Amid the deafening gunfire, the two werewolf bodyguards nearest the door took the first hits and crumpled. Their sturdy builds kept them from dying instantly; instead, they writhed in pools of blood, howling in agony.
One clawed desperately toward a dropped revolver. Chris ended his struggle with a single shot.
The other two reacted differently: one rolled behind a heavy solid-wood desk for cover and kept firing; the second, dragging a leg mangled by buckshot, shoulder-charged the inner bedroom door open and tumbled inside.
Raven, seeing escape slipping away, bolted for the window. As he lunged to jump, a fierce volley erupted from outside.
The Sylvania family's elites—having infiltrated Wild Bull Town the night before—had lain in wait. Three rifles cracked in unison; bullets chewed splinters from the frame, forcing Raven to scramble back inside, disheveled and cursing.
At the same time, chaos gripped the streets. Lady Victoria—her body armored in crimson dragon scales like an enraged behemoth—led two teams to seal the front and back entrances of Holt's underground casino.
At her command, the elites stormed in. Gunfire exploded inside, sending townsfolk fleeing in panic.
Trapped, Raven's eyes blazed with feral desperation. As Chris paused to reload, he ripped off his silk shirt, exposing a muscular chest matted with gray bristles.
"Kill her!" he roared, voice no longer human.
His body twisted in horrifying transformation. Round pupils narrowed to vertical slits; bristles stood like steel needles; bones crunched and popped; his frame doubled in size. Muscles bulged, shredding his trousers; nails lengthened into claws; canines extended into tearing fangs.
Bloodline awakening—beastification—was an innate gift of demihumans.
Unlike humans, who required magic tattoos, rigorous training, and blessings to gain transcendent power, most demihumans were born with superior physiques.
The trade-off: drastically lower elemental affinity. Only a few prodigies awakened dormant bloodline strength during their coming-of-age rite, becoming true transcendents.
Dragonkin, vampires, and half-elves ranked as the three supreme sub-races not just for retained racial magic but for their staggering awakening potential—nine stages, far outpacing others.
Mid-tier races like lionkin and bear-men maxed at seven; werewolves at six. This bloodline hierarchy dictated social order.
It explained the fanatic pursuit of intermarriage among lower-tier demihumans. Families tying into dragonkin or half-elf lines often saw descendants shatter racial limits—like the tiny dragon horns on Conrad's head after Victoria's marriage into the lionkin.
Fully beastified, Raven towered over Chris, muscles gleaming, reeking of wild musk. He lunged with a roar.
Chris dropped her shotgun calmly and met his claws bare-handed. Their fingers locked in a brutal contest of raw power.
Raven's eyes lit with savage glee—this dragonkin dared match him in strength?
Werewolf might ranked high among demihumans. He sneered, veins bulging like ropes as he poured on pressure, ready to rip her apart.
Then his expression froze.
No matter how hard he pushed, Chris didn't budge. A mocking smile curved her lips. Worse, her "slender" hands began crushing back with terrifying force.
A sharp *crack*—Raven's finger bones groaned. Horror dawned: these weren't soft maiden hands, but unyielding steel traps.
Sweat poured from his brow; disbelief filled his eyes. Dragonkin strength outclassed werewolves, yes—but this gap was impossible.
He couldn't know Chris wielded not only pureblood dragonkin might but the stacked power of thirty goblins via the dungeon system. The contest was decided before it began.
She pressed harder. More cracks rang out; his hand twisted grotesquely. Pain overwhelmed him—he wailed in desperation and snapped his jaws at her throat.
Chris released and sidestepped fluidly. As he overcommitted, she spun gracefully. Her dragon-exclusive skill, **Tail Sweep**, activated—a translucent magical dragon tail whipped horizontally, slamming his calf.
*Crack!*
Bone shattered. Raven's massive form crashed down, curling in torment. The awakening faded; his body deflated like a burst balloon, reverting to normal.
The brutal clash ended in seconds. Seeing Raven collapse unconscious, the last two werewolves raised guns—only for Jakar and Conrad to burst in, rifles blazing. Precise fire pinned them; screams cut short as resistance crumbled.
Silence fell, broken only by distant street gunshots. Chris knelt before the pale, sweating Raven and removed her wide-brimmed hat, revealing her dragon horns.
"Mr. Raven, allow me to introduce myself," she said, voice soft yet icy. "I'm Chris Sylvania. Your brother shot my cousin and stole my moonshine."
Chris Sylvania.
Raven's pupils shrank. He'd heard the name—a reclusive noble lady, rumor said. Not this ruthless killer. He spat blood and sneered. "Heh, a proud dragonkin noble skipping a fair duel for a sneak attack? Has the Sylvania family lost all honor since a woman took charge?"
"Shut your mouth!" Conrad smashed his rifle butt into Raven's face. "You're not fit to lecture the Sylvanias!"
Raven, blood streaming, grinned through broken teeth. "You mixed-blood freak hiding behind skirts—your mother was a—"
Conrad's rifle butt descended like thunder. The one-sided beating continued until Raven coughed up shattered teeth and fell silent. Chris watched impassively, then spoke again.
"Now, let's discuss compensation."
(End of Chapter 5)