Demonic Dragon: Harem System-Chapter 533: Coincidences

The runes surrounding Elyssar’s body shattered like broken glass under invisible pressure. Each one burst with a sharp, dry sound, until the last one cracked like a bell breaking in half. Then came the sound: a deep creak, like ancient bones realigning themselves, like old wood twisting in a gale.

Her body grew. Not grotesquely, but with brutal elegance. Her single horn glowed pure gold, so intense that the sky above brightened for an instant—and then darkened with the weight of the power released. Her golden skin took on a warmer, more vivid tone, as if every cell were made of condensed sunlight. The clothes, or living armor, that enveloped her adapted fluidly, growing with her, taking on more rigid and imposing forms, reminiscent of the battle attire worn by the ancient draconic lords of lost ages.

With a single gesture—a subtle twist of her wrist—a sword appeared in her hand. She did not forge the blade; she summoned something that had always been lurking. The weapon was born from the air like compressed thunder. It was made of dense, pure light, pulsing like a heart about to explode. Elyssar pointed it without saying a word.

The discharge came.

An explosion of impossible force swept across the clearing. An impact so great it bent the air and cracked the very reality around it. Strax, Scarlet, Tiamat, and Ouroboros were thrown like living projectiles, struck by a wall of energy that seemed to contain the will of a god.

Strax, in the center, felt his limbs fail. For a terrifying moment, he couldn’t move anything. The force left his body as if it had been drained by something he didn’t even understand. But before the blade cut him—before that absolute power tore him apart like wind through smoke—two swords appeared.

Zani, the blade black as the absence of everything, burst forth like a living shadow, spinning with deadly precision.

And beside it, the other black sword, of ancient design, adorned with long-forgotten symbols, glowed with a red outline. His mother’s blade.

The two cut through the air, forming a perfect cross that blocked Elyssar’s attack. The sound of the impact was silent — a void that consumed the noise of the world for an entire second. Then a shockwave expanded outward, breaking rocks, bending trees, extinguishing flames.

Elyssar landed lightly, but her eyes were wide. Her hardened face trembled for a moment as her eyes fixed on the completely black sword that slowly spun beside Strax, still shrouded in an aura of absolute darkness.

She froze.

Of all the feelings she could show, she chose astonishment.

"That sword..." she whispered, her golden eyes flickering. "That damned sword... Why... why do you have my Master’s sword?"

As she said the last word, her aura exploded.

The ground beneath her sank. The atmosphere screamed. The surrounding vegetation was crushed by the sheer density of her energy. Ancestral dragons would tremble before such a manifestation.

But Strax... did not retreat.

His aura also grew. First, silent. Then, wild. The grass around him was obliterated. The air fragmented into black and gold sparks. Strax’s eyes, now ablaze, stared unblinkingly into Elyssar’s.

"She’s my mother’s," he said, his voice steady, vibrant, nervous.

And for a moment, only the echoes of those words reverberated in the clearing.

Elyssar staggered back a step. "Your... mother?"

Tiamat and Ouroboros were already standing. Scarlet floated just above, her eyes still ablaze. But none of them intervened. Something sacred was happening there.

Elyssar turned slowly toward the sword, as if facing a ghost. His lips trembled. His body, once proud and indestructible, seemed... hesitant.

"This sword... is..." His voice came out weak, but laden with memories. "This thing is not just any sword. It was forged only for my master’s blood to wield."

Strax took a step forward. The earth shook beneath his feet. "Well, I already told you, Scathach is my mother."

Elyssar stared at him with something between reverence and horror. "My master is dead. Where did you find this sword?"

"I’m sure she’s alive, and she’s on this shitty continent, so get out of my way before I get angry and kill you."

Elyssar gritted her teeth, her jaw trembling with contained fury. Strax’s statement echoed like thunder inside her, more devastating than any physical attack. She forced herself to maintain her posture, but her fingers around the sword throbbed with instability. The presence of that weapon... the Master’s sword... was an affront to her reality.

