"Dragon Knight Douglas: A dragon knight without a dragon is only marginally better than a computer whiz who's traveled back in time—at least he can still ride horses. His ancestors forged a pact with a dragon through courage and bloodline. After advancing to Dragon Knight, his negligible true dragon bloodline reawakened—if all his blood were drained as a sacrifice, it might yield less than one-tenth of a milligram of true dragon blood."
According to Victor, Douglas's entire worth as a person was less than one-tenth of a milligram of dragon blood.
If one were to categorize the myriad creatures of Erian, most races could be divided into two groups: natural lifeforms and magical beings. The former vastly outnumbered the latter—humans, orcs, dwarves, all beasts lacking sentience... these naturally occurring species, born without the ability to cast spells, all belonged to the category of natural life. Elves occupy an intermediate position: Light Elves and Dark Elves lean toward magical creatures, while Wood Elves lean toward natural life.
This classification merely indicates differences in attributes, not strength. A human with class levels could easily dispatch a pure magical creature like a slime; yet the sea nymph, a magical creature, and the mermaid, a natural life, have battled for centuries in the same waters without ever determining a victor. In truth, the classification criteria remain quite ambiguous, leaving nearly all untrained observers (i.e., everyone except certain scholars and tower-bound academy mages) utterly perplexed: How do you determine whether a creature's acid attack is magic or innate ability? As for natural growth... come on, Eryan is a wondrous continent where reproductive isolation is nearly nonexistent.
Yet the dragonkin defy easy categorization into either group.
Even the elf kings, possessing demigod-like power, underwent countless years of study and adventure before donning their crowns. Their might didn't stem from birth into the royal line, but from being legendary-tier magic archers—their elven blood merely allowed them to journey farther along that path. Among the apex beings of the Main Material Plane, the influence of racial innate abilities grows blurred; their professions speak louder than their origins about their achievements.
Dragons are different.
Dragons have no professions, only age. They seem favored by the Creator itself; as long as they live, they grow stronger even while sleeping. Their knowledge is inherited through blood, abilities and wisdom unlocked over time, never to fear the loss of their legacy.
Scholars call them "mythical creatures."
Dragons are indeed profoundly "mythical." Their breath transforms plants near their lairs into precious herbs. A small bird they once kept to clean wounds evolved into a magical creature simply by consuming dried blood scabs. Arrogant dragons dislike assuming other forms and show little interest in mating with other species. Yet, over eons, their very existence has spawned numerous hybrids and subspecies.
Take dragon riders, for instance.
Perhaps their ancestors were heroes bathed in dragon blood, or descendants of dragon servants—those individuals (or other sentient races) gained admission to the path of dragon riding. Young dragons willingly mount only dragonborn, let alone full-blooded dragons. The ancestor who bestowed Douglas's bloodline achieved something even more extraordinary: he earned the recognition of a true dragon, which used dragon magic to permanently anchor dragon blood within him.
Though incredibly, incredibly diluted, Douglas's veins carry the blood of a true dragon.
Tasha received a definitive answer the moment the contract was sealed, and the result surpassed her expectations.
[Dragon Blood Bath]: A sword bathed in dragon blood sprouts dragon scales! You can temporarily extract dragon blood from a dragon knight and apply it to any dungeon structure, item, or member. It grants dragon attributes to the affected structure or item. However, since the raw material requires less than one-tenth of a milligram of dragon blood, this skill can only be used once on a single target. A second use will erase the dragon knight class and the dragon knight themselves.
"Two slots—who do you plan to enhance?" Victor asked. "I'd wager you'll use one on the pup. I recommend the Heart of Nature—a dragon-attributed mutated druid would be quite... interesting. Ahem, useful."
He cleared his throat awkwardly, though Tasha had no intention of heeding his advice from the start.
There was one most fitting choice.
Among the runes surrounding the magic pool, the Flame rune remained unactivated.
