Hey sorry for the very late release had to help my brother move. Just came in now was going to take the rest off for today when I saw my first paying patreon. Thank you Edmund Burke!
I will do the double release tomorrow for us hitting the 50 rising star. Also I see we hit 40 so that will be another bonus chapter on the weekend. Let's push for those fav, follows, and reviews so we can climb the chart & get more bonus chapters!
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Character Sheet
Name: Artorius Pendrath
Titles: None
Archetype: Leader[Awakened] – lvl 26
Race: True-Blood Dragonmen(Homo Draconis)[G-hatchling] – lvl 26
Class: Storybook Squire(House Pendragon)[Tier 0] – lvl 26
Health: 100/260 | Stamina: 90/180 | Mana: 240/240
Stats
Strength - 31+3+3+1→38
Dexterity - 30+3+3+1→37
Constitution - 31+3+3+1→38
Intellect - 33+6→39
Willpower - 34+6→40
Perception - 21+3+1→25
Charisma - 53+6+3+3→65
Luck - 30+3+1→34
Trait: Commander, Stoic, Ambitious
Skills: Inspect, Heroic Blow, Last Stand, Training Regimen
Mutation: Draconic Adaptation, Draconic Communion, Draconic Empowerment
Laws: None
Technique: None
Words of Power: Flame(Song), Crystal(Song), Light(Song),
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Looking at his character sheet which was coming along well, the thing he focused on was his new skill he got a while ago. So far thanks to this skill he gained +1 Con, +1 Dex, +1 Per, and right now +1 Str! Plus he couldn't forget the +1 Luck he got from eating the radiance dragon heart much good it did for him since it fell. It was an interesting skill even with his mana suppression collar on it seemed to be working its magic. Though at this point he had the feeling that the Sword Dragon only wanted to keep his Draconic Empowerment on lockdown.
Nonetheless, this new skill didn't have the hitting power or different utilities of his other abilities but it had proven to be helpful. He hadn't so far tried it on others, thanks to his suppression it was only working for him. Still these stats he was gaining would slowly add up.
"Hold still, child," a voice rasped. "If you thrash, I sew your arm wrong, and then you'll swing crooked for the rest of your short life."
Artorius looked up at the figure leaning over him an old wooden dragon not literally wood, but his scales were brown, dull, and fibrous, layered like bark. Age had desiccated him; parts of his plating were cracked, and his horns were worn down almost flat. His eyes were amber and cloudy.
Image: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/20195898326902849/
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/3237030978420972/
He wore no armor. Only a ragged apron, pocked with burn marks and stains that had soaked in long ago. He worked with claws dulled by time, using a hooked bone needle threaded with something that looked disturbingly like sinew. "You're lucky," the wooden dragon muttered, pulling another stitch tight. "Most of the ones who go up there come back as chunks, not people."
"Well I guess I'm not most, old man. Thought you would have noticed that by now!"
He tied off the stitch with a practiced jerk that made Artorius flinch. The healer clicked his tongue. "You fought like a fool," he said without looking up. "A strong fool. A durable fool. But still a fool. Charging that thing bare-handed after your sword broke? You trying to impress someone? Or die dramatically?"
"I didn't get a choice," he tried to defend himself but he knew he could have used his trait especially his Commander trait but he wanted to keep some cards up his sleeve.
"There's always a choice," the old dragon said. He moved to Artorius' shoulder. The skin there had torn open in a long arc from the Hybrid's claws, the edges jagged, bruised, and crusted with dried blood. The healer dabbed the wound with a soaked cloth that burned like acid. Artorius hissed.
The healer worked in silence for a while, only the steady pull of thread and the echo of distant screams filling the room. Artorius forced himself to look around. The slave pits spread out beyond the healer's corner, low ceilings supported by iron beams eaten through with rust; chains bolted into walls; cages stacked two, three high.