"You say she’s alive..." Elyssar murmured, her voice breaking, her golden eyes flashing like blades ready to strike. "If Scathach were alive... if she were really on this continent..." Her aura flickered like a storm about to break. "She would have come to me! She would have called me. She would have—"

Strax interrupted, venom in his voice: "She was presumed dead, buried, and disappeared. Do you think she’s on her own?"

The words hit Elyssar like knives.

She hesitated, staggering a step back, but then lifted her chin proudly, seeking refuge in denial. "You know nothing, boy. Scathach would never leave her sword to someone so... unstable. So arrogant. If she truly lives, she is far from Caelum, of that I am certain. I have searched every corner of this cursed land for centuries. And nothing. No trace of her. No echo. No fragment."

Strax looked at her and saw a spark. "You are foolish."

Before Elyssar could react, Scarlet appeared in front of her like a flash of fury, the sound of the sudden movement so abrupt that the air imploded between them.

It cracked.

A firm slap exploded across Elyssar’s face, loud and dry. There was no hesitation. There was no preamble. Just the direct impact of Scarlet’s palm against the golden warrior’s cheek, causing her face to turn sharply to the side. The impact was so powerful that cracks opened in the ground beneath both their feet.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Scarlet stood firm before her, eyes inflamed like two living flames, hair fluttering with the intensity of the aura that now emanated like embers blown by a hurricane.

"Enough childish drama," said Scarlet, her voice low but laden with the authority of ages. "You dare question the blood of the woman who taught you to breathe in combat? You rise up against her son with a sword you are not even worthy to touch with your eyes?"

Elyssar brought her hand to her red cheek, surprised more by the gesture than by the pain. Her gaze wavered, without response.

"You think you know what loyalty is? You know nothing." Scarlet took a step closer, almost touching foreheads, like an angry mother facing her rebellious daughter. "I trained Scathach. I shaped her mind, her spirit, her blades. So, by extension, I am your Master too."

She took a step back, just enough to let her words land like punches to Elyssar’s soul.

"And how disgusted she would be to see what you’ve become. A cowardly shadow, hiding behind political orders and childish fury. Using her name as a shield for your arrogance and fear."

Elyssar blinked several times. Each word was a lash to his conscience. His aura began to waver—not weaken, but lose cohesion. As if his entire identity were being challenged.

"You..." Elyssar whispered, his voice trembling. "You trained... my Master...?"

Scarlet nodded. "She must have called me a Psychopathic Vampire."

Elyssar’s eyes widened in a mixture of disbelief and fear. The truth pierced her mind like a spear of light, tearing through the layers of pride accumulated over eons. She staggered slightly, and the world around her seemed to fade for an instant.

In her mind, the clearing disappeared—replaced by an ancient memory, engraved with iron and blood in her soul.

—

They were in a dry gorge, where the winds cut like blades and the echoes of their own breathing sounded like distant screams. Elyssar, still young, without the battle scars she bore today, sweated under the weight of exhaustion. She tried to execute a movement with her spear—a sequence of three turns, a side step, and a forward thrust with her leg firmly planted.

She failed. Her foot slipped. The spin lost momentum.

And before she could regain her balance, a sharp sound echoed.

Toc!

A blow. Fast. Fierce. Right on top of her head. So precise that it could have been part of the training itself.

"Again?" Elyssar complained, massaging her head with a hurt look.

Scathach stood before her, dressed in dark leather with her hair tied back in a severe knot. Her eyes, purple like storms before nightfall, watched her with an almost maternal severity.

"You lost your balance. If you were in a real battle, you’d be dead. Again." Her voice was like a war command—no room for consolation.

"You love beating me, don’t you?" Elyssar muttered, biting back her anger as she always did.

Scathach raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. "Good thing it’s me training you."

Elyssar snorted. "And why is that?"

"Because if it were her..." — and here Scathach made a slight gesture with her chin, as if pointing to an absent but very real figure — "that psychopathic vampire, you’d now be hanging upside down, with chains made of basilisk venom, reciting mantras while receiving rhythmic slaps for every posture mistake."

Elyssar’s eyes widened, almost laughing nervously.

"And she would do it singing," added Scathach. "Worse: singing out of tune."