Syléane staggered slightly, her scarlet scales now streaked with blackish blood, her heavy and raspy breathing echoing with difficulty in the devastated hall. Despite the crushing fatigue and deep wounds marking her body, a fierce gleam still burned in the depths of her eyes. The fire of rage gradually gave way to a more lucid determination, a brutal understanding of her precarious situation.

She slowly straightened up, her legs trembling under the effort, and cried out in a strong voice, desperate but authoritative:

- "What are you waiting for, you fools?! Go warn Belgaroth and the other dragons of my family! Inform Paris immediately! We need reinforcements from the noble families! I'll hold him here, but hurry, or all will be lost!"

The spectator dragons, until then frozen by stupor, suddenly sprang into action. They obeyed hastily, some taking off in haste to transmit the message, others dispersing through the base to organize rescue efforts. Their panic was palpable, contagious, clearly reflecting the desperate gravity of the situation.

Mordred observed the scene, a provocative smile on his lips, not at all intimidated by this belated display of authority. He tilted his head slightly to the side, his orange eyes shining with unhealthy amusement and arrogant confidence.

- "Do you really think your reinforcements will arrive in time for you, Syléane?" he asked in a mocking but strangely calm voice, perfectly controlled.

The dragoness stared intensely at Mordred, her silver pupils narrowing with hatred, her teeth clenched so tight they seemed ready to break.

- "I don't give a damn," she spat with contempt. "As long as you die, you bastard son of a bitch, I'll have no regrets."

Mordred's smile widened further, but his eyes lost all trace of humor, becoming icy again, merciless. He slowly nodded, silently accepting Syléane's implicit challenge.

- "Very well," he replied coldly. "Let's see how much longer you can hold on."

The fight resumed immediately, more intense and brutal than ever. Syléane, despite her battered body and crushing fatigue, drew from her last reserves, each blow charged with desperate and savage energy. Her blazing claws shot forward rapidly, desperately seeking a flaw in Mordred's defense. But he seemed inexhaustible, his movements remaining fluid, precise, implacable.

Mordred continued to alternate between the lightning skills of the Thunder Kata and his paralyzing abilities, perfectly controlling the rhythm of combat. Each strike delivered was calculated, methodical, merciless, slowly but surely exhausting Syléane's resistance.

With each successful dodge or parry, Mordred immediately counterattacked, his precise blows methodically breaking down Syléane's last defensive barriers. He knew full well that the dragoness was drawing from her ultimate resources, each attack becoming slower, each breath more labored.

Syléane, feeling the end approaching, released in one final effort a gigantic column of flames, seeking to consume Mordred on the spot. He skillfully dodged, quickly sliding under the attack, and brutally struck Syléane in the flank with his electricity-charged sword. The shock made the dragoness stagger violently, her body losing balance before she fell to her knees, exhausted, trembling.

The combat now seemed totally unequal. Mordred clearly dominated the situation, coldly observing his weakened and exhausted adversary.

- "You're tough," he slowly admitted as he approached her, his sword pointed toward the ground. "But it won't be enough. Your reinforcements will never arrive in time."

Syléane slowly raised her head, defying Mordred with a gaze burning with hatred and defiance.

- "I won't die without taking you with me," she murmured in a hoarse but determined voice, drawing from the last spark of rage and determination she had left.

Around them, silence now reigned, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the difficult breathing of the two adversaries. The other dragons, though at a safe distance, helplessly witnessed this duel now clearly one-sided. No one dared approach or intervene, knowing perfectly well that their participation would only accelerate their own death.

Mordred slowly raised his sword, his orange gaze intensely fixed on Syléane, ready to deliver the decisive blow.

- "Let's finish this, Syléane," he declared coldly, his eyes implacable and resolute.

The dragoness, despite her broken body, gathered all her remaining strength, ready to face death without retreat.

Syléane's burning breath carved an incandescent trench through the hall, transforming the floor into a howling brazier. Mordred leaped sideways, his mana wings propelling him out of range, sparks of fire licking at his heels. The heat was suffocating, dense, almost tangible. The air vibrated under the dragoness's power, but there was something frantic, desperate in her attacks. She was drawing from what remained. And Mordred could feel it.

He landed with feline grace on a collapsed section of wall and extended his arm. His blade vibrated in his hand, charged with electricity. He engaged Shidensen again, his silhouette becoming a lightning bolt that split space with deafening noise. Syléane, despite her wounds, managed to pivot just in time, her draconic tail slicing through the air in an unpredictable counterattack.

Mordred was struck mid-flight. The shock hurled him into a concrete pillar that collapsed under the impact, pulverized. He rose immediately, spitting a trickle of blood, his eyes shining with an almost unreal intensity.

- "You still hit as badly as ever," he breathed with a mocking smile.

Syléane roared, her silver eyes shining with fierce brilliance. She rushed at him, her claws crackling with flames. The collision of the two bodies resonated like thunder. Mordred barely parried, his blade grinding against the incandescent claws. A rain of sparks fell around them, illuminating the room with red and golden flashes.

