novelraw Chapter 171: The Price of Victory: An Entire Race of Orphans.
Chapter 171: The Price of Victory: An Entire Race of Orphans.
Drakovitch pushed her back, his dragon aura crashing outward like a tidal wave, slamming against the dark, writhing mana of Gin’s Witchblades.
"The Coliseum forged by the demigods was your gateway. Winning there was your only road to that salvation. By defeating the demigods and shattering their arena, I didn’t just win a war—I closed the gates of your heaven. And now you are seeking us, and you think killing us would be your glorious victory."
For the first time, the King’s expression shifted. The weary ruler vanished, replaced by a warrior who honored the bloodlust of his opponent. He would no longer merely defend; he would play her game.
"Dragon Art: Mantis Blade’s Reaping!"
Drakovitch’s forearm bones, already shaped like mantis blades, extended further into jagged, serrated scythes. He lunged with a speed that instantly outstripped Gin’s, closing the distance in a heartbeat.
Gin gasped, thrown into desperate defense. The Reaping was designed to shred her defenses. One by one, her Witchblades—the very manifestations of her grief and rage—shattered under the force of his bone steel.
She felt the weight of his intent; he was no longer holding back. He was fighting her gloriously, giving her the high stakes battle her soul craved.
As he pressed her, Drakovitch’s mind drifted to the truth of her people.
"For the Gigante, Valhalla isn’t a destination reached only through death, as the myths of Earth claim... It is a state of being, attainable in life through the accumulation of great triumphs or a single, world shaking victory. To win here, against me, would allow her to shed her ’grounded’ shell and ascend to her true, towering form while still drawing breath."
He swung the Mantis Blades in a final, sweeping arc, cleaving through the last of her defenses and sending a shockwave rippling through the stone beneath her feet.
"If you want your heaven, Giant... then earn it by surviving me!"
In just a second, Gin was dismantled. Every muscle that allowed her to stand, to swing her weapon, or even to hold her head high was precisely cut. It was a terrifying technique—one shared with the King by Morgant. Gin collapsed into a heap of useless limbs, her body hitting the cold stone with a heavy thud. She was truly grounded now, unable to move a single finger.
Drakovitch stood over her, his golden blades slowly fading into the mist. He looked down at her broken form, his eyes filled with a heavy, quiet intensity.
"Is this it?" he asked, his voice low but clear. "Is this the ’glorious victory’ you seek? To enter your heaven by taking a life?"
He leaned closer, his shadow covering her face.
"Tell me, Giant. Is your victory the death of a King? No... look at me. Is your victory the death of a father? You want to reach Valhalla by making my children orphans. You want to save your soul by leaving a family in ruins. Is that truly the glory your ancestors demand? A victory built on the grief of children?"
Gin lay in the red stained mud, her body a map of precise, shallow cuts. She couldn’t lift a finger, but her eyes burned with a fire that the King’s blades couldn’t reach. Drakovitch had left her jaw untouched, a silent invitation for her to speak.
She coughed, a spray of blood hitting the stone, before her voice rasped out—thinner than before, but still sharp.
"A father? You speak of orphans as if it is a tragedy you are only now discovering. You truly do not know, do you? You have already made us orphans. You did it the moment you shattered the gateway to our home."
She stared up at him, her gaze unwavering despite the rain and blood.
"When we are born, we are not laid in the arms of our mothers. We never even get to touch our fathers’ fingers. To be a Gigante is to be sent here to Earth the very day we draw breath, raised in small mountain villages, tethered to the dirt. Our only hope, our only dream... was that we could earn our way back. We fought in those Demigod games because they were the only bridge to the parents we never knew."
A breath escaped her lungs as she struggled to keep speaking.
"And you destroyed it. You didn’t just win a war, Drakovitch; you burned the bridge. Now, every Gigante your men slaughtered today died in the mud without ever knowing the faces of their parents. They died as orphans of a broken sky. You talk about the grief of your children? My people have lived in that grief since the day we were born. You didn’t just defeat the Demigods—you orphaned an entire race."
Drakovitch remained silent, the weight of her words settling over the battlefield like the heavy, ionized air. He could not tell her the truth. He could not tell her that he was not the man she thought he was—that he was merely a soul reborn into this body, wearing the sins of another life like a crown he never chose. Even if he spoke, even if he bared everything, she would not believe him.
And perhaps she shouldn’t. The memories were there. They weren’t his, yet they were undeniably part of him now. That war had not been glorious. It had been brutal.
Slowly, Drakovitch reached for his chest. With a sharp tug, he tore his royal cloth, baring his torso to the rain and the dying light. Gin gasped, her eyes widening. Right over his heart was a jagged, pulsating golden scar—a mark left by the Demigods that glowed with a sickly, divine light.
"If that war brought such misery to your race, then I apologize," Drakovitch said, his voice cold and devoid of the comfort she might have hoped for. "But you must understand... there will be more orphans. I will start more wars in every race if I must."
He looked down at the scar, which seemed to thrum in time with the lightning above.
"To me, my life is more precious than anything. My life is needed for this kingdom and for my children. If I do not wage war, if I do not find a way to silence this mark, this scar will kill me. And that would end everything I wish for."