The Dragon did not die.
Not that night.
Not even after losing four of its heads.
The battle above Vancouver lasted until dawn.
Each time the Samurai Cat struck,
another head fell from the sky.
Burning across the horizon like a falling star.
One crashed into the waters of Burrard Inlet.
One vanished beyond the forests of Coquitlam.
One shattered against the cliffs above Howe Sound.
And one disappeared into the darkness beyond the Fraser Valley.
But the Dragon endured.
Wounded.
Bleeding fire.
Consumed by rage.
The ancient beast retreated into the storm.
Its final remaining head screaming across the heavens.
A sound so terrible that people remembered it for generations.
The city survived.
But victory came at a price.
Entire districts lay in ruins.
The towers of Metrotown stood blackened and broken.
Brentwood burned for weeks.
The neon lights of Downtown Vancouver flickered through smoke and ash.
Yet something had changed.
For the first time,
the Dragon had felt fear.
For the first time,
it could bleed.
For the first time,
it could lose.
The people of Vancouver looked upon the devastation and understood:
The monster was not invincible.
And somewhere beyond the mountains,
hidden in darkness and fury,
the wounded Dragon prepared for the final battle.
The war was not over.
But hope had returned.