Dragon Raja 4; Chapter 43: Journey to the End of the World (43)

Dragon Raja 4

“Then let us begin this great war together. Your Highness, Saintess, you shall have the honor of shedding the first drop of blood in this war!” Macallan raised a metal pipe, lightning crackling through it, faint thunder rumbling. Jörmungandr raised her blade, Kumogiri, flames erupting from its edge.

Their weapons clashed above Reginleif’s head, and the sea serpents swimming in the incubation pool seemed startled, abruptly distancing themselves from the Yamal ship. History was about to turn a new page. The old gods would slay the new gods, offering her as a sacrifice to the Creator in the Sea’s Eye. From then on, Ragnarok would unfold, with blood feuds stacking upon blood feuds, and eventually, anyone with even a hint of godliness would march to war with weapons in hand. As Han Gao would put it, this was the great culmination of history; the Dragon Kings would call it fate.

Reginleif had no understanding of her supposed grand responsibility as a sacrificial offering. She only cried out, “Chu! Chu, wake up! It’s me, Reginleif!”

For some reason, she thought of a song called The Warrior. Why had she sung such a sorrowful song for Chu? The song said that warriors would inevitably fall.

Charged with lightning, the steel pipe and Kumogiri descended simultaneously. Macallan and Jörmungandr locked eyes. Compared to the pact between them, Reginleif was insignificant. There would be many sacrificial offerings like her in this war. Life had never been considered precious in the long river of history. But the ritual held importance, they needed to stain themselves with the blood of their kin to declare their stance, knowing there was no turning back.

Her cries faded into the wind, like the mournful wail of a dying bird. Flames scorched Reginleif’s silver hair, and blood dripped onto the deck, reflecting a pale golden glow.

Jörmungandr withdrew her blade, blowing away the bloodstains, and casually slapped Reginleif across the face. “Why are you yelling? It’s not your place to speak here.”

Reginleif held her cheek, staring blankly at the ruthless imperial daughter—or rather, her noble sister.

“Chu…,” Reginleif mumbled incoherently. She was completely stunned, moving out of habit but unable to stop.

“You’re relying on him to save you? What else can he do besides die?” Jörmungandr said coldly. “Call me sister! The only one who can save you is me!”

Kumogiri slashed down from Macallan’s right shoulder, cutting through his shoulder blade, sternum, and ribs, all the way to his heart. It also severed the steel pipe he held.

It was an ultimate strike, destroying Macallan’s heart and nervous system in one blow. Any creature, even a Dragon King, that still relied on a physical body would need a long time to recover from such trauma. As Jörmungandr withdrew her blade, cracks spread across Kumogiri—it had expended its life with that one cut. Flames consumed Macallan’s exposed heart, as Jörmungandr buried an explosion of King’s Blaze within it.

“You are truly Jörmungandr…” Macallan rasped.

Jörmungandr had clearly overcome her inner demons and chosen the side of the dragons, yet she still wielded Chu Zihang’s blade against Macallan.

“Chu Zihang had his reasons for wanting to kill you, and I have mine,” Jörmungandr said with a smile. “How could I ally with the one who devoured Fenrir? That’s my real brother! For so many years, it was him who accompanied me! Only he would sacrifice everything, even his life, for me!” After roaring in fury, she returned to her cold, regal demeanor. “But you turned him into food. Will I one day become your food too?”

“You once wanted to devour him to become the sea…” Macallan slowly knelt down.

“But that doesn’t stop me from hating you. Do you think I don’t know who thwarted my plan to become Hela? It was you, my dear brother! But you didn’t step in personally, not even directly—you leaked the information to Cassell College. Those excited self-important fools rushed off. The dragon slayers have always been your pawns. For thousands of years, you’ve exploited their foolish courage, while you, yourself, are the eternal beneficiary.” Jörmungandr slowly circled to stand behind Macallan. “The only one who will survive Ragnarok is you. Everyone else is just a stepping stone for you. You are the one most like a human among us. For thousands of years, you’ve been studying the human heart, haven’t you? You’ve mastered their greed and cunning. Compared to you, Herzog is just a child.”

“One question…” Macallan tightly pressed his right shoulder, trying to prevent it from falling off his body.

But the next moment, a flash of blade light swept across his neck. Jörmungandr unsheathed and resheathed her blade in an instant. It was as if Dōjigiri had never left its scabbard.

“I only say what I want to say. As for your question, I don’t want to answer it!” She gently pushed, causing the bird-beaked mask and head to fall from his neck.

She raised her gaze towards the blood-red incubation chamber. “Brother, your skeleton should be enough of a sacrifice, right?”

She didn’t believe she had truly killed Macallan. Without a doubt, he had hidden his core somewhere. Humans might call it a cocoon or embryo, but those terms were inaccurate. As long as a Dragon King had that core, they could eventually resurrect themselves, though it would take many years. By then, Ragnarok would already be over, and the victor would become the new god of the era. The Four Monarchs were nothing more than outdated titles.

She intended to throw Macallan’s corpse into the sea but froze in place. The headless body remained kneeling silently—it didn’t fall, nor did it bleed.

Time had stopped at the moment Macallan’s head separated from his body. Jörmungandr was still able to move freely in the cracks of time, but no one else could. The wind had ceased, and even the ripples on the sea had solidified. Then, time seemed to be forcibly pushed forward. She found herself back in front of Reginleif, swinging Kumogiri at Macallan’s left shoulder. The steel pipe in Macallan’s hand, which had been aimed at Reginleif, had now shifted slightly. The previously sharp Kumogiri was now covered in cracks, no longer a blade that could cut through iron effortlessly. The slight angle allowed Kumogiri to slide down the pipe, only cutting off a few strands of Reginleif’s silver hair. Jörmungandr didn’t have time to withdraw her blade, and the sudden shock in her wrist shattered Kumogiri into pieces, leaving just a few shallow cuts on Reginleif’s shoulder.

This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. The last time, Jörmungandr had believed Macallan had invaded Chu Zihang’s consciousness, and that battle wasn’t real. But now, she was in control of her own body. Her rank was equal to Macallan’s, and the White Empress’s Yanling Macallan had obtained from Herzog couldn’t affect Reginleif, so it certainly couldn’t affect her. This meant Macallan had indeed tampered with the laws of time and causality. A subtle change in the process had led to a drastically different result. None of the Yanlings recorded in the known list could achieve such a miraculous effect. If those abilities were considered superpowers, then what Macallan had just displayed could be called “divine magic.”

However, this divine magic didn’t seem to be without limitations. Otherwise, Macallan wouldn’t have merely deflected her fatal blow—he would have reversed it and pierced her heart with his steel pipe.

Even a shard of glass in his hands could harm high-ranking hybrids, so the steel pipe in his hand was likely no weaker than Jörmungandr’s alchemic dual blades.

But why hadn’t the cracks on Kumogiri disappeared? Jörmungandr faintly sensed something but didn’t have time to dwell on it. She grabbed Reginleif and tossed her aside, drawing Dōjigiri from her lower back and unleashing an expert Iai slash. All the sword techniques Chu Zihang had learned or seen were stored in her mind, and she could elevate these skills to the level of a master without training. Dōjigiri severed Macallan’s tie, leaving a sharp, bloody cut across his chest.

This time, Macallan didn’t use that mysterious ability. He grunted, stepping back a few paces, and leaned on the steel pipe, slightly panting to steady himself.

“That was close, Jörmungandr, so close,” he managed to smile. “You truly are my clever sister, but you missed the decisive moment.”

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