Echo of the Dragon God

"His mana… it smells pure," the old man muttered under his breath as his blade sliced past Dravion's shoulder, missing by a hair.

"Grrr…" Dravion snarled like a beast. His fangs bared, breath ragged, eyes burning with primal hunger. He didn't want to scare him. He wanted to end him. To tear and devour until nothing remained. The instinct was pure.

Using the momentum from his dodge, the dragon child lunged low, aiming for the elf's long legs. But the elder moved with fluid grace, leaping into a high backflip that seemed to defy gravity.

What he didn't expect, was the strike from below.

Dravion surged upward, his claw slashing toward the elf's exposed abdomen mid-air.

The old warrior's eyes narrowed, body twisting just in time to avoid a fatal blow—but barely.

Such battle sense… incredible.

He gritted his teeth, landing with a spin.

If I'm right… he was only just born. But if he keeps fighting like this... if he survives long enough... then one day—

There won't be a single genius on this continent who could rival him.

He ran his fingers along the blade's edge, and in response, it lit up with a pure green glow—like forest fire wrapped in divine flame. Majestic. Alive. Powerful.

"The wind of the divine spirit… lend me your strength to cut down my enemy," the elf whispered.

And then it struck.

A wave of razor-sharp wind burst from the blade, carving through the air like a judgment. The pressure slammed into Dravion, forcing him down to one knee. He gritted his teeth, one hand digging into the ground for support as the invisible weight tried to crush him.

A bitter, metallic taste rose in his mouth.

Blood.

It dripped from the corner of his lips—thick, warm… and red.

Not golden. Not like the blood of his original self. This… was mortal blood. A stark reminder that he was no longer the god he once was. 

He wasn't aware of it, of course.

The elf hovered midair, looking down at Dravion like one might study an insect. Yet beneath that calm, something flickered—surprise.

That shine… For a mortal's blood to gleam so brightly… it meant purity. Not enough to call him divine-born, no. But enough to raise questions. Enough to stir old memories.

Could he one day rival the prodigies of the old gods? The elf wondered, eyes narrowing. Wind began to swirl around his arm, coiling like a serpent of air.

"Better dodge this, little one."

He didn't hesitate. No long-winded monologue. Just a warning.

From his shoulder down to the blade's tip, the wind howled—and then surged. A violent crescent wave ripped forth, screaming through the air with enough force to split a mountain in two.

But Dravion didn't cower.

He felt the challenge, and his blood answered.

Fire surged up his throat, thick and searing. His jaws snapped open, and a torrent erupted—hotter, denser, more furious than anything he'd released before. Far more potent than the breath that had incinerated the tiger.

This one could erase the forest.

The two attacks met.

BOOM!

A deafening roar. The clash of elemental titans. Wind and flame collided in a storm of devastation, shockwaves ripping outward like falling stars. Trees were shredded, the earth cracked open—and both combatants were hurled back, spiraling in opposite directions.

"That old geezer is strong… damn," Dravion growled as his back slammed into the ground, dust and ash billowing around him.

He blinked.

Then again. Words had come more easily. The thought had formed sharply. Stronger. Each battle, each strike, was doing something to him. Waking something up.

The haze in his mind thinned. Memories didn't return all at once—but in fragments. A stance. A breath. A word.

First, the instinct to fight. Then the movements. Now… speech. He stared at his own hands—bloodied, clawed, trembling.

I'm not just a beast. He was beginning to understand. He was reborn. A puzzle scattered through time, now slowly piecing itself back together.

And with each shard that returned, his eyes grew brighter. Not just with light, but with clarity. Hunger was no longer his only fire.

Now, the purpose began to burn.

"This fight will take us nowhere, little one…"

The voice drifted through the lingering dust like a whisper from the gods. Then, from the haze, the elf emerged—his figure tall, battered, but unbroken. He carried his silver blade slung lazily over one shoulder, more like a traveler than a warrior, though the sharpness in his gaze told a different story.

Dravion tensed.

His instincts screamed again. Fight. Kill. Survive. His claws dug into the dirt as he prepared to launch, unwilling to back down. If he had to die here, so be it. He would not run.

But the elf raised his free hand—not in aggression, but as a gesture of peace.

"I can see now… I won't be able to beat you so easily," he said, his voice calm, tinged with quiet resignation. "And truth be told… these old bones don't have much left in them."

He sighed, a tired smile flickering at the edge of his lips. Not mocking. Just weary.

"How about we end this, just for now? Forget what happened… at least for a moment." His words hung in the silence like falling leaves.

"It's not in our blood to pursue revenge," he continued. "We elves have survived for so long because we learned to let go. To forgive..." His eyes shifted—no longer focused on Dravion, but on the blood-stained battlefield behind him.

"If my son had learned that…" he paused, breath catching, "he might still be alive."

There was no anger in his voice. Just emptiness. Regret carved deep into his features, like roots twisted through stone.

He hadn't wanted to fight. But he hadn't had a choice either.

"I sensed your presence long ago. But I was caught in a binding ritual. By the time I arrived…"

He shook his head, guilt pooling behind his eyes.

"If only I had come sooner… I might have stopped the others. Might've held them back. Might've… kept them alive."

His blade lowered. His shoulders slumped.

"And maybe… I could've spared you this carnage too, little one."

His expression was unreadable—mysterious, veiled. It was hard to tell what he truly felt.

Then, without warning—

"Here! Catch this!"

The old elf tossed something toward Dravion.

A blade.

Instinct kicked in. Dravion caught it mid-air, clutching it tight as his nose twitched. He sniffed it, curious, almost like testing prey.

"Hah! It's not food, little one," the elf chuckled. "That's my parting gift." His voice softened. "You're a monster in hand-to-hand, no doubt... but having a sword will help you blend in. Make them underestimate you. Maybe even teach you restraint."

Bronze leaves began to stir around the elf's feet, coiling upward like creeping vines. His youthful shell cracked and faded, the years returning to his skin. His posture slumped. He was old again.

"I hope we meet again, someday. Not as enemies." His voice trembled slightly. "Even if I can never forgive you… I won't chase vengeance. That's not the way of our kind. It never was. If my son had remembered that… he might still be alive."

He paused—eyes widening.

The sword in Dravion's hand had begun to glow.

A golden light danced across its edge, wrapping around his fingers, then pulsing softly like a heartbeat.

The elf's smile returned, this time bittersweet.

"So... the blade's found its true wielder after all…"

And then—he vanished.

The wind took him.

The bronze leaves scattered into the sky, swirling around Dravion like fading embers, until nothing remained but silence and steel.