Horace approached it.
The Dragon Lord did not dodge, nor did it take any defensive stance.
It merely waited for that final sword strike to send it, a remnant of the old age, plunging into the sea along with the collapsing Crumbling Farum Azula.
"...Have you considered that perhaps I don't need you to die?"
One of the Dragon Lord's heads lifted slightly.
"...What?"
"I need your power,"
Horace said, "but that doesn't necessarily mean you have to die."
"...I don't understand."
"You're just badly injured. You're not dying."
He paused.
"I can heal injuries like these."
Everyone fell utterly silent.
Froesanks whipped her head around.
She had already been planning a grand funeral worthy of the Dragon Lord's status in her head...
She had even decided what to serve at the funeral, and now they didn't need one?
"Really?"
Horace looked at her. "Really."
Froesanks said, "Really? Really? Really? Really?"
Horace said, "Really, really, really, really. Truer than pure gold."
Fortissax tilted his head. "What kind of true is truer than pure gold?"
Godwyn quietly chimed in from beside him, "It means very true."
Fortissax said, "Oh."
Godwyn looked at the wing the laser had grazed. "Is your injury all right?"
Fortissax said, "Injury? Am I injured? I don't feel anything."
Godwyn fell silent as he stared at the wing, which was clearly missing a corner.
Never mind. If he doesn't feel anything, he should be fine, right?
The Dragon Lord looked at Horace as though looking at a creature it could not comprehend at all.
"You can heal me?"
"Yes."
Horace said, "You're simply badly injured. As long as your body can be repaired, there won't be much of a problem."
He made things clear beforehand. "I can't guarantee you'll return to your prime, but your injuries can