Chapter 149 Bleeding Cacophony (4)

Chapter 149 Bleeding Cacophony (4)
P E R S E U S

My grip on the sword tightened until my knuckles ached under the pressure. I didn’t blink, didn’t breathe—just glared at Thomas as his cold eyes finally locked onto mine. Fresh blood splattered his face and dripped from his blade, dark and still wet. He looked like he’d just carved his way through the outskirts of the battle, eager and unhinged.

He rose slowly, a smirk twisting his lips as he roughly tied his hair back. Looking at him now, really looking, made my stomach turn. We had the same sharp jaw, the same unforgiving eyes, the same anger running deep beneath the surface. My father was right, I thought bitterly. Dragon shifters are poison. And this one—this cruel, selfish king, was the source of it all.

I channeled the disgust into rage. If the Dragon Alpha died, his army would fracture. They’d lose their nerve, their coordination. This ended now.

“So you finally decided to show your face,” I scoffed, voice low and rough.

“Just thought I’d pay your children a visit,” he said, tone chillingly casual.

“You could try dying instead.”

“Classic hypocrite. You’ll slaughter other people’s sons but protect your own like a mad dog.”

“Since when did you care about Raphael?” I shot back, my voice dropping to a growl. “Trying to play the righteous father now? After that bastard spent his whole life begging for your attention—and you only acknowledged him in death. Very fatherly.”

“What happened between me and Raphael is none of your damn business.”

“It became my business the moment you stepped into my territory using his name to justify killing my family.”

This wasn’t about Raphael. Thomas never loved him. Never even saw him as anything more than a tool. This was about pride. About power. My father, Marcus, had warned me years ago—dragon shifters were shrewd, treacherous. They didn’t fight with honor; they fought to win. And I’d avoided them ever since. Until now.

“Fine,” Thomas snarled, the smirk finally vanishing. “Maybe I’m just sick of your existence, Perseus. I’m tired of lycans polluting this world. It makes my blood boil knowing foul creatures like you still breathe.”

“Speak like dragon shifters aren't equally horrendous.”

“Seriously, Perseus?” Ezekiel’s voice cut through my thoughts, tense and edged with warning.

“You know I don’t hate you.”

“Says the man who tried to suppress me since the day I was born.”

“Not now, Ezekiel.” I snapped the words aloud, my focus never wavering from Thomas.

Thomas opened his mouth to speak again, but I raised my hand, cutting him off. "Skip the monologues," I growled. "Let's just get to it."

“Perfect,"

He moved first. His first strike wasn't some wild, angry slash; it was a cold, precise thrust aimed straight for my heart. I barely got my blade up in time to parry, the impact jolting down my arm like a lightning strike. He didn't pause to admire the block. He flowed right into a second strike, then a third, launching a relentless barrage of blows that drove me back step by step.

Our swords clashed again and again, the sharp ring of steel cutting through the chaos of the battle around us. Up close, his eyes burned with a cold fury that mirrored my own. I shoved him back hard, putting more distance between us and the medical tent where Eleanor lay. Dust kicked up around our boots, mixing with the thick smell of blood and smoke.

“Worried about your little mate?” He teased with a smirk.

“Shut up,”

His blade slid off mine with a screech, dodging past my guard before opening a shallow cut on my cheek. I hadn't even seen it coming.

"You fight with passion, Perseus," he taunted as he began to circle me. "It makes you predictable."

"If I was so predictable, you wouldn't have needed years studying me to start this war, Thomas. We could've finished this years ago!"

I had to fight with passion—I had no other choice. We were evenly matched in strength and skill, but I had something he didn’t. Something worth dying for. Something worth protecting.

He came at me again. This time, I went on the offensive, swinging hard toward his neck. He didn't block; he deflected the blow with a subtle twist of his wrist, using my own momentum to throw me off balance. I stumbled forward, and his elbow smashed into the side of my head. Lights exploded behind my eyes. I swung blindly, and he danced back, laughing low under his breath.

