(Yuuta POV)
I lay flat on the floor, arms spread wide, staring at the ceiling as if it might suddenly decide to entertain me.
It didn't.
Beside me, Elena slept peacefully—too peacefully. She hadn't stirred even once, not when I shifted my weight, not when I sighed. Her small chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, soft breaths escaping her lips, as if the world beyond her dreams didn't exist.
"…Erza," I called softly.
She was lying on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, a novel resting comfortably in her hands.
"What?" she replied, her eyes still fixed on the pages.
"Don't you think Elena's been sleeping a little too much lately?" I asked, glancing at our daughter again. "It's been like this for months."
Erza turned a page before answering.
"She's almost five," she said calmly. "At that age, dragons sleep more. It helps with growth."
I swung one leg idly.
"How long do they usually sleep?" I asked.
She paused briefly, then spoke.
"Most dragons sleep at least twelve hours a day."
"Oh."
That explained a lot.
"Then why does Grandpa sleep almost all the time too?" I muttered, pointing toward the courtyard outside. Grandpa had made a small bed between two trees and was lying there peacefully, completely unbothered by the world.
Erza let out a quiet sigh.
"Dragons never stop growing," she said. "It's the same for him. He's just slower now."
I frowned slightly.
"So… it's like sleeping more because of old age?"
She sighed again, longer this time.
"Listen carefully," Erza said. "Dragons don't grow old the way humans do. They're more like—"
She paused, thinking.
"Crocodiles."
"Crocodiles?" I repeated, tilting my head.
She glanced at me sideways.
"How are you this clueless?" she asked, though her tone lacked real anger. "You come from that world, yet I seem to know more about its creatures than you do."
I scratched my cheek, embarrassed.
"Well… I didn't really study," I admitted. "I never thought it would matter."
Erza lowered her book slightly and looked at me—not sharply, but thoughtfully.
"Why didn't you?" she asked. "Did no one ever tell you that understanding the world is a way of surviving it?"
I shrugged.
"We have guns here," I said. "Guards too. People whose job is to protect us."
For a moment, she didn't reply.
Then her gaze hardened—not with anger, but with something colder, older.
"Yuuta," Erza said quietly, "never place your life entirely in the hands of those who promise to protect you."
I turned toward her, caught off guard by the seriousness in her voice.
"That belief feels comforting," she continued. "It allows you to rest. To stop preparing."
"But comfort makes people slow. And slowness is what gets them killed."
She leaned forward slightly, her eyes steady on mine.
"When danger truly comes," she said, "those who swore to stand in front of you are often already gone."
The words settled heavily between us.
"You won't even realize it," she added softly. "You'll be devoured before fear has time to reach you."
Silence followed.
Then she straightened, her voice calmer again.
"Swordsmanship. Martial arts. Survival knowledge," Erza said. "Learning these things takes nothing from you."
"But one day, they might give everything back."
I studied her face for a moment, then smiled faintly.
"That was… unexpectedly wise," I said. "I didn't think you'd explain it like that."
She scoffed quietly and returned to her book.
"Then," she said, turning a page, "you still don't understand who I am."
"Hm… I'm sorry," I said after a moment. "Anyway—back to the topic. Dragons sleep to maintain their bodies, right?"
Erza nodded slightly.
"Yes," she replied. "During sleep, we organize and store memories. The longer we stay awake, the more information the mind gathers. Later, we use it."
She glanced at me briefly.
"Much like how you use memories when you write your books."
"Ohhh," I murmured.
Then something clicked.
"Wait," I said slowly. "I've never actually seen you sleep like Grandpa or Elena."
Erza looked at me.
"What does that mean?" she asked.
I hesitated for a second.
"Aren't you a dragon too?" I said.
She lifted her chin slightly, pride clear in her voice.
"I am," she said. "A pure-blooded dragon."
"Then," I continued carefully, "shouldn't you be sleeping like them?"
Her eyes narrowed—not sharply, but suspiciously.
"Why do you want to see me sleep?" she asked.
I blinked.
"Well… I always fall asleep first," I said honestly. "I've just never seen you sleeping like Elena or Grandpa."
