Distorted guitars, bass, and drums hit as one thick wall—fast thrash already mid-run, double-kick chattering under the riff.

The pocket is light but seized; body finds the pulse almost instantly and just stays there.

Voice drops in half-spoken over the drive—PetroDragonic Apocalypse—and the band does not soften for it.

Flapping wings, crocodile obsolete—creature language riding the same thrash grid.

Spraying flames, blood curdle screech—still no break in the motor.

Dragon, dragon, dragon, dragon—hammered until the syllable feels like part of the riff.

Gila as aether and preacher, aura drinker, the one true God—myth thickening while the groove stays martial and straight.

Nymphs and sylphs choke; drink the blood, tasting Tchort—praise and dread at the same speed as the riff.

The dragon chant comes back hard, same simple hammer on the grid.

Vocals step aside and the throttle opens—shredding guitar over that unbroken kick pattern.

PetroDragonic Apocalypse stacked and shouted—title thrown back into the motor.

Winged demon on the stratosphere, swooping beneath to kill with fear—still locked to the thrash line.

The plea flips: stop the dragon—chanted into the same pocket as the earlier praise.

Scrambling jets and ballistic lies burned under lidless eyes—military panic without breaking the grid.

Pilots shriek, cities weep—the emergency keeps getting larger while the riff stays countable.

There—the floor changes. Tempo drops into a heavier mid-tempo chug; weight gathers differently under the pulse.

The eye dilates, the air gyrates, a gate in the sky—delivery cooler over this thicker chug.

Dragon descends—welcome to hell.

Latin rises like an invocation—Audi mea verba, o ignis draconis—procedure more than decoration.

Draco hic apparere debet—the chant keeps the motor hold even as the language turns liturgical.

Eye dilates again, then more Latin through the spell completed—same slower weight, denser authority.

The creature verse returns over the heavy grind—born of the tempest, chaos and fire, knowing only its own desire.

Killing all in its path until it stands triumphantly alone—the story and the riff matching in appetite.

Dawn of eternal night—repeated as refrain and weather system over the restored thrash.

Terra firma, earth murdered in a blink—scale jumps planetary while the pattern holds.

Bending storms beneath its will, firelight troglodyte—then dawn again.

Solos tear across the grid again; the engine is recognizably the same, only denser with what the story has already burned.

Demonic bird, reptilian desert breath—another bestiary pass before Isaiah claims the throne.

Dawn of eternal night one more time, then a long late run on the thrash pattern alone.

Still that same relentless command—body lock holding after nearly nine minutes of motor.

The beast we awoke hath been untamed—eyes of fire, wings of flame.

Spreading its wings and taking to the air—and the pattern finally breaks.

Attention lets go; a last distorted chord rings and decays into thin silence. The dragon does not get stopped—it simply leaves still flying.