The blue sea rolled in gentle waves, licking at the oak hull of the Laughing Lion.
A salty breeze swept across the deck, lifting the damp strands of hair clinging to Lo Quen's forehead.
Hunched over, he gripped the fishing net with both hands, knuckles whitening from the strain.
This was the ninth day since his Transmigration.
He was no longer the college student who sat before a computer, jungling with Shyvana and roaming Summoner's Rift.
Now he was "Lo Quen," a thirteen-year-old boy, son of a smith from a small town in Yi Ti by the Jade Sea.
Three months ago, the Dothraki horsemen had swept through like a plague of locusts, crushing his home and selling him through slave markets. In the end, he was bought by a Westerosi adventurer named Gerion Lannister, becoming the lowest of the low aboard the Laughing Lion, a ship bound for an uncertain fate.
Gerion Lannister.
That name alone was enough to sink Lo Quen's heart to the bottom of the sea.
Having read A Song of Ice and Fire, he knew well that this man was Tywin Lannister's younger brother.
Yi Ti, the Dothraki, Volantis, Westeros...
Other transmigrators became lords, princes, or knights' squires. He, however, was a slave—a smith's son from Yi Ti who didn't even know where he would be tomorrow.
From the bow came a sharp voice, thick with the accent of Volantis, breaking through his heavy thoughts.
"Gerion, how much longer until we reach Valyria? We've been drifting on this damned sea for half a month. Is something wrong with your charts? Bring them out and let everyone see, or who knows what tricks you're hiding!"
The speaker was a gaunt middle-aged man. Beneath his short, curly brown hair, a jagged rose-red scar cut diagonally from his forehead to the corner of his left eye, like an ugly centipede.
His piercing gaze was fixed squarely on Gerion, who stood at the foredeck.
Gerion Lannister didn't answer right away.
His tall frame stood firm at the bow as he peered through a red-copper Myrish lens tube, staring hard at the horizon as if he could pierce through the endless blue.
After a moment, he lowered the tube, his blue eyes calm as still water as they turned toward the scarred man—Lened.
"Lened, the charts are sound. I spent over a decade obtaining them and won't hand them over so easily. If you want treasure, stop probing and follow my command. Otherwise..."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over Lened's dark expression. "This ship can sail without you."
With that, Gerion turned and strode toward the captain's cabin, not sparing another glance.
The sea wind tugged at the hem of Lened's open leather coat, but it couldn't scatter the aura of malice and resentment surrounding him.
He stared at Gerion's retreating back, the scar on his face twisting grotesquely in the sunlight.
Lo Quen kept his eyes down, mechanically hauling at the fishing net as if deaf to everything.
This was the seventeenth such clash.
Lened, Gerion's "partner," never stopped trying to pry the secret out of him—the sea route leading to the ruins of Valyria.
And Gerion, the youngest brother of Tywin Lannister, had set sail to recover his family's lost Valyrian steel sword, Brightroar, and the treasures of the ruins. Each time, he remained ever watchful.
Lo Quen searched his memories. If he recalled correctly, Gerion's fate was to vanish into the cursed Smoking Sea of Valyria...
His chest tightened sharply.
He hadn't even cleared the newbie village, and now he was about to be dragged into a hell-level dungeon like Valyria?
Instinctively, he looked around for a way to escape, but the endless blue sky and sea trapped him in every direction.
Then, without warning, a cold, piercing light burst deep within his mind.
System?!
The shock froze Lo Quen's body, his breath caught in his throat.
Around him, the sailors continued their clamor, unaware of the slave boy's strange state in the corner.
Lo Quen sank his consciousness inward, and the panel, glowing with a soft but undeniable white light, appeared clearly before him:
Host: Lo Quen
Age: 13 (Lifespan Limit: 81 years)
Dragon's Soul: 0 (A certain chance to acquire Dragon's Soul upon the death of magical entities)
Magic: 0/500 (Passively absorbs magic from the air or actively from magical items)
Passive Skills:
① Dragon Bloodline (Bloodline Purity: 0.05%. The death of magical entities grants a chance to acquire Dragon's Soul. 100 Dragon's Soul = 0.01% Bloodline Purity. Purity increases magic capacity, lifespan, physique, dragonflame strength, number of Flame Knights, and number of Dragon Soul Guards.)