The reason it hadn't been activated thus far wasn't due to insufficient magic power. With the dungeon's current development, gathering enough magic to activate the Flame rune was no longer an issue. But Victor had once mentioned that the summoned imps originated from the Abyss. Tasha, who had signed the Forest Pact with the Oak Elder, wasn't willing to take that risk.
Dragons were not creatures of the Abyss.
Douglas signed the contract without a glance. The moment he set down his pen, his body went limp.
The use of the [Dragon Blood Bath] skill temporarily drained the dragon blood from his veins. The dragon knight collapsed to the ground, overcome by a sudden wave of weakness. Unseen by him, the only unlit rune in the magic pool began to shift.
Magic flowed into the rune, casting a dark crimson glow over the flame symbol. Yet before the rune could fully form, something else seeped in. One-tenth of a milligram of dragon blood coursed through it. The ominous dark red flared suddenly, shifting to bright red, then golden red—the color of blood radiant as light. Tasha heard a faint rumble, as if something collapsed, yet also as if something was being reshaped.
The rune transformed into a bottomless black hole, sucking magic in like a whale drinking water. Tasha set a mental limit—if the consumption exceeded this value, she would abandon this attempt at shaping.
A second, longer wail echoed from somewhere—this time, the sound resembled a colossal beast roaring to the heavens.
Douglas had no idea what was happening.
Sweat drenched his skin. His limbs felt limp, his vision blurred, his body hollowed out. Had the Ghost Lady turned on him? After swindling his soul? Douglas felt no disappointment. He had gambled everything long ago and didn't mind dying now.
The Rider felt a fierce gust of wind. Something was flapping, and the sudden draft inside nearly forced his eyes shut. Through squinted eyes, he saw a vivid red mass, like stagnant flames. He heard a hiss—somewhat like Joey snorting—but what followed wasn't Joey's drool, but sparks, carrying heat and the scent of burning.
What was that red shadow overhead? The red-skinned demon from the stories, intending to burn him alive?
Oh, quite nice. He preferred red fire to the blue lamps around him. A fiery, passionate blaze suited the funeral of a fiery, passionate dragon rider. Douglas crossed his arms over his chest, adopting a pose of resignation to death with eyes closed. Unfortunately, the next spark ignited his beard. The rider, who had been seeking death, endured for a moment before struggling to defend his beard. He leapt up, flapping his beard, only then realizing the force that had drained his body's warmth had begun to recede. Warmth flowed back through his limbs, torso, and eyes.
His blurred vision sharpened, his muddled mind cleared. Douglas found himself standing in the center of the hall, locked in a stare with a colossal beast.
Its scales shone like rubies, glistening in the surrounding light. Its wings spanned the entire ceiling, beating with such force that the gale could knock an unsteady man to the floor. Its face was both terrifying and captivating, its eyes blazing like molten lava. This frozen flame ignited Douglas's blue eyes, reflecting the shadow of the crimson dragon within his wide-open gaze.
From the blood of this solitary dragon rider, Tarsha had reshaped the dragon of his dreams.
Douglas stumbled forward as if in a dream, naturally falling in the gale. The dragon swooped down, halting half a meter away. Douglas didn't even bother to stand. He scrambled forward, clutching the massive wings, the dragon's scales and wing spines pricking his arms. This dream creature didn't vanish like every other dream; it blinked at him haughtily, making no move to shake off his grasp.
"Holy shit..." Douglas stammered, tears welling in his eyes as he smiled. "Hey, sweetheart, you're thirty years late."
In his thirtieth year, the dragon rider had finally met his dragon.
The "dragon" forged from flame runes possessed nowhere near the power or wisdom of a true dragon, nor could it wield magic. Only one such dragon-like entity could be created. Subsequent dragons forged by the runes were merely magical pseudo-dragons. Yet Douglas wept tears of joy, and Tasha was equally satisfied.
In fact, this outcome pleased her even more. Beyond the current specimen, future pseudo-dragons created by the flame runes would consume only magic power, with no limit on quantity. Riding these pseudo-dragons required no dragon knight profession, much like riding griffins. With sufficient mounts and a ready teacher, given time, Tasha could cultivate an entire air force.
