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Wayne had fully unleashed himself, his battle instincts sharpening with every strike. The bloodlust surged, his movements becoming faster, sharper, deadlier—a predator who had finally abandoned restraint.
The sword, burning with holy radiance, became an unstoppable force.
Every dragonspawn, every drakonid warrior that dared to stand in his way was torn apart, reduced to mangled corpses and gory remnants of scale and bone.
Despite their ferocity, the Black Dragonflight's forces were limited.
With the coordinated efforts of Stormwind's defenders—SI:7 operatives, royal guards, adventurers, and clerics—the dragonspawn were gradually worn down, overwhelmed, and butchered.
Their numbers dwindled.
The battle, which had begun with such chaos and destruction, lasted barely an hour before the last of the drakonid warriors was cut down.
The black dragons themselves—far fewer in number than their disposable minions—had no escape.
Two black dragon sorcerers, their humanoid disguises long abandoned, had attempted to flee once the battle turned hopeless.
Yet, no matter how fast they were, they were not faster than the teleporting, blade-dancing executioner that was Wayne.
One dragon desperately flapped its wings, hoping to take to the skies and escape Stormwind. But before it could ascend, Wayne's 40-meter-long magic-infused lightsaber fell like divine judgment, cleaving through its neck with brutal precision. A headless dragon corpse crashed into the ruins of the noble district.
The only remaining black dragon, a female sorceress who had fought alongside Onyxia, watched her kin fall one by one.
For the black dragons, the drakonid warriors were nothing more than disposable minions, tools of war. Their deaths meant nothing.
But when true death loomed over them, even the arrogance of the Black Dragonflight could not hold.
They were a race born of madness and darkness, their souls tainted by the whispers of the Old Gods—but that did not mean they wished to die.
Faced with Wayne's cold, merciless gaze, the last black dragon cowered.
As he advanced, the female black dragon dropped to her knees, eyes wide with terror.
Her voice, once filled with pride, now shook with desperation.
"Please! Don't kill me, hero of the Alliance! I was forced into this! I swear my loyalty! I will serve you—I will be your slave if you wish!
"Just… spare my life!"
Her fear was pathetic. Wayne didn't even bother responding.
Instead—he twisted his grip on his sword and brought down the flat of the blade like a warhammer.
CRACK!
The impact was brutal.
The black dragon sorceress was launched across the battlefield, her body smashing through rubble, skidding across the blood-soaked stone floor.
When she finally came to a stop, her chest heaved, her limbs twitching in pain.
She coughed blood, bones shattered, her body barely clinging to life.
The dragon who once stood with Onyxia, the one who thought herself invincible, was now nothing more than a broken husk—like a hunted beast awaiting its fate.
Silence fell over Stormwind's noble district. The battle was over.
The once grand estate of Katrana Prestor, once a symbol of wealth and influence, was now a smoldering ruin.
The surviving defenders began their grim work:
Paladins and priests moved swiftly to heal the wounded. SI:7 agents scoured the battlefield for intelligence, ensuring no dragon sympathizers had escaped. Stormwind guards collected the corpses of the fallen, separating friend from foe.
The remains of the Black Dragonflight's forces lay scattered across the battlefield—a testament to their utter defeat.
The noble district, once a place of wealth and decadence, now bore the scars of war.
Dragon corpses littered the streets, their blood painting the cobblestones black. The aristocratic mansions had been shattered. The stench of death, fire, and magic hung heavy in the air.
After releasing the pent-up destruction that had lingered in his heart for far too long, Wayne felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction.
He whistled, signaling Deathclaw Robin—who was still feasting on the corpses of fallen drakonid warriors—to return. The beast obeyed immediately, slinking back to his side, its clawed feet thudding against the blood-soaked cobblestones.
With the battle decisively won, Wayne turned his attention back to Onyxia, the fallen Black Dragon Princess.
Now returned to her human form, the once arrogant and untouchable Countess Katrana Prestor looked nothing like the high-ranking noblewoman who had commanded Stormwind's political elite.
Her once-luxurious dress was in tatters, her pale skin marred by streaks of her own black dragon blood.
The elegance she once wielded like a weapon was gone—replaced by exhaustion, pain, and humiliation.
