In the limitless tapestry of creation, where stars are but flickering embers of older worlds, the dragons reign at the apex of creation with their hierarchy carved in fire, forged in claw, and enshrined in the very bones of the cosmos. The Dragon Eyrie, that towering cradle of ancient power, is where this hierarchy is writ in flesh and scale, where every beat of a wing or flicker of flame whispers of dominion, ambition, and the eternal struggle for supremacy.
To speak of dragons is to speak of dynasties older than empires, of predators whose names alone command reverence and terror alike. From the first feeble breath of hatchlings to the omnipotent roar of great ones, the hierarchy of dragonkind is both ladder and battlefield, a succession of might that binds the cosmos itself.
At the foundation of the hierarchy lie the Lesser Dragons, creatures of fledgling flame and nascent power. Though small and untested, even the hatchlings of these lines carry within them the spark of cosmic consequence.
Hatchlings and Juvenile Dragons are the first rung upon this draconic ladder. It begins with them, as all stories of dragons must, with the hatchlings. Tiny, fragile, yet burning with the promise of eternity, these newborns pierce their shells with claws that would one day rend mountains.
These dragons are impulsive, untamed, their hunger raw and all-consuming. In them lies the promise of glory. Their lessons are learned in fire and blood: rival siblings and kin are not mere competitors, but foils in the forging of power; the world beyond the nest is merciless, and every breath drawn is a claim staked in the ledger of the cosmos.
From juvenile ranks rise the Young Adult Dragons, shapeshifters of ambition, creatures no longer fledglings but not yet sovereigns. Young Adults seek territory, rivals, and the first intimations of legacy. They are explorers of the skies and architects of destiny who can still wreak great havoc upon petty kingdoms.
But not all young adults ascend to greatness. Only some awaken fully into the rank of Champion. These are the elite, the apex combatants whose presence inspires both reverence and fear. Champions lead broods of lesser dragons into battle, orchestrating the dance of war with claws and fire. Mortals, who glimpse them but once, often fall to worship, naming them gods in fleeting hope of favor.
Even among champions, time is the crucible that separates the mighty from the legendary. Few ascend to the rank of Elder or High Dragon, beings of wisdom and power that surpass the understanding of mortals. They stand at the border between lesser and greater dragons. These dragons carry the weight of centuries upon their scales, their knowledge stretching across eons of triumph and defeat. An Elder's presence is a force of nature: storms gather at their behest, mountains rise beneath their claws, and civilizations flourish or crumble depending upon their whims.
From this stage, the hierarchy rises into even more unimaginable heights, Great Dragons. The Leaders of Dragonkind who rule over powerful Dragonflights, clans, broods, and more! Here, dragons cease to be mere predators; they become sovereigns in every sense. These titans command vast territories, hoard wealth beyond mortal reckoning, and maintain dominion over other dragons.
First among the Great Ones are the Dragon Lords, they are shapers of an age, tyrants of the sky and flame. Their wings blot out horizons, their flight heralded by thunder, and their names etched in the annals of civilizations that once believed themselves unassailable.
Yet even Dragon Lords must raise their heads in respect before Dragon Kings and Queens, Monarchs of Flame and Fang. These are the supreme rulers of countless worlds, dragons of legend, beings whose very essence is entwined with the cosmos.
But towering even above Kings, far beyond the reach of mortal imagination, are the Dragon Emperors, the greatest of all Great Dragons. They are the living apex of dragonkind's ambition, the culmination of fire, fang, and will.
Beyond even emperors lie the Supreme Dragons, entities whose power defies comprehension. Their number is few, and their motives inscrutable. Some speak of them as guardians of cosmic balance; others whisper of them as harbingers of the end.
Each tier ascends toward the impossible, an ever-burning ascent of supremacy that no mortal or king could ever hope to climb. And yet, in the Dragon Eyrie, new hatchlings still claw from their shells each one daring, dreaming, and hungering to someday stand among the Great Ones or even Supreme beings of creation.
Darkness. It was the first thing Artorius felt thick, heavy, and full of that choking dampness that came from sleeping too long in a cell carved from ancient volcanic stone. The floor was gritty, powdered with red sand. Around his neck was a strange device. His body ached as though a mountain had fallen on him. His fingers twitched. His skin, still marred by the last battle to many to even count. Then came the sound. Clang!!
The door to his cell slammed open with enough force that dust rained down from the ceiling like ash. Light poured in, harsh and white, illuminating the cloaked figure that stood framed by the glare. "Get up," the guard snarled, a lesser drake, armor plated, carrying a hooked pole. "You're on the roster for today."
How long has he been in Nest now, a year or more? Time had lost all meaning really, it was all survival since he came here.
