Hell’s 9

A deafening roar split the skies as Dracon unleashed a beam of pure zail from his maw—its violet hue a streak of annihilation tearing through the heavens. Yeldor barely had time to react. With the ocean beneath him and certain death behind, he surged forward, sprinting atop the churning water. Each step left an imprint of glowing energy on the waves, but the threat behind him only grew.

A colossal tidal wave rose like a curtain of doom, towering to blot out the stormy sky. Thinking fast, Yeldor clapped his hands together and chanted under his breath. A shimmering dome of protective energy bloomed around him—a bubble shield that halted the wave's fury.

But Dracon wasn't done.

From behind the cascading wall of water, the Storm Dragon burst forth with terrifying speed. His fist—twice the size of a man—smashed through the shield like glass, connecting squarely with Yeldor's chest.

The force sent Yeldor hurtling through the air like a meteor, crashing into the ocean miles away. He sank beneath the waves, the world above blurred into silence. Darkness. Pressure. Cold.

Then—pain.

A searing, slicing agony tore through his left arm. Dracon had closed the distance in the water and struck with zail-forged claws, ripping the limb clean off. Blood spilled into the sea like ink, and Yeldor screamed. But pain birthed clarity, and through sheer will, he rocketed upward, skipping across the ocean surface to escape.

Above the waves, soaked and gasping, he gathered strength. Clapping again, he summoned regenerative magic. A flicker of white light surrounded his stump. Bone reformed. Muscle stretched. Skin stitched. In seconds, his arm had regrown.

But that wasn't enough.

He cast again—a larger, more complex incantation—and a massive zail circle unfolded beneath him, glowing across the surface of the ocean like a divine glyph. Below, Dracon moved, a shadow in the deep.

The spell reacted.

A cascade of zail lightning speared from the sky and struck the sea with surgical precision. Dracon's body surfaced momentarily, sizzling with electricity.

"Hm," Dracon mused aloud, even as steam curled from his shoulders. "That was a good move."

Yeldor floated above the waves, panting. That was a good move? He gritted his teeth. He says that so casually while I'm giving it everything I've got. Shit! I can barely keep up with him…

"I, Dracon, the Storm Dragon," the beast growled, "will kill you for your betrayal of Hell."

I can't beat him like this, Yeldor thought. I need more. I need… the Divine.

He closed his eyes.

And then—he rose.

Light surged from within. His body shimmered as overwhelming zail coursed through his veins. His feet lifted from the ocean surface. Power filled him, radiant and immense.

He gasped.

"I've never felt… so alive."

Dracon arched an eyebrow, floating up to meet him. "So you were hiding your true power. Good. You'll need it."

The skies darkened instantly. A ceiling of thunderclouds spread out above them, and the winds screamed. Rain lashed sideways. Lightning etched white veins across the heavens. The ocean turned to chaos.

Yeldor raised his hands.

"Bréonbréné!"

Five pillars of fire erupted from the water's depths, swirling skyward in a pyre of divine wrath. They converged on Dracon, who narrowed his eyes and spun violently in place. Five cyclones—tornadoes of lightning and gale-force winds—spiraled from his form and devoured the pillars. The result was a blinding explosion that rocked the skies.

But Yeldor wasn't done.

From the water below, he summoned sea life in monstrous form. Whales with jagged teeth. Squids with eyes glowing red. Sharks fused with zail and malice. They surged upward, an army of the deep, and raced toward Dracon.

But the Storm Dragon didn't flinch. He dove, tearing through beast after beast like a scythe through wheat. Their shrieks echoed into the storm.

As he rose from the slaughter, Yeldor conjured a torrential deluge of water from above, slamming Dracon back into the sea. A shockwave of wind knocked Yeldor from the sky, and before he could stabilize, bolts of lightning rained down like divine punishment.

His bubble shield cracked under the pressure. He clapped his hands and sent a swarm of zail projectiles flying. Dracon responded with a swing of his massive claws, slashing through them like paper and striking Yeldor's shield again—this time, the cracks widened.

And then—crack!

The shield shattered.

A surge of lightning struck Yeldor midair, sending him tumbling. A final zail-charged breath attack from Dracon blasted into him, spiraling him downwards.

But he wasn't finished.

Summoning a winged fish from the depths, Yeldor climbed aboard and shot backward through the sky, his fingers weaving another spell.

"Forbain!"

A column of fire roared upward, swallowing Dracon whole.

From within the inferno, Dracon burst out—scorched but smirking.

He could feel it—he was almost out of zail.

It was time.

Dracon's body began to dissolve into mist. He merged with the storm clouds above, vanishing into the tempest. He became one with the storm—its lightning, its wind, its fury.

From below, Yeldor looked up.

The entire sky was Dracon now.

And the sky opened fire.

Bolts the size of buildings rained down. Yeldor weaved through them, shielding, casting, dodging—but he was caught. A hurricane formed below, snatching him into its spiraling prison. Lightning lashed him. Rain blinded him. Winds tore at his limbs.

A laugh—a cruel, thunderous laugh—echoed from the clouds.

Yeldor, spinning in the maelstrom, clenched his teeth and shouted the words of his final spell. One that had never been used. One forbidden.

A spell that could control the weather.

And with Dracon now being the weather—he was vulnerable.

Yeldor raised his arms.

The skies shook.

The storm… obeyed.

The hurricane stilled. The clouds unraveled. Lightning froze midair like suspended veins of light before dissipating. Rain stopped. The sky—once a maelstrom of rage—turned clear.

Dracon fell.

His body materialized midair and plummeted, slamming onto the jagged rocks of a shoreline far below. Smoke rose from his limbs. His breathing was ragged. Powerless.

Hovering above him, radiant and scarred, Yeldor looked down with narrowed eyes.

"Storm dragon, huh?" he muttered.

He summoned a final bolt of lightning, infused with every ounce of his zail.

It shot downward—white, pure, divine.

It struck Dracon dead-on, erupting into a geyser of energy that split the shore in half.

When the light faded, there was only silence.

The storm had passed.

The ocean, once enraged, was now still.

And Yeldor, weary but victorious, hovered alone in the sky.