Douglas was utterly immersed in his (one-sided) communication with the flying dragon. Tasha mercifully let him enjoy his dragon companionship for a while—after all, the man couldn't see anything beyond dragons for the time being.
Compared to the dragon-charmed dragon rider, the other captured member proved far easier to tame. Tasha merely produced the contract. Jacqueline asked no questions, uttered no words, and quietly signed her name.
Tasha felt like she was kidnapping a child.
—That thought lasted less than a second.
"Jacqueline the Troubadour: Age 26. Dating her won't get you arrested by the police, you know! Sirens possess enchanting voices, and fairies have hands imbued with magic. But after countless generations of crossbreeding, she's basically just good at singing and playing instruments, plus she has a youthful face."
"I see," Victor remarked with a mocking tone. "Fairies remain children until death, don't they?"
Twenty-six... Tasha silently glanced at the figure who looked no older than ten. Her mind flashed back to a horror movie she'd seen before—about a thirty-year-old orphan who looked like a child, relentlessly killing every family that adopted her.
The bard's skill is called [Volume Boost]: Turn up the volume! Speed up the rhythm! Louder! Stronger! Further! You can amplify the effects of any phenomenon hundreds or thousands of times over—you won't be able to stop partying! Living things? Amplify them to bursting point! Dead things? I'll show you how to amplify those too!
Judging by that description, it was probably another skill whose side effect turned the amplified target into a disposable item. And mentioning "living things"... did that mean Ryū was going to kill it for you to see...?
Jacqueline's signing and containment went smoothly. She followed wherever she was led, ate obediently, bathed obediently, slept obediently—as if she'd never moved at all.
She was genuinely well-behaved, so much so that Tashu wondered if she might have autism. The Bard remained silent, showing no reaction upon learning of the Paladin and others' deaths, only softening slightly when she saw Douglas. The Rider, finally cooling down from his dragon-encounter frenzy, approached her with unsteady steps, chattering on about a bright future. Their roles seemed reversed—adult and child. Even though Jacqueline was twenty-six, she was younger than Douglas.
"I wasn't joking before," Douglas said. "Jacqueline was... essentially bought into the 'circus' as an aberrant. She's actually my senior. Not the worst fate, but it's certainly no place for anyone."
Mavis understood completely. She was probably the most naturally suited person in the entire dungeon to be a nanny. Hearing that the girl was twenty-six didn't change her attitude; she still cared for Jacqueline like a child.
"A child without a childhood doesn't truly grow up," Mavis said, carrying the pot out and pouring the drink into Jacqueline's cup.
This time, Jacqueline got to drink it.
Tasha always felt Mavis wasn't just talking about Jacqueline. Every day, she carried a full crucible of maternal love, ready to distribute it to everyone she regarded as a child—and truth be told, aside from the Old Man of the Oak, everyone here was a child to her. She cared for the wounded, for Marion, and even for the priest of Saros, though the latter's attitude toward her had never been friendly.
The Holy Son of Salo was not doing well.
Since the battle ended, Samuel hadn't returned home. He'd been helping in the dungeon infirmary, eating hastily, sleeping fully clothed. Deep blue circles ringed his sunken eyes, his face gaunt—even more so than when he'd overused the Sun Staff. He pushed himself relentlessly, rushing from task to task, mechanically swallowing whatever food Mavis shoved at him. When Tarsha appeared before him, she barely recognized him.
Samuel had always kept himself impeccably neat—bathing daily, shaving before going out, grooming his appearance even when clad only in his faded doctor's coat. Now his jaw was thick with unkempt stubble, his cheeks covered in a layer of fuzzy yellow hair, dry and unkempt like straw. He looked up numbly at the ghost before him, stared for a moment, then walked right through it.
"Patricia is a benevolent god," the ghost said.
Samuel froze, stiff as a hunched statue. The image of the blind, legless soldier flashed through his mind again, distorted from its constant presence in his nightmares.
"The Moon Goddess's artifact does not kill, though it does not save either," the ghost said.