The combat became brutal close quarters fighting.

Each of Syléane's blows was charged with desperation, each of Mordred's movements with icy precision. He blocked a strike, counterattacked with his paralyzing skill, briefly touched her shoulder. Syléane grimaced, her breathing becoming irregular, but continued nonetheless.

Mordred struck again. A thrust to the ribs. A slash at the flank. Syléane retreated panting, her fire weakening slightly around her. She attempted one final desperate attack: she threw herself at him, mouth open, flaming fangs. Mordred didn't dodge.

He planted his feet on the ground.

And at the precise moment when the jaws were about to close on him, he pivoted, slid to the side, raised his sword in one gesture and struck, from bottom to top, with all the cold violence he had accumulated.

The blade entered Syléane's flank.

A death rattle, short and broken, escaped from her throat.

The fire went out.

Syléane's breathing became hoarse, labored, each inhalation resonating like prolonged agony. Her knees crashed against the calcined floor of the ruined command room, her entire body bloodied, her scales cracked and blackened. Her silver gaze, once brilliant with pride and fire, was now cloudy, veiled by exhaustion and pain. Mordred, motionless before her, observed her silently, his sword still warm from the last blow he had just delivered, planted in her left flank, barely a few centimeters from her heart.

Syléane tried to raise a trembling hand, but her own body betrayed her. Her throat tightened. She knew. Her breath was short. She had no more strength. The warmth of her inner fire, what had always been her pride, was slowly extinguishing.

Her eyes desperately searched for something in the darkness of the room, hope, a miracle... or perhaps just a familiar face. Her father. The image of her patriarch suddenly returned to her. He was dead. And she hadn't been able to avenge him. She hadn't been able to protect his memory.

- "Father..." she murmured, a solitary tear rolling down her devastated cheek. "I'm sorry... I... I wasn't up to the task..."

Mordred, impassive, observed this tableau of collapse without the slightest remorse. He slowly approached, crouched at her level, and planted his gaze in that of the defeated dragoness. He read exactly what he hoped: that gaping abyss of sadness, that unbearable weight of failure, that pain that nothing could ever repair.

A thin, cruel smile stretched across his lips.

- "Do you feel that burning in the depths of your belly? That hole that even vengeance couldn't fill? That icy void that grows when you realize that everything you did, everything you sacrificed... served no purpose?"

He leaned even closer, until he was almost whispering in her ear.

- "That's exactly what I felt... when your race massacred my family... reduced me to the state of a dog, marked me like an object, forced me to eat from the hand of my executioners. It's the same pain, Syléane. Identical. The same taste of ashes in the back of the throat."

Syléane wanted to respond, but her mouth could no longer find the strength to move. Her vision was blurring, her heart slowing.

- "Do you want to know what peace is?" continued Mordred in a low, composed, chilling tone. "It's not a peace that's shared. It's a peace that's imposed. A peace born of fear. A peace sculpted in the ashes of those who caused suffering. A peace... that bears the scars of vengeance."

He slowly straightened up, gripping the handle of his sword with ceremonial slowness.

- "And now... you're going to join your father."

He withdrew the sword with a wet sound, releasing a spurt of burning blood. Syléane suffocated, her last raspy breath leaving her body as her eyes lost their brightness, frozen in failure and regret. Her body slowly collapsed, like a tree that had been cut at the base.

[Physical statistics absorbed: +631 STRENGTH, +402 AGILITY, +219 MANA]

Mordred closed his eyes for a moment. He felt the explosion of power in his veins. His muscles trembled, his heart beat stronger, his perceptions refined to an almost supernatural level. It was intoxicating. Addictive. He breathed deeply, as if Syléane's very blood was strengthening every fiber of his being.

But the silence was soon broken.

A burning wind swept through the ruined entrance of the complex. Mordred didn't move. He had already felt the aura arriving before even hearing it. A deep growl resonated in the stone, and a familiar silhouette emerged from the shadows: massive, powerful, armored with glowing scales. Belgaroth.

The dragon's gaze passed from the collapsed Syléane to Mordred. At first, he didn't understand. Then he saw the bloodied blade, Mordred's eyes still shining with that deep hatred.

- "You..." he breathed, stunned.

Mordred slowly turned his head toward him, his eyes blazing, his voice colder than nuclear winter.

- "Today is a day of vengeance..." he said calmly. "I hope to quench Akane's thirst."

The name fell like a cleaver.

Belgaroth went pale.

His pupils suddenly contracted. He stepped back instinctively, as if a beast more ancient, more terrible than himself, had just set its eyes on his soul. There was something broken in Mordred's gaze. And worse still... something pure. A sacred fire. A hatred so absolute that it became almost divine.

And for the first time in a very long time, Belgaroth, venerable and brutal warrior, felt fear.