The nights of Paris were no longer as safe for low-ranking dragons. For several weeks, Mordred had made the capital his hunting ground. He moved through the darkness like an avenging specter, silent and invisible.

The first ones had been easy. Isolated soldiers, overconfident scouts, drowsy guards. Each attack had been swift, brutal, silent, leaving behind only a lifeless body whose mana had been completely siphoned.

With each elimination, a notification rang clearly in his mind, both reassuring and terribly addictive:

[Soldier dragon eliminated: +5 Strength, +4 Agility, +6 Endurance, +7 Mana.] [Successful absorption: +2 minor skills acquired.]

Then, as days passed, the victims had changed. Isolated dragons had become rare. Vigilance had increased. The city itself seemed to hold its breath under heightened surveillance, dragons now moving exclusively in armed groups, tense and wary.

But Mordred hadn't stopped. He had simply adapted his methods. He still struck, but faster, more efficiently. His eliminations had become surgical, precise to the second. Each night, each target, each absorption made him more powerful, faster, more deadly still.

He remained in the shadows, never seen, never identified. But the dragons had understood. They now knew that a predator was hunting them.

The notifications continued:

[Scout dragon eliminated: +6 Strength, +3 Agility, +5 Endurance, +9 Mana.]

[Artillery dragon eliminated: +7 Strength, +5 Agility, +4 Endurance, +8 Mana.]

But soon, even Mordred had to acknowledge that Paris had become too risky a zone. Patrols were omnipresent, sentries on every rooftop, magical surveillance reinforced at every street corner. Each attack was now a perilous dance with death itself.

One evening, perched on a roof, watching the armed dragons patrolling nervously in the street below, Mordred understood that he had reached his limit here. He needed to expand his hunting territory. Paris was no longer safe enough for him.

He slowly stood up, a dark silhouette, his flaming pupils turned toward the horizon beyond the capital's walls. The rest of the country was still vast, the occupied cities numerous, the dragons scattered.

His hunting ground had just expanded.

- "Very well," he murmured in the shadow. "I'll take all of France if I have to."

Then, without a sound, he disappeared into the night, leaving Paris behind him, ready to hunt his prey even in the most remote corners of the territory.

And in his mind, the system's message still vibrated:

[Power level significantly increased.]

Weeks passed, and Mordred extended his hunting territory throughout all of France. City after city, region after region, his shadow slipped silently through the night, striking without warning, never leaving a witness behind.

Each dragon killed was methodically absorbed, strengthening Mordred day after day, bringing him ever closer to the strength necessary for his ultimate objective.

The notifications constantly resonated in his mind:

[Soldier dragon eliminated: +8 Strength, +6 Agility, +9 Endurance, +12 Mana.] [Mage dragon eliminated: +5 Strength, +7 Agility, +8 Endurance, +15 Mana.]

The invisible massacre continued, ruthless, silent. The dragons, despite their power and apparent dominance, began to feel a new fear, dull, insidious. No one saw the killer, but each day brought its share of unexplained disappearances. Their troops seemed to melt like snow in the sun, without ever leaving the slightest clue.

Soon, a strange and troubling rumor took root within the draconic army. Some, in their fearful whispers, spoke of divine wrath. Their gods, whom they had believed silent in the face of their brutal conquest, seemed to have decided to punish their arrogance and their crimes against humans. This superstition spread slowly but surely, undermining the soldiers' morale, sowing doubt in their previously confident minds.

In Paris, on his black stone throne, Maelor felt the change in atmosphere with contained anger. He stared at the report he had just received, noting with rage that his plans, until now so precise, were compromised. He had already planned to send the powerful Borask family to invade the United States to definitively crush the last pocket of human resistance. But faced with the sudden instability reigning over French territory, he had to temporarily suspend this long-awaited invasion.

Maelor urgently gathered his inner council. In an icy voice, he announced new measures:

- "Deploy the elite troops immediately," he ordered with authority. "I want a regiment drawn exclusively from the great noble families in each major region of the country. Place a draconic governor at the head of each major city. I want each of them to possess power equivalent to S rank, strong enough to stop this hemorrhage."

The advisors exchanged surprised glances, but immediately complied.

