Birthing Legends: My Womb Creates SSS Monsters-Chapter 144: Inside the Grand Nursery: A Day as Drakovitch’s Womb.

Chapter 144: Inside the Grand Nursery: A Day as Drakovitch’s Womb.

The dust began to clear. And the truth appeared.

One Citrineclaw warrior was sent flying across the arena, crashing violently against the stone wall. Another was dragged across the ground before being thrown aside like broken armor. A third collapsed entirely, clutching his shattered knee.

In the center of it all—

Draculeus slowly rose from one knee.

His claws were buried in the chest of another Citrineclaw warrior, lifting the man slightly off the ground. His midnight scales were smeared with sapphire blood, and his glowing blue eyes burned brighter than before. Then he threw the body aside like it weighed nothing.

The Dragonborn cracked his neck slowly.

"That was fun... You almost had me."

Arteè’s broken glasses reflected the midnight blue glow as he stared at the monster standing before him. The hunters had not been finishing the dragon. They had been the ones getting slaughtered.

"So... this is... a Dragonborn."

His mind raced, replaying every calculated strike, every perfectly timed motion—the tactics that should have worked, that should have pierced the armor, that should have ended him. And yet... they had failed.

The black steel, forged from Tiamat’s blood, had bitten deep, had drawn sapphire blood, and yet it had barely slowed the monster standing before them.

Arteè swallowed hard, adjusting his broken glasses with a trembling hand.

"Even with the black blades... even with everything we prepared... he’s... he’s beyond anything I imagined."

His voice cracked slightly.

"I... I am defeated. N-no... we are all... defeated."

A heavy silence fell over the arena. The other Citrineclaws froze, their weapons hovering in midair, faces pale, unable to speak.

Percieval stepped forward from the sidelines, his armor clanking softly as he surveyed the battlefield. His voice carried across the arena, calm but commanding.

"That is enough."

All eyes turned toward him.

"The candidate has proven themselves. You have shown your strength and your skill. His Majesty, Draculeus, stands victorious. All others... stand down."

A collective gasp spread through the surviving Houses. Killian clenched his fists, jaw tight.

"We... we couldn’t even make him use his full strength..."

Cassandra let out a low whistle, her morningstar resting on her shoulder.

"He’s... insane. Absolutely insane! I can’t wait to be chosen... to fight beside him in every bloodbath!"

Forsha lowered her staff, still staring with wide, golden eyes.

"The Dragonborn... he’s not just strong—he’s something else entirely. And that is exactly what I expect from His Majesty. What he showed us... it was only a fraction of his power. His aura barely shifted while we fought him..."

Hank of House Crimsonscales let out a slow, reverent growl, slamming his axe against his shield.

"A force of nature... nothing else. I want to stand by his side, to be his shield—always. Please... choose me."

Arteè sank to one knee, his blades lowering. He looked up at Draculeus with a mixture of defeat and unshakable awe.

"Y-Your power... unmatched... Oh, Father... I hope I’ve impressed Prince Draculeus!"

The arena fell into a stunned, tense quiet. Every House, every warrior, understood the same truth: this Dragonborn was untouchable, and the selection had ended.

Outside, the arena still smoldered from Draculeus’ azure fire, but a different kind of power was stirring within the heart of the Royal Palace.

Deep within the Grand Nursery, a High Dragon Priest, draped in gold trimmed robes, led a new group of women through the arched ivory hallways. Among them, two stood out like exotic predatory birds.

One was a warrior type with an obsidian skin tone and a faded blonde boy-cut. Her eyes were sharp, scanning the pillars for threats. Beside her walked her companion, a girl with skin the color of polished bronze and long, vibrant pink hair. These two were the same women from earlier: Gin and Shuna.

The "established" mothers, women already heavy with the King’s children, stared at them with cold, envious eyes from the balconies.

"Look at their skin... So dark and strange. Do you think the King likes that kind of... wildness?"

The Dragon Priest ignored the gossip, stopping at a massive set of silver doors.

"From this point, the Priest’s duty ends. A Head Servant will guide you to your new life."

A stern woman in a white uniform stepped forward. She did not bow.

"I will be your guide now. Welcome to the Grand Nursery of Drakaria. Follow me closely—touch nothing, and speak only when spoken to."

As they walked, the Head Servant pointed to the right. A massive, gold leafed door stood slightly ajar. From within came the sound of... heavy breathing and the low, guttural growl of a Dragonborn.

"That is the Seeding Room. His Majesty, King Drakovitch, is currently... busy... with the batch that arrived yesterday. You will take your turn when the sun rises tomorrow. You are here to provide heirs. Your bodies are no longer yours; they belong to the lineage of Drakaria."

Shuna shivered, but Gin’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the door, a strange, silent resolve settling over her. She could clearly hear the King’s deep moans and the soft cries of the women inside, and instead of fear, it stirred a sharp curiosity within her.

They continued down the hall, passing a room where the air was filled with screams of pain and the frantic chanting of midwives.

"The Delivery Room. The first batch is currently birthing. If the child has White Blood, your task ends here, and it is your choice whether to continue. If the child is human... you remain until the next attempt."

Shuna tilted her head, curiosity sparking at the last line.

"Wait... what happens to the human children—"

The servant’s eyes flared with cold anger.

"I already told you, no talking unless spoken to!"

Shuna froze, lips parting slightly, and fell silent. Gin’s eyes narrowed. Something was... wrong.

Through the open window of the delivery room, a sharp, high-pitched cry pierced the air. A midwife emerged, cradling a squalling infant whose skin shimmered with a faint, pearlescent glow. The mother, though still weak, shouted with trembling awe:

"A WHITE ONE! MY CHILD IS A WHITE ONE! PRAISE TIAMAT! A TRUE HEIR!"

The tribal girls watched in silence, the weight of destiny settling over them. This wasn’t a palace; it was a factory for gods.

The head servant’s voice cut through the murmurs.

"Do not worry, girls. The blood of the King or the Dragonborn is so potent that seventy percent of their children are born White Blooded."