② True Dragon Physique (Purity enhances physical strength in True Dragon form)
③ Fire Affinity (Purity enhances affinity with and resistance to fire elements)
Active Skills:
① Dragonflame Breath (Human form: 1m fireball / 5m range / 1 Magic per second; Dragon form: 5m fireball / 25m range / 5 Magic per second)
② Blazing Inferno (Human form: 1m dragonflame armor / 2 Magic per second; Dragon form: 5m blazing domain / 10 Magic per second)
③ Dragonblood Pact (Forge a Dragonblood Pact with a human, making them an absolutely loyal Flame Knight. Grants dragon blood, reshapes their body. Number of pacts increases with purity. Flame Knights can revive the dead as Dragon Soul Guards, the number of which also increases with purity. Current Flame Knights: 1. Cost: 1000 Magic each use.)
Ultimate Skill:
True Dragon's Descent: Transform into a 1-meter-long true dragon. Size increases with purity. Cost: 1000 Magic to activate, 1 Magic per second to maintain.
Dragon! Power!
The words roared through his soul like ancient war horns, sweeping away the shadows of his enslaved humiliation.
But the cold numbers struck him like a bucket of seawater: Magic: 0/500.
Forget unleashing skills—he couldn't even conjure a single spark.
That alluring "True Dragon's Descent" demanded a full 1000 points just to activate.
Lo Quen felt the thin trace of magic in the air and stared at the stagnant pool on his panel, shaking his head in frustration.
Relying on passive absorption? That would take forever.
As for absorbing from magic items? Ridiculous. He was a slave with nothing to his name—not even a proper stick.
And Dragon's Soul, the key to raising his bloodline purity, could only be gained from slain magical entities. Ha! If he had the strength to kill magical entities, would he still be here as a slave?
Bitterness surged again.
The cheat had arrived, yet its activation requirements were cruel enough to be despair.
Just then!
The heavy net in his hands suddenly jerked with a violent, almost frenzied force.
The power was far beyond the thrashing of ordinary fish, yanking the unprepared Lo Quen forward so hard he stumbled, his knees cracking against the slick deck.
"Yi Ti brat, didn't you eat? Pull harder!"
A sailor with a reeking beard and liquor on his breath cursed harshly, gritting his teeth as he hauled alongside him. A few others muttered curses as they rushed in to help.
The net rose slowly, sloshing water and releasing an even heavier stench of fish.
At the bottom, an abnormally large, violently twisting shape could be seen.
When it was finally dragged onto the deck, exposed beneath the glaring sun, the sailors surrounding it let out a chorus of gasps—equal parts astonishment and unease.
It was a monstrous fish.
Nearly a meter long, its body was armored with thick dark-green scales, their edges flashing with a cold metallic sheen.
Its head was grotesque, packed with fine, saw-like teeth. Its two cloudy yellow eyes bulged outward like cheap glass marbles, dull and lifeless.
"The Seven Hells! What in bloody hells is that?" A young sailor from Westeros turned pale, stumbling back instinctively.
"A bastard from the Valyrian Sea, uglier than the cheapest whore in Lys!"
The bearded sailor spat curses.
Another seasoned hand drew the skinning knife from his belt, crouching low as he crept toward the thrashing monster.
Lo Quen's heart hammered in his chest.
His eyes fixed on the fish's murky yellow orbs. Deep inside that filth, he thought he caught the faintest, twisted flicker of light.
Could this thing be a magical entity?
The thought jolted through him, and on his system panel, the cold "Dragon's Soul: 0" seemed to blaze to life.
Just then, the sailor drove his knife down, killing the monster with one strike. From its corpse, a hazy sphere of light drifted free.
Lo Quen glanced around. None of the sailors reacted—they looked straight through it, as though it wasn't there at all.
The orb floated briefly in the air, glowing faintly, before shooting straight into his body.
[Dragon's Soul +1]
It was only a single point, nowhere near enough to raise his bloodline purity by even 0.01%, yet the impact sent waves crashing through Lo Quen's mind.
This thing actually gave Dragon's Soul?
So that's it!
The system had said, "The death of magical entities may yield Dragon's Soul," but it never said he had to strike the killing blow himself.
It was like a door opening in the dark—only for reality's iron wall to slam it shut again.
Only creatures infused with magic could provide Dragon's Soul. And where was he supposed to find magical entities?
His gaze flicked from the carcass at his feet to the distant, endless horizon, his whole body tensing.
That was the Ruins of Valyria.
If even a fish from waters near the Cursed Land carried a trace of magic, enough to count as a "magical entity," then the ruins themselves must be crawling with them—sources of bloodline power waiting to be claimed.
Compared to fleeing and drowning in the endless sea, setting foot in Valyria to strengthen his bloodline was at least a path he could see and grasp.
On deck, the sailors were still bickering—whether to cook the monster fish or toss it back into the waves.
No one noticed the boy from Yi Ti in the corner. In his eyes, once dulled by numbness and resignation, a spark of hope flared for the very first time.