killer croc the dragon born

Part I: The Tower Burns

The last hill before the tower was choked with smoke.

Not just the scent of fire—

Char. Blood. Burnt leather.

The group slowed at the ridge.

Even hardened warriors stopped when they saw it.

The western watchtower was half-collapsed.

Its top broken open like a skull split by a hammer.

Flames licked out from shattered arrow slits.

The outer wall was crumbled in three places, and two ballistae smoldered uselessly near the gate.

A corpse hung limp from the battlements, armor melted to bone.

The Dragonborn staggered at the heat.

It rolled up the hill like a wave, dry and alive.

Ralof shielded his eyes with one hand.

"This isn't a fight," he muttered.

"This is a slaughter."

Then—

The roar.

Not like a bear.

Not like any beast they'd ever heard.

It tore across the sky with intelligence behind it.

Rage.

Old as the mountains.

Sharp as prophecy.

The Dragonborn's stomach dropped.

His fingers went numb around the axe handle.

And yet—somewhere in his chest—something answered.

A pull.

A whisper.

A hunger.

Croc didn't flinch.

He took one step forward.

Then another.

His regenerated hand flexed once at his side, claws twitching like nerves remembering a war.

His voice was low.

Rumbling.

"Eyes up."

From the smoke—

It came.

Wings like sailcloth torn by storms.

A body long, scaled, armored in black iron and burnished bronze.

Eyes burning orange like molten glass.

The dragon swooped low over the tower, beating the fire into a frenzy.

Then turned—

And saw them.

Part II: The First Strike

The dragon banked mid-air, wings catching the updraft from its own destruction.

Its mouth opened wide—not in a roar, but in ritual.

A deep, guttural hum echoed through its chest.

The clouds above it pulsed red.

Magic shimmered around its teeth like molten glass.

The guards froze.

A few raised shields.

Others turned to run.

The Dragonborn's heart dropped into his stomach.

He recognized it.

Not from experience.

But from dreams.

From instinct.

A Thu'um was coming.

A swirling, molten core gathered in the dragon's maw—crimson and gold, rotating like a dying star.

It didn't breathe.

It charged.

It forged the fire in its gut like a spell gone feral.

Then—

It unleashed it.

A stream of fire as wide as a wagon erupted from its mouth, hurtling toward them like a crashing tide.

The sound wasn't just heat.

It was anger.

It screamed toward them with the rage of the sky.

The Dragonborn turned, eyes wide.

"Ralof—NOW! What we practiced!"

Ralof didn't hesitate.

He yanked his axe from his back—his enchanted Nordic weapon, still humming with power.

Then closed his eyes.

Whispered the spell.

Bound Axe.

Magicka crackled around the weapon's spine.

Not separate—but blending.

The blue-purple shimmer of conjured energy wrapped itself around the steel, embedding into the blade's edge.

The wood cracked, reforged.

The haft thickened, radiating heat and cold.

When Ralof opened his eyes, they glowed faintly blue.

He swung.

The wave of magic that burst from his axe wasn't elegant.

It wasn't pretty.

It was power.

A crescent of pure force carved through the air, colliding with the dragon's fire mid-flight.

Flame exploded outward in a cloudburst.

The pressure slammed into the dirt, blowing back cloaks and dust.

For a second, the field was white with steam.

Then—

Impact.

The arc of magicka struck the dragon in the chest, sending it reeling in midair.

The beast snarled—wings flailing, air warping around its body as it fought to recover.

The earth trembled as it dipped.

But it didn't fall.

Not yet.

The Dragonborn stepped forward, stunned.

Then smiled.

"Damn."

Part III: Break the limits

The fire still lingered in the air.

Steam curled like ghosts across the hillside.

But Croc was already moving.

He didn't draw a weapon.

Didn't speak.

Just ran.

The broken tower loomed ahead, its top scorched and jagged like broken bone.

Croc sprinted straight at it.

Then climbed.

Claws sank into stone.

Boots scraped mortar.

He moved with unnatural rhythm—faster than eyes could follow.

Each lunge up the wall was perfectly timed, his rebuilt arm flexing with terrifying control.

Guards near the base only had time to gasp before he was already halfway up.

Ralof looked up.

"By the gods—he's climbing it!"

The Dragonborn stared in disbelief.

