Demonic Dragon: Harem System
Chapter 522 - 522: The Twisted Garden of Swords

Strax left Vorah's mansion without saying goodbye. Diana didn't require that kind of ceremony. The sky was now blackened by clouds that carried more ash than rain. The city fell asleep amid moans and hammering. He crossed the gates again, this time unnoticed—as if his conversation with Diana had made him part of the mansion's own shadows.

The garden behind the residence was large, too lush for a city that was bleeding. The flowers were vivid in intense hues—deep reds, almost impossible blues—as if fed by something more than soil and sun. Strax walked among them with a reverence that did not match his usual demeanor. His footsteps fell silent as he approached the most hidden part of the grounds.

The stone path disappeared among thick vines, but he knew it well. He had been there once before, when he was too young to understand what was worthy and what was forbidden. Now, however, each step seemed to pull him deeper, not only into the garden, but into himself.

He came to a circle of stones partially covered by ancient moss. In the center stood a black basalt obelisk, without inscriptions, without ornaments—just presence. Strax touched it with the palm of his hand, and the stone trembled beneath his fingers, as if recognizing his essence.

"I am here," he murmured.

Nothing happened for a moment, but then the air seemed to compress. The sound of the city disappeared as if swallowed up. The wind ceased. The obelisk glowed briefly with a silvery hue, and a faint crack formed at its base, revealing a narrow opening, too small for someone of Strax's size. Even so, he did not hesitate. He bent down and entered.

He was swallowed by darkness.

As soon as he crossed through, the passage closed behind him with a muffled sound—not of stone, but like an ancient sigh, sealing the past. The darkness that enveloped him was not natural. It was something ancient, made of the absence of everything. Not even the Dragon Eyes, which had so often given him an advantage in night combat, could penetrate it. It was as if reality itself had been erased.

He took a deep breath, trying to get his bearings. The absence of light did not frighten him. But that absence of being... that was different.

"Garden of Spirits... is this how you welcome me?" he murmured, his voice swallowed by the empty space.

No sound of response, no echo, no ground beneath his feet — and yet he did not fall.

Strax moved forward, or at least tried to. His body obeyed, but there was no reference point, no direction, no weight. It was like walking inside a thought. Or inside a forgotten memory.

It was then that he felt — he did not see — a presence. Something passed by him. Silent, subtle, but enormous. As if the air bent around something immense, ancient. A spirit? A sword?

"Show yourselves," he commanded.

Nothing.

Strax closed his eyes—useless there, but a habit. He focused on his essence. He let his dragon blood warm, feeling the ancestral pulse within him. It was like trying to light a torch under the ocean.

Then a single flame appeared.

Not literally. A spark of consciousness. Ahead, something existed.

He walked. His feet now touched something solid—a narrow bridge of black stone, which formed as he advanced. Behind him, nothing. Ahead, a silhouette began to take shape: an arch. A stone portal covered with dried roots, whose tips flickered like living nerves.

Above the arch, words in a language he could not read, but understood clearly: "Here swords await those who bleed and dream."

Strax passed under the arch.

The darkness exploded into light.

Suddenly, he was in a circular field, vast as the eye of a god, surrounded by mountains that seemed to be made of bone and crystal. Trees grew upside down, with roots in the sky and leaves buried in the ground. In the center, a twisted tower rose, made of swords stuck into each other—a thousand of them, maybe more. Some vibrated, as if whispering.

Strax looked around, speechless. Each sword there pulsed with spiritual presence, as if it had a soul of its own. And he felt them... watching him.

The Garden of the Spirits of Vorah.

"This place wasn't like this," said Strax, his voice low as an escaping thought. His eyes scanned the distorted horizon of the Garden, which now seemed more alive — or more attentive — than it had ever been.

He approached the tower made of blades, and the change in the air was immediate. There was no heat, no cold. Just a complete absence of sensation—the kind of neutrality that belongs only to places between worlds. A sigh of suspended reality.

When his fingers touched the first sword embedded in the base of the tower, a crack cut through the silence like thunder trapped between dimensions. An echo ran through the valley, reverberating off the mountains of bone and crystal.

"I see..." he murmured. "When I reestablished the Spirit Realm, you awoke. You became... more than memories. Right?"