Her tone was utterly calm, offering no comfort, merely stating a fact. This only made Samuel believe it—or at least, he wanted to believe it. His fists clenched instinctively, the small, repeatedly torn wounds in his palms burst open once more, blood trickling slowly between his fingers.
Like his increasingly withered pain, his wounds had grown dull.
"It's shattered," Samuel said hoarsely. "The Cup of the Waning Moon, the Moon Goddess's sacred vessel... because of me..."
"Indeed," the ghost replied coldly. "The Moon Goddess is also the Goddess of Purity. You dared to use her sacred vessel to hold water and feed it to the dead. Of course it would break."
The Holy Son of Saro stood rooted to the spot, blinking, looking somewhat flustered—a far cry from the mindless corpse he'd been moments before. Tasha laughed. "Did you expect me to comfort you, to say it was just old and worn, not your fault?"
"No!" Samuel spun around, his voice thick with fury. "I know it was my sin!"
"And you believe this is atonement?" The ghost pointed at the cracked hands. "Keeping the scars, starving yourself, exhausting your life—does that make you feel better? Your self-satisfaction is cheap."
"You... you don't understand," Samuel gasped, breathless. "You don't know... you don't know..."
"What don't I know?" Tarsha asked, half-mocking, half-curious. "And what do you know?"
Samuel's mouth opened and closed several times, but no words came out.
"Never mind. I'm not interested," the ghost said. "Not everyone shares Mavis's fondness for babysitting."
The ghost drifted away.
Samuel stared at the direction the ghost had vanished, feeling his shoulders both heavy and light. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to say it, or to whom.
The burden of murder was lifted, as was the fury of treason against the Moon Goddess. Samuel felt both shame and dread at his doubt and anger toward her, convinced he was shirking responsibility. Yet no matter how he punished himself, the thought refused to fade. The ghost's words brought relief to the Holy Son of Salo, but the doubt remained.
The Moon Goddess's Holy Grail was useless to the wounded; the Sun God's Staff and Saros's divine arts could do nothing for them. Why had the all-knowing, all-powerful, and infinitely merciful deity not saved them? Was it because Samuel's prayers lacked sincerity? Because those people were not believers? Because Saros had already departed? Samuel felt lost and powerless, convinced he could do nothing. He felt that Saros...
No, no, stop. What a shameful person I am! Samuel's heart clenched in anguish. How dare I question the gods for not answering?
Samuel—meaning "God hears." Yet God seemed never to have heard.
If the nurse who raised him knew of such blasphemous thoughts, she would surely fly into a rage, then reinforce his faith with doctrine and tales of the past. But too many years had passed since he last heard her teachings. As Samuel strained his mind for guidance, the old knight's face suddenly flashed before him.
"Humans don't need gods," he declared coldly. "Nor do they need useless priests meddling in worldly affairs."
Samuel returned to the ward in turmoil. Night had fallen; visitors had departed, and most patients slept. The Son of Saro sat like a ghostly apparition on a bedside stool, futilely trying to persuade the knight in his mind: No, humanity certainly needs gods, needs the Saro faith...
Is that so?
Samuel recalled the blank, disinterested faces. Even in the southeast corner where proselytizing was permitted, few were willing to heed Saro's teachings. He had managed to persuade a handful of elders, only for their children to storm out, shouting that he was a money-grubbing fraud and vehemently opposing the idea of donating to rebuild the Temple of Saro. He recalled the children who threw candy wrappers at him. To them, Saro's doctrines and virtues held less value than a few sweets or a meal. Upon reflection, those who listened to his sermons did so less out of genuine devotion to Saro than as a form of entertainment.
"Humans don't need Saro," the old knight stated coldly.
"Doctor?"
Samuel snapped out of his recurring memory and looked at the person speaking from the bed. The soldier wasn't missing any limbs, but had been stabbed in the stomach and barely saved. Now he lay listlessly in the ward. Samuel forced a smile and said, "How can I help?"
