The battle began.
Vorlagrath erupted with the catastrophic fury of a dying star.
With a single, devastating beat of his massive wings, the throne room was violently transformed into a hurricane of golden fire and razor-sharp ash. Cyclones of superheated pressure ripped across the obsidian floor, physically lifting Climbers and tossing them like ragdolls.
He inhaled, and his breath weapon tore through the chaos. It was not the liquid slag of the Forge Drakes or the toxic ash of the Imoogi. It was pure, concentrated solar fury—a blinding, hyper-dense beam of golden light that instantly melted the volcanic glass floor into bubbling slag wherever it tracked.
Despite his colossal size, he moved with terrifying, fluid speed. His heavy claws carved deep, smoking trenches into the floor, and his tail swept the cathedral like a falling skyscraper.
"Lock the line!" Seraphine screamed over the deafening roar of the flames. "Silver Drake, absorb the impact! Ground him!"
