The Drake Blood Tales

The twins now draw their mother's swords, pointing them toward the approaching group, signaling them to stop.

One of the representatives steps forward and asks, "Are you two the Drake Blood?"

Fordragon replies with a smirk, "Well, we certainly aren't actual Drakes. But our blood might say otherwise."

Fallion feels a wave of secondhand embarrassment wash over him. "You sound like you're implying our mom had an affair with a Drake."

Fordragon glances away, trying to hide his awkwardness. "Well, I mean... how else did Dad get his surname?"

Fallion covers his face with his hand in disbelief. "Right, because turning into a Drake on random nights makes perfect sense."

The representative, ignoring their exchange, says, "Well, to my surprise, the famed sons of the Drake Blood are twins."

Without further warning, the representative throws back his cloak, revealing a dagger, which he points directly at the twins.

Fordragon, assessing the situation, sheaths his swords. "Great, here we go," he mutters.

Fallion, meanwhile, simply stares at the group with an icy calm.

As the group begins charging toward them, Fallion releases a massive surge of energy, immediately knocking most of them to the ground. When a few try to rise again, Fallion's intense gaze unleashes another surge of power, rendering them completely unconscious.

Fordragon, standing among the fallen attackers, jokes, "Well, that wasn't so bad. For a second, I thought they were some elite underground assassins."

Fallion turns to him with a deadpan expression. "You provoked the cultists, didn't you?"

Fordragon, without hesitation, responds, "I provoked the cultists."

Fallion sighs in frustration. "I'll inform the Whiteford Kingdom, then."

Fordragon quickly stops him. "Wait, brother!"

"Why?" Fallion asks, his tone skeptical.

Fordragon explains, "It's no use. Most of the kingdom's soldiers are off fighting wars, and the paladin orders across the continent are already stretched thin dealing with countless threats."

Fallion crosses his arms. "Let me guess—you need my help?"

Fordragon nods. "They need our help. Look, I know you hate the idea of fighting for others, but—"

Fallion interrupts, "I'm in."

Fordragon looks at him, stunned. "Wait, really?"

Fallion takes a deep breath, then shouts, "Well, it's not like you haven't already dragged us into this! Oh, no—you definitely did. How did they even find this place? A kingdom would need at least a century to locate the mansion!"

Fordragon blushes and stammers, "Well... I may or may not have accidentally spilled some details about my origin."

Fallion narrows his eyes. "What... did you... do?"

Fordragon shrugs sheepishly. "Oh, nothing much. I just mentioned that I'm a Drake Blood, explained why I can use both dark and light magic effortlessly, and then casually added that I'm from some remote area of Whiteford in the Ivovnia continent. And..."

Fallion glares. "And?"

Fordragon's face reddens. "And then I got drunk and don't remember what happened next."

Fallion, seething with anger, headbutts his brother. "Out of all the things you could drunkenly say, that's what you chose?!"

Fordragon tries to shrug off the scolding. "Well, I was drunk, hehehe. Don't worry! I've already assembled a team. We can take care of the cultists—at least the ones posing a danger in this region."

Fallion considers this for a moment before responding, "Agreed, but that's the extent of my involvement. Go back to the mansion and inform the servants. I want iron golems and stone golems ready for a fight."

Fordragon nods and heads back to the mansion. Later, he returns with several golems following him, their heavy footsteps shaking the ground.

As Fallion watches the preparations, he uses the same flying technique as his brother to scout from the sky, searching for the cultists' hideout. He soon discovers it is in the middle of a small village. The sight troubles him deeply. He knows a frontal assault could endanger many civilians, causing panic among the guards and chaos in the village. On the other hand, informing the guards could give the cultists a head start, allowing them to escape or retaliate, harming even more innocent lives.

After weighing the risks, Fallion decides on a plan. He tells Fordragon they should split up: Fordragon will alert the guards while Fallion secretly evacuates civilians to safety. Though he understands the danger of his role, Fallion knows it's necessary, even if cultists might ambush him during the process.

Fordragon hesitates, aware of the risks his brother is taking. Suddenly, he hears a faint whisper: "Fordragon... help me. Help them." The plea sends a chill through him. Using their telepathic link, he informs Fallion of the eerie whisper.

But Fallion, calm and resolute, responds, "Shake off any hesitation. Stay focused. We have a job to do."

Following his brother's orders, Fordragon meets with the guards and informs them of the impending assault. Though the guards dislike the idea of a sudden conflict within the village, they recognize they cannot allow the cultists to roam free. Reluctantly, they agree to cooperate.

As Fallion led the golems into battle against the cultists, a few of them stepped forward to confront him directly. One cultist greeted him with a sinister grin, but before a second passed, Fallion drew his axe and cut the man to pieces with brutal precision.

A strange sensation crept through Fallion's mind, warning him that something was amiss. Moments later, the fallen cultists began to rise, their bodies unnaturally reanimated. Dark tentacles emerged from their weapons, twisting and writhing as if imbued with some unholy power. Their strength increased tenfold, allowing them to match the raw might of the golems with terrifying ease.

Fordragon arrived just in time to assist his brother. The twins fought side by side, their combined strength easily cutting down cultists again and again. Yet no matter how many times they were struck down, the cultists kept rising, their dark energy seemingly endless.