The floor shifted from dirt to cracked stone and back again, a patchwork carved by centuries of neglect. Water dripped from somewhere far above in a constant, maddening rhythm. Everything was damp. As if the entire place sweated.
Bodies lay around some unconscious, others staring blankly at nothing. A few were being treated by lesser healers or ignored entirely depending on how likely they were to survive the next match.
Countless dragons who were either prisoners of war like him, criminals, deserters, slaves and so on. Twice he saw a figure missing limbs. Once he saw someone who wasn't going to survive the hour, let alone a match.
Above them, muffled but constant, came the roar of the colosseum. Thunderous. Hungry. The sound of dragons reveling in blood. The ceiling trembled with each wave of applause. Dust sifted down like ash. The wooden dragon followed Artorius' gaze. "Don't bother memorizing faces. They change every week."
Artorius didn't argue. He knew truth when he heard it. "Arm," the healer ordered. He lifted it, though every muscle protested. The wooden dragon wiped away more dried blood and began stitching a new tear that ran from tricep to elbow.
"You'll live," the healer said, making it sound like an inconvenience. "Mostly because you refuse to die. I've seen types like you before. Stubborn. Violent. Insufferably lucky. You usually die last. Drink," the healer said, pushing a clay cup toward him.
Artorius took it. The water was metallic, warm, and tasted faintly of dust. But it didn't kill him, so it was an improvement over most things in the pits. When he handed the cup back, the wooden dragon leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a tone just above a whisper. "Your people are waiting."
Artorius stiffened then nodded his head in appreciation. Walking to the back, the farther he went, the darker the pits became. Lanterns flickered. Chains rattled whenever someone shifted. This deeper section was reserved not for common gladiators but for prisoners with value. Prisoners someone wanted broken slowly. Two figures waited in the shadows.
[Noble Thunder Drakelet — Level 29]
Raijin, tall even by thunder dragon standards, cobalt-scaled with crack-like veins of faint lightning crawling beneath his plating. His wings were shackled. His eyes were hollowed by exhaustion, but alert.
[Noble Black Dragonling — Level 29]
Zoklath, black-scaled, broad-shouldered, one horn chipped. His left eye was swollen shut from a fight days ago. He still stood like a soldier on duty. Between them sat a makeshift fire pit just heated stones glowing softly where someone had used a bit of stolen lightning discharge to warm them.
Looking at them, he felt a sense of pride, they have come far under him especially the black dread who forcefully followed him first. When Artorius approached, both dragons straightened. "Commander," Zoklath said, quiet but firm.
Raijin nodded once. "You won the match."
Artorius shrugged painfully. "Barely."
"That's still winning," Raijin murmured.
Artorius crouched, wincing. "Tell me how are the men?"
Zoklath spoke first, his voice low enough that even passing guards wouldn't catch much of it. "Not great, we just lost 3 more today! We are down to the last 100 if you include us 3."
Artorius closed his eyes shut, their numbers were dwindling fast even they could not keep up with these endless fights even though it did offer plenty of exp. "How is the plan coming along?"
Raijin spoke up, "We have our men digging in shifts of two to get to the sewer system spoken about. They are making progress and are nearly there. Though morale is low."
"I know things are tough, but it will turn around when we get out of here," Artorius remarked. "Did we get any maps of the surroundings?"
"We found a map maker who was able to create one for us before he unfortunately died in the team fights," Zoklath stated.
"Good," Artorius said as he leaned back against the wall, feeling the sting of fresh stitches pulling at his skin. The memories of how they ended up here came like a cold rush.
After they broke the army of the Fragrance Queen and the White Lady was dead, their new enemy was upon them before they would even rest, the Sword dragon. He wasn't out to get them per se but to overturn the Fragrance Queen plans.
Still that didn't stop his force from chasing them down ragged. With his forces exhausted, many severely injured and tired, he made his last stand along with a few that stood behind while the rest escaped.
