The building was devastated, with no trace of its original form remaining. From the remnants of the low rooftop, a figure plunged downward. This figure, wielding two guns attached to each arm, unleashed a barrage of bullets.
Tutututututu!
A shower of bullets rained down as the figure descended. Even if the targets were sturdy dragons, these powerful bullets could pierce through them. Tiamat, having dodged the gunfire, emerged from cover the moment the shooting stopped.
Sliding to a halt, the figure raised a bow in hand and took aim. An arrow was already nocked on the drawn bowstring.
An arrow nearly as long as a short blade. The bowstring, made of steel, emitted a deafening sound when released.
Tuuung!
The arrow shot forth. The priest with the guns twisted their body mid-air to evade the arrow. After passing by the arrow, the priest landed on the ground.
Two guns and a bow, weapons aimed at each other, exuded an aura of extreme malevolence.
Thus, the priest and the veteran stood facing each other at a distance, their hollow eyes locked onto one another.
“I won’t give you time to pull out that arrow.”
The priest’s voice, mixed with mechanical tones. At this, Tiamat, tilting the horn near their eyebrows, expressed surprise.
Seeming to acknowledge the priest’s ability to speak, Tiamat reached for their quiver while the priest glanced at the fallen priests with one eye and kept Tiamat in sight with the other.
All the priests penetrated by a single arrow had met their end. Even with a single strike, their cores had been pierced, leaving them motionless.
The situation was similar for the other priests further away. Some had been torn in half by an unnatural strength beyond human capability; others had lost their cores after being stabbed precisely through the gaps in their armor.
Now only three priests remained. Two were likely buying time, so the “gun-wielder” had to swiftly deal with Tiamat and regroup.
“This is where it ends.”
Thus muttered the priest, the gun-wielder. It sounded like they were speaking both to themselves and to Tiamat.
On the other hand, Tiamat, maintaining a blank expression while keeping their hand on the quiver, calmly replied,
“I’ve never missed my target.”
Holding the embedded bow slanted and ready, the towering dragon spoke. The gun-wielder furrowed their mechanical eyebrows at this.
Didn’t the last shot just miss? Unable to contain themselves, the priest who was usually such a stoic individual snorted derisively.
“So what? Looks like your streak is over.”
There was no way to make up for it now. Preparing to fire from the gun at any moment, the gun-wielder aimed at Tiamat, who stared back impassively before smirking.
“You’re an idiot.”
A chuckling laugh. A meaningful statement. Before the priest could grasp its significance, something struck from above.
Kwaddeok!
An arrow piercing straight through the head and exiting below. Due to the arrow, the priest’s arms stretched unnaturally, losing control of the guns.
Only then did the priest realize—this had been happening all along, even now.
Before the priest could scream in shock, the string was pulled again, and an arrow was nocked.
“You fought decently… but…”
The creaking string. The steel bowstring, emitting a chilling sound as it was drawn taut, carried the promise of death.
“Looks like you lack romance!”
The shout. The fired arrow. An unavoidable blow. The priest didn’t even have time to scream before their core was pierced. Amidst the scattered fragments of shattered metal, another soul faded away.
With that, Tiamat finished off the priest, revealing Angie and Phey emerging from the debris and the upper floors of the partially collapsed building.
Each held the severed heads of priests or the extracted cores.
“Hey, what? I thought I finished first.”
“Phey is stronger than Angie.”
“No way! I’m much stronger! Can you break steel?”
As the two girls bickered, Tiamat wore a serious expression.
There were no priests left to stop their departure. The only issue was that it seemed too late to catch up now.
Fortunately, the distance wasn’t great, so not many eyes followed them. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much time to think.
The cacophony that had previously reverberated loudly had completely ceased.
This silence unsettled Tiamat, leading him to assume the worst.
The possibility that Aslan had fought the Dragon King and lost, resulting in Aslan’s death.
Preparing for the worst was essentially the basic virtue of a battlefield commander.
Tiamat glanced at the bickering girls and thought: If Aslan had perished, should he follow the Dragon King or fight against the Dragon King according to Aslan’s will?
Aslan had freed him from prison and granted him amnesty. Thanks to that, he survived, but there was no reason why he had to dedicate his entire life to Aslan.
There was no real obligation to go that far out of loyalty either.
But then, aligning with the Dragon King? Tiamat pondered amidst discomfort and approached the girls.
“Enough with your squabbling. Let’s go. Aslan might need our help.”
Uncertain, he trailed off, causing Angie and Phey to exchange puzzled glances as they followed Tiamat.
Leaving the half-ruined building behind, they moved along a desolate path toward where the explosion sounds had originated. Their steps were filled with unease, accompanied by the watchful eyes of the dragons.
The fortunate part was that the distance wasn’t too great, preventing too many prying eyes. The unfortunate part was that the time for contemplation was limited.
Stopping and turning his back to a building, Tiamat raised his scales. He sensed a faint silhouette overhead.