Artorius groaned as he pushed himself upright. His muscles screamed. His head throbbed like an anvilled drum. "Hurry up," the guard called. "The bets have started to shift against you. They think you might not make it." He opened the cell door for Artorius letting him walk out, chains rattling. "Let's not disappoint them."
Artorius didn't put up a fight as he walked the dingy corridors of the pit. He couldn't really, not with his strength so low, his body bruised and sore, and worse of all his mana sealed. But even drained, even weakened, his steps shook the dust from the corridor walls. His presence, his history preceded him, even here.
They stepped into the preparation hall. Torches of reddish flame flickered, casting hellish light across displays of weapons chained behind bars. Each weapon was chipped and nearly broken, but it was all they had. Dozens of other gladiators lined the walls, some sharpening bone-like claws, others shaking in fear, and still others looking at him with a mix of awe, dread, and curiosity.
Whispers rose immediately as he entered. Some even cheered when they saw him, "Go get them, Scaleless One!" Others looked new here and started asking who he was. "He is the Warlord… He slew 3 direct descendant noble dragons… He conquered 8 biomes! He crushed the fragrance queen army."
He let the guard push him through the preparation hall until they reached the final gate, taller than many men, carved with runes and dragon sigils. The entire structure pulsed with the energy of dragon craft. With a grinding roar of ancient gears, the massive stone gate split open, releasing a tidal wave of light and sound.
Artorius stepped out. The afternoon sun hit his face and he had to hold up a hand to block the bright sunrays. Entering the sandy arena, the crowd exploded. Roars shook the pillars. Fire belched from dragon throats. Thunder crackled from storm dragons in the high seats. Countless dragons were in attendance, perched on ledges or seated in carved terraces. Their scales glittered like a mosaic of metal and color; golds, reds, silvers, blacks, amethysts. Their combined breath heated the air so intensely the horizon seemed to shimmer.
The colosseum was a beast of stone and steel massive enough to hold ten thousand dragons in the stands and still have room. Its architecture was brutal, adorned with spikes jutting outward, banners depicting victories, and flaming braziers suspended by chains.
The arena floor stretched wide scarred by countless battles, stained darker in patches where even magic could not cleanse the blood.
Image: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/39406565482442371/
Artorius walked to the center, each step echoing. His vision cleared. His blood warmed. His heartbeat steadied. Artorius lifted his head and looked to the VP booth high above. The Sword Dragon sat on his throne peering below. He was a Long type dragon with a long serpentine body straight like a blade. Horns crown-like and jagged. Every scale on his body formed sharp angles, reflecting the colosseum lights until he looked forged from celestial iron. His eyes, twin keen furnaces observed down with amusement.
He was the King of the Bladed Steppes where grass grows thin over razored stone, where storms drag knives of lightning across the plains, he was the undisputed sovereign.
Image: https://reverend-insanity.fandom.com/wiki/Sword_Dragon?file=8sjc8nysfhte1.png
A booming voice echoed through the stadium deep, theatrical: "DRAGONS OF THE NEST—!!"
The announcer, a three-faced chimera dragon perched atop a levitating platform, spread his triple wings. An ability powered his voice so that his words hit every ear no matter the distance.
"BEHOLD!" The voice echoed magically, spreading from every direction at once. "TODAY, WE ARE IN FOR A TREAT! A CHALLENGER OF LEGEND WHO NEEDS NO INTRODUCTION! A VILLAIN, A WARRIOR, A SCOURGE UPON THE NEST BIOMES!"
The Sword Dragon reclined in his throne, a smirk pulling at the edge of his razor-lined mouth. The crowd roared approval. Some spat fire into the sky, painting arcs of flame. "THE WARLORD! THE TYRANT! HE WHO CONQUERED EIGHT BIOMES AND STRUCK DOWN THREE HIGH DRAGON-BLOODED LORDS!"
The crowd roared so loudly the arena floor vibrated as though it were alive. Artorius raised one hand lazily, not in greeting but in a gesture of mild annoyance, which only whipped the dragons into even more of a frenzy.
"AND FOR HIS PUNISHMENT, ITS ENTERTAINMENT TO YOU, O GREAT AUDIENCE, WE PRESENT A CREATURE FROM THE DEEPEST PARTS OF THE NEST, A BEAST OF PURE MALEVOLENCE, A ABOMINATION. A HALF BREED. THE DEMONIC DRAGON!"
A second gate rumbled open on the far side of the arena. The temperature seemed to fall. The sun dimmed as shadows surged across the sand. Dragged by six armored drakes came a monstrous figure bound in obsidian chains. It snarled and writhed, claws gouging trenches into the ground as they forced it out.
The chains shattered. The guards ran for their lives. And the creature rose to its full, hideous height. The crowd screamed: "KILL!! KILL!! KILL!!"