They tried their best but they were outnumbered and the foe was much more fresh. Eventually they were taken down and brought here.
Bootsteps echoed down the corridor hard, deliberate, metallic. The three froze.
A squad of guards approached, six lesser drakes in segmented armor, carrying spears tipped with hooked barbs. At their center walked a figure Artorius knew immediately. Crimson Drakonar. Once the White Lady's followers towering, red-scaled, eyes slit and bright with malice. Artorius had broken his mistress. And Crimson Drakonar had not forgotten.
He stopped in front of Artorius. "Warlord," he said, voice like gravel dragged over metal. "The Sword Dragon summons you."
Artorius rose slowly. Raijin and Zoklath tensed, but didn't move. They knew better. One wrong action and they'd all be dead before they hit the ground.
Crimson Drakonar leaned down slightly, stare burning. "Try not to die on the walk," he murmured. "Your execution isn't scheduled yet."
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The last stairway opened into a vast archway, and sound rolled through like a living tide music, laughter, drunken snarls, arguments, roars of delight, and the sharp crack of flesh being struck for entertainment.
They reached the entrance to the main hall. Two massive doors each carved from the ribs of a long-dead massive dragon stood half-open, guarded by sentinels made of living metal. Their bodies were dragon-shaped but hollow, forged with impossible detail. Their eyes glowed with runic fire. Their presence hummed with a sentience that didn't come from flesh.
Crimson Drakonar gestured. "Enter," he said. The hall beyond was massive with pillars carved like enormous blades, curved, serrated, runes flowed like molten silver along their sides, swirling with shifting meaning. Tables of carved stone and obsidian laid about with dragons lounging upon them.
Performers filled the lower level creatures trained to juggle blades, swallow fire, or writhe through rings of crackling energy. A feathered dragon performed acrobatics that defied physics, twisting through tight arcs while nobles threw poisoned darts at her to add excitement. Music thrummed, countless dishes were served, and strange blood wine flowed. And everywhere, cruelty reigned.
Gladiators in chains were paraded across the platforms made to fight mock bouts for amusement. Dragons wagered loudly, slapping their tails or talons against the stone in excitement. A pair of drakes argued over the ownership of a badly wounded gladiator. One shoved the other. The other responded by snapping a goblet in half and slashing the offender's throat. The dead dragon slumped over the table, and servants simply dragged the corpse away as others poured more wine.
A celebration of excess. A ritual of dominance. A bacchanal of monsters. Artorius walked through it all, unchanged expression masking the disgust burning behind his eyes. A vast shadow moved above. He looked up. And saw him, the Sword Dragon.
He reclined upon a floating throne made of bladed shards that orbited him like a miniature storm. Every fragment was razor-sharp, humming softly, adjusting to his slightest movement. His body was not merely serpentine, it was sculpted. Long. Flexible. Made of interlocking plates of silver-and-chrome scale that looked forged rather than grown. His horns rose jagged and crown-like, each one shaped like the hilt of a weapon.
[Royal Sword Long — Level 39]
Thankfully Artorius was able to still use his inspect skill. The Sword Dragon smiled when he saw him. It was not a kind smile nor a cruel one. It was the smile of someone who owned everything he saw. Flanking him were two figures. His right and left hand figures. The two high noble blooded dragons.
On the right stood the Pain Dragon. Tall. Slender. Covered in obsidian-black plating lined with glowing crimson channels. His body was a study in discomfort every scale looked as if it pressed against the one beside it, scraping, grinding. His claws were too long, curving inward slightly, as though they wanted to cut himself. He had a shaggy mane of hair along with a jaw that could open wide enough to bite him whole. Pain wasn't his tool. It was his power. He was lord of the Hemorrhage Warrens, a bio-mechanical hellscape carved deep.
