When Novia finally arrived in the underground chambers near Londinium in Britannia, the first thing that greeted him was utter darkness.
The air was thick with potent magical energy—the kind that, if mishandled even slightly, could cause the entire surrounding land to wither and decay. What's worse, the density of this magical energy only grew stronger the deeper one went.
But this space was not shrouded in pure darkness. At the four corners of the workshop, flames powered by raw magical energy burned steadily, casting a faint, eerie glow over the area. Wisps of smoke drifted upward, shimmering in the unsteady firelight. Whether one looked from near or far, the scene remained hauntingly uniform. Alchemist-etched aether lines crisscrossed the space, filling it with an intricate web of energy.
And at the heart of those lines, where they converged—the severed head of the Albion Dragon was undergoing an irreversible transformation. It was slowly being reforged into a spear, its form warped into a deep, gleaming shade of blue-black.
Before it stood a girl with violet hair—Shiali.
She wore the uniform of the Atlas Institute, her eyes locked onto the countless aether lines embedded into the dragon's skull. She stood completely still, her breathing so faint she could easily have been mistaken for dead.
Every time the taut aether lines quivered, her body trembled in kind.
Before coming, Novia had already heard from Lucius—Shiali had spent almost every day of the past year working on the Albion Dragon, devoting herself entirely to the task, save for the bare necessities of sleep and food.
She would never speak of how exhausting this year had been, but Novia could see it plainly—the sweat streaming down her cheeks told him everything.
After all, this was the Albion Dragon.
Even as a corpse, its body still radiated immense magical power. Its anatomy combined the features of serpents, reptiles, and bats, its limbs as thick and armored as plated steel. Visually, it resembled the "dragons" spoken of in countless legends across the world.
Dragons.
Beings humanity could never hope to overcome. Only heroes might stand a chance at slaying one. Ordinary blades couldn't so much as scratch them. They were the apex magical creatures of the mortal world—the ultimate embodiment of fantasy, possessing the kind of strength that even heroic guardians of the world viewed as a dire threat.
In the world of magi, the old always eclipsed the new. Ancient beings, remnants of the Age of Gods, held mysteries so profound they bordered on the divine.
And this… this was a true dragon in every sense of the word. Not one of those diluted "dragons" born from leftover divine remnants after the decline of the Age of Gods—but a pure-blooded dragon whose mere presence, even when alive, could obliterate the minds of ordinary humans who dared look upon it.
As Novia had suspected, Shiali had been enduring a year-long struggle to modify its head.
Enduring the instinctive fear dragons inspired. Enduring the spiritual strain. The gnawing exhaustion that could crush one's soul. Refusing to surrender to the creeping numbness of her own flesh.
The aether lines she wielded were as sharp and precise as high-pressure water jets. Countless times, over and over, they shaved away at the dragon's skull with microscopic precision. Clearly, beyond the detailed schematics Novia had provided, she had infused the process with her own meticulous improvements.
After all, the Atlas Institute was peerless when it came to weapon creation.
The reason Shiali had contacted Novia just days before the project's completion was not only because she trusted her calculations—but also, no doubt, because of her pride. She wanted him to witness her success with his own eyes, to prove that the Atlas Institute's heir-apparent wasn't resting on an unearned title.
Time passed, minute by painstaking minute. Just as the date was about to turn, Novia saw it—the aether lines surrounding the dragon's head pulsed as its magical output suddenly skyrocketed.
Something had been born. In an instant, the underground space transformed.
Blue aurora filled the chamber.
Aurora—thousands of meters underground, an impossibility.
Brilliant, resplendent… or perhaps, venomous ribbons of light wrapped around the underground space, glowing as if blessing the birth of something new.
The world, once choked in darkness, now shimmered like an endless ocean of blue radiance.
It was the birth of a new, blue-black weapon, glowing intensely.
Shiali, visibly exhausted, released the encircling aether lines. The radiant object emitted a deep hum as it traveled along the lines and came to rest before Novia.
"Done. This is the weapon crafted according to your design—" She paused briefly, her tone shifting slightly before continuing, "Though your schematics were extremely precise, I found parts of them… impossible to execute exactly as drawn. So, I made some adjustments as I saw fit. I hope you can forgive me."
"It's fine," Novia replied casually as he reached out and took the spear. "The fact that you achieved this much—I should be the one thanking you."
Once Shiali retracted the aether lines, Novia walked straight toward her.
"Indeed… our contract was only until this was completed."
Shiali inhaled deeply, her expression blank as the silver-haired boy approached.
Her body and mind were both utterly drained. After a year of enduring this, she was vulnerable—anyone could take her down with ease right now. Magi were selfish, efficiency-driven beings by nature. She had revealed her weakest state prematurely, and had steeled herself for the consequences.
Yet, strangely, there was no regret—just an indescribable bitterness lingering in her chest.
Novia, for his part, said nothing further. Without hesitation, he simply hoisted the violet-haired girl onto his back and made for the exit.
"Put me down. I'm not so weak I need to be carried. That wasn't part of our contract."
The girl glared at him, her amethyst eyes flashing with irritation.
"I figured as much." Novia didn't even turn his head. "Which is why I didn't ask. It's far more efficient to just act."
"...This place's secrets and all the priceless relics lying around… with them, you could easily build an organization rivaling the Atlas Institute or Wandering Sea."
"Getting this spear is enough. Besides, the rest of Albion's corpse is crawling with those disgusting, half-formed maggot-like creatures. Honestly, burying this thing underground is probably the safest option. Leave it lying around and it's bound to cause trouble someday—"
"Ahem."
Novia's words cut off abruptly as a sound echoed from the spear in his hands.
It wasn't human speech—but the guttural, animalistic growl of a beast. An enraged, guttural moan born from the humiliation of being reduced to this state by weak, insignificant humans.
"Humans… where did you find the gall? To tamper with my perfect body—the strongest existence— and reduce me to this wretched form? You dare insult me? I… I'm REALLY angry now!"