The crimson sky hung heavy above the jagged plateau, where the air itself shimmered with ancient remnants of power. The wind whispered across red rocks and weathered hills, carrying echoes of long-forgotten roars and distant, eternal battles.
Zykarith walked ahead with firm, unshaken strides, her emerald hair catching the sunlight like flowing blades of grass under fire. Behind her followed Armaan, Roumit, and Samar—each step they took stirring dust from the sun-cracked ground.
After a stretch of silence broken only by the rhythmic crunch of boots on stone, Roumit furrowed his brows, his thoughts finally bubbling over.
"By the way…" he said, tilting his head slightly toward Armaan. "Where exactly are we headed?"
Armaan blinked in confusion. Roumit then placed a firm hand on his head, ruffling his already wild dark hair with a faint smirk.
"I mean, it's not like we can just keep wandering around aimlessly in this rocky mess, and this guy here"—he tapped Armaan's head once—"will miraculously awaken godlike dragon powers out of nowhere, right?"
Zykarith came to a halt. Her cloak flared slightly with the breeze as she turned her head over her shoulder, eyes gleaming with a sharp, unreadable glint.
"You're pretty smart for a musclehead," she remarked flatly.
Roumit raised a brow. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Now facing them, Zykarith's tone grew serious—calm, yet edged with anticipation.
"We're heading to Draugr'Volen—a mountain that once stood at the heart of the Draconic Age. It's said to be the resting place of the first dragon king. Every dragon inheritor must pass through its crucible to truly awaken their power."
Samar's eyes flickered slightly at the name, but he said nothing, continuing to follow in steady rhythm.
"Draugr'Volen…?" Armaan repeated softly, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the name itself held weight.
"Yes," Zykarith nodded, looking out toward the barely visible shadow of a peak in the distance. "But the journey there isn't just a climb. Before we reach the summit, we must pass through five sacred trials—stages designed to test the heart, mind, and soul of those who claim to carry a dragon's blood."
Armaan stepped forward, his expression focused.
"Five stages? What kind of stages are they?"
Zykarith's expression shifted—just a slight frown curling on her lips, the kind that said more than words ever could.
"I'm not allowed to reveal the five stages," she murmured, her voice composed but distant, like she was quoting an unshakable law of the realm. "I've already said more than I should."
Armaan's brow twitched. He squinted at her, unimpressed.
"Oh, come on. It's just us four here," he scoffed, jabbing a thumb toward the empty red plateau stretching for miles around them. "It's not like someone's eavesdropping on us. Just say it already."
Zykarith turned toward him, one sharp green eyebrow lifting.
"…Are you a kid?"
"HUUHH!??" Armaan barked, his voice bouncing off the nearby red boulders.
That was all it took for Roumit and Samar to lose it. They both chuckled under their breath, Roumit even giving Armaan a teasing pat on the back.
Zykarith crossed her arms, her cloak fluttering slightly in the plateau's dry wind.
"If I say I'm not allowed," she said firmly, "that means I'm not allowed. He is watching."
At that word—He—something shifted in the air.
Armaan blinked. Roumit and Samar straightened instinctively.
All three of them spoke in sync, voices colored with curiosity and a trace of unease.
"Who's he?"
Zykarith turned, and this time, there was gravity in her gaze, as if even speaking the name summoned weight.
"The right hand of the King," she said. "General of the Draconic Realm. The Eclipse Dragon's Inheritor…"
Her eyes narrowed.
"Sylus."
Armaan tilted his head slightly, confusion painting his features.
"Right hand of the king? General? What do you mean by that?" he asked, brows knitting together.
Zykarith immediately shot him a glare, clearly baffled.
"Are you an idiot?" she snapped. "Weren't you listening when Xarthos was explaining? Rogan was his right hand. His general."
Armaan blinked. "Who's Xarthos?"
A sudden thwack! echoed as Zykarith smacked him squarely on the head.
"The Bloodshed Dragon, dumbass!" she scolded, her palm still stinging. "His name was Xarthos! Didn't you know that much?"
Both Samar and Roumit broke into chuckles, their voices overlapping in harmony.
"This guy's been living with that dragon for so long and doesn't even know his actual name," they said in unison.
Armaan rubbed the spot on his head, pouting slightly.
"He never told me…"
A mental voice echoed within his mind, familiar and calm.
"It's not like that… You never asked."
It was Xarthos, his tone almost teasing.
Armaan groaned and mentally replied, "Geez… at least introduce yourself properly before explaining your entire life story next time..."
Turning his attention back to Zykarith, he raised a brow. "So that means Sylus is the current king's strongest soldier?"
Zykarith stared at him, deadpan. For a brief second, she genuinely wondered if he was messing with her.
Is he really this dumb or just doing this to make fun of me...?
"…Are you a kid?" she muttered at last, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Even a child could understand this much."
Armaan groaned in defeat. "I was just asking, come on..."