Realizing the silhouette barely moved, Tiamat let out a low growl and opened his eyes.
In his line of sight was Angie. Angie, with her crimson hair matted with blood, wiped the red-streaked blood from beneath her nose.
While wiping the blood, the girl looked at Tiamat with an indifferent expression and asked curtly,
“What.”
“…If Aslan loses and the Dragon King survives, what will you do?”
“The Dragon King? What? Why does the Dragon King come into this?”
Unlike Phey and Tiamat, who understood the gravity of the situation, Angie’s perception was ordinary. She only knew that an explosion occurred and dust rose. Thus, she responded with a pout.
“Besides, there’s no way Aslan would lose….”
“It’s a hypothetical scenario. And… Aslan would also want to prepare for the worst. Think about it and answer.”
Tiamat, unsure himself, asked Angie, who had spent the longest time with Aslan. Asking Phey, who was clearly abnormal, would be ambiguous.
“If that happens, what will you do?”
Angie closed her mouth tightly and displayed an uncomfortable expression.
The emotions flickering across her face became prominent, and the girl frowned as she answered.
“Does it matter? If we go help Aslan now, that won’t happen, right!”
This evasion chosen by the girl seemed, in Tiamat’s view, to deny even the possibility of Aslan’s defeat.
Rejecting a scene she didn’t even want to imagine.
On the other hand, Phey reacted differently, expressing a chillingly blank expression as she said,
“If Aslan dies, I’ll kill everyone.”
Her calm words conveyed no anger or hatred. Accompanying those icy words, the girl lightly hopped on her bare feet and said,
“Let’s go.”
With a light thud, the girl leapt between the walls of buildings and disappeared. Watching her retreating figure, Tiamat stood up slowly.
Scratching his chin scales with a clicking sound, he picked up his bow. There was one thing Tiamat was certain of:
Without Aslan, this group couldn’t survive.
Feeling this acutely, as he had during Aslan’s previous disappearance, the dragon and the girl proceeded forward past the buildings. The place was marked by thick dust and clear signs of destruction.
‘You’d better be alive, kid.’
Muttering silently, he drew his bow and aimed. In the center of where the explosion had been heard, something stirred.
Beyond that stirring figure lay Aslan, unmistakably.
So Tiamat quickly prepared to shoot an arrow but hesitated—it was a familiar silhouette.
“Ereta?”
It was the girl who called out to the familiar figure. While Tiamat cautiously aimed his bow, the girl ran toward the woman.
“What are you doing here, Ereta…?”
The woman slowly turned her head upon hearing her name. Then they saw distinct tear tracks, a sorrowful expression, and hands visibly scarred by burns.
Only then did the situation register with the girl. Her pupils trembled as she gasped for breath.
“A, Aslan….”
The Aslan present was far from unscathed.
Burns spread across his arm, his clothes were torn and split, and sticky blood flowed through the gaps. His left arm was shattered, leaving only a fragment of bone near the shoulder, and his chest heaved intermittently, struggling to breathe.
His eyes, nose, and mouth were stained black with dried blood. His dilated pupils were thinly covered by drooping eyelids, twitching faintly without response.
It was a horrifying sight. Unconscious, Aslan showed no reaction.
Ereta placed her hand on Aslan’s chest. Following her touch, strange runes spread, emanating mana that soaked Aslan’s chest from her spine.
Aslan’s breathing briefly quickened and then grew faint again.
“Wha, what is this… Why, no, what… Fuck, what’s happening?! C, cure… Cure him…!”
And Angie, seeing this, could do nothing. Confused, she looked around for anything she could use for treatment, but the clueless girl had no hope of finding such things.
In contrast, Ereta bit her lips tightly and continued channeling mana through her magical tattoo.
Magical tattoo, Bijou’s Valor.
Called the cowardly Bijou, this ancient empire hero’s tattoo could replenish life based on inflicted wounds and grant immense strength.
Ordinarily, a tattoo that could only take life, but Ereta, through her genius and desperation, discovered a way to infuse life.
Using this method, she was splitting her own life force and infusing it into Aslan. Like pouring water into a bottomless pot, a futile act.
The life force flowing in drained out, and Ereta’s complexion gradually turned pale white.
Even Tiyamal, unfamiliar with magical tattoos, could perceive the situation. Somehow, the woman was sustaining Aslan by pouring her own life into him.
Attempting to dissuade her, Tiyamal grabbed Ereta’s shoulder in alarm.
“Hold on, stop! You’ll die!”
“I don’t care!”
Startled, he flinched as the normally soft-spoken woman shook him off and shouted.
“I, I… If I don’t do this… I’m useless…”
Uttering incomprehensible words, the woman poured her life into Aslan without hesitation, fading away as she did so, her face etched with despair.
Sighing, Tiyamal brushed his forehead scales.
