Lich for Hire

Ordinary dragons didn't bite their enemies head-on.

Those who did, sooner or later, would bite into something that exploded.

There was a certain core memory inherited by dragonkind: always roast humans before eating them. Humans were cunning enough to lace bait for dragons with explosives. Then, they would detonate the bait once the dragons swallowed. A dragon's insides were nowhere near as tough as its scales.

But druids didn't inherit the dragons' ancestral memories. The dragons they knew existed only in dreams and their imagination.

So when this young druid bit down on Ambrose, Ambrose gave him a lesson he would never forget.

With a thunderous crack, Ambrose's arm detonated forward like a cannon. The anti-magic blade shot out through the gap in the upper jaw, piercing straight into the silver dragon's brain.

A druid's dragon form was no different from a true dragon; druids and dragons could even produce offspring together. Their anatomy was exactly the same.

And Ambrose, having studied dragons in detail, knew exactly where to strike.

The agony of a pierced brain was beyond what the silver dragon could endure. It convulsed and flung Ambrose out of its jaws.

The silvery mech hovered in midair, parts of its frame crushed and warped. But as Ambrose clenched his fist, the hellfire armor flared to life, heating the damaged metal.

As the temperature rose, the warped sections gradually returned to shape.

During his years in seclusion, Ambrose hadn't only refined his airship. He had upgraded his mithril body as well.

Many structural components were now made from memory metal: even when deformed, heat could restore much of their original form.

The upgrade worked superbly in conjunction with his hellfire armor.

The silver dragon howled, then burst apart into a spray of viscous fluid.

The druid reappeared—only to transform again into a silver dragon and unleash a torrent of flame at Ambrose.

"A second transformation?!"

Even Ambrose was shocked by that.

A druid who canceled his transformation willingly could certainly take on that form again without restriction. But to be blown apart and still maintain the transformation was only within reach for the exceptional.

After all, a druid's transformation was essentially a second life. Two transformations meant three lives.

No wonder he was the youngest legendary druid. There was more to him than just reckless romanticism.

The dragonfire surged forward, but Ambrose didn't summon his Golden Throne.

From the beginning, he had no intention of revealing his identity. In this silver body, he wasn't the legendary lich Megaman Tiga, but rather Tarasin the Endless.

Twin anti-magic blades extended from his arms, splitting at the palms and spinning at high speed, like propellers.

A gale roared forth, colliding with the dragonfire.

The wind couldn't completely suppress the flames, but once their momentum slowed, the spinning blades could shred their magical structure. With the magic broken, the heat dissipated instantly.

The dragon's breath was cleanly neutralized.

The silver dragon stared in shock. He had never seen anyone withstand dragonfire head-on.

Ambrose retracted the glowing blades with a series of metallic clicks, then drew a long staff from his private space.

Ambrose might call it a staff, but in truth, it looked more like a polehammer. Its head was a diamond-shaped mass of brutal spikes.

Ambrose vanished in a flash and reappeared behind the dragon. He swung the weapon down without hesitation.

An ambush, combined with Mist Step—that was a tactic Ambrose had perfected during his adventurer days.

The dragon's massive body made it slower to react. By the time it sensed danger, the blow had already landed on its neck.

He had assumed his thick scales would shrug off such a primitive weapon, but he was wrong. The impact shattered bone.

Ambrose watched the dragon plummet from the sky, unimpressed.

"Great talent," he muttered, "but terrible combat instincts." Who would block an unfamiliar attack with their body? He was a dragon—he should have used defensive magic!

The young druid had trusted his scales far too much, and underestimated Ambrose's mechanical body at the same time.

This was the latest iteration of his mana furnace, refined for over more than a decade. It was powered by a magitech reactor, infused with dark magic, and reinforced by hellfire armor. On top of that, it could receive undead-style enhancements: strength buffs, giant-force potions, and more.

Ambrose had come fully prepared. This was the complete form of his mech—the complete form of Tarasin the Endless.

One strike was enough to take down a dragon.

The silver dragon twisted as it fell, but ultimately burst once more into fluid.

Mid-descent, Brandir Sanda cast Featherfall, sparing himself the indignity of being splattered to death.

Gone was his earlier arrogance. He had undergone two transformations and suffered two defeats. He finally understood that this construct was no ordinary automaton.

He had seen constructs before. He had even fought them during protests against Alkhemia's destruction of nature.

But what kind of construct could smash a dragon in a single blow?

He had intended to destroy it and hunt down its controller. Instead, he lost his two extra lives.

