Chapter 36: Lightning Fang: Final Arc
And then—finally—she spoke. Her voice was soft. Cold. Controlled like the steel she held.
"You mistake destruction for power," she said, each word falling like frost. "That's your flaw, Zandagar. I expected more from something that dares call itself a god."
Zandagar's expression twisted, but no words came.
Her voice lingered in the air, gentle and damning, like snow falling over a battlefield long after the war had ended. The fire along his arms, once proud and pulsing, now flickered like a torch caught in wind.
A silence stretched. And in that silence… something shifted.
Doubt.
Zandagar's brow furrowed, a subtle twitch betraying a mind in retreat. His jaw clenched. Not out of anger—but hesitation.
Seraphina's foot moved. Just the right one. It slid forward with a scraping whisper, the tip of her blade dragging behind it. The metal hissed against the scorched stone, carving a glowing line where steel kissed ash.
Every step was slow. Measured. Weighty.
Zandagar's eyes followed her movement, narrowing. He scoffed, but his voice cracked.
"You're bluffing," he muttered, then repeated louder, as though the volume might steady his nerves. "That technique… whatever it was—it cost you. I saw it."
He raised his arm again, slower this time.
Behind him, the rings flared, but with less certainty than before. The glyphs—once spinning in perfect arcs—now jittered, stumbling in their rotations, like ancient gears losing alignment.
"You can't pull that off again. That trick—once, maybe. But not twice."
Still, Seraphina said nothing. She didn't even look at him. Not because she held him in contempt. But because he was no longer relevant. Her silence was not empty—it was intentional. And far more terrifying than anything she could've said.
Zandagar felt his breath catch. He hadn't even realized he was holding it. Both his hands lifted now, fingers spread wide. Threads of fire unravelled from each fingertip, crackling like flaming wires. They surged toward the rings behind him, feeding them more energy in desperation.
The air trembled. The rings spun faster. Glyphs screamed as cracks began to form in space itself—fractures across reality, jagged and unnatural, like the world was beginning to protest his power.
"You want slow?" he growled, his voice deep, guttural. "Then burn slowly. Feel it."
From the lowest ring, a new weapon took form. Not an orb. This time, it was something far more vicious.
A spear of fire—long, slender, and glowing white-hot, brighter than the sun's core. The heat shimmered the air. Space bent around it.
He pointed.
Whoosh—
The spear launched.
But Seraphina was already moving.
No sprint. No leap. Just a shift.
A silent glide across stone and ash, her body like flowing water—calm, fluid, inevitable.
As the spear shot toward her, she turned her wrist, just slightly.
Her blade lifted—not to block. But to guide.
She touched it.
Not struck. Not parried. Just touched.
The moment was so soft, so precise, it seemed almost accidental.
But it changed everything.
The spear veered—slightly, just enough—and missed.
It struck the ground three paces to her left. The explosion roared upward in a violent column of fire, lighting the space.
Flames washed across her half-burned cloak. She did not flinch.
Zandagar's sneer returned, though thinner now. More desperate. "Parlor tricks," he spat. But the rasp in his voice betrayed him. "You deflect. You dance. But you don't hit. You've never hurt me. Not once."
Finally, Seraphina answered. Her voice was soft again. But this time, it felt like a scalpel.
"I don't need to hurt you, Zandagar."
She lifted her eyes.
Locked to his.
The world seemed to pause. The flame. The ash. Even the rings. All of it faded behind her gaze.
"I only need you to realize you've already lost."
Zandagar's jaw clenched. His shoulders rose, rigid with tension. Veins pulsed at his temple, and his fingers twitched as his arms hung slightly lower—his body was beginning to betray the rage burning inside.
Then anger overwhelmed reason.
"What did you say, you measurable insect?" His voice rumbled like thunder, filled with contempt.
Seraphina opened her mouth to respond, but—
Cough. Cough.
A harsh sound from the left broke through the tension—Elara was coughing, violently. Seraphina's gaze flicked sharply toward her, eyes softening for a fleeting second. Then, she turned back to Zandagar, and her tone lowered—noble, calculating, restrained.
"Forgive me, Zandagar. I had hoped to push you further. To test myself longer. But..." Her eyes narrowed, voice like ice, "...it seems your fire has begun to suffocate those under my protection. I cannot allow that."
She stepped forward. Controlled. Precise.
Her left foot slid ahead, planted firm and light. Her right leg remained slightly back, knee lowered just enough to anchor her stance. Her left hand rose to chest level—palm open, steady, as though shielding a fragile flame. Her right hand gripped the hilt of her sword firmly, lifting it backward in an arc behind her. Her upper body turned slightly, presenting her left shoulder to Zandagar. A swordswoman's sideways stance—elegant, defensive, prepared.
Her blade was horizontal. The tip aligned perfectly with his torso. Her breathing calmed.
"I will end this with a single strike."
Zandagar blinked.
"What?"
His mind reeled.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he growled, a grin tugging at his lips. "You? Take me down in one strike? Don't make me laugh."He paused, eyes gleaming with contempt. "Do you think I've forgotten how many times you tried to finish me with a single strike? You think you can kill me now?" He stepped forward. "You're nothing but an insect. Still buzzing around, daring to stand before a god."
But then—she moved without answering. And not just moved. Vanished.
A blur. A streak of motion faster than any eye could trace. Zandagar's reflex screamed—his hands thrust forward together, palms alight with crimson flame. In an instant, a fiery spear burst forth—formed and launched with mechanical precision, aimed straight for her torso.
The air split with the sound of his conjuring. The burning spear met her charge.
