Erandyl had told him that she was dead. Yet before him stood Hydraria Telaryon, first of her name.

From what he had understood, her fate had been sealed the moment she chose to challenge Rysenth to the Rite of the Talons. That sacred duel had drawn Kaela's daughter down a path few ever returned from. In desperation or arrogance, she had invoked one of the Legacies of Linemall's Lords: the Crest.

With it, she had gained a strength no mortal was meant to wield, but such gifts were never free.

Lukas knew the truth of it better than anyone.

The Crest had once been his salvation, the very key that allowed him to carve a path through the cursed halls of Kairos Castle. Yet it had nearly been his undoing as well. He remembered the endless spirals of worlds within the Crest, the memories of lives that were not his own and the seduction of what eternity might mean if one allowed to be lost in its endless expanse.

Lukas had always wondered what might have happened if not for Styx, if not for Thalarion and his guidance. Now, standing in the dim cavern light, Lukas saw the nightmare which he could have become.

Hydraria Telaryon was gone, her spirit drowned beneath the endless hunger of the Legacy. What remained was no longer a girl of noble blood but the Hydra—an animal devoid of reason, its every movement ruled by hunger and its every breath a growl of survival.

Perhaps Erandyl had not been wrong.

Her great granddaughter was dead, and in her place stood only this creature; the creature they called the Hydra.

Its eyes gleamed with animal intent, focus narrowing on the three Dragon Lords of Linemall as though they were nothing more than prey wandering into its den.

Erandyl, frozen in disbelief, could only stare, her ancient eyes wide at the horror of seeing what had become of her own great-granddaughter.

But the Hydra did not hesitate.

Bloodlines and bonds meant nothing to it. To the beast, Erandyl was simply another piece of meat to be torn apart.

Lukas and Rysenth moved before thought could catch up with them. Their instincts had already snapped into place, weapons and will braced against the oncoming onslaught. The cavern shuddered with the impact as the Hydra lunged, its jaws snapping with bone-cracking force.

Rysenth's shield intercepted the Hydra, sparks cascading as steel met unnatural strength. Lukas pressed forward alongside him, every muscle straining against the creature's raw ferocity. Its massive frame twisted with unnatural speed, claws raking across the ground as it sought to crush them beneath its hunger. Lukas and Rysenth braced themselves once more, their bodies straining, their wills colliding with the feral storm before them.

There was no mistaking it: this was no duel, no measured contest with rules or tradition.

This was survival.

The air thickened its venomous haze, green fumes billowing once more from the Hydra's many maws than ever before. Lukas felt the burn of it instantly, a corrosive presence that clawed its way into his lungs and threatened to drag him under. But as the fumes swirled around him, the fabric of the Robes of the Lord stirred with power, ancient threads awakening with their own quiet radiance. The Legacy flared to life, shrouding him in unseen protection, nullifying the poisonous Divinity of the Earth that clung to the gas. Across from him, Rysenth was likewise shielded, his form resisting the suffocating magic that would have felled lesser beings.

And yet, even with the protection the Robes granted them, the fog gnawed at their senses. Their vision blurred, the sharp lines of motion blending into a smothering haze, while the stench burned their throats, a foul miasma that stripped focus and clarity from every breath.Lukas gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remain steady, his body moving almost on instinct as the Hydra attacked them with growing intensity.

The cavern quaked with each lunge, the beast's hunger unrelenting.

Yet Erandyl had allowed shock to linger and remained frozen as Lukas and Rysenth held back the girl who she had once loved so dearly.

Lukas' Crown ignited, a blazing halo of white light bursting to life around him. Its light cut through the gloom, painting the stone walls with radiance. He felt the roar well up from deep within, a voice not just of his own but of the legacy that burned in his veins.

"Erandyl!" Lukas bellowed, his voice echoing through the cavern, carrying both fury and command. "Get it together! Keep moving!"

Those words brought the Dragon Lord of the Earth back to reality. Erandyl broke into a run, her path carved open as the ground itself yielded to her will, parting in smooth arcs to let her escape deeper into the stone. For this plan to work, her role was to move forward and theirs was to hold the line. And hold they did, though only barely. Side by side, Lukas and Rysenth fought in a contest of raw strength against the abomination.

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At first glance, they seemed to have the upper hand; their power and physical might outstripped the Hydra's bulk.

But the truth revealed itself quickly.

For every head they turned aside, another two struck from a different angle, serpent-like necks lashing out with blistering speed. The Hydra was a storm given flesh, a whirlwind of snapping jaws and thrashing coils.

Rysenth's shield rang out like a war drum, blow after blow hammering against its battered surface. Sparks lit the fog as steel scraped fangs, as claws skidded across its polished face. The Dragon Lord of Flames fought with the weight of an unyielding mountain, but his strength was no match for the speed of so many heads weaving and darting with predatory cunning.

