DKIE CH3: Dragon

Luka stepped out of the tavern, finding it difficult to associate the rather foolish-looking deformed heart before him with the legendary figure of the continent.

“Alex, how did you end up like this?”
“Shut up, I’m not Alex!”
“Oh.” Luka smirked. “Then you wouldn’t mind if I cursed at ‘Aleske’ instead, would you?”

“…It’s Alex.”

Luka quipped, “So you are Alex after all.”

“…”

The quill let out a weary sigh and sneered, “You could say that a little louder.”

Luka ignored the provocation.

Even the drunkards in the tavern dared not call Alex’s full name directly. Not only did they avoid mentioning it, but some even shuddered reflexively when certain topics arose.

Alex had been dead for over a thousand years, yet his lingering influence remained.

Suddenly, the quill spoke, “I am merely a lost plaything of Alex, transformed into a heart and imbued with a fragment of his will.”

Luka would sooner believe in ghosts than in that claim.

He got straight to the point: “How powerful are you now?”

He needed to mentally prepare himself—to know what level of existence he shouldn’t provoke in the future.

“Blood.”

“What?”

“It depends on how much vital blood you can provide me. Ordinary livestock won’t do. The higher the lifeform’s level, the better it is for my restoration—I must extract the essence of life from it.”

During the Demon King’s pilgrimage, a portion of the accumulated life essence was used to awaken it, another portion to resurrect the dwarves.

The remainder wasn’t even enough for a few major uses.

Luka summed it up in one phrase: not very useful.

But outwardly, he maintained a cheerful smile. “Since you claim to be a fragment of Alex, I’ll call you ‘Little S’ from now on.”

Calling it “Little S” meant he could treat it like a servant on a daily basis.

Just as he said that, the smile on Luka’s lips suddenly froze.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of an orc on the opposite street, pretending to browse street stalls, but stealing hostile glances in their direction multiple times.

“So they really tracked me down.”

Rumor had it that orcs were brutal by nature and enjoyed looting. It was obvious they were waiting for him to leave the city in three days to rob and kill him.

“Little S.”

The name made the quill tremble slightly, an inexplicable sense of irritation surfacing.

Luka whispered, “Find an opportunity—kill him.”

Before entering the city gate, Luka had overheard the orc telling the guards he would only stay for one day. If he had urgent business, he wouldn’t waste time tailing him.
This suggested that the orc had encountered trouble and entered the city for refuge, lacking sufficient funds.

Given the circumstances, the orc was certain to make a move. Luka simply needed to wait for the chance to strike back.

As he walked, lost in thought, his attention was suddenly drawn to an extraordinarily lifelike statue by the roadside.

The current lord of the Boulder City was human, so the city housed statues of human saints. Across the Holy Magic Continent, in every inhabited territory, statues of the strongest figures from various races could be found. Some races even mandated public worship.

The ceaseless flow of faith was also a means for supreme beings to augment their power.

A passerby noticed a filthy boy staring up at the statue. Seeing that he was a low-tier magic user, the passerby shook his head in disdain.

Many desperate souls prayed before these statues, hoping for the saints’ blessings.

But in reality, it was all in vain.

Luka stood for a while, overhearing mockery directed at him—some even ridiculed his hair color.

Among the human race on the Holy Magic Continent, most had flaxen hair, with silver hair being revered. Black hair was rare, and its appearance was almost always accompanied by low elemental perception. However, historical records described black hair as a symbol of power, which was the very reason black-haired individuals were often ridiculed.

Too lazy to argue, he seized an opportunity to slip into an alley through the crowd, taking a shortcut. As he walked, he hummed indignantly:

“…In the ancient East, there is a people,
They are all descendants of the dragon…
Black eyes, black hair, yellow skin,
Forever and always, they are the dragon’s heirs.”

See? Black hair is stunning. A bunch of tasteless fools.

Just as he was enjoying his tune, something felt off. The quill had suddenly gone quiet—so quiet that it hadn’t even mocked him for singing in an alleyway.

Sensing something amiss, Luka’s gaze froze in place.

There was someone else in this dim alley.

Or at least, he thought it was a person…

Luka’s certainty wavered. The man stood under the eaves, shrouded in shadows, his face veiled in a mist-like distortion—or at least, that was how Luka perceived it. 

The disparity in strength was so vast that he couldn’t even glimpse the stranger’s true form.

