Alex dove into the monster's memories, experiencing them as if he were watching a movie or a series.
The monster-king belonged to the race of Melocs, massive humanoid creatures with an impressive physique. Their bodies, of a brilliant white, contrasted with their black forearms, as solid as metal.
His name was Boros, the son of the Meloc tribe's chief who inhabited this mining cave.
Twenty years ago, his people worked tirelessly, extracting the riches of the underground while fiercely defending their territory from any intruders.
Suddenly, a mysterious voice echoed in Boros's ears:
"Boros… Boros… wake up."
The voice belonged to Melvar, his father and the tribe's chief. At that time, Boros was still just a child, with thin arms and short hair, looking at the world with eyes full of innocence.
He opened his eyes and replied, half asleep:
"Sorry, father… I was taking a nap."
Melvar, speaking with authority yet kindness, said:
"We're going back to mining. Are you coming?"
Boros stood up, stretched his arms, and replied:
"I'm coming."
They walked together across the vast land, where large huts made of monster hide formed the homes of their tribe.
On the way, several tribe members greeted them. The Melocs bowed their heads and said:
"Oh, greetings to the benevolent chief!"
Melvar answered with a proud smile:
"Greetings to my mighty tribe!"
An old Meloc woman then approached Boros, gently pinched his cheeks, and said with a laugh:
"You've grown so much, my little one!"
Boros bent slightly, embarrassed, and replied:
"Ouch… ouch… that hurts! Sorry, old lady, but I'm busy now. I can't play with you."
His father, Melvar, gave him a light smack on the head and said, in a stern yet fair tone:
"Show some respect!"
Boros rubbed his head and murmured:
"Yes, dad… sorry, but we're busy."
The old woman, Baya, smiled indulgently:
"It's all right. I have to prepare my hut anyway."
The entire tribe was bustling with excitement—today was a day of celebration. No one remained inside the cave; everyone was outside, preparing for the festivities. The hunters were returning with massive amounts of game for the evening feast.
Boros looked at his father and asked:
"Dad, can we go mining another time?"
Melvar shook his head with a smile:
"No, this is the perfect time. I can help you since no one else is around."
They entered the cave. At each entrance, a slope descended deeper underground. The mine was divided into seven sub-levels, each containing a different type of ore.
Boros's eyes sparkled with longing.
"Father… please, let me mine beyond the first level, at least."
Melvar burst into laughter:
"You already struggle with the first sub-level, and you're not even authorized to go any deeper!"
Boros grumbled but followed his father respectfully, already dreaming of discovering the treasures hidden below.
This cave was no ordinary one—it was magical. Each sub-level was protected by an enchantment that denied entry to anyone who couldn't prove their skill and determination to extract the ore of the next level.
The deeper one went, the harder, rarer, and more powerful the minerals became—and the tougher the work. In two hundred years, no Meloc had ever reached the fifth level.
Boros walked behind his father, a bit skeptical.
"Father… I have no talent for mining. I don't understand why we spend so much time here."
The warmth of the torches mingled with the dust floating in the air. Boros continued, frustration lacing his voice:
"Father… why do we always mine? The shamans and the shapers have already made enough weapons. We could live off hunting. Why tire ourselves for more metal?"
The shamans used their fire magic to make the metal malleable, and the shapers forged it into weapons and tools.
Melvar nodded, understanding yet firm.
"Metal is the strength of our people, Boros. Without these minerals, our tribe can neither defend itself nor prosper."
Boros sighed, his hands tightening around the handle of his small pickaxe. Even if he didn't yet grasp its full meaning, he knew the mine was the heart of their survival and power.
"Why do we live in this cave?" he asked.
His father stopped. He placed his huge hand on his son's head—his fingers rough like stone, trembling slightly.
"Because, my son… this cave is our sanctuary."
The boy looked at him, puzzled.
"Our ancestors were driven from the light. So we dug… again and again, to find a light of our own."
Melvar's eyes grew distant, his voice softer:
"Every swing of the pickaxe is a heartbeat of hope. Every stone we tear away is a step toward a day we might never see…
but that you will."
"We don't mine only to survive.
We mine to believe. As long as our arms move… the mountain hears us."
The boy, moved though he didn't fully understand why, held his father's hand tightly. In his eyes, the torchlight reflected—a small star born underground. That image, engraved in his memory, would never fade.
After a minute walking down the slope, they reached the first sub-level. In the distance, dull sounds echoed… then a tremendous crash shook the ground. The cave trembled under the impact.
Melvar, startled, turned sharply toward his son:
"Boros, stay here!"
Without hesitation, he rushed toward the exit to see what was happening.
"Father… please, let me come with you!" Boros shouted.
"Stay here! That's an order!" Melvar yelled back as he ran, but Boros didn't listen. The acrid smell of smoke stung his nose. Without thinking, he ran after his father.
When Boros finally emerged into the light, the sight froze him in place. The entire field was engulfed in flames, the trees reduced to charred, smoking carcasses. At the center of the chaos, an enormous dragon with glowing red scales and black fangs towered above everything—majestic and terrifying.
The tribe's hunters, though stunned, were still alive. Melvar had already gathered them, issuing commands with calm yet firm authority, trying to regain control of the situation.