She stared at me for a moment.
"…So," she said slowly, "you do have bad intentions toward me after all."
"Bad intentions?" I repeated, startled. "What are you talking about?"
She crossed her arms.
"I let you fall asleep first," Erza said. "That way, I can sleep peacefully."
I stared at her in disbelief.
"You make it sound like I'm some kind of horrible pervert," I protested.
She looked at me flatly.
"Did I not make myself clear to you already?"
I opened my mouth to respond—
then closed it again.
Heat rushed to my face, creeping up my neck before I could stop it.
"What? No—!" I said quickly, waving my hands. "How can you even think that, Erza? I'm a gentleman."
I straightened my posture, as if that alone proved my point.
"A pure-hearted gentleman," I added firmly, "one who respects women."
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, Erza simply looked at me—quiet, steady, unreadable. The kind of stare that made my confidence wobble just a little.
"Oh, really?" she finally said.
"Yes," I replied without hesitation. "I don't even look at other women. That's how pure I am."
For a moment, the room was quiet.
Then she closed her book.
The soft thud echoed far louder than it should have.
"Then allow me," Erza said calmly, "to remind you how Elena was born, Mr. Gentleman."
My words died in my throat.
"…Well," I muttered, my gaze drifting down to the floor like it had suddenly become fascinating.
"That was… different. I mean… I was immature. Things just… happened."
I paused.
"Unexpectedly."
Erza leaned back against the sofa, arms crossing slowly.
"Exactly," she said.
She let the word linger before continuing.
"That is why I never sleep until you've already fallen asleep."
I jerked upright.
"What do you mean you don't trust me?!" I protested. "You forced me too, remember?!"
She answered immediately, without even looking at me.
"I was drunk, you idiot."
I opened my mouth.
Paused.
Then quietly closed it again.
Some battles weren't meant to be won.
And this was clearly one of them.
"Idiot," she said flatly, already turning back to her book.
The conversation ended just like that.
I watched her for a moment, still half-confused. She had been reading a lot lately—a lot. Not just novels, but thick documents too, the kind filled with unfamiliar symbols and notes I didn't recognize. I had seen her buy entire stacks of them, yet she never explained what they were for.
I sighed.
Whatever it was, she clearly wasn't in the mood to talk about it.
Letting the mystery go, I stretched out on the floor again. The afternoon sun filtered lazily through the room, warm and gentle. Elena slept on undisturbed, and Erza quietly turned another page.
Before I realized it, my eyes grew heavy.
I let them close.
And just like that, I drifted into an afternoon nap.
(Erza POV)
I continued reading for a while longer, though my eyes no longer followed the words on the page.
At some point, I noticed his breathing change.
Yuuta had fallen asleep.
It happened far too easily.
One moment he had been lying there, restless and awake, and the next his guard was completely gone—his body slack, his expression calm, as if the world itself no longer existed. He slept peacefully, without a single trace of tension on his face.
He was always like this.
He loved to mock dragons, calling us lazy, accusing us of sleeping too much. Yet when he slept beside Elena… or beside me… he was worse than any dragon. Completely defenseless. Trusting his life to us without the slightest hesitation.
It was like a sheep sleeping beside a lion, convinced it would never bite.
In reality, we were the most dangerous beings in existence—creatures who could kill without a second thought.
And yet this idiot felt no fear at all—sleeping beside me as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
An absolute idiot.
That was precisely why I could never take him to my world.
Yuuta was happy here.
This was a world where power was optional. Where strength could be replaced by money, laws, and numbers written on paper. A world where weakness did not immediately invite death, and kindness was not seen as a flaw.
Here, he could live without sharpening his claws.
But my world was nothing like this.
In my world, power was law.
It didn't matter if you were a king or a god. Titles meant nothing when faced with true strength. Without power, without the will and ability to defend yourself, you would be crushed—devoured—erased without leaving even a corpse behind.
That was how horrifying my world was.
And Yuuta would never survive it.
Not because he was stupid.
But because he trusted too easily.