"Got you." he sneered. "Now, you're dead."
But—
She shifted.
With supernatural grace, her torso angled just enough for the spear to tear past her side. The precision was inhuman. A normal body couldn't adjust at that speed. But she wasn't just a swordswoman now.
Zandagar's smirk fell. His eyes widened, heart skipping a beat.
"What... What is this? How the hell did she dodge that?!"
And then—he felt it. The air pressure thickened. The battlefield became heavy.
She was still coming.
He raised his hand to counter—but—
Too late.
Whoosh—
She was already in front of him. At chest height, she hovered like a storm held in restraint. Her blade—still in motion—was now arched backward behind her, both hands gripping it with solemn finality. Her back arched slightly, knees bent in a dancer's stance, right foot behind her—elevated just enough to look almost weightless.
She looked like a phantom from a warrior's nightmare—an apparition carved from lightning and vengeance, hovering in the stale, shadow-choked air of the cavern. Motionless, yet thrumming with power. Her silver hair, streaked with arcs of glowing blue, floated in the thick tension, disturbed only by the flickers of static dancing around her. Her eyes—slitted like a predator's—burned with piercing electric blue. Every breath she took sent quiet sparks racing across her skin, her armor humming faintly with unstable energy.
But Zandagar wasn't afraid of her.
No.
It was what loomed behind her.
He couldn't move. Not because of the heat. Not because of fatigue. His instincts—the same ones that had kept him alive for centuries—screamed at him. His spine prickled. His breath caught halfway through his lungs.
"What... is that...?"
A massive serpent, easily the size of a dragon, rose behind her—an entity made of pure lightning. It coiled in the air like a celestial guardian, yet its very presence distorted reality. The scales weren't scales—they were pulses of energy, segments of jagged current flowing up and down its body in rhythmic fury. Each movement left streaks of white and blue fire in the space, like brush strokes from a god's hand. Its eyes glowed with a baleful radiance, matching Seraphina's perfectly—as if it was her soul given form.
And yet, it wasn't just a serpent. It was her wrath. It was her judgment. It was her.
Zandagar staggered a step back, obsidian feets sliding in the floor. But he didn't even realize he'd moved.
"No... no, this isn't real. That thing—what is that thing?!"
The snake arched behind her like a looming scythe. Its jaw opened slowly, fangs of blinding current stretching out, crackling in anticipation. Seraphina's blade pulsed in sync with it, the same blue lightning coursing up the length of the metal, as if drawing from the creature's endless reservoir.
Zandagar gritted his teeth. His obsidian fists clenched so tightly, his knuckles cracked. His eyes twitched.
"I am a god. I've slain countless powerful demons. Humans are nothing but insects beneath me. And yet—"
He swallowed.
"Why do my legs feel so damn heavy? Why... does my chest tighten? This isn't fear. It can't be. I am Zandagar, a demon. I do not fear anything! That's not fear—it's anticipation. Surprise. Not fear."
Yet his hands trembled uncontrollably—a betrayal that cut deeper than any mortal wound. In that moment, every boast, every taunt, every arrogant promise of invincibility echoed in his mind like a litany of failures.
Seraphina exhaled slowly. Her voice was a breath of winter—calm, regal, and laced with judgment.
"Lightning Fang: Final Arc."
The serpent behind her coiled tighter—then surged forward with her.
Then she moved her hands, unsheathing her blade in a perfect, blinding arc.
Slash!
But it wasn't just a slash. The serpent dove in the same instant, fangs wide, crackling with killing intent, as if swallowing the very world ahead of it. The moment felt eternal—a blinding convergence of blade and beast.
Zandagar watched, paralyzed by disbelief and the crushing weight of his own downfall. He tried to lift his arm—summoning flames that once burned with divine fury—but his body refused to obey.
"No—wait—" he rasped, a pained note in his voice as reality tore through him.
The serpent passed through him as the blade did, not slicing flesh, but severing the very essence of who he was. He felt not pain—but absence. An emptiness. Like something had been erased.
Then silence.
Zandagar stood, frozen in time, blinking in disbelief. His eyes slid down to his chest where a thin, sinister red line now marked his skin. He blinked again, his mind reeling.
"No... it can't be..." he murmured, a tremor of shattered arrogance in his voice.
And then, with a final, resonant wet sound, his body split into two clean halves that crumpled lifelessly to the ground.
In that final moment, as all the echoes of his former might faded into the silence, even Zandagar's prideful declaration was reduced to a whisper:
"I... am... Zandagar!"
But those final words dissolved into oblivion, leaving only the chilling quiet that marked the end of his reign.
Seraphina was already walking away. The serpent coiled around her once more, now smaller—calmer—like a guardian returning to rest. Lightning still danced along her arms, across her back. Sheathed blade at her hip, her fingers rested gently against it. Her posture was serene, as though she had never moved at all.
But as she passed his falling remains, the serpent flicked its tail—lightning arcing off it—incinerating what was left of Zandagar's soul in a crackle of light.
"Third Form: Serpent's Drift—complete," she said softly.
Black blood splattered across the stone beneath. Zandagar's face remained frozen in shock, even as life drained from his bisected form.
Silence. No cries. No resistance. Just the fall of a titan.
Seraphina halted, and looked at her gloved palm. Sparks still danced across it, fading like dying stars. Her thoughts were cool, strategic—but not without humility.
"You were strong, Zandagar. Strong enough to remind me..." She clenched her palm slowly. "...my sword alone is no longer enough. You made me use my magic."
She looked toward the horizon, expression unreadable.
"There may be more like you. Stronger. I must refine myself... even more."
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(Chapter Ended)