Image: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/5840674511715195/
[Demonic Dragon Hybrid — Level 29]
It was at least three times his size, hunched but hideously powerful. Its skin was deep crimson, cracked like cooling magma. Thick black horns curled from its skull. Its mouth split vertically, opening into a grotesque flower of fangs. Four arms. Each ending in scythe-like talons that dripped purple venom.
It stood on digitigrade legs, the muscles twitching beneath lava-like skin, ready to spring. The arena trembled under its roar, an abyssal sound that shook the air. "Lovely," he muttered.
The announcer's voice boomed again: "FIGHT!" Then the gong sounded like the death knell of a god. The Demonic Dragon Hybrid moved first—far faster than a thing its size had any right to. It lunged across the sand in a blur of red and shadow, its four arms whipping outward like scythes forged from hate. Talons screeched inches from Artorius' skull as he dove sideways, the force of the monster's charge ripping a trench into the arena floor where he'd stood.
Sand exploded around him. Artorius rolled, came up to one knee, and snatched the chipped arena-forged sword the handlers had tossed at his feet earlier. It was a miserable thing half a blade, half a rusted insult but it was all he had.
It was times like these he wished he had access to his abilities. Touching the collar made of strange metal humming with runes that pulsed like a heartbeat not his own. He learned the hard way what it did, Mana suppression. The familiar absence gaped within him like a missing limb.
Still there were somethings he still could do that being his Words of Power. Trying out the new word he learned, he sent a burst of light.
The creature charged right into it and shrieked as it was blinded, letting loose a razor-edged sound that peeled along his bones. It wildly swung and Artorius barely got the sword up in time. The blade caught one descending talon metal screamed, bone cracked, sparks spat and he used the force to pivot backward, redirecting the blow instead of blocking it head-on. His arms vibrated with the impact. Blood trickled from his palms where the cheap grip tore into his skin.
The Hybrid didn't care about form. It didn't need to. It came at him like a collapsing building of mass and hunger and rage. Its second arm swung horizontally and he ducked. The third arm thrust forward he sidestepped, raising the sword, letting the talon scrape along the flat.
The fourth arm stabbed downward like a spear and Artorius twisted his hips and slammed his shoulder into the creature's forelimb, redirecting the strike into the sand where it sank nearly a meter deep.
He had to give it to it even though it was blinded it was giving him a run for his money making him assume it most likely had other senses it was using to keep track of him. Artorius kicked off the Hybrid's arm, flipping backward to buy space.
The Hybrid tore its arm out of the sand, shrieking again. Purple venom dripped from its talons, sizzling where it hit the ground. "One scratch from that shit and I'm done," Artorius muttered.
The creature charged and this time he called upon the Word of Power for Crystal as crystalline spikes jutted out of the ground like spikes. The creature did not care as it bulldozed through it, the spikes nicking and piecing it in places.
Since it was not stopping, he also sprinted to meet it and knew exactly how suicidal it looked but at the last instant he slid low, beneath the monster's reach. One of its massive legs thundered over him, the heat of its body oppressive. As he slid, he swung upward with everything he had.
The chipped sword bit deep. A crack, a gout of roiling-black blood, a roar of pain. He'd torn a line across its thigh only a few inches deep, but enough to stagger it. Not stopping there he called upon another word of power, Flame. He threw basically a fireball at it making it stumble back some more.
He had a lot of training so far with his Words of Power, he had realized how foolishly he was using it before just making them power his blows. He learned his imagination was his limit.
The monster recovered in an instant, flesh sloshed off its body but it kept on going. It leapt, its whole massive body coming down like a collapsing tower. Artorius barely threw himself to the side. The ground where he had been shattered into a crater. The concussion hurled him across the sand, flipping him three times before he crashed into one of the arena's iron spikes. Pain detonated up his spine. His vision fuzzed.
The Hybrid didn't give him a heartbeat of respite. It came for him, bounding on all fours, maw splitting open like a grotesque flower. Rows of fangs slid apart, dripping acidic saliva that ate through the sand.
Artorius lurched to his feet. The Hybrid lunged. He brought the sword up and the Hybrid bit down. The blade snapped in half like rotted wood. Teeth dug into the metal, crunching through it. Half the sword clattered uselessly, the remaining hilt trembled in Artorius' hands. The Hybrid spat the steel aside and lunged again.
Artorius ducked under the bite but not the backhand swing. A talon smashed across his ribs. Something cracked. He went airborne, skidding across the arena in a trail of blood. His ears rang. The world dimmed. 'Get up.'
He didn't know if the voice was memory, instinct, his own stubbornness, or something else but he was so tired. How many fights had he been in. He lost count on the dozenth. The Sword dragon wanted to break him, wanted him to bow and submit to him. But has not going to allow that.
