Ancestral Lineage

Chapter 175 El Draco.

Blankson streaked through the chaotic streets, his armor glinting ominously under the harsh sunlight. The bone-white mask covering his face contrasted sharply with the eerie glow of his blue eyes and the strands of blonde hair peeking from beneath his helmet. Razor-sharp wind blades spun in vicious, blurry circles around him, distorting his outline like a phantom wrapped in a cyclone of death.

Blood and severed limbs littered his path, painting a grotesque tapestry of carnage as he carved through the masses without pause. Ahead, people with fear-stricken faces stumbled and screamed, desperate to escape the whirlwind of slaughter bearing down on them. Affinities flared, artifacts activated in frantic defense—but it was futile. Against an Expert-level Wind Mage of the Blade clan, resistance was nothing more than a delay in the inevitable.

Strapped to his back was a sleek, thin, yet wickedly long sword, etched with faintly glowing azure runes. Its dormant power pulsed like a heartbeat, feeding off the bloodlust in the air. Blankson's distorted laughter echoed like the cackle of the reaper himself, a cruel symphony accompanying the massacre. Men, women, children—it didn't matter. His blade held no prejudice, only an insatiable hunger for death. Fortunately for his twisted desires, no mages of equal or higher rank were present. Here, he was a god among insects, free to indulge in his berserk, sadistic tendencies without restraint.

Forg Street, once a bustling district of Veryen City filled with humble merchants, vendors, and low-level mages, had become his playground. The residents—Novice to Advanced-level mages, with the rare Warrior-level among them—stood no chance. They were lambs, unaware they had been raised for slaughter until the wolf was already upon them.

Behind the mask, Blankson's expression was one of pure, sadistic ecstasy. Blood splattered across his armor, dripping in crimson streaks, as his glowing eyes gleamed with unnatural delight. The massacre continued unabated. He seized a heavyset woman by the head, lifting her effortlessly. His wind blades shredded her body with surgical precision, leaving only a mangled, unrecognizable husk. He grinned wider, intoxicated by the sight.

Then his gaze snapped to a boy sprinting desperately through the blood-soaked streets, blue lightning crackling around his legs in a desperate attempt to flee.

"You gotta run faster if you wanna survive, kid," Blankson's devilish voice rasped through the wind, like death whispering in the boy's ear.

Terror gripped the boy's heart, his trousers darkening with fear, but he didn't stop. He poured every ounce of strength into his flight, the screams of agony and despair around him fading into a distant chorus of horror. This wasn't just a massacre—it was hell made manifest.

Beside him, a slim man limped, his face pale and twisted with pain. One arm gone, his leg bent at an unnatural angle, he struggled to keep up. The boy instinctively reached to help—but the man exploded into a shower of blood mid-stride. The spray drenched the boy, hot and metallic, filling his mouth and nose. He gagged, stumbling to his knees, the world spinning around him.

Despair settled over him like a suffocating blanket. The screams were just noise now—background static to the overwhelming realization that death was moments away. His body trembled, eyes vacant as the shadow loomed over him once more.

"It seems you've lost your will. I'll make it quick, then."

The familiar, distorted voice was a dagger to the heart. Shaking, the boy turned his head to see Blankson approaching, his form blurred by swirling winds, every step cracking the ground beneath him. The boy's mind screamed, but his body refused to move.

Is this the end?

I won't see my sister again...

Mother... Father...

BOOM!

The sudden explosion shattered the moment. It was so fast that neither Blankson nor the boy could react in time. A shockwave blasted through the street, clearing dust and blood in a wide radius.

A deep, guttural voice echoed through the aftermath—inhuman, like something ancient and primal.

"This is why I hate humans. Always so greedy."

The words dripped with disdain, halting the massacre as both attackers and survivors turned toward the source.

Emerging from the dissipating dust was a towering figure, easily over seven feet tall. He had a wild, bushy mane of fiery red hair cascading down his broad back. His eyes blazed with an intense, molten red glow, like twin embers capable of burning through souls. The heat around him was palpable, distorting the air like a mirage. Despite the chaos, his hands remained casually tucked into his pockets, exuding an aura of arrogant confidence.

His presence alone was suffocating.

A desperate roar sounded from the rubble—a bloodied, furious Blankson emerged, wind blades spinning wildly around him, his mask cracked, revealing part of his deranged face. His blonde hair was singed at the tips, his armor melted and fused with his skin in places.

"You bastard!" Blankson howled, sending a barrage of razor-sharp wind blades, each capable of slicing through steel.

El Draco didn't even blink.

He raised one hand lazily, and with a flick of his fingers, the ground surged upward in a wall of molten rock, hardening instantly into obsidian as the wind blades collided. They shattered harmlessly against the molten shield. El Draco stepped through the crumbling remains, his smile darkening.

"Pathetic."

He swung his broadsword with both hands this time, and the force was apocalyptic. Lava surged in the blade's wake, a tidal wave of molten death crashing toward Blankson.

Blankson tried to escape, launching himself into the air with a burst of wind—but it was useless. The heat was everywhere. His winds faltered, suffocated by the sheer intensity of El Draco's flames. The lava caught him mid-air, swallowing him whole. His scream was brief, drowned out by the hissing roar of evaporating flesh.

When the molten surge settled, there was nothing left—no bones, no ash. Just a pool of cooling lava where Blankson had once stood.

El Draco turned his attention to the remaining Blades. Some tried to flee. Others, too terrified to run, dropped to their knees in surrender.

It didn't matter.

El Draco didn't believe in mercy.

With a snap of his fingers, fissures split the earth, spitting geysers of lava that consumed the fleeing soldiers. Leo roared again, charging through the chaos, his massive jaws crushing anyone who managed to avoid the lava. The beast was merciless, its flaming mane burning through armor like it was made of paper.

El Draco moved like death incarnate, his broadsword spinning arcs of molten fury. Every swing birthed new rivers of lava, every step leaving molten footprints that sizzled and hissed. The Blade Clan's elite warriors were nothing more than kindling to his rage.

Eventually, silence fell.

The streets of Forg were unrecognizable—reduced to charred ruins and molten rivers. The once-bustling marketplace was now a graveyard of ash and scorched stone. The only sound was the faint bubbling of lava and the crackle of lingering flames.

El Draco stood amidst the destruction, his broadsword resting on his shoulder, still glowing with molten heat. His fiery eyes scanned the ruins without a trace of remorse.

The boy—covered in ash and dried blood—trembled, staring at the man who had saved him... no, not saved. El Draco hadn't saved anyone. He had simply destroyed everything in his path.

El Draco's gaze finally met the boy's.

"You're still alive," he said with mild surprise, his voice devoid of warmth.

The boy flinched but didn't speak.

El Draco turned away with a shrug. "Doesn't matter."

With a whistle, Leo trotted to his side, the beast's flaming mane dimming slightly. Together, they walked into the distance, leaving nothing but ruin in their wake.