He lifted his head, staring at the sea of gray-white grass rolling silently in the mist. His eyes could no longer contain the ecstatic light blazing within them.
Magic. Endless magic.
This was no cursed death-grass—it was a gift from the heavens, a fountain of power placed in his path.
With this near-limitless field of ghost grass, his flaw of slow recovery would vanish. An endless stream of magic meant longer battles, and the freedom to wield his Ultimate Skil again and again.
Lo Quen forced down the restless thrill in his chest and chose to restore his strength first.
He crouched and yanked up several stalks of ghost grass as thick as his wrist. Cold, lifeless yet pure energy coursed up his arm into his body, his magic count steadily climbing: +1, +1, +1.
Every stalk he touched dulled and withered in the same way—its glow fading, its color turning gray, until it crumbled into dust once its power was drained.
Beside him, Janice watched, baffled. To her eyes, he looked like some tireless farmer crouched in the grass, swiftly "harvesting" stalk after stalk. Confusion was written plain across her young face.
She couldn't fathom why this young wizard from the East was so obsessed with plants used mainly for rituals in Tyria. But she was obedient and did not disturb him, only standing quietly at his side while keeping a wary watch on the fog all around.
Then—
Screeeech!!!
A sharp, piercing cry shattered the sky above.
This time, it was clearer. Closer.
The moment the sound reached him, Lo Quen's face changed at once.
Beside him, Janice went pale as death. Terror filled her beautiful left eye, and her delicate body trembled beyond her control.
Lo Quen knew that cry all too well. The hundred-foot, three-headed, purple-feathered monstrosity that had appeared on the Dragonroad.
His gaze flicked once toward the swaying sea of pale grass, reluctant—but survival cut short all hesitation. He bent low, one arm snatching up a great handful of stalks like lightning, even biting down on a bundle between his teeth, caring nothing for appearances.
With his other hand, he seized Janice's arm and barked, "Go!"
Without a second's pause, he wheeled and sprinted toward the deadwood forest.
Screeeech—!!!
The second shriek tore open the air almost above his head.
A vast shadow swallowed the land, the dense fog ripped apart by furious gales.
Beneath the rolling clouds, the colossal form of the three-headed purple-feathered beast loomed clear, blotting out the heavens.
Six blood-red eyes blazed like stars of the abyss, locked unerringly on the tiny figures fleeing below. The distance between hunter and prey was no more than a breath.
Lo Quen's face went white as he glanced down at the boundless darkness beneath the wingspan. His arms clamped around Janice's slender waist like iron, lifting her clean off the ground. Then, unleashing speed and strength that defied belief, he surged forward like a loosed war arrow, darting through twisted trees and over rough ground with impossible swiftness.
They ran at a breakneck pace for what felt like forever, but still the purple-feathered horror clung to them. It shadowed Lo Quen alone, trailing above him like a kite on a string—waiting for him to falter, to dive and smash his skull with one strike of its beak.
Lo Quen vaulted over a low rise. The ground beneath his feet smoothed, flattening into the basin of a valley.
But the sight that greeted him made his scalp prickle even in the frenzy of flight.
At the bottom of the valley, massive blackened trees lay toppled in heaps, some still smoldering, their dying crackles like mournful wails. The firelight danced across a field of corpses.
Not human corpses—scaled beasts.
Hundreds of them, strewn in every direction. Each grotesquely slain.
Some hacked clean in half, entrails spilling across the dirt.
Some pierced through skull or heart.
Most blown apart or charred, twisted into black husks by fire and explosion.
The air reeked with the stench of blood and scorched flesh, thick enough to sicken.
The valley had only just borne witness to a slaughter.
At the sight, a gleam of joy flashed in Lo Quen's eyes. This place, this field of death, was treasure beyond imagining.
From the fresh corpses drifted faint wisps of Dragon's Soul essence, still lingering, not yet dispersed.
A gift from the gods.
Exhilaration surged through him. Even as he ran, he cast his will wide, sweeping across every fresh carcass within reach.
Absorb. Absorb. Absorb.
Surges of cold, potent vitality rushed into him like a thousand rivers pouring into the sea.
He could feel it clearly—the unseen gauge of his "Dragon Bloodline Purity" was soaring within him at a speed unlike anything before. Every wisp he absorbed meant another surge of strength.
By his rough estimate, there were more than a hundred corpses scattered across this battlefield. The vast majority had released Dragon's Soul, granting him an unprecedented rise in purity.
And while he greedily drew in Dragon's Soul, the ghost grass clutched in his arms was feeding him Magic without pause, patch after patch withering away.
Dragon's Soul and Magic, flourishing together.
Just as Lo Quen reveled in the intoxicating rush of his growing power, the shadow of death above suddenly crashed down.
Screeeech—!!!
The piercing cry of the three-headed bird split the air, a violent gust slamming down like a hammer.
It had lost patience. The massive body tucked in its wings and dove, its target clear—the two fleeing below.
Lo Quen caught the shift in shadows across the ground and knew instantly: running straight was suicide. He swerved sharply, clutching Janice tight as he bolted toward a thicket of gnarled deadwood on the right, hoping the tangled terrain might shield them from the dive.
But the instant he turned, the vast shadow of purplish-red feathers swallowed him whole.
A sulfur-stinking gale hit his back like a wall of stone.
In his ears, the shriek of the beast's dive tore the sky apart, ghostly wails riding the wind.
Too close. No way out.
Alarm bells thundered in his chest as he whipped his head around.
The purple-feathered monster had already collapsed its sky-spanning wings, crashing into the earth less than twenty paces away.
The impact shook the ground violently, dust and sulfurous mist billowing high.
Its three hideous heads, each the size of a battering ram, hung low.
Six blood-red eyes burned with pure annihilation, fixing on Lo Quen with the cruel amusement of a predator savoring its prey.
Three enormous beaks, serrated fangs jutting, opened as one. From the depths of their throats, crimson light flared, the air heating until it warped and sizzled with a dying hiss.
The sulfur stench was choking.
Dragonfire.
It was gathering dragonfire.
This three-headed purple-feathered beast could summon the very breath of dragons.
Lo Quen's face hardened in the furnace glow. Three blazing fireballs, strong enough to vaporize him in an instant, were about to erupt—and he and Janice had nowhere left to run.