'Get up.' He rose. He was thankful for his draconic adaptability recalling when he first arrived here he would have been out for good.
The Hybrid charged again, enraged. Artorius braced by using another application of light he came up with. Calling forth the Word of Power for Light this time instead of blinding he used it to distort his surroundings making himself a fuzzy outline like a heat distortion.
The Hybrid bull passed as he used that chance to slam both hands into the monster's inner elbow at the moment its arm passed by. The joint hyperextended with a wet, ripping crack.
The Hybrid shrieked, staggering. Before it could recover, Artorius seized its broken arm, stepped into its range, and wrenched downward with all his strength. Bone erupted through flesh. The arm dangled uselessly. The crowd went wild.
He also had been practicing his hand to hand combat in this colosseum. He had gotten rusty thanks to in part heading off to Uni now that he was in this arena of life or death he had been sharpening his skills. If only Ser Ector could see him now, he would be so proud.
The Hybrid raged, its remaining arms windmilling with murderous fury. Artorius ducked, dodged, weaved one talon grazed his cheek, tearing a thin line open. Blood ran down his face. He slammed his fist into the creature's ribs. It was like punching a furnace wrapped in armor. His knuckles split. Pain flared. But something gave. The Hybrid staggered half a step. He pressed onward.
Artorius stepped inside the creature's reach, ignoring the talon that tore across his shoulder, and began to strike; fast, brutal, precise. Ribs. Kidney. Solar plexus. Ribs. Throat. Jaw. Broken arm. Wounded thigh. Every blow calculated. Every movement the product of many fights and long hours of training.
His fist drove into the monster's jaw, snapping its head sideways with a crunch. The Hybrid roared and drove its knee into his ribs. Something broke, multiple somethings. Artorius coughed blood into the monster's face.
It reeled back in confusion, wiping at its face and that was what he was looking for as he grabbed the arm he broke and pulled. There was a wet, horrifying rip. Blood sprayed across the sand in a black-red arc. The crowd froze, the dragons stopped roaring.
The Hybrid screamed with a sound too ancient and agonized to belong to anything living. Artorius swung the severed arm like a club and smashed it across the monster's face. Teeth flew. The Hybrid stumbled backward, spitting blood and venom.
Artorius threw the arm aside and rushed it with everything he had left. He drove his knee into its jaw. His elbow into its temple. His fist down on its collarbone. A hammering rhythm of brutality.
The Hybrid slashed blindly with its remaining arms. One claw tore his bicep open. Another stabbed halfway into his thigh. He didn't stop.
He headbutted the creature, felt something in his skull crack, and something in its skull crack louder. The Hybrid dropped to one knee, dazed, bleeding darkness onto the sand. Artorius grabbed its horns, planted his shredded feet in the sand and wrenched its head downward.
The creature tried to resist but he slammed his forehead into its snout, again and again until bone splintered and blood spurted. The arena was silent now. No cheers. No fire. No thunder. Just the sound of flesh meeting flesh, of a man tearing down a monster with nothing but fury and brutality.
Artorius roared a wordless, primal shout and with a final, brutal slam he cracked it nose, a spiderweb of fractures spread across the creature's skull. The creature collapsed backward, choking on its own gore, thrashing wildly.
Artorius spat blood and tasted iron, heat, and victory. He staggered toward the dying monster, grabbed its horn again, and dragged its head up from the sand for the entire arena to see. The Hybrid's remaining arms clawed weakly at him. He slammed its head into the ground. Once. Twice. A third time, the sand cratered. The creature went still.
You have slain [Demonic Dragon Hybrid — Level 29]
Congratulations! You have leveled up. Class: [Storybook Squire] → Lv. 26
However Artorius didn't stop, he raised his fist and brought it down like a hammer forged from the end of the world onto the creature's face. He struck again. And again. And again. Until the skull shattered beneath his hand like a rotten fruit and the arena floor was painted black-red.
Silence. The colosseum of thousands of dragons fell completely, utterly silent. Even the Sword Dragon, in all his celestial metallic majesty, sat frozen, eyes narrowed not in contempt but in something like… interest.
Artorius stood there, coated in blood that was not his and blood that was, chest heaving, mana-collar still blazing around his throat. He smiled a bloody smile at the crowd and roared, "Are you not entertained!"
And the silence broke like a dam collapsing. Fire. Thunder. Roars. Screams. Bellowed fury and reverence. Dragons howled his name. Warlord. Tyrant. Scaleless One. Scourge.
And he got one message from the system: +1 Strength
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Author Note: This starts Arc 3! So why on earth is MC here? Find out next chapter.
Also I couldn't help myself by adding that line from the gladiator movie!
Made the fight brutal since it's just fists and body, no abilities.
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Chapter 34 Recap!
Leveled up Class: Storybook Squire to Lvl. 26!