Odin ignored Amon's words.
There was a faint mockery in them, like the final stubbornness of someone on the verge of death. But no matter how one looked at it, Amon had reached the end of the road. There was no hope of turning the tables.
His dragon wings had been torn apart, his chest and abdomen pierced through, his organs spilled across the ground, and his blood stained the entire seabed red.
Those wounds were still writhing. The Dragon Raja's powerful regenerative ability was trying to mend them, but the process was so slow that the changes were almost imperceptible.
Odin should have turned and left.
To claim his spoils. The Nine-Headed Serpent's corpse still floated in the distance. That was the White King's Dragon Bone Cross, the objective he had plotted for years to obtain, an essential piece of his final plan.
But he did not leave.
He stood before Amon, lowered his head, and looked into those still-open golden eyes. After a long silence, he spoke.
"Do you really think Jormungandr sees you as her brother?"
His voice was calm, as if he were merely stating a fact.
"She is only using you."
Amon did not answer. He merely looked at Odin. There was no fear or regret in those golden eyes, only an unfathomable calm.
"If you die here," Odin continued, "she will take advantage of your weakness to devour your cocoon and turn you into food.
"This is the law of the Dragon Raja. The victor devours the defeated, the strong enslave the weak. You cannot possibly fail to understand that."
Amon still said nothing.
"She even imprisoned her own brother in Nibelungen." Odin's voice paused slightly. "Fenrir—the kin who had held her close for warmth for thousands of years—was someone she could bring herself