Three thousand years ago, the skies were ruled not by birds, nor by gods, but by dragons.
They were majestic, awe-inspiring beings, each born with a unique affinity. Some breathed fire hotter than molten lava, others commanded the crushing weight of earth. Some danced with the wind, soaring freely through the heavens, while others carried the blinding purity of light or the suffocating chill of darkness. There were dragons who embodied holy radiance, and dragons who whispered curses in the shadows of the abyss.
But among them, one dragon stood above all—Bailong Zhenjun, the White Dragon God.
Unlike his kin who were bound to a single element, Bailong was born with all affinities. Fire, earth, wind, light, dark, holy, shadow, water, lightning—the full spectrum of creation flowed in his veins. To mortals, he was a deity incarnate. To gods, he was a rival to be feared. To other dragons, he was both hope and despair—the pinnacle of their race.
Yet, Bailong was not always so.
Long before the world knew him as the White Dragon God, he had been a runt—weak, mocked, barely able to summon sparks of flame or stir a breeze. But through endless battles, devouring enemies, and surpassing trials that no dragon had ever dared to face, he clawed his way to supremacy. His roar shook mountains, his wings blotted out the sun, and his blade—when he took human form—split the heavens themselves.
In time, the gods themselves acknowledged his power. He was crowned among them, revered as both dragon and deity. Immortality was bestowed upon him—an eternal existence unbound by the decay of time.
But immortality, as Bailong would learn, was not a gift. It was a curse.
One thousand years later, harmony shattered.
The gods, once allies, grew wary. The dragons' numbers swelled, their strength unmatched, their ambitions boundless. To gods who claimed dominion over mortals and realms, the dragons became a threat.
Thus began the War of Heaven.
The sky burned as gods descended, wielding divine weapons that split continents. Dragons answered with firestorms, hurricanes, and cataclysms. Oceans boiled. Mountains crumbled. Mortals perished in countless millions.
And at the center of it all stood Bailong.
For seven days and seven nights, he fought the gods themselves. They came in legions, but he cut them down like stalks of grass. Blades of holy fire? Shattered by his claws. Chains of divinity? Torn apart by his roar. He wielded every element with mastery, his strikes a symphony of destruction.
When the dust settled, it was Bailong who stood victorious.
But his triumph was hollow. The heavens lay in ruins. The gods, broken and humiliated, withdrew to slumber. And the dragons—his kin, his brethren, his pride—were no more. One by one, they had fallen. Betrayed. Hunted. Extinguished.
Only Bailong remained.
Immortal. Unaging. Alone.
The centuries dragged on. Millennia passed. Empires rose and fell. The once-terrifying figure of the White Dragon God faded into myth, then into fairy tale, and at last into nothing but bedtime stories.
The world moved on, forgetting him.
But he… could never forget.
Shanghai, 2025.
The world had changed beyond recognition. Skyscrapers pierced the clouds, neon lights painted the night sky, and mortals zipped across the land in machines faster than the swiftest wind dragon. Yet, one thing remained: the meddling of gods.
Since 2013, mysterious gates known as Dungeons began appearing across the world. Each dungeon teemed with monsters that defied imagination—creatures that bled darkness, devoured men, and threatened entire cities.
And with the dungeons came Hunters—humans chosen by gods, awakened with supernatural abilities. Some bent flames, others wielded ice, lightning, or shadows. Hunters became humanity's shield, their heroes, their celebrities.
But among them, none bore the blessing of Bailong Zhenjun.
Long ago, other gods had urged Bailong to bestow blessings upon humanity, to guide them as he once guided dragons. But Bailong remained silent. He had watched the gods betray his kin. He had watched mortals pray to him with trembling lips only to forget him when no answer came. Why should he give them anything?
And so, though the blessings of every god manifested across the world, Bailong's did not.
Or so people believed.
Over time, faith in the White Dragon God withered. Shrines crumbled. Prayers ceased. His name was relegated to dust.
Except for one.
A single mortal still believed.
His name, by coincidence—or perhaps fate—was also Bailong.
Unlike the god, this Bailong was no towering figure of awe. He was a weak young man, barely twenty, with the misfortune of being born an E-rank Hunter. In the world of hunters, where strength was measured in ranks from S down to E, E-rank was the bottom of the barrel.
True, even E-rank hunters possessed bodies stronger than professional athletes. But in a society where power meant survival, fame, and wealth, E-rank was little better than trash.
And so Bailong the boy was bullied, mocked, and discarded. His girlfriend, once drawn by his good looks, left him for a stronger, wealthier hunter. His so-called friends abandoned him. His family looked at him with pity, or worse, shame.
The only thing he clung to was faith.
Night after night, he knelt before a neglected shrine tucked away in the corner of Shanghai's old district. The shrine was weathered, its wood cracked, its incense holders rusted with time. Few even remembered what god it honored. But Bailong knew.
It was the shrine of the White Dragon God.
And so he prayed.
"Dear Bailong, please… give me your blessings. Just once. Please."
He prayed with desperation, with hope, with tears. And though no answer ever came, he prayed still.
Until the night he decided to end it.
The moon hung low over Shanghai, casting pale light over the ancient shrine. Alone, Bailong stood before it, a knife trembling in his hand. His body ached with bruises from yet another beating. His heart ached worse, hollowed by betrayal and despair.
He forced a smile, though no one was there to see it.
"Dear Bailong," he whispered softly, "thank you… for everything. Thank you for this face, even if the body was weak. Thank you for letting me dream… even if it never came true."
His voice cracked. His grip tightened on the knife.
"I'll end it here. Maybe… maybe in the next life, I'll be stronger."
The blade kissed his throat. Pain flared. Warmth spilled. The world blurred.
And then—
A roar shook the heavens.
Not in the world of mortals, but in the realm of the forgotten.
The true Bailong Zhenjun stirred. For three thousand years he had slumbered, indifferent to the prayers of mankind. But this time… something was different.
This boy… bore his name.This boy… believed when no one else did.And this boy… had just thrown his life away in despair.
For the first time in an eternity, Bailong the Dragon God felt something stir within his chest. Pity? Guilt? Amusement? He wasn't sure. But he knew one thing—
He would not let this soul vanish.
Light erupted from the shrine. The boy's lifeless body convulsed as warmth surged through it. The wound on his throat sealed, flesh knitting as if rewound by time. His pale, malnourished skin flushed with vitality. His once-weak muscles tightened with latent power.
And within him, a voice echoed.
"Pathetic child. You prayed… and I ignored you. For that, perhaps I owe you this much."
The boy's eyes fluttered open—except they were no longer the boy's. Brilliant blue irises glowed like twin stars. His breath came out as mist, carrying the faint scent of storm and frost.
"Your soul is gone. Your body is mine. From this day forth… Bailong Zhenjun walks this world again."
The Dragon God had returned.