Talent Awakening: Draconic Overlord Of The Apocalypse

Chapter 486: • Descent Into The Depths

The Union detainment facility’s deeper levels were a fortress of despair, buried thousands of feet beneath Megacity I’s gleaming surface.

Thick durasteel walls, etched with pulsating mana wards, lined the spiraling corridor, their crimson glow casting shadows.

The air was frigid, heavy with the stench of ozone and decay, the hum of suppression fields vibrating through the floor.

Claus was escorted by four Union officers, their black exosuits glinting, rifles charged with mana pulses.

His gray prison jumpsuit was tattered, a sign he got roughed up really bad before capture, advanced mana-dampening cuffs cutting into his wrists, the suppression collar around his neck snarling, its blue and gold crystal flaring against the damping field.

His ashen-white hair hung over his glowing blue eyes, his mutated left hand twitching—straining against the restraints.

The officers’ visors hid their faces, but their tense grips practically gave away their fear.

Claus’s mind churned as they descended, his blue eyes scanning the wards, calculating.

The officers finally stopped at a massive durasteel door, its runes glowing a malevolent red.

One swiped an access card, the door grinding open to reveal a pitch-black cell, its walls pulsing with an oppressive damping field that made Claus’s collar vibrate violently.

“Move,” an officer barked, shoving Claus toward the cell.

Claus stood at the threshold of that… void… yeah, it was definitely far from being a regular max detainment cell room. A place so soaked in magical suppression that even the air felt still.

He didn’t step in.

Not yet.

The officer behind him gave an impatient grunt, rifle stock nudging into his back. “I said MOVE!”

That was when Claus tilted his head. Just slightly. Not enough to alarm them—at first—but enough to show that glint in his eye.

He gave them an intense glare, one that silently promised them one thing…

Death.

A low hiss escaped from his lips—whether it was pain or a chuckle, no one could quite tell.

The restraints on his wrists began to tremble, vibrating violently against his strength as he attempted to break free. The mana-suppressing collar sparked, desperate to keep his power buried.

Too late.

There was a sound—CRACK—then shatter. Like porcelain breaking to pieces after hitting the floor.

One cuff snapped apart, then the other.

Blue mana burst outward like a nova, racing along the corridor walls and flaring against the glyphs.

The four officers barely had time to react.

“DOWN!” one screamed.

But Claus didn’t wait.

He moved.

Oh, and his movements were beautiful—terrible, but beautiful. His mutated left hand burst into full bloom, transforming into that monstrous claw of jagged obsidian bone and violet sinew, slicing through air like a guillotine.

ZFFT

A bolt of mana fire missed his head by a whisper.

He ducked low, rolled forward, and came up beneath the first officer. One swing—just one—and that exosuit crumpled inwards, ribcage folding like wet paper, his claws emerging from the other side, dripping blood.

The officer coughed up blood and went limp instantly.

The others opened fire, streams of crackling blue energy lighting the dim hallway in a frenzy.

Claus darted between the pulses, almost gliding, and then he pivoted, his clawed hand slicing another officer clean in half, torso separating from legs in a fountain of blood splattering all over the floor, walls, and Claus.

Crunch. Gurgle. Thud.

The second officer went down with a broken visor and a lifeless expression on his face.

Number three tried to run.

A mistake.

Claus’ monstrous hand pored into the wall and ripped out a small chunk of it, and mind you, this was the same material used to build the walls that surrounded the megacity.

He hurled a slab of dented durasteel with a flick of his mutated hand. It pinned the poor soul to the corridor like a butterfly in glass.

Claus was already behind him, slamming the man’s helmeted skull against the ward-etched wall. The visor shattered, skull crushed, blood spattering like oil on glass.

Only one left.

She hesitated—just for a second—but Claus saw it. That pause. That flicker of doubt.

He was on her before her heart beat again.

When the silence finally settled, only Claus remained—panting, blood-splattered, standing in a corridor full of ruin.

He looked down at his tattered jumpsuit with mild distaste. “Can’t walk into hell looking like this,” he muttered.

With a few quick movements, he stripped the remains of the closest officer—one of the better-dressed ones, naturally—and donned the sleek black Union uniform. It fit… well enough. The helmet? He left it behind. He wasn’t hiding anymore.

From the corpses, he took three access cards—because of course one might fail. That was just his luck. Or lack of it.

Slipping the final card into his new utility belt, he glanced down the spiraling corridor, toward the forbidden depths of the facility.

The deeper levels.

Where monsters were forgotten.

And where one, in particular, was waiting for him.

“Aiku,” he said calmly as he gazed into the depths. “Hope you’re still in the mood to gamble.”

And so, dressed in the Union officer suit, Claus began his descent downwards.

Because this wasn’t a prison break.

It was a reckoning.

And it had only just begun.

… …

The crescent moon in the night sky cast long, silver beams through the arched skylights of the training coliseum—an arena of stone and steel nestled within the heart of the dragon city.

The air shimmered with heat and the faint scent of sulfur, carried on the mountain wind that whispered through the open archways.

At the center of the sparring ring, Miyu’s blade clashed against Draven’s greatsword, the impact sending a tremor down her arms. She gritted her teeth, adjusting her footing.

Why was she here? Well, after recent happenings she had expressed the strong desire to not be a burden to her brother, and wanted to be able to fight alongside him.

“You’re too close with your lead foot, young miss,” Draven said. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, giving her a view of his black hair and deep purple slit dragon eyes. His voice was sharp like a blade’s edge.

“That’s how you get cut in half.”

He twisted slightly and swept her sword aside with ease, stepping into her guard.

Miyu staggered back, but not before he tapped the edge of his greatsword gently against her shoulder—just enough to mark the kill.

“Again.”

She huffed and reset her stance. Sweat clung to her brow, her silver hair tied up messily, her armor lightweight but battle-worn.

“Lower your center. You fight like you’re dancing, not surviving.”

“I am surviving,” she shot back, exasperated.

Draven’s expression didn’t change, but there was the faintest quirk at the corner of his lips. He stepped behind her, reached out, and tapped her knee with his boot. “Bend. You’re a swordfighter, not a tower. Don’t stand so straight unless you want gravity to finish the job.”

He adjusted her arms, guiding her elbow just a few inches higher. “Keep the blade aligned with your eyes. And stop gripping it like you’re trying to strangle it.”

She rolled her eyes but followed his instructions. “Come on, Draven. You’re such a perfectionist.”

“I’m alive because of it. And so will you be—if you listen.”

She inhaled, steadying herself, blade raised again as Draven positioned himself opposite her, his massive sword resting lazily across his shoulder. They were just about to resume—

When heavy footsteps echoed against the stone floor.

Draven’s head turned slightly, eyes narrowing.

Miyu turned too—and there he was.

Alister.

Draped in his signature long coat, the faint glint of his scales catching the moonlight. His expression was unreadable, calm as always, but his presence alone shifted the air—like a pressure descending upon the space.

Draven lowered his sword slowly. “Looks like recess is over, young miss,” he muttered dryly.

Alister’s eyes locked onto Miyu’s. “I need a word with you.”

Just like that, the tension changed.

Miyu glanced at Draven, who gave her the subtlest of nods, stepping back and resting his greatsword against the wall.

She sheathed her blade and took a deep breath, walking toward Alister.

“…Is it serious?” she asked quietly.

His answer was simple. And sharp.

“Yes.”

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