garvath lunged, faster than ever before, every strike blurring as he swung his blade in an unrestrained frenzy. The dragon lord met him blow for blow, a contest of sheer power and endurance, but Garvath's newfound force pushed them both to the edge. His greatsword slammed against the dragon's scales, carving sparks through the air, their impacts reverberating like explosions. The mountain shook, stones cracking and avalanches cascading down as their blows tore the land itself apart.

But with each strike, the Entrance of Rage claimed more of him. His vision dimmed, his senses blurring as his life burned away, each heartbeat a countdown to his end. Yet his strikes grew stronger, his roar grew louder, and his defiance blazed ever brighter.

Then, at last, he drove his blade down with a final, soul-searing thrust, pouring the last dregs of his existence into that single strike. It crashed against the dragon lord's chest, a blow that split the very air, an impact that could rend worlds. The force rippled through the dragon, the shockwave shattering stone around them.

The dragon staggered, its scales finally cracked, a trickle of blood seeping from the wound. But it was too late for Garvath. His strength faded, the Entrance of Rage consuming the last of his life as he collapsed, his body nothing more than an empty vessel, spent entirely in his pursuit of glory.

He lay there, vision fading as he looked up at the dragon, who stared down at him with something that was neither triumph nor disdain, but a strange, solemn respect. For in that final, reckless act, Garvath had achieved what few ever had. He had broken the unbreakable, and even the dragon could not deny the fierceness of his spirit.

As his life slipped away, Garvath smiled. He had given everything, and to him, that was victory enough. The world dimmed, and his final thought was one of satisfaction. He had tasted the true glory of battle, and he would leave this life unbowed, his soul ablaze with the joy of the hunt.