Something fell to my right. It was enormous—bigger than a good-sized house in Rocaceleste... but there was no one left to inhabit it, was there? All because of you! Something pulled at my wrist; I thought it was broken. It did not matter. The armor had measures to prevent that from stopping me from fighting. I felt—very distantly—the sting of metal embedding, piercing my skin and flesh, fixing the hand holding the shield. It did not hurt, but I did not stop to check. I leaped onto that giant hand and returned the favor. My hammer was set with black scales. Since I could not carve anything into that hard material, I traced the runes with my blood to give them cohesion. The impact was descending—all my strength, all the hatred I gathered in my body pulled that weight toward the joint of two scales. The crack was spectacular.
I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling. What happened? But I heard the whir of hundreds of arrows. I raised my shield and saw I was lying down. Breathing hurt. I thought that when I struck it, it reminded me it had two hands. That was the noise. The claw was coming to finish its work. As best I could, I raised arms and legs, receiving the impact on my shield. I could feel the earth opening beneath me. The armor alerted me with tugs that my ribs were set again. So I pushed it—that mass that was only its hand—I pushed it away and stood up quickly. This battle had barely begun! If I had to fall each time I struck it, so be it!
I ran while dodging the claw's active fingers. I could not hit this one at the wrist like the other, which was already on the floor and only moved its arm to try to sweep me away. But it was not enough—I had already used my speed to break a couple of its fingers while dodging that hesitant death. At least the cave's size meant it could not use its tail; otherwise, I might suffer much more than the few times I was too slow and could not dodge.
A feint to the right, and my shield left only the suggestion of my direction. But I rolled and delivered my maul to the forearm of the only healthy hand it still had. I heard my fingers give way, but I had no time to check their condition—only to grip the hammer with all the strength I still had. At that moment, I saw the dragon open its mouth and attack.
The flames were black, hot, but with a sensation of terror. I dodged that first attack, but I was too far from its other limbs—within reach of those infernal flames. Yet those same flames, though they did not hurt me, did harm the bodies of those who had been alive—those with whom I had shared poverty mushrooms, who had welcomed me and accepted that it was possible to keep going even when no one asked them to... Damn you! I planted myself before it and challenged it to release more flames. I did not care—it must die!
Its blast was greater. I supposed it was dead, but that would not save it from my vengeance—not that, nor its rotting eyes, nor its pale black skin. What came from its mouth was not shaped like flames—it was something black, intensely black, assaulting with an aroma of death. It was not very fast, but it blocked everywhere I might want to go. But I did not need them. I gathered courage and leaped onto one of its arms. I did not come for something as simple as its shoulder—I was going for the head.
The black thing burned. I felt it on my skin, on my beard, which shrank at such temperature. But I was not retreating. I had reached the shoulder and saw it turn its neck so that, face to face, it might try to devour me, incinerate me, bite me—something. I would not give it time. I was a dart in size, but I would pierce that skull. Suddenly, what I could see of my enemy was covered in black lines—full of elven runes—while a voice reached me:
"Old dwarf, kill the body if that makes you happy. But go after your true enemy. The one you attack is a corpse—a miserable being that survived everything and protected its last child. The one controlling it is the one who killed everyone you love. Break those lines with your fury. That way, you will hurt the one already hiding, doing harm."
The Overlord? The Dark Lord truly asked me not to kill it? So great was my surprise that I obeyed. The leap that would shatter the skull ended up hitting the jaw—my shield forward, with all my strength, through its attack, I closed its mouth. I could even see its teeth fly from the impact. The fall was long—I did not know how long I fell after that blow. Everything hurt—having received that black miasma that burned my skin. My armor held, but barely. There were several areas where the metal was melted, on my skin. It did not matter—I felt no pain, only fatigue. Yet if what the Dark Lord said was true, my battle was far from over. At least I saw with satisfaction that the entire front of this beast no longer had black lines—only those on its back and hind legs remained. Going there would expose me to its tail—I did not know if I could.
The impact knocked the wind out of me. I had to move! I used my maul as a staff to get up. My legs hurt. I no longer felt fury. The armor fixed my bones, and for the first time, I felt them piercing flesh to fix my limbs. I spat—that salty taste told me it was blood. I heard someone laughing—very old, cracked—mocking me. I did not know who it was; I could not see him—only the lines the Overlord had traced. Those shone while forcing the creature to rise on its stumps. Then I saw it—hidden against its chest was an egg, my size. Its last child, he had said. This bastard wanted to use the mother to eliminate her child... Did he think I would allow that? Fury returned like a torrent. I felt my blood evaporate. It did not matter! I ran as fast as my legs allowed. It was a race against time—first to save that egg, then to take vengeance. For me, for my family, for the dragon. If I managed to make the one who laughed suffer, I would gladly give any part of me! Whatever remained would still seek vengeance.