Within days, elite dragons were massively deployed throughout France. In Marseille, Lyon, Bordeaux, Strasbourg, Toulouse... each important city was placed under the direction of a draconic governor of terrifying power, drawn directly from noble lineages. These imposing beings, with devastating powers, immediately took charge of reinforcing defenses and imposing absolute surveillance.

And yet, even so, Maelor's anxiety did not subside.

Alone in the shadows of his palace, the dragon king reflected, haunted by a question that refused to leave his mind.

- "Mordred..."

This name had returned to his lips too often in recent days. The more he analyzed the facts, the more he recalled that vision torn from the comatose mind of Elystria, now plunged into eternal sleep. Two burning orange eyes in the shadow, a face he had thought definitively lost.

- "What if all this is connected..." he murmured in the darkness. "If these disappearances are not the work of an angry god, but of him... of Mordred?"

His claws tightened on the throne's armrest, his gaze burning with anger and frustration. He slowly leaned forward, his voice charged with cold hatred:

- "If it's you, Mordred... I will find you. I will stop you personally. And this time, I will ensure that you can never come back to life again."

Silence fell heavily on the empty hall, while Maelor contemplated the darkness, already devising his plan to definitively counter this shadow he had underestimated for so long.

Meanwhile, far from the royal palace, Mordred continued his destructive work, unaware of the new measures taken against him, silently but surely approaching his ultimate objective.

Mordred stood atop a small hill, the fresh wind of the Provençal countryside gently stirring his dark clothes. In the distance, the lights of Marseille twinkled faintly in the darkness, like so many intertwined promises and dangers. Around him, the countryside seemed peaceful, completely unaware of the invisible war he waged each night.

But this night was different. This night, Mordred was preoccupied. He had noticed for several days that his efforts were no longer as effective. Yes, he was gaining power, slowly but surely, but too slowly precisely. Each dragon eliminated offered him less progress than he would have hoped. At this rate, it would take him decades before he could consider facing the most powerful dragons, those very ones who held humanity under their yoke.

He frowned slightly, frustrated by the slowness of his progress. He needed another approach, something more radical. Something more... audacious.

As if responding to this silent reflection, his gaze was drawn to Marseille, whose outlines were now clearly perceptible in the night. He suddenly felt an unusual pressure, almost palpable in the air, a magical tension he had never felt before.

Intrigued, he concentrated more, slowly extending his senses. His orange pupils glowed slightly, as he began to probe more precisely the auras coming from the city.

He immediately sensed several powerful draconic presences, of a level far superior to that of the ordinary soldiers he had faced until now. These were not simply strong: they were overwhelming, impressive, clearly superior to everything he had recently confronted.

But even more troubling, he clearly perceived one of these auras standing out largely from the others. A raw power, intimidating, emanating crushing confidence. He took a moment to analyze this energy more deeply, and his heart accelerated slightly as he realized what this meant.

This energy signature... this intensity... It undoubtedly rivaled the power level of S-rank dragons, similar to what he had already felt before with Syléane.

- "How is this possible?" he murmured to himself, his eyes slightly widened with surprise.

For a few seconds, he remained motionless, thoughts racing rapidly in his mind. He knew that his recent attacks had attracted the dragons' attention, but he hadn't imagined they would take such measures so quickly, and especially with so much power.

And yet...

His face, until now preoccupied, slowly lit up with an almost fierce smile. His orange eyes began to shine with wild excitement.

This sudden threat, far from worrying him, seemed to solve the problem he had been facing for several weeks. For if eliminating ordinary dragons was no longer enough to make him progress fast enough, absorbing the power of an S-rank dragon, on the other hand, could change everything.

He then murmured, almost to himself, his voice tinged with new determination:

- "Finally... my problem could be solved much more easily than expected."

The smile stretched further on his lips, becoming cold, confident, almost sinister. Mordred had finally found a target worthy of his ambitions. More risky, yes. More dangerous, without a doubt. But above all, infinitely more promising.

Without hesitation, he began to descend the hill toward Marseille, his steps silent and assured. Tonight, he would go hunting. Tonight, he would track a dragon worthy of his ambition.