A pair of piercing golden eyes flickered briefly in the darkness.

Just that one glance made Luka feel as though his blood had frozen in his veins.

Beside the man stood a portly middle-aged man who, at this moment, was looking at Luka as if he were some absurd fool courting death.

Luka’s heart skipped a beat.

Could this continent really be so unreasonable?

Holding a grudge just for being disturbed by a song?

As the middle-aged man cast a deathly gaze at him, the other man withdrew his own gaze and stepped past Luka without hesitation. At the moment they brushed shoulders, Luka caught the middle-aged man muttering:

“That brat got lucky this time.”

To have offended the most formidable race and still be alive—what a miracle.

Luka blinked, and by the time he turned around, the two figures had already vanished. His curiosity about their identities was piqued.

They seemed awfully arrogant.

The quill finally spoke again: “Your father.”

“…” Your mother.

The next second, the quill sneered, “Weren’t you just calling yourself their descendant?”

Luka froze for a moment, then his eyes widened slightly as he swallowed hard.

Holy shit.

A real dragon?!

The quill mused, “Dragons rarely roam the outside world. They wouldn’t come to the Boulder City without a reason, let alone bring a human along.”

Luka couldn’t care less about the reason—he simply made up his mind not to sing in public for free ever again.
 

“First, let’s find a place to stay.”

Food, water, a hot bath—here I come!

—

On the streets.

Having suddenly lost sight of his target, the orc’s expression darkened.

“Hmph, that little smartass.”

The kid was dressed in rags—clearly not wealthy. He’d definitely stay at a cheap inn. The orc knew the Boulder City’s layout like the back of his hand, but instead of heading there immediately, he first took a detour to another street and knocked on the door of an apothecary.

A white-bearded alchemist appeared, arms crossed. “Vol, you sinister bastard, hiding again?”

The orc’s name was Vol, a notorious highwayman known for killing and looting. This time, he had slain a noble lord’s son for a rare spatial scroll.

“Same deal as always,” Vol grinned menacingly. “You knock them out for me. Didn’t you say you needed a new test subject? I’ve found you a good one.”

As long as the target wasn’t killed outright and no overt violence was involved, it wouldn’t count as breaking the Boulder City’s laws.

Alchemists were a rare profession on the Holy Magic Continent. Their methods were strange and formidable—so much so that even the city lord had to show them respect.

Intrigued, the alchemist asked, “Where’s the target? I’ll go after nightfall.”

Vol smirked. “I’ll lead the way then.”

Becoming a test subject for an alchemist was a fate worse than death. And Vol—who lived for bloodshed and chaos—was not one to let a slight go unpunished. That lowly magic user had dared to yell at him outside the city gates?

Once the alchemist had secured his test subject, Vol planned to use the opportunity to score some potions while the old man was in a good mood.

—

As night fell, the city gates grew quiet.

Luka lay sprawled over the windowsill of his inn room, gazing into the distance.

The quill, as sarcastic as ever, remarked, “To anyone else, it looks like the Demon King’s son deeply reveres a human saint.”

Luka was taken aback. “You know my identity?”

“The Demon King’s pilgrimage—you were the only survivor. That dwarf only lived because he happened to be gravely wounded but not dead in your vicinity.”

Even while in hibernation, the quill had retained some awareness of the Wastelands—Luka’s origins included.

Luka fell silent for a moment, then smiled.

“I am eternally grateful to my great father for his mercy in not killing me.”
“As repayment, I shall have him castrated one day and exile his… lower half to the Wastelands.”

There was no way the Demon King had spared him out of some ridiculous notion of fatherly affection. Most likely, he simply hadn’t bothered to stomp on an ant.

“…”

Luka considered himself quite merciful. “I’ve heard that when powerful figures make mistakes, they shave their heads as atonement. Since the Demon King can’t keep his lower half in check, wouldn’t it be perfectly reasonable for me to, let’s say, ‘shave’ that instead?”

“Someone’s coming,” the quill interrupted, ignoring Luka’s absurd fantasies.

The room was unlit, and their conversations were always exchanged through telepathy. The entire space had remained eerily silent throughout.

The window faced the opposite side, leading the orc and the alchemist to assume that Luka had already fallen asleep.

“They’re right outside the door,” the quill relayed in real-time, its voice coldly exposing the movements outside.

Luka was still staring at the towering statue of the human saint, much to the quill’s confusion.