Lukas, by contrast, met speed with speed. His body shifted fluidly, the Draconic Flow coursing through him, carrying him seamlessly between human and draconic form. His claws cut through the air in arcs of silver, his movements tracing lines almost too quick for the eye to follow. The Hydra's many heads came for him at once, and still he moved—blocking, twisting, retaliating—keeping pace with a foe that should have been impossible to match.

But Rysenth was not so fortunate.

Lukas caught the glint of strain in his companion's eyes, the slight falter in his stance as the weight of the Hydra bore down on him. And in that heartbeat, he knew that Rysenth's shield would not be enough to fend off the Hydra. One of the heads slid through an opening, faster than the rest, its jaw yawning wide as it lunged straight for the exposed curve of Rysenth's neck. The shield could not turn in time, the Dragon Lord's great size betraying him, anchoring him too firmly in place.

Lukas saw it all unfold, the inevitability of it, Rysenth's eyes widening in a flash of grim recognition. And then Lukas was moving before thought could reach him. His body crossed the space in an instant, his arm thrust forward as if pulled by fate itself.

Just as the Hydra's fangs grazed Lukas's skin, a familiar surge of power erupted around him.

The Blessing of Styx—the Mantle of the Lords—flared to life, shimmering with the same divine defiance that had once secured his victory against Rysenth in the Rite of Talons.

The air around him rippled as if reality itself recoiled and the Hydra's attack was turned back upon itself.

The beast's fangs snapped closed with a sickening crunch, but not on Lukas's flesh. Instead, the force of its own strike rebounded. One of its serpentine necks split violently down its length, flesh tearing in a jagged line where Lukas's arm should have been pierced.

The head let out a shriek that rattled the cavern walls and in that moment, Lukas did not hesitate.

His claws lashed out in a blur of movement. He seized the wounded head before it could recoil, his grip sinking into scaled flesh. With a roar that carried every ounce of his will, he wrenched it free. Muscles tore, bone cracked, and in one savage motion, Lukas ripped the head clean from its body.

Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, splattering the cavern floor as the severed maw landed with a dull thud at his feet.

For the first time, the Hydra faltered. Its other heads froze mid-strike, their focus splintering as an otherworldly sound erupted from deep within the beast. It was not a cry of rage nor a battle roar, but a chorus of anguish. All eight of the Hydra's remaining heads tilted back in unison, and from their throats poured a wail so harrowing that it felt as though the earth itself trembled. The sound reverberated through stone and marrow alike, a deafening hymn of pain and fury that drowned out all else.

The Hydra stumbled, its massive frame recoiling as if the weight of its own torment threatened to topple it.

Lukas grabbed Rysenth, who had been knocked to his knees during the exchange, and pulled him back to his feet.

For a moment, it seemed like the Hydra would not recover from the pain.

But then Lukas felt it.

A pulse of magical energy radiated outward, prickling against his skin, carrying with it a dread unlike anything he had sensed before. The ground beneath them convulsed, rocks shuddering and sand swirling upward as if caught in a storm. The cavern filled with a strange, sickening magic—untamed, ancient, and impossibly vast.

Rysenth's shield lowered slightly as both Dragon Lords watched in grim silence.

Dirt and stone lifted into the air, particles twisting and weaving together, reshaping under unseen hands. Lukas' breath caught as the granules of sand began to change, their earthen hue bleeding into a grotesque red. The soil itself was transmuting, grain by grain, until it resembled flesh—raw, pulsing, and alive.

The Hydra's form swelled as the grotesque transformation completed, its wounds sealing, its body reshaping.

Lukas' heart pounded, not from fear of the creature alone but from the weight of realization pressing down on him. He was witnessing something no mortal had ever seen before. This was the birth of something greater—something that would endure long beyond this cavern, beyond this Kingdom and even beyond this world.

In the centuries to come, bards and historians alike would mark this moment as the first recorded appearance of a Named Monster.

And the name of that monster was the Hydra.

A nightmare destined to stalk the most destitute regions of Tartarus until it was time to rise again in the realms above as a terror that would test the courage of countless heroes. The poison gas, the serpentine speed and its nine heads were notable traits of this beast. But it was the Hydra's true ability that seared itself into history and would one day become an unshakable truth that would haunt every warrior who dared stand against it.

The severed neck writhed like a serpent's stump, and before their horrified eyes, two new heads forced their way into existence where one had been torn free. Scales split, bone cracked, sinew stretched—and then there were ten heads where once there had been nine.

In the end, it did not matter how hard one fought. Defeat was inevitable.

Because cut off one head...and two would take its place.

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