Crack—!!
The crisp snap rang out. The “deadly talon” in that small hand broke in a heartbeat, the break pitch-black like rot gnawing coal—hard to imagine how this dragon ever cared for his claws.
One snapped meant nothing; the two beside it were just as sickening, like barnacles on rust. Ling tossed the broken piece without a word, opened her fist, then chopped to both sides.
Crack—!! x2
No miracle came to save the old dragon’s talons. Claws that should’ve slit steel folded like brittle ice in spring.
The old dragon felt danger, tried to reel his claws back, but too late. When he finally withdrew, only three stumps remained, the sockets wafting a strange, foul stink like swamp gas.
“Damn it!!”
He threw his head back and roared at the sky, raging at the wrong heavens. Then his golden dragon eyes locked on Ling, flames burning in his pupils as if to char her whole body to ash.
“Hey, hey… bro, you came swinging at me. I dealt with it; don’t blame me. Your claws are so filthy I’m planning to wash with sulfuric acid after.”
She shouldn’t have said it—her words fanned his fury like wind stoking a kiln, as if she’d touched his reverse scale, the one thing a dragon never forgives. Angry or not, he tucked the claws of his other paw back into the flesh, afraid they’d be snapped like reeds in a frost.
Put nicely—self-preservation. Put bluntly—he chickened out.
“Hey! Old timer, no need to be scared. If you don’t swing that dirty claw at me, I won’t lay a finger on it.”
“Nonsense! How could my claw be dirty! My noble body—even the claws are the noblest!”
Edgelord phase? No—the scales on his face flushed red like autumn maples, a color to mask a guilty heart. Anyone with a working brain wouldn’t call those claws cute; clearly, he was very self-conscious.
His insecurity wasn’t her problem. Watching an old dragon blush like a tsundere held zero charm; the nausea surged back like a sour tide.
She dropped her gaze from him and flicked it to the Scythe lying where she’d lost grip mid-flight. A plan sketched in her mind like ink lines on rice paper.
“Hey! Old man, check that broken claw. In the middle—black like rot—there are a few worms inside.”
Ling’s words made his scales shiver like reeds in a breeze. He lifted his paw, tense, dragon pupils swiveling like lanterns in the dark; all he saw was a corroded break, no worms at all.
While his focus drifted, Ling flashed to the Scythe. Her small right hand clenched the haft; the next heartbeat, she raised it high and appeared over his crown like a falling moon.
“What worms are you talki—”
Thunk—!!
It was the same trick she’d used on the Dragon King. He could take it; that didn’t mean this old dragon could. The scythe’s back slammed down; his head wobbled like a drunk on bootleg brew, then surrendered to gravity and fell.
Before he hit, he managed one last line, words staggering like smoke.
“My… my dad… never hammered my skull…” And he passed out.
Ling watched the old dragon drop, unwillingness still glinting in his eyes, and felt she’d gone a bit too far, a cold pebble sinking in her chest.
She hadn’t needed the bug lie. If she’d just sprinted flat-out, he probably couldn’t have reacted; grab the Scythe, leap and cleave like a crescent, and he wouldn’t have gone down so pitifully.
She prayed silently he’d accept losing this way. With his pride, he probably would. He’d tried to sneak her before; his pride must accept sneaking as a proper technique.
She soothed herself with that thought, then looked over at Alicia.
“Sis, need hel—”
The word “help” never landed. Alicia needed none. Her ribbon flashed a few lights, and several dragonkin dropped like scattered leaves—a stark contrast to Ling’s scrappy, mud-and-blood tussle.
Don’t tell me… without the Magic Cannon—the big AOE—I’m this weak?
She said it straight. Her fists could pound fast, but Alicia’s hand flicks felled groups like wheat under wind. Did not being the “Flower Mom” make her soft?
She didn’t dwell. She tossed the thought aside like a stone into a pond. Simple: Alicia getting stronger only helped her; it was sunrise, not storm.
It also explained why no dragon rushed to help the old one while she fought—everybody had gone to Alicia. Note to self: for group fights, bring Alicia.
Decision made. Alicia’s turn into a mage had blown past Ling’s expectations; she could worry less for a while. Ling jogged off, pulled out the [Water Dew Tea] she’d been stashing, and settled in to watch the show.
Sluurp—
This stuff’s still insanely good!