Shouldn’t a normal person feel at least a little nervous when surrounded by powerful enemies?

“Keep it quiet,” Luka finally spoke again. “Best if they’re just knocked out. I’ll drag them outside the city and finish them off there.”

“One of them is an alchemist,” the quill noted, detecting the elemental leakage from an opened potion. It sneered, “That might not go as you wish.”

Many forces across the continent treated alchemists as honored guests. The lord of the Boulder City was likely one of them.

“Then just take care of the orc,” Luka decided.

He frowned slightly, once again realizing the importance of power.

Without strength, trouble would come knocking no matter how much one avoided it.

“I want to be…” Luka’s gaze lingered on the statue’s edge.

The quill had misunderstood something entirely. He wasn’t revering the saint.

He wanted to be revered like the saint.

As Luka dreamed of power, the alchemist was already making his move.

The potion inside the vial flowed backward, seeping through the gap beneath the door. All that remained was to vaporize it.

This was what made alchemists so terrifying—impossible to guard against.

A high-level alchemist could even manipulate the balance of magic within a person’s body, altering their very nature.

It was said that Alex had once used his alchemist subordinates to successfully fracture the elven race in this manner.

The night was dark, the wind fierce. A single door stood between predator and prey—

One prepared to strike from the shadows, the other ready to turn the tables.

At that critical moment, the few remaining moonbeams above the Boulder City were completely swallowed by darkness.

A sudden, violent windstorm erupted across the city.

A silver streak of light flashed through the sky, and the gales intensified. The entire inn’s rooftop was torn off, and Luka felt as if his skull was about to be peeled open as well.

The storm swept up his frail body and hurled him onto the collapsing ruins.

He wasn’t the only one. Every being in the inn, regardless of race, was forced into an undignified position, curling up and shielding themselves.

Only a select few with exceptional strength barely managed to remain standing.

Then, a deep dragon’s roar echoed through the sky.

Luka struggled to open his eyes—

And instantly regretted it.

A massive, razor-sharp dragon claw descended from above. Luka forced himself upright, attempting to dodge.

But their speeds weren’t even on the same scale.

He didn’t even have time to communicate with the quill—

Only enough to catch a glimpse of those all-too-familiar and terrifying golden slit pupils in the sky.

Luckily, that claw was not aimed at him.

“Vol.”

The Storm Dragon spoke.

Its voice reverberated not through the air, but directly into the soul.

The orc had no control over his own mind. His instincts took over, and he nodded reflexively. “That’s me.”

The last syllable had barely left his lips when the razor-sharp dragon claw lunged for his chest.

Vol bolted at full speed, reaching for something at his side.

“Spatial scroll,” the quill noted. “A pity—it won’t be faster than a dragon.”

Spatial scrolls were worth a fortune. There were two activation methods: incantation and direct tearing. Either way, they were an invaluable lifeline.

Luka glimpsed a faint glow on Vol’s chest—

The orc was frantically chanting, trying to trigger the scroll.

Fortune favors the bold.

And perhaps the insane.

Luka had already been caught up in the storm, so—he had no idea why he dared to do this, but as the deadly claw was about to strike, he shouted:

“Oh mighty and valiant lord, the spatial scroll is innocent—”
Cough, cough—
“Dismemberment, gutting, kidney removal—cough—”

Anything was fine! Lop off an arm, a leg, take an appendix—just don’t crush the scroll! Leave the scroll intact!

No one had ever dared to yell so brazenly at a dragon before.

The Storm Dragon’s movement hesitated ever so slightly, its scales seeming to harden into an even more metallic sheen.

Its golden pupils shifted, locking onto a frail figure half-buried in the ruins.

The tiny runt from earlier that day.

A dirt-covered boy, his back seemingly injured, yet even in this state—he was worried about a spatial scroll.

After shouting, the boy clamped a pale hand over his mouth, trying to stifle the blood he was coughing up.

Even so, crimson droplets leaked between his fingers, splattering onto the ground.

A hybrid.

And the scent of demonic blood.

The demon race occupied a peculiar position on the Holy Magic Continent.

Pureblood demons of noble lineage were regarded with unconscious reverence, akin to aristocracy.

Common-blooded demons struggled for any foothold in the Demon Realm.

And as for hybrids—

They were despised by demons and shunned by the entire continent.

The Storm Dragon did not bother with a speck of dust. With a flick of its claw, the precious spatial scroll landed in Luka’s hands.