Because he believed people would stop before crossing the line. Because he thought mercy was something everyone understood. Because he slept peacefully beside monsters, convinced they would never bare their fangs at him.
In his past, he had been lucky.
He met slave traders—and survived.
Had it been a nightmare-class creature… an unholy being… something worse than even the most violent dragon…
He would have been devoured in an instant.
No struggle. No last words. Just gone.
That was why I would never let him step into that world.
Not because I doubted his worth.
But because he deserved happiness.
And happiness like his could only exist in a world gentle enough to allow it.
I stood and walked over quietly, careful not to wake him. Elena was curled up near his side, her small body rising and falling in perfect rhythm with his breathing. I sat down beside them, close enough to feel his warmth.
For a while, I did nothing but watch him breathe.
There was something strangely calming about it—the steady rhythm, the quiet certainty of life continuing with each breath. His chest rose and fell without effort, without fear.
Humans were fragile creatures.
Yet he slept as though nothing in this world—or any other—could ever harm him.
Without thinking, I reached out.
My fingers slid gently through his hair, slower than necessary. It was soft—softer than I had expected. I brushed my thumb along his cheek, feeling the firmness beneath my touch.
"…So hard," I murmured quietly.
Then my gaze shifted.
Marks.
Faint scars traced the skin along his neck—old ones. Some had faded with time, barely visible, while others were deeper, extending toward his chest. I hadn't noticed them before.
Or perhaps… I had chosen not to.
My hand stopped.
Humans liked to pretend they were strong. Yuuta especially. He joked through pain, complained about fate, laughed as if nothing could truly touch him.
But scars never lied.
Slowly, I withdrew my hand and looked at his face once more—peaceful, innocent, unaware.
Trusting.
And for reasons I did not fully understand, my chest felt tight.
And for reasons I didn't fully understand, a tight pressure formed in my chest.
I looked away before it could grow any heavier.
Slowly—carefully—I reached for the buttons of his shirt.
One by one, I undid them, my fingers barely brushing his skin. I spread the fabric apart, opening it wide, the way one would open a book whose contents they already knew… yet still feared reading again.
The moment his chest was fully exposed, my breath caught.
It wasn't the first time I had seen them.
And yet—every single time—it felt like my heart stopped all the same.
Scars.
Too many.
Too deep.
They crossed his chest in cruel lines, overlapping and uneven, as if whoever carved them had wanted him to suffer for as long as possible. These weren't wounds meant to kill.
They were wounds meant to hurt.
My eyes widened, heat flooding my vision.
Rage.
How could this have happened to him?
A small, weak human—fragile, breakable—bearing scars that could give even dragons nightmares. Marks that told stories of pain no living creature should have endured.
I traced them with trembling fingers.
Each line felt like a strike. Each scar whispered of blades, of fire, of agony dragged out far beyond necessity. As if someone had tried again and again to break him—
—and failed.
Not because they spared him.
But because he refused to die.
"…Idiot," I whispered under my breath.
My hand lifted, mana gathering instinctively around my fingers.
I tried again.
I had tried before—countless times—but hope was a stubborn thing.
Just once more.
I focused my mana, compressing it carefully, precisely, pouring intent into the spell.
"Healopam."
The magic flowed, warm and pure, sinking into his skin.
Nothing happened.
The scars didn't close.
Didn't fade.
Didn't even react.
They remained exactly as they were—silent, unmoved, mocking my power.
"…Shit," I muttered.
My fingers curled into a fist, nails digging into my palm.
I already knew the answer.
Sister Mary had tried as well—using elven magic, the most refined healing arts in existence. Even her spells had failed.
Compared to hers, my healing should have been stronger.
And yet…
Nothing.
No change.
No mercy.
I lowered my hand slowly, staring at his chest, at the proof that some wounds were never meant to be healed by magic.
And for the first time in a long while—
I hated how powerless I felt.
And then I remembered something—
a possible way to heal his scars.
I had used Zani particles many times before, but this… this would be different.
I wasn't sure if it would work.
Still, the idea lingered.
If I could reshape Zani particles in a new way, perhaps a new spell could be born.
One that might heal him.
To be continued…