"He's not climbing."

A pause.

"He's flying ."

Croc reached the top in seconds.

Didn't pause.

Didn't balance.

He simply turned.

And leapt.

It wasn't a jump.

It was a launch.

His body cleared the crumbled parapets, soared over the battlefield like a falling god.

His shadow passed over the dragon's neck just as the beast began to lift its head.

Too late.

Croc's fists came down together.

A double hammer blow straight into the dragon's skull.

BOOM.

The dragon's head slammed into the dirt with enough force to leave a crater.

The ground shuddered.

Dust exploded outward.

The beast shrieked—claws tearing into the earth, wings flailing.

Its neck twisted awkwardly as it struggled to recover.

Croc rode it down, crouched atop its armored spine, one claw still buried in its scales.

His breath steamed from his nostrils like smoke from a forge.

The field went still.

Then the dragon roared, pure rage exploding from its throat.It wasn't dead.

But now?

Now it was angry.

Part IV: The Blood Turns

The dragon shook violently.

Its wing lashed sideways, knocking over a scorched tree.

But Croc didn't fall.

He climbed.

Gripping scale and bone with claws like iron, he pulled himself along the beast's spine, snarling low.

Then—

He opened his jaws.

And bit.

Fangs sank into the base of the dragon's neck.

There was a moment of resistance—then rupture.

Croc tore a chunk the size of a helmet free, blood gushing across his chest.

He swallowed.

And bit again.

The dragon howled.

Its body thrashed wildly, but Croc held firm—jaws clamping down again and again, tearing strips of flesh and cartilage.

Blood poured down its back like molten paint.

Ralof watched, stunned.

Then his grip tightened on his axe.

And he charged.

The runes on his weapon burned to life again.

With a shout, he struck the dragon's wing joint, sending a blade of magicka tearing through its tendon.

The wing buckled.

The dragon sagged.

Screamed.

The Dragonborn was already moving.

He swung his humble axe—not elegant, not legendary.

But precise.

He slammed the blade into the dragon's lower leg again and again, severing nerves and muscle.

With every strike, splinters of scale flew.

With every grunt, he carved closer to the core.

The others hesitated only a moment longer.

Then they saw it—

Three men.

One a beast, biting and drenched in blood.

One a Nord, shouting fury with every arc of his axe.

One an Argonian, silent, sweating, striking with nothing but grit.

And they followed.

"FOR WHITERUN!" someone yelled.

Then the charge began.

Steel met scale.

Flame met shield.

And the dragon?

The dragon was no longer feared.

It was cornered.

Part V: Divine Departure

The dragon shrieked in desperation.

Its wings beat once.

Twice.

Smoke bellowed from its wounded throat.

Croc clung to its neck, jaws dripping with gore.

Ralof's axe glowed brighter, humming with unstable power.

The dragon's claws scraped against the rocks.

It lifted slightly.

Then—

Ralof stepped forward.

Spun the axe once behind him.

And roared:

"DIVINE DEPARTURE!"

The name echoed across the battlefield like thunder.

A few guards blinked in confusion.

The Dragonborn, watching from the side, grinned ear to ear.

Ralof's axe swung wide, a full-bodied arc.

A crescent of magicka burst from the blade, crackling blue and silver.

It slammed into the dragon's chest mid-lift.

The beast screamed.

Then—

It crashed.

The ground shattered beneath it.

Stone cracked in all directions.

A crater formed, the dragon lying at its center, limbs twisted, smoke trailing from its mouth.

Its eye twitched once.

Then went dark.

Silence.

No roars.

No cries.

Just steam, wind, and the rising hum of magic.

The dragon's body twitched.

Then began to glow.

Light poured from its chest, its throat, its skull.

It rose—not the flesh, but the soul—a swirling storm of golden flame.

The fire spiraled upward.

Then split.

One half surged toward Croc, who stood atop the broken beast, soaked in blood, fangs bared.

It entered him silently, steam curling from his nostrils.

His eyes widened for half a second.

Then narrowed again.

The other half curved toward the Dragonborn.

It hit like a rush of breath—

Ancient words. Power. Memory. Fire.

And when it passed—

He stood taller.

Not because he grew.

But because something inside him remembered.

Two men.

One dragon.

One death.

Two souls received.

And neither of them would ever be the same.