Yet, even in this disheveled state, her beauty remained undeniable.
But for any man who now knew the truth, even Duke Bolvar Fordragon, who had once been captivated by the countess, that beauty was a lie—a cruel deception woven by a monstrous creature.
Wayne smirked to himself, his gaze cold and indifferent as he regarded Onyxia.
A black dragon princess who has laid countless eggs and mated with more beasts than one can count? Hardly a woman worth desiring.
Just as Wayne stepped toward Onyxia, the sound of armored boots against shattered stone echoed through the ruined noble district.
Duke Bolvar Fordragon, his expression grim, approached with SI:7's master spy, Mathias Shaw, at his side.
Bolvar's ashen face showed a mixture of gratitude, disbelief, and resentment.
His royal armor, once pristine, was coated in dust, blood, and shattered masonry from the battle that nearly destroyed Stormwind's elite quarter.
Though his words were measured, his tone was sharp, betraying the internal conflict he felt over the chaos that had unfolded before him.
"Mr. Wayne, I must thank you for uncovering the truth and ridding Stormwind of these hidden black dragons."
Yet, despite his words of appreciation, his frown deepened.
It was clear that while he recognized the necessity of the battle, he still struggled with Wayne's unorthodox and brutal methods.
Wayne, however, had no intention of engaging in Bolvar's moral dilemmas.
Instead, he acknowledged the Duke with a brief nod, turning instead to Shaw, who stood stoic and unreadable, arms crossed over his dark leather armor.
Wayne wasted no time. Fixing Shaw with a calm but firm gaze, he spoke in a low, authoritative tone.
"Master Shaw, by the rules of adventurers, the spoils of this battle belong to me. That includes the corpses of the black dragons."
"I need you to ensure that all useful materials are salvaged. As for their flesh? Don't waste it—Robin enjoys his meals fresh."
Wayne had no interest in gold, silver, or jewels.
What mattered were the dragon materials—scales, bones, blood, and enchanted cores—priceless components that could forge some of the most powerful weapons and armor in existence.
In the Witcher order, where warriors fought against the abyss itself, the demand for such rare materials far exceeded that of any other faction.
With them, he could equip himself and his allies with gear strong enough to battle the forces of the Legion—or worse.
Shaw's expression stiffened slightly at the request. Yet, despite his clear reluctance, he was smart enough to recognize that Wayne had earned his claim through blood and skill.
And so, with a measured nod, Shaw conceded.
"Very well. I will have my agents oversee the collection process."
Wayne smirked.
Unlike Bolvar, who let his emotions cloud his judgment, Shaw was a pragmatic man.
He was someone Wayne could respect—and someone he could work with.
Seeing Shaw's willingness to cooperate, Wayne decided to throw out another lure—one that neither Shaw nor Bolvar could ignore.
Without hesitation, he grabbed Onyxia by the throat, yanking her violently to her feet.
The black dragon princess gasped, her eyes wide with fear and defiance, struggling weakly against his iron grip.
Wayne's voice was calm, but ice-cold.
"Onyxia, the only reason you're still breathing is because you have something I need. You will remove the dark magic you placed on King Varian."
"I have uncovered the truth behind your scheme with the Defias Brotherhood, Onyxia. Now, I order you to reveal everything you know."
"Lie to me, and you will experience a fate far crueler than death."
Bolvar and Shaw's expressions shifted immediately. This was a confirmation of their long-held suspicions—a truth they had feared but never managed to prove.
For years, there had been whispers and doubts about King Varian Wrynn's abduction.
His sudden transformation—from a wise and strong-willed ruler into a docile, indulgent, and weak-willed puppet—was too drastic to be natural.
The kidnapping by the Defias Brotherhood had always seemed too well-planned, too convenient.
And now, to hear Wayne declare that Onyxia herself had orchestrated it all, that she had used black magic to warp the King's mind—it shattered the last remnants of doubt.
Shaw, always the calculated spymaster, took a measured step forward.
His sharp gaze bore into the trembling Countess Prestor, now nothing more than a defeated dragon forced to kneel before her captors.
"Mr. Wayne," Shaw spoke, his voice calm but deadly, "What exactly do you mean by black magic? What spell did she cast?"