My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 455: Ryujin Tiamat (WOMEN)Pieces. The Jörmungandr Prince

Chapter 455: Ryujin Tiamat (WOMEN)Pieces. The Jörmungandr Prince

The magical circle above ignited in response.

An even massive sigil — a mandala of interlocking runes in the same crude, furious script — slammed downward like a guillotine of light. It crashed into the azure radiance and contained it, forcing the light to churn and roil within the living room like a bottled supernova and back into Danton.

The pressure was immense — the stone pillar cracked wider with a sound like continental plates grinding, the chains binding Danton groaned and glowed white-hot, the hooded figures staggered as the shared burden tried to rip their souls from their bodies and scatter them across dimensions.

Harold — still smiling through his broken face, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth — nodded once.

He produced three small glass bottles from within his robes.

The old man beside him nodded in return.

Harold held them high so every figure in the circle could see the labels: Victoria. Delilah. Sienna.

Two bottles contained a clear, viscous white liquid — tears, captured and preserved with dark alchemy, still warm with the grief of the girls who had shed them. The third contained blood — bright, living crimson, drawn from the veins of the daughters Harold had raised as his own.

The chained witch stepped forward, manacles clinking, and took the three bottles in her bound hands.

She held them over Danton’s unconscious form and began to pour.

First the tears — slow, deliberate streams of Victoria’s and Delilah’s sorrow dripping onto his bare chest.

Then the Sienna’s blood.

Her voice rose, chanting with terrible, reverent power:

{“Denied from own blood for Nine Prime Years… the anchor between the Ryujin Tiamat young generation is severed… only to realize their mistakes way too late… as they embraced a blood that isn’t theirs… and adored the warmth that isn’t theirs… and so even in realization they shall accept what isn’t theirs… and the Dragon Heart Scale shall now obey what has been cultivated as its!“}

As the last drops of blood and tears faded into Danton’s skin — absorbed like water into parched earth — the resistance from the Dragon Heart Scale ended.

The azure light inside the Danton dimmed, then surged one final time before settling into a low, obedient throb.

Blue scales began to appear on Danton’s body.

They were more serpentine than draconic — sleek, iridescent, overlapping in elegant, coiling patterns that shimmered from sapphire to indigo to the deep black-blue of ocean trenches.

They spread across his chest, his arms, his thighs, crawling over his skin like living tattoos, each scale pulsing with stolen power.

The chains binding him groaned as the new power tested them, the runes flaring brighter.

The figures did not seem worried at all.

Harold produced another item.

It was encased in a delicate box of blackened bone and silver filigree.

When he opened it, the contents were revealed: a small, perfectly spherical golden core the size of a marble, and beside it another Dragon Heart Scale — this one completely golden, dull, lifeless, stripped of all resistance and light.

It lay there like a dead star, waiting to be reborn.

The bound witch took both items in her manacled hands.

With reverent care she guided them toward Danton’s mouth.

The moment they passed his lips, a blast went off.

The golden core and the dead scale detonated inside him in perfect harmony with the living DragonHeart Scale already awakening in his chest.

The explosion was silent but cataclysmic — a shockwave of pure golden-azure power that pulsed outward in a single, world-ending throb. The magical circle above strained and cracked, the pillar beneath Danton shattered into dust, the chains binding him melted into molten slag that dripped onto the floor and froze instantly into black ice.

Every hooded figure was thrown backward, robes billowing, blue flames roaring upward like geysers.

The entire mansion pulsed violently — walls bowing inward, the roof groaning as though the sky itself was trying to collapse and crush them all.

The chained witch raised her voice louder, chanting with the last of her strength, her manacles glowing white-hot as the power tried to tear her apart:

{“With the infant’s death of the reincarnation of a Phei Ryujin Tiamat’s Eternal Wife… killed as an infant twin and replaced by the Jörmungandr Prince…”}

Danton body convulsed.

Not the subtle tremor of awakening power.

Not the graceful ripple of scales spreading across skin.

This was violent, world-rejecting seizure.

Every muscle locked and released in brutal staccato. His spine arched so sharply the chains screamed in protest, iron links bending and glowing white-hot before snapping like brittle thread. The obsidian pillar beneath him cracked down the centre with a sound like continents splitting.