Image: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/190628996721137734/
[Noble Pain Drakelet — Level 30]
On the left reclined the Paper Dragoness. Her form was delicate in a way that felt wrong. Her scales resembled layers of painted parchment thin, almost flimsy, yet eerily resistant. They shifted when she breathed, overlapping like origami folded up. Her wings rustled softly, each movement whispering like pages turning. Ink-like patterns swirled across her body, forming a shifting script. She was lady of the Whispering Archive, a lofted biome filled with tree-like structures.
Image: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/12807180188599040/
[Noble Paper Dragonling — Level 30]
Many dragons turned to face them and watch.
Whispers rose like smoke. "That's him?"
"The warlord?"
"He killed the White Lady and defeated the Fragrance queen army, I heard."
Artorius reached the base of the platform. He remained standing. Crimson Drakonar knelt immediately, slamming one fist to the stone. "Your Radiance. I present Artorius, prisoner of your colosseum."
The Sword Dragon tilted his head slightly. "Rise, Drakonar." He did. Then the king's gaze locked on Artorius, bright and dangerous. "Welcome, Warlord. You stand before me," the Sword Dragon said softly. "And you do not kneel."
Artorius looked him dead in the eyes. "You asked for me."
The Pain Dragon narrowed his eyes and the Paper Dragoness hid a smile behind her wing. A moment of razor silence. Then the Sword Dragon laughed. A grinding-metal sound that rippled through the chamber like thunder. "Good," he said. "A blade should not bend before I heat it."
He rose slightly, the throne's shards shifting in a slow orbit. And the Sword Dragon descended, landing only a few steps away, towering above him. "You fought well today," the king said. "And survived. Barely. But you impressed my people." His furnace eyes narrowed. "So tell me, Warlord, how have you found me home so far."
"Not pleasant," Artorius answered honestly. "I have this problem where I constantly need to fight life or death battles everyday!" At his sly insults the pain dragon let out a low threatening growl, but the Sword Dragon silenced him with a wave.
"This biome is rich in history. I assumed you would try to contact with the dragon which makes it up?" So someone had been tale telling to the Sword Dragon what he had done in the Pale Snowfields. It didn't take much to know who it was as Artorius found the Crimson Drakonar looking at him smugly.
Unable to hold himself back since he had been through hell in that colosseum he asked, "What are you worried that I might call upon the old dragon of this land to smite you all to hell?"
"Yes, I am glad to see the collar is doing its trick. My High Lords advised me to just kill you and get it over with," Artorius looked at the two noble dragons who didn't even have the decency to look ashamed of trying to have an innocent man like him murdered like that. "No need to risk so much… but I see potential in you."
"So who is this dragon anyways that you snugly made your home in?"
"It's my uncle!" the dragon stated simply. Artorius meanwhile was aghast. "He and my father battled for the Clan Head position and my father came out on top. Ever since then my father's line had used his corpse as their homebase in the Nest!"
He did not know what to say, the dragon continued as if this was just normal. "Anyways are you ready to bow to me?"
Artorius did not hesitate. "No." The hall did not erupt. It collapsed into silence. A strangled silence. A dangerous one. The Sword Dragon's expression didn't shift. He simply grinned at him.
"Good," he said again. "I had hoped you would refuse." He circled Artorius slowly, examining him. "Tell me," the Sword Dragon asked, "did you truly think your escape plan would work?"
Artorius stiffened while the king smirked deepened. "Yes. I know about your tunnels. Your sewer routes. Your map. Your whispered plans. I know everything your little companions plot. You are clever," he said. "But not clever enough."
Artorius' mind spun, this was not good, not good at all. If their whole escape plan that they had been working on for weeks now had been foiled then they were in very bad straits. The hall waited in silence.
"I want you," the Sword Dragon said, "not as a slave. Not as a gladiator. Not even as a trophy." His smile sharpened. "I want you in my war." Artorius didn't answer, he knew this already. The king continued. "You have seen the corpse that fell from the Dragon Peaks," he said. "A Dragon Emperor, dead. A throne vacant. A power vacuum open for the taking."
