Journey to Become the Zenith-Chapter 25: The Dragon That Refused to Kneel

The Dragon That Refused to Kneel

Victor stood before the strange weapon, golden eyes gleaming with interest.

"Hey, spirit," he called casually."How about you show yourself to me?"

Silence.

No response.

Only the faint hum of dormant power.

Around him, the other weapon spirits shifted uneasily. Their earlier eagerness faded into something closer to apprehension.

"Sir Victor... that is not something you want," one spirit said, voice tight.

"That weapon..." another added, "its legend is one of death and massacres. It has never acknowledged anyone as its master."

"It rejects all wielders," a third warned. "It is not something a mortal man can handle. Not that we question your ability... but that one is different."

They spoke like children warning someone away from a cursed ruin.

Victor listened.

And smiled.

Warnings?

To him, those sounded like invitations.

Without another word, he stepped forward and grasped the handle.

The moment his skin touched the grip—

A violent force surged upward.

His right arm was struck as if by invisible blades, ripping, grinding, tearing at flesh and bone.

The weapon did not test him gently.

It attacked without mercy.

Within seconds, the skin of his palm split open. Muscles strained. Blood welled up.

Victor calmly began healing the damage, mana flowing through his veins as torn flesh sealed itself—only to be torn apart again.

Pain bloomed.

Sharp.

Raw.

Unrelenting.

Any ordinary man would have screamed.

Victor laughed.

A deep, delighted sound.

"Do you really think this much pain will make me quit?" he taunted. "It doesn’t even tickle."

The force intensified.

The weapon answered.

Its attack doubled.

Now it felt as if his entire arm might dissolve into nothing.

Flesh shredded faster than he could fully mend it.

Still, he did not flinch.

"Just being attacked one-sidedly is boring," he muttered. "How about I retaliate?"

He sent a surge of mana into the weapon.

The blade trembled faintly.

It did not withdraw.

It pushed harder.

Victor increased his output.

Mana clashed against mana.

Invisible currents collided, sparks of power rippling through the pocket dimension.

Neither yielded.

A battle of endurance.

Either Victor’s reserves would run dry—

Or the weapon would concede.

The surrounding spirits watched in stunned silence.

Minutes passed.

Then—

The air shifted.

A figure materialized before him.

She wore a black cloak that draped down to the floor. A thick veil obscured her face, but her silhouette made it unmistakable—she was female.

The aura around her was heavy.

Old.

Blood-soaked.

"So you finally appear," Victor said, eyes gleaming. "Just when it was getting good. Are you going to give up? Come on. Struggle some more."

The cloaked spirit did not attack again.

She spoke instead.

Her voice was young. Too young for the weight it carried.

"Why do you seek to be my master?"

"I do not wish to be wielded."

Her tone held neither arrogance nor fury—only exhaustion.

"I wish to rust away here. Forgotten. I do not wish to see another master die because of me."

Victor chuckled softly.

A weapon... afraid of killing its master?

How absurd.

"A weapon afraid of its wielder’s death," he said. "That’s hilarious."

His gaze sharpened.

"Listen carefully. I don’t know what kind of fools you served before, but none of them were me."

His smile turned sharp.

"You will break before I die by your hands. And that," he added lightly, "is never going to happen."

Her aura trembled slightly.

"You are a weapon. Asking me not to wield you?" he continued. "Sorry. I don’t listen well. The more you refuse me with idiotic reasons, the more I want you."

His mana surged outward, filling the entire space around them.

"If you won’t submit willingly," he said quietly, "I will force you."

His fighting spirit flared.

Wild.

Untamed.

He stood there like a predator thrilled by danger.

The spirit felt the disparity.

She had more raw mana than he did.

By numbers alone, she could crush him.

Yet he did not cower.

He did not hesitate.

He looked at her with anticipation.

Excitement.

Like a child finally given something interesting to break.

Confusion flickered within her.

Why did he not despair?

Why did he not beg?

Fine.

She would show him.

Her power erupted.

It could have enveloped the entire shop.

Instead, she focused everything—every ounce—onto him.

The pressure was suffocating.

Absolute.

Most would kneel.

Most would cry.

Victor grinned wider.

"This," he whispered, "is what I’ve been looking for."

Ever since his past life as Anos—the Demon Lord who stood at the pinnacle—true battles had grown scarce. Worthy opponents vanished. Fear replaced resistance.

But now—

This.

A fight he might actually lose.

One mistake.

Certain death.

His blood roared.

"Come!" he shouted. "Show me everything! Show me your overwhelming might!"

His golden eyes blazed.

"Then I’ll crush it beneath my feet."

The spirit faltered.

This was wrong.

He should have broken by now.

Instead, he looked ecstatic.

Time and time again, he defied expectation.

So she decided—

She would end it differently.

The weapon itself dissolved into light.

The physical blade vanished.

A sphere of red-black radiance formed.

Victor did not move.

He did not dodge.

He welcomed it.

The sphere touched his right arm.

He braced for annihilation.

For agony.

For impact.

Nothing came.

No explosion.

No tearing.

Instead—

The light sank into him.

Heat spread along his arm.

A tattoo formed: a red and black dragon, two serpents coiling around one another in eternal struggle.

Victor stared.

Stunned.

One of the sword spirits gasped in admiration.

"Amazing, Sir Victor! You have tamed her. She has chosen you."

"...Chosen?" he repeated blankly.

For a few heartbeats, he simply stood there.

Then his expression darkened.

"What was that?!"

He glared at his own arm.

"I thought you were going to attack me! What happened to the battle?"

His voice echoed through the shop.

"Come out and face me! I’m your master now, right? I order you to come out and fight!"

The cloaked spirit reappeared, hovering calmly before him.

"I’m sorry, Master," she said gently. "I cannot battle you anymore."

"The moment you commanded me to submit—that was the beginning of the contract."

Her tone held a trace of quiet amusement.

"When I chose to submit, the bond was formed. We are now wielder and weapon. I cannot harm you in any way."

Victor’s eye twitched.

"Annul the contract and face me first."

"Impossible," she replied softly. "This contract binds us until death do us part."

Silence.

The other spirits dared not breathe.

Victor stared at her.

Slowly, understanding dawned.

It was over.

No grand conclusion.

No final clash.

No decisive victory.

She had chosen him—

Not in defeat.

But in acceptance.

A wave of disappointment washed over him.

"...Fine," he muttered.

The thrill drained from his expression.

"Let’s just find Videl and get out of here."

He turned away, shoulders slightly slumped.

"I feel really tired right now."

And for the first time since entering the shop—

Victor looked almost... sulky.