It was then that the mist in front of him began to condense, taking shape. A spirit emerged—faceless, but with an imposing presence. There was something about its posture that reminded him of ancient generals: firm, unyielding.

"You are not ready," declared the entity, its voice reverberating inside Strax's chest, as if speaking directly to his soul.

Strax stared at it. His gaze did not waver.

"A spirit has no right to tell me whether or not I am ready," he replied, with the cutting calm of someone who has faced too many horrors to fear judgment.

The spirit did not respond. But another appeared at his side. Then another. And another. Soon, dozens of figures shrouded in mist surrounded him. Ancient warriors, forgotten kings, monsters that were once men. None spoke. But all watched. They assessed. They judged.

The tower of swords glowed—one after another, their blades began to emit distinct lights, each with its own aura. Some vibrated in tones as bright as dawn. Others, black as broken promises. It was a silent chorus of repressed power.

The weight of that place, of that gathering, fell on Strax like an avalanche of centuries. He fell to his knees. Not from pain, but from pressure — as if the Garden itself demanded something from him that he still refused to admit.

A truth.

A name.

A guilt.

The swords began to tremble, one by one. Then one stood out—its black blade with golden fillets pulsing like the veins of an angry heart. It floated slowly toward him, accompanied by a different spirit. Sharper. More human.

And it had eyes.

Eyes that cried.

Then, without warning, the swords responded.

All of them.

Like a storm of steel and memory, they descended upon Strax. Spiritual blades cut through the void with cruel precision, tearing through the air and space with the fury of ages past. They did not seek his flesh. They sought his essence. Each blow was like a verdict — a sentence cast against his soul.

They did not hurt him like enemies.

They stripped him bare.

They tore away, layer by layer, the pride, the anger, the fear, the silent lamentations he had buried beneath masks of strength. Each cut said something he refused to hear:

Remember. Fall. Face it.

Strax raised his arms, dodging, retreating, spinning like a cornered beast — but it was like fighting against his own destiny. And destiny, when it moves, does not hesitate.

He screamed.

But it was not a scream of physical pain.

It was the raw sound of truth being ripped from within him.

The pain of seeing, for an instant, who he really was.

An ancient echo reverberated within him. Something that lay dormant beneath his scales. Something older than the titles he bore. Older than his lineage. The dragon's blood responded—not to the attack, but to the call hidden in the blades. And then...

He broke.

"Hey, you sons of bitches..." he growled, panting, his voice distorting. A deep, guttural tone, growing louder. "I will kill and devour every one of you!"

The transformation was not slow.

Strax's body shook. Veins began to glow beneath his skin like rivers of magma. His hands expanded, covered in black scales with violet reflections. Bones cracked. His spine lengthened. His pupils became golden slits.

And then he grew.

His body roared against the limits of the Garden's reality. He became too big for the valley, for the tower itself. The swords around him seemed to hesitate for a second—as if they recognized something there that even the spirits dared not provoke.

"ATTACK ME!" he shouted, his voice reverberating like thunder carried by the end of the world.

And they came.

The spirits did not retreat — they obeyed. Because this was the test. Not about strength. Not about courage. But about truth.

And Strax's truth... was fury.

A symphony of steel began again, now against a huge body, a presence that barely fit on that plane. Blades ricocheted off the scales, some breaking on contact, others burrowing deep — but he did not fall. He resisted.

A roar echoed, and it was as if the Garden itself trembled. The spiritual energy of the place reacted to his blood, twisting around him like winds in a vortex of power.

But as much as her body could endure, her spirit... still wavered.

And then the black sword with golden filigree descended.

Not like lightning.

But like judgment.

It did not aim at her body. It aimed at her heart.

And Strax saw it coming. He saw the spirit that accompanied it—the human eyes, the sadness contained within them, as if apologizing before the blow. He did not flinch.

He accepted it.

And when the blade touched his chest, something happened.

A flash.

A sound of crystal breaking—not in the air, but inside him.

The Garden fell silent.

Time seemed to freeze. The swords stopped in midair. The spirits watched.

Strax fell to his knees again. His body was still that of a dragon, but now... his eyes were different. Brighter. As if, in the center of that hurricane of rage and pain, he had found a spark of truth.

The black sword hovered before him, waiting.

"You. You are my mother's sword." Strax said, looking at the Blade.