Bloodstained fingers clenched around it instantly.

A windfall from the heavens!

If Vol had a spatial scroll, then had they proceeded with their original plan of turning the tables, there was no guarantee they would have been able to keep him from escaping.

“Ten thousand thanks…!”

Thank you, great and generous lord, for your sponsorship of this spatial scroll!

On the other side, Vol stared in disbelief as his own guts were torn from his body in an instant.

The stench of orc blood filled the air.

From this distance, Luka could smell it.

He shuffled a few steps back—then resumed expressing his deep gratitude to the #1 dragon patron.

The massive dragon head shook slightly—it looked as if it hadn’t been living an easy life.

In reality, it had simply been lying on its hoard for too long. A spatial scroll would be a centerpiece treasure at any auction. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have been worth the orc paying a hefty sum to the alchemist for a potion to assist in murdering the lord’s son.

Yet, the ending of this story was nothing short of ironic.

The orc lost his life, and his treasure ended up benefiting the next person in line.

The dragon’s cold eyes shifted toward the alchemist, who was scrambling away in a panic.

“You were involved too.”

Involved in what?

The alchemist, terror-stricken, stammered, “Honorable lord, I have always remained in the Boulder City, I have never—”

The Storm Dragon cut him off impatiently. “Vol killed Lord Borg’s son. He used your potion to do it.”

He had already examined the traces of magic left on the potion bottles at the scene. The alchemist’s magical signature was identical.

“I owed Borg a small favor. He came to me for justice, so you have to die too.”

“I was just a merchant—”

The aura of death loomed closer.

“No, no… Lord of the city, help me, the city—”

The Storm Dragon had no interest in hearing excuses. It did not hesitate, nor did it show mercy.

Lord Borg had demanded that everyone connected to his son’s death pay the price.

Blood splattered.

The alchemist’s death was far more gruesome than the orc’s.

Impatient as ever, the Storm Dragon simply funneled a gust of violent wind directly into the alchemist’s mouth.

The storm pressure ruptured his body from the inside out.

Organs and blood rained down, painting the ground in a grotesque display.

Luka’s stomach churned violently—he nearly threw up. But first, he made sure to secure the scroll.

With its task completed, the Storm Dragon flapped its enormous wings and departed.

Outside the inn, no one dared to move.

Who would be foolish enough to accuse a dragon of stirring up trouble?

They only stared in fearful silence at the vanishing silhouette in the sky.

Then, a booming voice echoed across the city:

“Citizens, there is no need to panic. The dragon acted with the city lord’s prior consent.”

Whether that was true or just an attempt to save face—no one could say.

At midnight, patrol guards arrived to assess property damage and promised compensation.

In this regard, the Boulder City’s lord was relatively humane.

The storm’s destruction had been mostly contained to the inn’s vicinity.

The patrolmen quickly finished their report and delivered it to their captain.

“Report! Total of three buildings collapsed, ten shops affected, three casualties—”

Three casualties?

Luka’s ears twitched.

One orc. One alchemist.

That left…

He braced himself against the crumbling wall and coughed up blood.

Congratulations. He had become the one injured party.

A patrol guard, noticing this, stepped forward. “We’ll take you to a new lodging. A healer will arrive soon.”

The man hesitated briefly, then added, “Honestly, I don’t think the dragon intended for anyone to get hurt from… getting flung off a roof.”

Luka forced a weak smile.

“What an accident.”

The patrol guard helped him down the stairs.

As he moved, Luka’s gaze darkened.

The quill at his waist gleamed faintly.

The moment the storm hit, the quill could have shielded him.
Instead, it did nothing.

Worse—it had laughed.

Despite the chaos, despite the wind tearing into him, Luka was certain—

He had heard a faint, mocking chuckle inside his mind.

And he understood why.

If he had died at the hands of the dragon, the quill would have been freed from their blood contract.

Luka cast one last glance back at the ruined corpses.

This time, he wasn’t disgusted.

Instead, his eyes gleamed with thought.

“Just a personal favor… and the dragons ignored the Boulder City’s laws to take action.”

That was almost too bold.

The patrol guard sighed. “Dragons are fiercely protective of their own. But securing a dragon’s friendship? That’s no easy feat.”

The dragon race was notoriously xenophobic.

Something like this… hadn’t happened in centuries.

Luka pressed his lips together, deep in thought.