The dragons in the hall shifted excitedly, all of them eager to partake in the bloodbaths and great opportunities. "The Dragonfall changes everything," the Paper Dragoness whispered. "Chaos," the Pain Dragon added. "Opportunity."
The Sword Dragon's voice deepened. "I will rise. I will bring down all the monarch blooded dragons. I will seize the corpse, take it as my new home. I will ascend as one of the Seven Sovereign blooded."
Then he leaned down. "And I want you beside me." Still, Artorius said nothing. He knew the rest that was left unsaid. Die in the Colosseum if he refused. He would have found his situation funny if he wasn't trapped in it right now. This was exactly the same option he had been offering the people he defeated.
Still he put up resistance, "So if I understand it correctly either die in the Colosseum for your entertainment or die in your war for your ambition." There was slight intake of breaths and hissing at the slight he imposed on their lord and master.
However the dragon couldn't help laughing, "Exactly!"
"Well if you don't mind I guess I'd rather try my luck in the arena!" Artorius stated.
"Before you choose there are a few things I must reveal. First, I just received word of where the rest of your army is. If that is the choice you go with then there will be nothing stopping me from giving the order to my men to hunt them down!"
Artorius froze in his spot, he thought about the main bulk of his army along with Ouroboros, Shiun, and Viserion who got away. He couldn't really verify if what he was saying was true but did he want to risk what little of his followers remained out there in the Nest.
"Also there is one more thing that will sweeten the deal for you, I will offer you my family technique!"
Artorius would have gaped with the others in the hall if he could have. As Ouroboros explained to him, a Technique was a structured method by which a user fundamentally transforms. There are countless different techniques that do a variety of different things but the basic breakdown could be the Body, Mind, and Soul techniques!
The Sword Dragon's smile was cold. "I offer you one," he said. "A gift none have received."
Sighing, Artorius made his decision. He was pretty sure there had to be a trap somewhere but what option did he have left. "Fine!"
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The corpse was so large that no one could even see its shape whole. The Dragon Emperor had fallen from the Dragon Peaks like a mountain ripped from its throne and hurled down into the Nest. When it struck the world, it cracked the crust and shook the very core of the Nest.
Time had not rotted it. Nothing so natural could dissolve a being that had once swallowed stars. Instead, the body decayed in ways that should not exist: blood turning to flowing gold, tissues petrifying into metallic stone, nerves calcifying into crystalline webs that still faintly pulsed with remnants of draconic power.
Many dragons had come to scavenge. Countless armies camped near it. Entire flocks of dragons were still coming to the remains. Its shadow alone stretched across three biomes. No one had mapped the entirety of the corpse. No one could. Caverns opened and closed on their own, as if the anatomy remembered how to move. Blood boiled under fractured organs. Bone grew and shrank. Skin split and sealed again. The Dragon Emperor was dead. But the corpse was not still.
And somewhere deep within it far below the jagged ribs that jutted into the sky like shattered towers something moved. The Dragon Emperor had many hearts. One heart beat every few days, a twitch, a contraction nothing functional, but enough to send vibrations through the corpse's architecture, like the final throbs of a star collapsing inward.
Around this half-functioning heart formed a cavern the size of a keep. The walls were layered muscle plates the thickness of fortress gates, blackened and hardened like volcanic rock. Thin threads of golden ichor ran through them like veins of ore.
At the center, fused into the last heart's chamber, rested an egg. It had no right to be there. No dragon queen had laid it. No clutch belonged in the Emperor's chest. None could explain its presence. The egg feeds on the Emperor's tissue, its blood, on its marrow like a tumor with intention. It was enormous, almost the size of a house. Its surface was a matte black that reflected nothing. No light, no flame, no magic. The egg pulsed with the Emperor's heart.
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Author Note: How the table have turned on the MC.
Also what's going on in the dragon corpse? Find out.