Help! Someone grab me!

“Grab trees and rocks, brothers—it’s the Dreadwyrm’s magic!”

...

The allied soldiers were instantly blown far away by the gust from my sneeze. Everyone scrambled for anything to stop their flight. What had been a disciplined formation now lay in complete disarray.

After a while, the gust faded. Movement ceased. The storm-wracked ground slowly stilled.

“Are you all alright?” Hero Cherthesis asked, his face slightly pale with concern.

“We’re mostly fine… but many comrades crashed into obstacles and didn’t make it.” As they spoke, soldiers’ faces turned ashen. None wished to relive that terror.

“I see. A true tragedy. But I shall avenge the fallen at once. I’ve realized it—the Dreadwyrm unleashed its final, ultimate power: the Roar of the Dreadwyrm, as recorded in ancient scrolls. Merely death throes.”

“So it was! Truly, as expected of Lord Champion!”

“Only such power could scatter our ranks. Lord Chelseas, sage of wisdom and blade—you are humanity’s pride!”

...

*Sigh.* Couldn’t even comment. It was just a sneeze. Seriously?

Whatever. Time to drive these humans off. Harmless as ants, but being tickled by vermin is annoying.

Thud!!

I slowly pushed myself up. The ground trembled faintly beneath my weight.

“L-Lord Champion… th-this…”

Seeing me rise, soldiers froze in shock and terror, pointing shakily behind Chelseas.

“What? Don’t tell me that thing’s skull’s bleeding? Would’ve saved us trouble.” Chelseas turned.

An enormous, grotesque dragon head filled his vision—maw aimed straight at him, breath enveloping his body. Combined with the magical pressure I deliberately pressed down, heat and suffocation seized him.

“Y-You… h-hello!” His mind blank. Pure terror. That faint pressure alone revealed the truth: he knew *nothing* of the Dreadwyrm’s power.

If Chelseas was a rabbit, I was a lightning tiger. No resistance possible. The magic gap was absolute.

“Vermin. *Roll.*”

I snarled coldly. The aura drained all color from his face.

*My magic… fading? How strong is this beast?!* Utterly shaken, he knew survival itself was a miracle.

“Yes, sir!”

Chelseas and the expedition force shouted in unison and fled. They dared not stand before me another second.

“Wait.”

They froze. Glanced back—fearful, uneasy.

“Truth is, I’m bored. So here’s the game: kill each other. Only the last one standing leaves. Thoughts?” I said coolly.

I’d changed my mind. Weak they were, but their purpose was to slaughter *me*—unforgivable. Their repeated intrusions? Unbearable. I’d done them no real harm. Time for judgment.

“You monster!!!!” Chelseas trembled with rage. Forcing him to kill comrades? Unthinkable.

“What—wish to fight *me*? Then none of you walk away.”

Silence. They knew: no victory against the Dreadwyrm.

Zzzt~

A bolt of electricity shot past Chelseas’ head. His reflexes saved him.

“Dobas… you…?” He spun. The caster was his own comrade.

“I’m sorry, Chelseas. No choice. I must live… my wife and children are waiting.” Dobas’ eyes were hollow, face shattered.

*Sigh~*

One broken. No blame. Few stay selfless when life hangs in the balance. Such is survival instinct.

I felt a faint pang—but no pity. Hunt others? Accept being hunted. All wish to live.

“I want to live… Forgive me, Lord Champion…”

“I have children… I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

“Forgive me!”

Then came the dark, ugly slaughter.

Yet to me, it held no ugliness. This was humanity fighting for what matters most—

Life itself.