Samar and Roumit laughed even louder, the banter lifting the weight of the earlier tension. And to Armaan's surprise, even Zykarith allowed a faint smile to tug at her lips.
A sudden hush fell over the group as their eyes instinctively shifted toward the horizon.
There—jutting out from the golden-brown plain like a jagged tooth of the earth—stood a lone mountain, absurdly tall and almost surreal in its appearance. It wasn't surrounded by any mountain range or part of a natural chain. It simply rose from the world as if placed there by the hand of some ancient god. Its tip pierced the clouds, barely visible from their location, and yet, undeniable in its dominance.
"Hey... is that Mount Drogr'Volen?" Samar broke the silence, his voice shaded with awe.
Zykarith nodded with the calm grace she always seemed to carry, her lavender hair catching the breeze like a banner of quiet wisdom. "Yes, it is. And, for your information, it's approximately two hundred and thirty-six kilometers from here... using your Earth's system of measurement."
A brief pause.
Then—
"Two hundred and thirty-six kilometers!?" Armaan, Samar, and Roumit all cried out in perfect unison, eyes wide with disbelief.
Roumit blinked rapidly. "How many days... would it take to reach there?"
"If we maintain this pace," Zykarith said without emotion, "five to six days."
"FIVE TO SIX DAYS!?" Again, their voices rose together, expressions contorting with disbelief. It felt like a cruel joke delivered in the most stoic manner possible.
Zykarith, who had been mostly composed, let out a tiny chuckle—barely audible, but real. "Yes. It will take that much."
Armaan furrowed his brows, visibly annoyed. "Hey... don't you dragon inheritors have wings or something?"
Zykarith raised a brow, the faintest smirk curling at her lips. "Only those who are strong enough grow wings. The greater your Draconic Energy, the more power you can manifest. Wings are... a reward—only the strongest Inheritors have them." Her violet gaze dropped momentarily, running over Armaan's athletic yet comparatively slender frame. "And you... I don't think you'll be achieving that level anytime soon."
Armaan twitched. "What the hell do you mean? You think I'm not strong?"
Zykarith answered simply, as if stating a universal truth. "You're not. At least... not strong enough to bear wings."
That stung.
Armaan's eyes narrowed. "Let's see."
But as the words passed his lips, his mind shifted away from the pointless bickering. I don't have time to argue with her about wings, he thought, glancing again at the towering silhouette of Drogr'Volen. I just asked because... if she could fly, we might've reached that damn place already.
"And... what exactly is Draconic Energy?" he asked aloud. "Is it something similar to prana?"
A quiet voice echoed in his mind—familiar and firm.
"Yes, Armaan," said Xarthos, his inner dragon spirit. "Draconic Energy is quite similar to prana. In a sense... it's a purer, stronger form of it. But you need not worry. You already possess an enormous reserve of prana within your body. You'll be fine."
Armaan scoffed. "Fine? That means even you're not sure."
Xarthos replied without hesitation. "I cannot promise anything unless I'm certain. You are strong, Armaan... but this realm runs deeper than strength alone."
Armaan clenched his fists, then exhaled deeply. The sky stretched wide above, the cold wind of this new world brushing against his skin like a reminder—of how far he still had to go.
"Fine," he muttered. Then louder, his voice rising with burning determination. "I'll show you. I'll show all of you. I'm going to clear those five stages—no matter how difficult they are. No matter what stands in my way."
His voice cut through the silence like a sword unsheathed.
There was ego in his tone—but also resolve.
The wind murmured quietly across the wide plateau, gliding over jagged stones and weathered earth that had long forgotten the touch of rain. There was no sun in the Draconic Realms—only the black hole, suspended in the heavens like a silent monarch watching over a forgotten world.
Its massive golden rings turned slowly, casting warm, molten hues across the land. Everything beneath was bathed in that strange twilight glow—soft amber that shimmered on their skin and flickered against the mountain that loomed in the distance. The mountain wrapped around the black hole like a crown, jagged and regal, as if the land itself had bent in reverence.
Armaan walked with steady steps, flanked by Zykarith, Samar, and Roumit. Their shadows stretched long behind them, swallowed eventually by the emptiness of the plateau.
"It feels... quieter than before," Samar murmured, breaking the stillness.
Roumit's gaze swept the horizon. "No birds. No creatures. No life. Just silence."
Zykarith said nothing, but her eyes narrowed, alert.
Then Armaan came to a slow halt. Ahead, in the heart of the emptiness, someone sat on a boulder—alone.
The figure looked fragile, draped in tattered robes that whispered in the faint wind. A hood shaded their face, the features hidden from view. They didn't move, didn't flinch—just sat there, as if carved from time itself.
Armaan stepped forward slowly, each step echoing slightly in the silence. The air felt heavier somehow.
"Excuse me... are you okay?" he asked gently, his voice carrying across the stillness.