"Bastard," I cursed, spitting blood onto the ground.

I feigned a low sweep, then pivoted into a sharp thrust aimed at his stomach. He saw it coming, knocked my blade aside with a contemptuous flick, and slammed the pommel of his sword into my already wounded shoulder. White-hot agony seared through me. A roar tore from my lips. My grip almost failed. My vision blurred at the edges.

Thomas kicked my blade back toward me, a smirk playing on his lips.

"He's toying with you!" Ezekiel screamed through our bond. "Let me take over. You can't beat him with a sword alone."

But I had to. I couldn’t shift, not with Eleanor so close. One burst of uncontrolled dragonfire and the medical tent, and everyone in it—would be ash.

Thomas attacked again, harder this time, but I kept parrying, my knees grinding into the damp soil soaked with blood and rain. Each block sent fresh shocks of pain through my injured arm, even as the cut finally began to knit itself closed.

Then his eyes flickered—just for a moment—toward the medical tent. A split second of distraction. It was all I needed.

I didn't think. I acted. As his blade came down in a powerful overhead arc meant to split my skull, I met it with a furious, two-handed upward swing, putting every ounce of my strength into stopping its descent. Our swords met with a shriek of metal, locking at the crossguards. For one long, straining moment, we were frozen there, face to face, muscles trembling as my own blade bit into my palm. Blood spilled down my wrist, but I didn't break eye contact.

His eyes widened slightly in surprise. I spat blood onto the ground between us with a snarl, pushing against him with everything I had. I was younger, and I leaned into that raw strength, forcing his blade back inch by grinding inch as he resisted.

His smirk was gone, replaced by a grimace of effort as I slowly rose, my feet digging into the earth. With a final, guttural yell, I gave one last shove and twisted my wrists violently, putting devastating torque on the locked blades.

His sword didn't just drop—it was wrenched from his grasp, spinning through the air before landing point-first in the dirt several feet away, quivering.

I summoned strength through Ezekiel and kicked him hard, sending him flying back. He landed against a tree like a lifeless doll, the impact cracking wood.

As I approached, he stirred, groaning and panting as he pushed himself up. The battle around us seemed to pause, holding its breath. I panted heavily, trying to catch my breath, adrenaline screaming through my veins.

But Ezekiel’s voice hissed urgently in my mind, “He’s not done. Look at his hands.”

My eyes dropped. His claws were extending, scales already rippling up his wrists. He was shifting. Trying to catch me off guard.

I didn’t hesitate. I swung my blade toward his neck—but it landed with a dull, unnatural crack. Scales had already armored his skin, spreading quickly. He looked up, fangs bared, laughing wildly.

“You’ll have to try harder than that, lycan.”

I threw my sword aside and let the change rip through me. Bones cracked, skin tore, and within seconds I stood in full dragon form. He shifted just as fast. Around us, soldiers scrambled for cover, clearing a wide circle as two massive dragons faced off under the smoke-choked sky.

We launched into the air, wings beating hard. He was bigger, older, more brutal in his movements. But I was faster. I dodged his first blast of fire, swooping low before climbing and slamming into him from above. Our claws locked, and we twisted mid-air, tearing and biting like animals.

He broke free and shot a stream of flames toward me. I barrel-rolled away, the heat searing my scales. I retaliated with fire of my own, catching his wing. He roared in frustration and dove, trying to tackle me to the ground.

We crashed through the remains of a watchtower, wood and stone exploding around us. I pinned him, jaws closing around his throat—but he thrashed free, throwing me off with a powerful thrust of his hind legs.

I landed hard, shaking the earth. He rose, looming over me, victory flashing in his eyes.

Then, a deafening explosion ripped through the air.

My head whipped toward the sound. Flames erupted near the edge of the camp, thick and violent. And then I saw it—the medical tent covered in flames. Where Elean
or lay helpless.

Everything else faded. The war, Thomas, the battle—none of it mattered.

All I saw was fire. And her tent was right in the middle of it.