Birthing Legends: My Womb Creates SSS Monsters-Chapter 136: The Dragonborn Takes His First Flight.

The sky over Drakaria was an endless ocean of blue, and for the first time in his life, Draculeus felt like he owned all of it.

"WHOOOOO-HOOOO!"

The roar echoed through the clouds, but it wasn’t a sound of pain. It was pure, unadulterated joy. Draculeus snapped his wings shut, diving straight down like a falling sapphire star, before snapping them open at the last second to catch an upward draft. The force of the wind rippled across his midnight scales, cooling the internal fire that always simmered in his chest.

"Look at this, Old Fart! I AM FLYING! I’m dancing on the wind! I AM A... DRAGON! ROOOOAR!"

He twisted and looped through the air, wings slicing the sky with reckless delight. Below him, Percieval gripped the reins of his Wyrmwing so tightly his knuckles were white. The beast was sturdy, built for endurance, not aerial acrobatics, and each flap of its leathery wings thudded heavily against the wind, straining to keep up.

He watched Draculeus with a mix of awe and despair.

"With all the gifts Tiamat could have bestowed on him... why wings? Dragon Wings—the pinnacle of every child’s wish... and look at him! Using them like toys! Oh—oh no, watch that rock!"

His eyes darted nervously between the jagged cliffs, the spike-like edges of the mountain, and Draculeus’ chaotic maneuvers. His voice was hoarse, trembling with a mix of awe and panic:

"Your Highness! Please! Stay... in my... sight! And no more tricks near the spike stones!"

Draculeus didn’t even slow. That mischievous smile, the one that always warned Percieval something reckless was coming, spread across his face. Percieval froze for a heartbeat, his eyes lingering on that familiar grin. He couldn’t deny it... he missed that smile.

"That smile... you always had it when you were eight. Now I truly see... you’re still yourself, even after everything... even after your brother and sister are gone..."

Then, Draculeus vanished into a thick bank of white mist. Silence followed. Percieval’s head snapped around, heart hammering against his ribs, scanning the empty sky.

"Lad? Draculeus? Boy! This isn’t funny! The King will have my head if you—"

His words were swallowed by the fog, leaving only the echo of wind and the faint trace of that teasing, reckless laugh drifting somewhere ahead.

BOOM! 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

A sonic blast tore through the air as Draculeus shot up from directly beneath the Wyrmwing. The poor beast screamed,

"SKREEE-AAAHK!"

And in perfect unison, Percieval’s voice joined:

"GAHHH!!"

Draculeus twisted vertically, spinning like a drill, the rush of air whipping so close that the old knight’s mount nearly toppled.

"My heart! Oh, Dragon God!"

Percieval gasped, clutching his chest as the Wyrmwing struggled to stabilize.

"I’m going to die before we land! I’m going to have a stroke at three thousand feet!"

Draculeus’ laughter—sharp, wild, uncontainable—echoed over the wind, a perfect storm of chaos and exhilaration that only a true dragonborn could summon. Draculeus reappeared a moment later, hovering effortlessly in front of Percieval while flying backward. His blue slit eyes were wide with a mischievous spark.

"I may have found new ways to make your old age claim you faster, old man."

Percieval’s ears burned.

"YOU! I’ve had enough of your games! Get your wings to the training grounds—NOW! We are already late!"

"Fine, fine!"

Draculeus laughed, snapping his wings down with a powerful thrust.

"Race you there! Last one smells like dragon feet!"

"That is not a fair bet!"

Percieval screamed, clutching the reins of his Wyrmwing as he struggled to gain control. Draculeus didn’t hear him. He was already a tiny blue speck in the distance, banking left and feeling the raw force of the wind against his winged hands.

"I have a Wyrmwing! You have the blood of a Primordial! You cheating brat!"

Draculeus didn’t care. For the first time in his life, the weight of a thousand ashes, the deaths of his brother and sisters, the loss of his mother, and the crushing responsibility of the Dragonrite were gone. There was only him, his wings, and a sky that stretched endlessly—a sky that was his alone.

He spent his time soaring, dancing with the clouds, twisting through wind currents, and testing the limits of his new wings. In mere minutes, he arrived at the Training Grounds. Even from his high perch, his heightened senses could pick up the clashing of blades, the sharp shouts of instructors, and the tension that radiated from every warrior below.

To ensure he could witness the true strength of those chosen as his future Dragonguard, he made himself unseen. Folding his massive wings, he perched on the jagged edge of a high cliff overlooking the arena. His scales melted into the shadows of the rocks, and his midnight-blue slit eyes scanned every motion, every strike, every falter below.

The Seven Great Houses had sent their best—warriors who had trained their entire lives for this moment. Each sought to prove themselves worthy of serving the Dragonborn.

In the center of the ring, two candidates clashed with feral intensity, their blades ringing against one another in sharp, metallic screams. Each wore the colors of their house.

On the left, a boy’s cape was a deep, brownish orange, emblazoned with the symbol of a claw—fierce yet tempered with an elegance that mirrored the precision of his stance. His oversized, triple bladed gauntlets glimmered like sharpened Tiamat claws, moving with unnatural grace.

Opposite him, this warrior bore a cape of deep blue, marked with the emblem of fangs. The symbol screamed wild, untamed power, and his stance matched it perfectly. His longsword gleamed like a fang freshly bared, lethal and precise.

The boy with the claw adjusted his glasses, his voice sharp, dripping with aristocratic disdain.

"Give up, savage! The Asulfang are nothing but untamed dogs, born of the woods. You think a dragon wants a stinking mutt guarding his back? My strikes are precise, elegant, unlike your feral swings—pathetic!"

The Asulfang warrior’s eyes burned with restrained fury, his muscles coiled.

"You speak of scent? You noble fools of Citrineclaw, just like your house’s name—drenched in flowers and perfume! Your strikes, like your posture, are soft as petals! The King demands a Dragonguard forged in strength, not a fragrant, pampered fool like you!"

Steel clashed again, sparks flying. Each movement told the story of their houses: one born of refinement and cunning, the other of wild instinct and raw power.