The silence after resurrection was deafening.
Bailong Zhenjun, the White Dragon God, opened his new eyes and stared at the world through the fragile shell of a human boy. He blinked once, twice, feeling the strange heaviness of eyelids—so different from the sweep of ancient wings that once blotted out the sun.
A faint wind rustled the decrepit shrine, carrying with it the scent of incense long burned away. He flexed his fingers, pale and trembling, and exhaled slowly. The breath misted in the cool night air.
"...So this is what weakness feels like."
His voice was low, hoarse, yet laced with a power that had not diminished. Even confined in such a fragile vessel, the will of a Dragon God did not fade.
Bailong stood unsteadily, his legs quivering. He caught his reflection in the cracked mirror near the shrine's offering stand.
The boy's face stared back at him—handsome, yes, almost unfairly so for a human. Pale skin, sharp jawline, hair black as midnight. But beneath the beauty, his body was pitifully thin. The shoulders narrow. The arms frail. Even the faintest breeze seemed like it might knock him over.
Bailong raised a hand, watching his own fingers curl into a fist. They shook, not from fear, but from weakness.
"This body is mine now," he murmured. "But it is unworthy."
For a moment, his divine aura flickered, an echo of the dragon that once tore apart gods. The boy's veins glowed faintly with streaks of silver light, and muscles that had never known strength began to swell with life. The transformation was subtle but undeniable.
The wound on the throat was gone, not even a scar left behind. His heart beat steady, stronger than before. His once dull eyes now shimmered with the faintest trace of azure fire.
This human vessel was frail, yes. But it was his now. And he would forge it into something befitting a god.
Then the flood came.
Images crashed into his mind, unbidden and overwhelming.
A young boy, crying as older children shoved him into the mud.
The jeering voices of classmates: "E-rank trash!"
His parents' faces, twisted with disappointment. His mother sighing as if wishing for another son. His father silently shaking his head.
A girl's laughter—soft, sweet, filled with affection—until it twisted into scorn as she left hand-in-hand with a stronger hunter.
Nights spent kneeling before this very shrine, praying with clenched fists, whispering desperate pleas to a god who never answered.
The White Dragon God clenched his temples, snarling. "These memories…"
He had not expected this. The boy's soul was gone, devoured by despair. But the fragments of his life clung stubbornly to the vessel. Every humiliation, every bruise, every betrayal—the pain of a weakling who had begged for salvation until the very end.
And Bailong had ignored him.
The Dragon God fell silent, his hands lowering. He let the memories pass through him, felt the emotions that came with them. Weakness. Fear. Loneliness.
And faith.
Despite it all, the boy had never stopped praying. He had believed until the very moment he chose to die.
For the first time in millennia, Bailong's chest tightened—not from rage, nor pride, but something far more subtle.
Regret.
"Foolish child," he muttered. "Even when abandoned, you never turned your back on me. And I repaid that faith with silence."
He looked at his reflection again. This body was not just a vessel—it was a remnant of that boy's existence. To ignore it would be beneath him.
Very well. If fate had tied their names together, then Bailong Zhenjun would carry the weight of this mortal's life.
The Dragon God stretched, rolling his shoulders, listening to the crack of bones. Already, power flowed within him. The vessel was too weak to contain his full might, but even a fragment of his strength was terrifying by mortal standards.
He lifted a hand. A flicker of flame danced at his fingertip. With a thought, it shifted into a droplet of water, then into a spark of lightning, then into a swirl of darkness.
"All affinities," he said softly. "Even confined to this form, they answer me as they always have."
The boy's body quivered at the strain. His skin prickled with heat and frost, his muscles threatening to tear from the surge of elements. Bailong quickly released the energy, letting it dissipate into the night.
Not yet. This body needed time. If he unleashed even a fraction more, it would burn itself out.
Still, a faint smile curved his lips.
"I have returned."
Bailong stepped outside the shrine, into the sleeping city. Shanghai's skyline loomed before him, glittering with a thousand lights. Towers of glass and steel stretched into the heavens, glowing screens displayed advertisements for guilds and hunter academies, and airships buzzed faintly above.
Humans had advanced far in three thousand years. And yet, they were still bound by fear. The dungeons that plagued this world were little different from the corrupted rifts Bailong had once sealed himself.
He chuckled. "How amusing. Even after three millennia, the gods still play their little games with mortals."
His senses sharpened. He could feel the faint auras of awakened hunters across the city, flickering like candles. None of them compared to even the weakest dragons he had once known.
And yet, this world worshiped them as heroes.
It was almost pitiful.
As he wandered through the night, his new body adjusting step by step, Bailong heard it—a cry for help.
Down a nearby alley, two awakened hunters cornered a boy no older than sixteen. They were laughing, weapons in hand, clearly toying with their prey.
"C'mon, hand over the mana stones. E-rank trash like you doesn't need them.""Yeah, just be useful and pay your taxes to us."
The boy trembled, clutching a small pouch to his chest. "P-please… it's all I have…"
Bailong stopped. His blue eyes narrowed.
The scene overlapped with a memory—himself, or rather the boy whose body he now inhabited, on his knees, beaten, mocked.
A low growl escaped his throat.
The two hunters noticed him at last. "Oi, what's this? Another E-rank weakling?" one sneered. "Scram, pretty boy, before we—"
They didn't finish.
Bailong moved. One step, too fast for their eyes to follow. His hand struck, not with violence but with intent. In an instant, both hunters were thrown to the ground, their weapons scattered.
Their bodies convulsed as arcs of lightning crackled across their skin—yet Bailong hadn't even raised his voice.
He looked down at them coldly. "Pathetic."
The boy they had cornered stared wide-eyed, trembling. "Y-you… who are you?"
Bailong turned away. "No one you need to know."
For now.
As dawn's first light touched the horizon, Bailong returned to the shrine. He sat on the worn steps, gazing at the city that stretched before him.
This body was weak, yes. But it carried faith. It carried memories. It carried a chance.
The world had forgotten the White Dragon God. The gods slumbered, secure in their fading myths. Hunters strutted as if they were kings.
But now…
Now Bailong Zhenjun had returned.
And this time, the world would remember.