His head snapped back, mouth open in a silent scream that pulled every last molecule of air from the room.

The azure light inside him detonated again — this time not contained, not caged, but wild, surging outward in a shockwave that made the magical circle above flicker and scream, the mandala fracturing in hairline fractures of pure white before snapping back into place with a thunderclap that shook dust from the ruined ceiling.

Then — silence.

Absolute.

The boy’s body simply disappeared.

Not faded. Not dissolved.

One heartbeat he was there — convulsing, glowing, scales crawling across skin like living mercury — and the next heartbeat the pillar was empty.

Chains clattered to the cracked marble, still glowing faintly. The runes carved into them dimmed and died.

The air where Danton had lain rippled once, like heat haze over asphalt, then stilled.

None of the hooded figures moved.

None cried out.

Instead — a collective sigh rolled through the circle. Not fear. Not horror.

Relief.

Deep, reverent, almost orgasmic relief.

The chained witch lowered her manacled hands. Blood still dripped from her sliced palm, freezing into tiny crimson icicles before they hit the floor.

She bowed once — low, formal, the silver hair spilling forward like a curtain — then straightened.

Her voice, when she spoke, carried the calm of someone who had just witnessed the successful birth of an apocalypse.

Not a chant this time but facts!

“The Jörmungandr Prince will soon awaken,” she said. “With the World-Destroying and HealingWater Element… and the Golden Flames.”}

She paused, letting the words settle into the ruined hall like ash after a firestorm.

“Unfortunately,” she continued, tone almost regretful, “due to restrictions and differences in two races, he will not awaken the rest of the dragon elements. The full spectrum is denied him. But unlike the young dragon whose awakening excess power will burn away in days… the Prince’s power will not diminish.”

Her silver eyes — the only part of her face visible beneath the hood — gleamed with cold certainty.

“The excess energy of his awakening

will only fuel his growth. He will surpass the young dragon. Quickly. Inevitably.”

She tilted her head slightly, as though listening to a question no one had voiced aloud.

“And when the real awakening of all Legacy families occurs on the Destined Day…” Her voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “…the Prince will fully awaken his Jörmungandr Bloodline powers and elements. Even before that day arrives, he will be stronger than the young dragon ever was at the peak of his awakening surge.”

The silence that followed was holy in its weight.

Then — the altar shook.

A single, subtle tremor — like the first breath of something that had been sleeping since before continents had names.

The empty space above the pillar rippled.

Reality folded.

And a being appeared.

Not with fanfare.

Or with light or sound or thunder.

It simply was.

The hooded figures gasped — a collective intake of breath that sounded like wind through broken windows.

What stood before them on the cracked obsidian pillar was no longer Danton Maxton.

Or rather — it was Danton Maxton, and it was something far older.

The boy’s body had grown taller, broader, the athletic teenage frame now stretched into something lean and serpentine and terrifyingly elegant.

Scales covered him from throat to ankles — not the proud, plate-like armour of dragons, but sleek, overlapping serpentine scales that shifted between azure, sapphire, and the abyssal indigo of ocean trenches where light had never reached.

They moved like living water, catching no reflection, absorbing every photon that dared approach.

His hair had lengthened, turned the colour of midnight at the bottom of the sea, floating around his face as though he were submerged.

His eyes — when they opened — were no longer human.

Twin vertical slits of molten gold ringed in endless blue-black, glowing with the same weak golden thread that had once pulsed inside the Dragon Heart Scale. They were the eyes of something that remembered drowning worlds and healing them again with a single breath.

Golden flames flickered at the corners of his mouth, small and restrained, yet promising infernos that could burn oceans dry.

He stood naked, unashamed, chains long since melted away.

Power rolled off him in slow, tidal waves.

The air around him pulsed — not like Phei’s cold void-heartbeats, but like the slow, crushing pressure of the deepest sea.

Every breath he took made the ruined hall feel smaller, heavier, as though gravity itself had decided to kneel.

The chained witch lowered her head in reverence.

The hooded figures followed.

Harold Maxton — broken, bloody, smiling through shattered teeth — dropped to one knee.

And the being that had once been called Danton looked out across the circle with eyes that remembered the death of stars and the birth of seas.

It did not speak.

It did not need to.

The Jörmungandr Prince had awakened.