Whoosh!
The yellow-scaled beast launched itself with explosive force, plunging straight down from a branch several meters high.
Life and death hung in the balance.
A sharp gleam flashed in Lo Quen's eyes.
Perfect. Time to test this new power.
"Haaah!"
With a low roar bursting from his chest, Lo Quen did not retreat but instead advanced, meeting the monster's dive head-on. He drew a massive breath, his chest swelling visibly with astonishing speed.
'Dragonflame Breath!!!'
Boom!
A blazing crimson column of fire, as thick as a barrel, erupted from Lo Quen's open mouth.
The flame swelled the instant it left him, expanding into a searing fireball more than a meter across. The heat was so intense it stung the skin, and the surrounding mist vanished in an instant.
The yellow-scaled monster never even managed a full roar before the fireball swallowed it whole.
Screeeeeee!
A shrill scream burst from the heart of the flames as the creature writhed, its body turning into a tumbling inferno.
Lo Quen kept channeling Magic, sustaining the blaze.
He felt the energy—this force the system called "Magic"—draining steadily, second by second.
The deep crimson fire raged outward, roaring as it licked at the air.
Heat radiated from him in a violent wave, warping the air itself.
The brittle, dead trees around him caught fire at once, flames spreading madly until the silent forest became a roaring sea of fire.
Five, six long seconds passed before the monster's agonized wails were consumed entirely by the blaze.
Lo Quen closed his mouth slowly, the final ember dying on his lips.
Only a smoking carcass remained on the ground, its charred limbs frozen in the grotesque pose of its last struggle, reeking of burnt flesh.
He focused, waiting, but no trace of the familiar, life-filled Dragon's Soul emerged from the corpse. Disappointment pricked at him.
The system had said a magical creature's death only gave a chance of yielding a Dragon's Soul. This time, he had not been so lucky.
"Ahhh—!!!"
A terrified cry rang out from the direction of the boiling spring.
Lo Quen spun toward the sound. The silver-gold-haired maiden, clearly startled by the thunderous blast and towering flames, was scrambling to escape.
She had hastily thrown on a gray-green robe, but her flight was already cut short.
Three scaled monsters, larger and more muscular than the yellow-scaled one, their bodies sheathed in dark green plates, had appeared to block her path.
Their crimson eyes fixed hungrily on her, as if her blood were the sweetest prize.
Cornered against a jagged boulder, she clutched a bone dagger in trembling hands. Her amethyst left eye brimmed with despair.
Lo Quen hesitated, weighing his options.
In Valyria, caution was survival. What if she was with them?
But when he saw the monsters' bloodthirst fixed squarely on her, he dismissed the thought.
Another idea struck him. If she was indeed a survivor, she might know something of the ruins. And killing these beasts could yield the Dragon's Souls he craved.
After a moment's pause, he decided to intervene.
Stepping from the burning treeline, Lo Quen advanced with steady strides, his bloodstained sword in hand. His gaze flicked warily between the three snarling beasts and the maiden herself, ready for treachery.
In the Westeros Common Tongue, he called out:
"I am an explorer who strayed into this place. Are you a resident of Valyria?"
His sudden appearance only seemed to terrify her further.
She shrank back against the stone, then quickly swept a lock of silver-gold hair across her right cheek, trying to hide the scaled half of her face.
Lo Quen noted her reaction closely.
She didn't understand him, but she showed no sign of hostility. That was enough for now. He would deal with the monsters first—then press her for answers.
The last beast had yielded nothing. He intended to make up for it with these three.
The ink-green monsters were furious. Their "prey" had not fled—instead, he had stepped forward to face them.
Their scaled faces twisted into grotesque snarls, fangs jutting out as guttural growls rumbled from deep in their throats.
Without a hint of hesitation, the three beasts lunged at Lo Quen from different directions at once.
Lo Quen's eyes sharpened. Instead of retreating, he stepped forward. Just as the creatures closed in, their stench thick in his lungs, a hotter, fiercer burst of crimson Dragonflame erupted from his mouth.
The blaze carried not only searing heat but crushing force, sweeping outward like an enraged fire dragon.
The two monsters in the lead took the full impact, blasted backward by the torrent of fire and shockwave. They slammed into burning deadwood and were instantly consumed by the flames.
Their shrieks were agonizing, tearing through the air.
The third, a moment slower, was caught by the edge of the blaze. Half its body ignited, and it writhed on the ground in burning agony before falling silent, reduced to a smoldering corpse beside the others.
Thick smoke curled upward as firelight lit Lo Quen's composed face and glinted in the maiden's violet eyes, still wide with fright.
From the three charred bodies, three cold, pure strands of life essence rose soundlessly and sank into Lo Quen's body.
A thrill surged through him. He dove into his consciousness to sense the changes in his blood and Magic.
[Dragon Bloodline Purity: 0.17%]
[Magic: 554/1740]
With the 800 Dragon's Soul gained earlier "fighting alongside" Gerion and the others, plus the 300 just now, his purity had quietly climbed to 0.17%. His maximum Magic had reached 1740.
Yet the rate at which he drew ambient magic into himself lagged far behind the rate at which his capacity grew through Dragon's Souls. His reserves were still dangerously low.
Those two uses of Dragonflame Breath had cost relatively little—only a point of Magic per second in human form, little more than twenty total. Manageable.
But his regeneration was pitifully slow.
Lo Quen frowned.
At this pace, his Magic was no more than a trickle, nowhere near enough for greater dangers ahead, let alone the devastating Ultimate Skill.
He needed a true source of replenishment, something vast and fast. Otherwise, his swollen reserves meant nothing without "ammunition." He'd be nothing more than prey in these ruins.
Drawing himself back to the present, he looked at the maiden.
She had calmed a little, but her amethyst eye still shimmered with lingering fear and intense curiosity as she watched him timidly.
Lo Quen softened his expression, trying to appear unthreatening, and spoke slowly in the Common Tongue of Westeros.
"Hello. My name is Lo Quen. I come from the distant East, from Yi Ti. I am... an explorer."
The girl blinked, her long silver-gold lashes fluttering like butterfly wings.
She clearly didn't understand, confusion clouding her face.
She began speaking quickly in a melodic, complex tongue, her hands gesturing urgently in an effort to make herself understood.
The language was strange, layered, unlike Common or any tongue Lo Quen had heard before.
He spread his hands helplessly. He couldn't understand a word.
In this land of constant peril, language itself was proving the greatest barrier.
The girl hesitated, then seemed to reach a decision.
She stepped closer. Before Lo Quen could react, she reached out with a slender, pale hand—soft but faintly calloused—and gently took his left hand.
Then, firmly but gently, she pressed his palm against her chest, directly over her heart.
Warmth, smooth and soft beneath the rough fabric of her robe, pulsed against his hand. Her heartbeat was rapid and strong.
A blush flared on her flawless cheek, pink blooming like dawn against snow.
She lifted her deep purple eyes to his, lips parting as she spoke softly.
Her voice brushed his ear like silk, carrying a subtle, enchanting power.
The instant the sound reached him, meaning bloomed clear in his mind, bypassing words entirely, as if her thoughts had taken root in his own.
"Through touch and thought, I can speak with you. My name is Janice. Thank you for saving me."