"Can't sleep," the soldier said, baring his teeth awkwardly. "The pain is terrible."
"Oh," Samuel replied, nodding helplessly. A wave of powerlessness crept up his back, bending his waist even lower. What can I do? What can a priest of Saro do? Beyond watching you suffer and die, what else can I do?
"Sing a song," the soldier said, looking rather embarrassed.
Samuel paused.
"Yes, sing a song, Reverend," whispered the soldier on the next bed, the one without arms. "The one you sang the other day. It was really beautiful."
"Sing one!" someone else said.
Many eyes opened. In sickness, in the aftermath of war, sleep was no easy thing. Most warriors were too shy to speak of it—they wouldn't say how nightmares and pain tormented them, wouldn't say how, on that night they escaped death, the singing of the Holy Son of Saro had lulled them to sleep and pulled them awake, like a pair of gentle yet strong hands, dragging them back from hell to earth.
For them, that was the joy of life.
"All right, all right," Samuel said awkwardly, clearing his throat, flustered by the trusting gazes fixed upon him.
Saro's prayer song filled the ward.
...
Tasha fell asleep that night.
Before closing her eyes, a subtle premonition arose—a force drawing her consciousness downward. She only had time to say a word to Victor. Before he could reply, she sank into dreams.
She fell, fell, then flapped her wings and soared upward.
The sky stretched boundlessly wide, mist swirling around her form. The earth lay endlessly below—was it the distance? Everything appeared so small that Tasha felt she could crush the houses on the ground with a single finger. Yet in this serene setting, she felt a strange discontent, a sense that the space was too confined, the air too heavy. She couldn't fathom where this complaint came from.
In the distance, flying dragons approached, heading toward the same destination. Above the clouds, countless dragons rested within an open boulder field, like humans seated in an open-air theater. Tasha folded her wings and crouched down. Soon after, a colossal dragon appeared.
It was a colossal creature. Though Tasha herself was several times larger than the surrounding dragons, she barely reached halfway up its body. The golden dragon opened its maw, and its voice instantly filled the entire space.
"The humans have won!" it declared. "The dwarves..."
Its voice carried terrifying power, causing Tasha's head to throb. The images and sound shook violently, like a poorly received television signal. Her head pounded, yet the surrounding dragons and the body she inhabited showed no reaction. She even heard a nearby dragon snicker softly, "Isn't that just great? Those troublesome little gnomes..."
The next clear image arrived, its timing uncertain.
"My friends," the golden dragon declared, "the time has come. The rift will open tomorrow. I shall lead all dragons willing to follow. Any dragon may stay behind, but I must reiterate: once you choose to remain..."
Signal interference struck again.
This time the jump was even more violent. When Tasha opened her eyes next, she was no longer in the clouds. Not a single dragon surrounded her—only a human stood before her, looking so small.
"I'll miss you," the tiny human said. "Goodness, I can't imagine life without you."
The dragon Tasha stood beside was colossal. It lay sprawled on the ground, its head pressed to the earth, only then able to meet the human's gaze. Through the dragon's crimson eyes, Tasha saw a weeping face. He appeared to be in his sixties, yet he cried like a child.
"And I," the dragon said, "have long anticipated this. A human lifetime is but a moment to me, yet your moments are so vivid. Our parting came decades sooner than I anticipated, but the time we shared will sparkle within my remaining years, until my final breath."
"Decades are far too long for us," the little human said. "My grandson was born, but alas, I cannot introduce him to you, nor you to him. The thought that my descendants may never see a dragon again saddens me for them, yet I rejoice for myself."
A mischievous smile spread across the aged face. The little human winked, his eyes as blue as the sky. He stepped forward and hugged the dragon, managing only to grasp its snout. The dragon gently exhaled, ruffling his hair.
"Your descendants will see dragons again," Tashar heard himself say. The dragon's claw reached out, gently tapping the human's chest—like a blessing, like a prophecy. "My dear friend, my blood flows in your veins. Even if one day dragons vanish from Eryan, their echoes will still soar within the blood of dragon riders."