Entering the cave, a wave of coolness washed over him, and Raymond shivered involuntarily, his shoulders hunching slightly.
Outside the cave, the volcano crater still radiated scorching heat, like invisible tongues of fire licking the air, but inside the cave, it felt as if he had stepped into an ice cellar.
The cold stone walls exuded a damp smell, tinged with faint notes of rock and ancient time.
He raised a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, looking at the slippery moss on the rock wall—this place, where moisture and vitality coexisted, completely overturned his impression that the vicinity of a volcano should be dry and scorching.
Beneath his feet, a magic array, glowing with a mysterious, faint light, operated silently, its pale blue runes flickering rhythmically in the dimness like dormant fireflies.
Raymond tightly clutched the rough flint dagger, cautiously stepping deeper.
The cave was not deep; after rounding two damp turns, the view suddenly opened up.
The scene that met his eyes was completely different from the desolation he had imagined: a weathered oak bookshelf stood against the stone wall, piled high with parchment scrolls and heavy books; an ancient stone table stood in the center, holding a verdigris-covered candelabra with solidified wax tears forming strange shapes; in the deep corner, a simple yet sturdy wooden bed was laid with thick animal fur bedding, folded into sharp angles.
"This place… someone actually lived here?" Raymond lowered his voice, murmuring to himself in confusion, kicking aside a ceramic pot that had rolled onto the ground.
His gaze was suddenly drawn to an object hanging from the corner of the stone table: a heavy black cloak.
It was covered with a pile of white powder; he hesitated, then reached out a finger and lightly touched it, and the ashes drifted down like withered dream butterflies.
He shifted his gaze back to the tabletop; around the base of the candelabra, there were also a few small clumps of the same white ash, like the remnants of something completely burned away.
However, what was even more unsettling was that, apart from these ashes, the entire cave was unusually clean; the crevices of the bookshelf, the edges of the stone table, and even the floor were spotless.
Where did these ashes come from?
His doubts deepened, and Raymond abandoned the ceramic pot at his feet, instead bending down to examine a heavy iron chest on the ground.
In the center of the chest lid, a ferocious black dragon emblem was carved in relief, exuding an aura of ancient majesty, yet the keyhole was completely blocked by heavy rust, almost unrecognizable.
He stood up, full of questions, and walked towards the silent bookshelf.
Most of the yellowed parchment scrolls on the shelf were well-preserved, as if the passage of time had been exceptionally gentle with them.
But the one spread open on the table was particularly striking—its leather cover was soft yet tough, and though the hot-stamped High Valyrian script had faded, the owner's name could still be discerned: Ellys Baelerys.
"Baelerys…" Raymond's fingertip traced the cover, his voice low with a hint of excitement, "That name… what a prominent lineage!"
He carefully blew away the thick layer of white ash on the cover, as if brushing away a layer of historical dust, and solemnly opened the first page.
The erosion of time had caused some of the ink to bleed, but each stroke still conveyed the sharp precision with which it was originally written.
"3129 BC, late summer. The thick smoke rising from Valyria covered the entire sky, as if the end of the world had arrived.
In the resort estate in Tyrosh, Father and Mother were watching me and my little dragon, Ymir, play.
The next moment, the smiles on their faces instantly froze.
Father grabbed my wrist, almost roughly, and dragged me towards the depths of the dragon's lair.
The ground beneath our feet trembled with a roar; I naively thought it was just a small volcano throwing a tantrum.
It wasn't until I mounted Father's giant dragon, Wagnerus, that the scorching air, mixed with thick smoke and dust, assailed us, almost suffocating.
Wagnerus tore through the thick smoke with all his might, carrying our family piercing the sky, crossing the Summer Sea…
The sight that met our eyes was despairing—the once glorious Freehold, our home, was now a sea of fire.
Mother's heart-wrenching wails… Our home, it completely collapsed at that moment…
We were once Dragonlords in the clouds, looking down on all beings.
Without the Freehold, what are we?
Wandering lonely souls?"
Such a vivid depiction of the Doom of Valyria was something Raymond had never heard of in any book or minstrel's song.
His fingertips trembled as he turned a page; the handwriting suddenly became wild and scrawled, as if the writer's heart was being torn apart by despair and anger.
"Tyrosh, this is a colony of the Freehold Empire; almost all families have resort estates here.
The adults, those former Dragonlords, argued day and night, each shout accompanied by greedy gazes falling tangibly upon the little dragon, Ymir, in my arms.
Those gazes were as scorching as a dragon coveting treasure!
But they dared not act rashly, because Father's adult dragon circled above the estate; its suppressive power temporarily held their filthy claws at bay.
However, soon after, before the dust of the catastrophe had settled, the survivors went completely mad fighting over the remaining dragon eggs and dragons.
Former friendships vanished, and slaughter and betrayal spread like a plague; even infants in swaddling clothes and white-haired elders were not spared.
Aunt Agnes… her beautiful silver dragon, Moonbeam, was found floating in the canal last night, its scales having lost all their luster.
That was definitely not the work of ordinary poison; no matter how deadly the poison, it would be difficult to kill an adult dragon; their size and resistance are unimaginable, let alone Aunt's Moonbeam, who was in her prime!
That strange death, the twisted shadowy pattern around its neck… someone must have used forbidden curse power!
Sadly, we are all wounded and powerless to investigate.
Father's eyes burned with unquenchable fury and determination; he said we must return, to rebuild our glory with the surviving dragons… but is that truly possible?
Everyone's eyes are only fixed on that tottering throne!
The curse tore the world apart; the formerly clear hierarchies have long since crumbled.
Powerful families no longer possess overwhelmingly absolute strength, nor are weaker ones entirely without the power to resist—the truly weak have long since vanished in the inferno.
How ironic!
They loudly proclaimed resistance to oppression, yet turned around and placed even crueler chains on the already humble slaves.
When the very surnames representing status and hierarchy ceased to exist, their madness seemed more like the ultimate desecration of the old order…"
A charred dragon scale, about the size of a baby's palm, lay quietly between the pages.
Its jagged, incomplete edges suggested it had endured terrifying bites or burns.
"This… this must be Ymir's scale!
I can't imagine what it went through before it died?" Raymond held his breath, carefully picking it up.
"A black dragon, what a pity it couldn't grow up successfully…"
After turning this page, the diary's timeline abruptly went blank, skipping over thirteen long years.
The handwriting that reappeared, though still neat, exuded a weary numbness, as if the soul had been drained.