The air grew heavy, not with the typical scent of pine and damp earth, but with an acrid tang that spoke of ozone and impending doom. In the shadowed valley, Ignis, a lesser dragon whose scales shimmered with the dull gleam of polished brass, was mid-hunt, a hapless boar squealing in its grasp. Ignis was proud of his territory, of the quiet reign he held over these woods. But then, the shadow fell.


It wasn’t a cloud, but a titanic silhouette that blotted out the sun, plunging the valley into an unnatural twilight. Övêrkïll. The name resonated not as a title, but as a guttural promise of annihilation. His scales, the color of congealed blood and night, caught the faint light, reflecting nothing. His eyes, twin molten pits of pure malice, fixed on Ignis.


Ignis, for all his draconic might, felt a primal terror shiver through his bones. This was no rival seeking territory, no beast driven by hunger. This was an entity of pure, unadulterated destruction. He dropped the boar, letting out a defiant roar that was swallowed by the sheer oppressive presence of the greater dragon.


Övêrkïll descended, not with the grace of flight, but with the brutal force of a falling mountain. His immense claw, tipped with talons like obsidian razors, swiped. Ignis barely registered the impact. One moment, he was whole, the next, a grotesque fountain of viscera erupted, his head torn clean from his shoulders, his brass scales scattering like shattered jewels. The headless body spasmed, a geyser of steaming blood painting the forest floor.


Övêrkïll didn’t even pause. The raw, guttural delight of the kill rumbled deep in his chest, a sound that twisted the very fabric of reality. He turned his attention to the sounds of flight and whimpering from the surrounding trees.


A lone werewolf, transformed by the moon’s cruel embrace, had been drawn to the chaos. Its fur bristled, hackles raised, a low growl rumbling in its throat. It was a creature of savage instinct, but even it understood the profound wrongness of this situation. This wasn’t a fight, it was an execution.


The werewolf, fueled by a desperate, suicidal courage, lunged, claws extended, aiming for Övêrkïll’s colossal leg. It was a futile gesture, a pathetic defiance against an unstoppable force.


Övêrkïll watched it approach, a faint, chilling amusement flickering in his molten eyes. He didn’t swat it away. Instead, he simply opened his immense maw. The air shimmered, growing impossibly hot. Then, a torrent of pure, liquid fire erupted, a blinding inferno that swallowed the werewolf whole.


There was no scream, only a sickening hiss as flesh and bone vaporized. The ground where the werewolf had stood was scorched black, smoking. A lingering smell of burnt hair and charring meat hung heavy in the air, a macabre perfume of destruction.


Övêrkïll let out a low, satisfied rumble, a sound of pure, unbridled ecstasy. He surveyed the ruin he had wrought: the mangled corpse of the lesser dragon, the incinerated patch of earth where the werewolf had been. There was no treasure sought, no territory claimed, no threat neutralized. Only the exquisite, visceral joy of annihilation. He had destroyed, simply because he could, simply because it pleased him. And as he ascended back into the bruised sky, the valley remained silent, a testament to the terrible, beautiful artistry of Övêrkïll, the Dragon of Destruction.