He couldn't afford to hold back any longer.

Brandir raised his hand. Dozens of vines surged forth, twisting into a staff. As he grasped it, light pulsed along its length.

"Shillelagh?!"

It was a basic druid cantrip, barely even a spell.

Yet just like that, Brandir charged forward.

Ambrose was flummoxed. It made no sense. They were over a hundred meters apart—but Brandir resolved Ambrose's confusion soon enough. His legs shifted into those of a beast. With a single leap, he launched himself dozens of meters upward, transforming midair into an eagle. Clutching the staff in his talons, he dove straight at Ambrose.

Ambrose met him head-on, swinging his weapon.

An enormous explosion sent Ambrose flying.

He steadied himself, staring at his warped weapon in disbelief. That Shillelagh strike had carried an absurd quantity of force, enough to even bend his staff.

"You..." Ambrose muttered. "Your draconic transformation is your weakest one, isn't it?"

No wonder he had lost to his father in dragon form before, only to dominate him in man-to-man combat.

Brandir reverted to human form, staff raised. "Scrap metal," he snarled. "I'll tear you apart, and then I'll find your master!"

Ambrose sighed. He had hoped to end this cleanly, but now, it seemed that less honorable methods would be required.

He tossed the damaged staff aside and ignited the jetpack on his back, shooting skyward. Brandir shifted into an eagle to pursue, but quickly fell behind.

"How is he this fast?!"

Brandir Sanda had only seen Ambrose from a distance before. Only now was he realizing the full extent of Ambrose's speed.

There was no way to catch up. Was that heap of scrap metal actually going to get away?

Unfortunately, Brandir was quite mistaken.

After opening up a gap of about six hundred meters, Ambrose slowed, then drew a strange magitech firearm from his extradimensional space. Compared to the standard models, this one had a longer barrel, a bulkier frame, and was fitted with a scope.

This was an upgraded form of his magitech sniper rifle, with greater range and far higher precision.

Ambrose raised the weapon, took aim from hundreds of meters away, and pulled the trigger. The immense recoil instantly kicked him upward by more than ten meters.

Brandir had no idea what a magitech rifle even was. The only reference he had was massive magitech cannons the size of wagons. So before that enormous projectile struck him, he didn't even realize Ambrose had attacked.

Fortunately, his equipment saved his life.

The oak ring on his hand flared. A magical shield sprang into existence, blocking the shot.

The white projectile shattered against the barrier, exploding into a mass of ghastly bone that formed a cage around him.

With a furious swing of his glowing wooden staff, Brandir smashed the bone prison apart.

"A magic shield, huh?"

Ambrose let out a low chuckle. With a flick of his finger, he ejected the magazine, swapped in another, and fired again.

This time, the bullet passed straight through the magical shield as if it weren't there, striking Brandir square in the shoulder. Anti-magic weapons weren't limited to blades. They worked just as well in the form of ammunition.

Brandir's shoulder erupted in a spray of blood. Flesh and bone were blasted apart, as if a chunk had been gouged clean out. His right arm was instantly crippled.

Brandir's eyes widened in shock. Even now, he couldn't comprehend what had just happened.

What was that thing? Why had his magic shield been completely useless?

His body dropped from the sky as a brilliant green light flared from his chest. The shattered shoulder began to regenerate at visible speed.

Bone and flesh reformed together as the fatal injury was undone within seconds.

This was his family's inherited divine artifact: the Jade Blessing. No matter the damage, it could draw on the magic stored within the necklace to rapidly restore the wearer. Even a severe wound like the one Brandir had just sustained would only take two or three seconds to fully heal.

Brandir wasn't a fool. He immediately summoned a mass of vines to form a barrier in front of him.

Even so, he found that he had underestimated the power of the magitech rifle.

Another shot came. The thick vine shield exploded on impact. Its magical structure shattered, causing the vines to collapse into fragments and scatter into dust.

Before he could rebuild the barrier, another anti-magic round struck him in the exact same spot.

The same force produced the same devastating result. His shoulder was obliterated once more.

Emerald light flared again as the artifact faithfully restored its master's body.

Brandir understood that he had lost. The necklace's regeneration was not limitless, and that weapon could clearly fire many more shots.

The fact that Ambrose had struck him twice in the same location was meaningful. It wasn't poor aim on Ambrose's part, but rather deliberate restraint. If Ambrose had aimed for his head, he would already be dead.

Just what was this construct? His kin lay asleep, defenseless. He couldn't win. Would this be the day the druids were annihilated?