The situation was chaotic. To take Aslan to a healer, they’d need to carry or lift him, but it was inconceivable that Ereta would let them do so. Perhaps they should knock her unconscious and call a mage from the wing compartment, but just then,
An elf’s figure darted down from atop a building.
“Kid?”
Swishing, dual swords were unsheathed with a chilling sound, narrowing Tiyamal’s gaze as he looked up.
The murderous intent radiating from Phey wasn’t directed at their group but elsewhere.
“That bastard! That bastard harmed Lord Dragon!”
Dragons appeared between the buildings, gripping weapons and closing in on Aslan’s group.
Threatening words. Interspersed curses and oaths. Voices filled with rage. As Tiyamal grimaced, Phey’s eyes gleamed as she shouted.
“Don’t come closer! I’ll kill all of you if you do!”
The cheerful voice of the girl. Though seemingly cute, the menacing intent emanating from her body erased any cuteness, even making the approaching dragons hesitate.
The rare stance taken by the swordmaster. The sharp edge of the sword gleamed under the sunlight, ready to kill at any moment.
Sighing, Tiyamal wiped his forehead.
He momentarily wondered if he should side with the Dragon King if he were still alive. If that were the case, how would ordinary dragons, unaware the Dragon King was a priest, perceive them?
Contemplating whether he must draw his bow against his own kind, Tiyamal glanced at Aslan.
Their time together hadn’t been long, but Aslan was vivid enough to understand. If Aslan were in Tiyamal’s position now,
If Tiyamal were lying there,
Aslan wouldn’t hesitate and would fight for Tiyamal.
Tiyamal clicked his tongue and lifted his bow. Drawing a new arrow, he nocked it and pulled the string taut.
The Dragon King he had sensed earlier was undoubtedly a priest. No, more than a priest, a high-ranking priest close to a divine son imbued with the sanctity of the ancient gods. Yet Aslan had confronted him despite the advantage of a more favorable position.
Though unclear, Tiyamal was certain.
Aslan must have fought for the people.
Tiyamal recalled the words Aslan had spoken when recruiting him.
To make every world like Belus Alphen—a place where survival is taken for granted.
Not empty promises or mere lip service, but firm sincerity.
Such an Aslan couldn’t be allowed to die. The deliberation finally ended, and Tiyamal opened his eyes.
Resolutely, Tiyamal shouted.
“Angie, Ereta! Take Aslan and…!”
Just as he was about to release the drawn string, someone burst through the crowd.
Harold Crow, armed with a shield, accompanied by a group of armed humans.
“Wait, wait! Everyone, stop! Don’t create bloodshed without fully understanding the situation! Are we, the children of dragons, truly such barbaric beings?!”
He blocked the crowd, extending his shield outward as he shouted. Despite the curses and oaths following his desperate cry, Harold staunchly defended Aslan, refusing to step back even as the armed crowd pressed threateningly forward. Pushing their weapons aside with his shield, Harold held his ground.
Caught off guard by his brother’s sudden appearance, Tiyamal shut his mouth and sighed.
Though grateful for the intervention, the anger spreading among the populace didn’t seem to subside easily. Warriors born as dragons couldn’t possibly be stopped by the impoverished warriors from the tail compartment. As the encroaching crowd slowly advanced and Tiyamal tightened his bowstring again, a voice echoed through the crowd.
“That young man is right. We aren’t barbarians.”
A voice weathered by time. Yet loud and commanding, belonging to a tall figure whose head was clearly visible even among the crowd. Speaking was an old dragon.
“An elder!”
As one of them remarked, the crowd of dragons turned and swallowed their breath.
They were elders.
The most respected warriors and mages of Belus Alpen.
The dragons who ruled Belus Alpen alongside King Hart.
The heads.
Revealing themselves among the crowd as if protecting the elders were armored dragons.
The Disciples, the direct subordinate unit of the Senate.
“Lower your weapons, brothers and sisters.”
At this command, the dragons near the elders hesitantly lowered their weapons, allowing the elders to part the crowd and approach Aslan’s group.
“Don’t come any closer!”
Pausing before the growling elven girl’s sword tip, they silently faced the group.
The woman tightly embracing Aslan, her face etched with despair and tears, the elven girl glaring at them, the crimson-haired girl clenching her fists while barely concealing her confusion, and the former grand strategist steadying his breathing while subtly aiming his bow.
Beyond them, observing the unconscious Aslan, the elders exchanged nods.
The heavy presence of the ancient deity emanating from the unconscious Aslan.
A presence they had never felt even from the Dragon King.
“Could it be… the sovereign of the ten thousand battalions has chosen their champion?”
Reacting to this cryptic statement was Tiyamal alone. Startled, he watched as one of the elders retrieved something from within their robes.
A potion glowing with crimson light. Tiyamal recognized it.
One of the relics left behind by an ancient god, the deity of fire and metallurgy.
Dragon’s Blood.
The national treasure of Belus Alpen, capable of reviving even the dead.