Realizing the futility of physical attacks, Fallion and Fordragon exchanged a glance, silently agreeing on their next course of action. Ensuring there were no civilians nearby, they began channeling their dark magic, unleashing their signature spells.

Fallion summoned a massive vortex of black flames that roared across the battlefield, consuming everything in its path. Meanwhile, Fordragon conjured thousands of spectral blades that swirled in the air, each targeting a cultist with deadly precision. The coordinated assault overwhelmed the cultists, cutting them down and incinerating their bodies completely, leaving no chance for resurrection.

The massive release of mana during the battle didn't go unnoticed, alerting the Mage Guild outpost not far from the village.

As the clash neared its end, a strange little boy who had been silently observing the fight finally decided to intervene. "Well, well, well... I guess the rumors about the Drake Blood weren't exaggerated," the boy called out, his voice carrying a mocking tone.

Fallion turned toward him, unimpressed. "What's the matter? No parents to keep you in check?"

The boy burst into laughter, his gaze fixed on the twins. "I suppose this disguise isn't needed anymore. Standing on the sidelines was never my style, anyway," he said, his voice shifting into something unnervingly distorted, laced with daemonic undertones.

Before their eyes, the boy's small frame began to swell grotesquely. His face contorted, his limbs twisted, and his body expanded to a monstrous height of 3.5 meters. His skin tore in places, revealing darkened sinews beneath. The creature reached into its own stomach, ripping it open with clawed hands, and pulled out its spine, which morphed into a jagged, grotesque blade.

Fallion watched the transformation with a flat expression and asked his brother, "Daemon?"

Fordragon, equally unimpressed, replied, "Nah, just some cosplayer. A wannabe, if you ask me."

The creature let out a distorted roar, its voice reverberating with unnatural fury. "Our goddess Mohara has blessed me! You foul daemons will be eradicated from this holy land, which she shall soon claim as her own!"

Fordragon's expression shifted to mild annoyance. "What?! This isn't even the same cult I ticked off last time."

Fallion, raising an eyebrow, asked, "What do you mean?"

Fordragon shrugged. "I've never even heard of this 'Mohara.' The cult I messed with worshiped Zotho."

Ignoring the escalating tension, Fordragon stepped toward the monstrous figure, raising a hand as though politely addressing a shopkeeper. "Excuse me, pal. Do you happen to know which cult worships Zotho? Asking for a friend."

The creature let out an enraged howl. "Don't you dare speak of those false gods! Mohara is the one true goddess! Her blessing will enlighten us, raising mankind to a higher plane, far from the filth of you daemons!"

Fallion remained stoic, responding with his trademark deadpan tone. "Honestly, I'm getting real tired of all this anti-daemon racism."

Fordragon snorted, adding with a smirk, "Well, can you blame them? Most daemons I know are rich, while these cultists live in huts that a light breeze could knock over."

Fallion, rolling his eyes, remarked, "If I were an ageless, immortal race and still broke, I'd probably exorcise myself out of sheer embarrassment."

Before long, the monster charged at Fordragon, sending him flying into the distance. Fallion instinctively moved to react, but suddenly, countless bones erupted from the ground, wrapping around his arms and pinning him in place.

The monster began chanting in an unholy tongue as a massive bone wall rose, encircling the entire area and trapping Fallion inside.

Within the walls, a blood-red flame ignited, burning intensely. Corpses and golems alike were consumed by the fire, their remains adding fuel to the infernal blaze. The monster cackled in delight. "Your blood will be the greatest sacrifice to appease our goddess!"

To its shock, Fallion simply stood there, staring at it with an unbothered expression.

Without a hint of urgency, Fallion effortlessly shattered the skeletal restraints holding him. He placed a hand over his face and sighed. "I can't believe this..." he muttered to himself. "Of all the things I expected, this wasn't one of them."

He turned his unimpressed gaze to the monster and shouted, "What kind of sick, braindead animal tries to burn a daemon? A race literally made of fire!"

The monster, consumed by rage and refusing to listen, summoned a towering monstrosity of grotesque flesh and bone. The summoned creature charged at Fallion with terrifying speed.

Fallion, now visibly annoyed, began chanting:

"Father of Heaven, Mother of Purity, unsung darkness of the unjust, truest one, forgiven, purify!"

A radiant beam of light descended from the heavens—a spell known as the Ray of Erudition. It struck the ground within the walls of bone, creating an enormous crater over 50 meters deep and obliterating the monster and its summoned abomination in an instant.

Amid the smoldering ruins, Fallion emerged, his daemonic wings carrying him skyward. He flew toward a nearby campfire, where Fordragon was seated, casually grilling meat.

Fordragon smirked as his brother landed. "I'll bet you 100 gold you didn't expect these cultists to be that stupid, did you?"

Fallion sighed and sat beside him. "That's a new level of stupidity. Sure, I know mortals can be ignorant, but this? This was just... too much."

As the brothers enjoyed their quiet evening, watching the villagers they had evacuated safely returning to their homes, they were approached by a mysterious mage.

The mage's eyes widened in shock as he exclaimed, "A daemon capable of using holy magic?!"

Fallion, not in the mood for dramatics, gestured to a spot near the fire. "Come, sit here. I'll explain everything."

As the night wore on, the three exchanged stories under the flickering light of the campfire.

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