Hollowdene's deepest region did not welcome footsteps.
The forest here stood older than kingdoms, older than clans, older than the stories men told themselves to feel important. The trees were thicker, bark hardened by centuries of survival. Roots cracked stone instead of yielding to it. The air itself felt heavier, pressing against Aldrich's lungs as if testing his right to breathe.
Every beast had fled.
That alone told him the truth.
Aldrich stopped at the edge of a wide clearing carved naturally into the earth, as if something massive had pressed down on the land for generations. The ground was scorched in places, not burned recently, but scarred—a memory etched into soil and rock.
The dragon's territory.
He exhaled slowly.
Three days.
Three nights.
That was his intent.
Not to slay it.
Not yet.
To survive it.
To prove something deeper than victory.
Aldrich loosened his shoulders, adjusted his footing, and rested his hand on the hilt of his katana. The blade remained sheathed. He was not foolish enough to draw it blindly.
Then—
The ground trembled.
Not violently.
Not suddenly.
It was a slow, deep vibration that rolled through the earth like a waking giant stretching after centuries of sleep.
A low sound followed.
Not a roar.
A breath.
Hot. Heavy. Patient.
From the shadow beyond the clearing, something vast shifted.
Scales scraped stone—not sharply, not wildly, but with the slow certainty of a creature that had never needed haste. The dragon's form emerged piece by piece: thick limbs pressing into the ground, wings folded tight against its body like massive shields, a neck rising with deliberate calm.
Its eyes opened.
Gold—not glowing, not mystical—just alive with awareness.
It saw Aldrich.
And it did not attack.
That was worse.
The dragon studied him the way a mountain studies weather.
Aldrich felt it then—the pressure. Not fear exactly, but the instinctive understanding that one mistake here meant erasure. No glory. No legend. Just bones scattered into soil.
He stepped forward.
Once.
The dragon's head lowered slightly. Its nostrils flared. Heat washed over the clearing, curling the grass at Aldrich's feet.
A warning.
Aldrich unsheathed his katana.
The sound was clean. Honest.
Steel against air.
"I'm not here to die," Aldrich said, voice steady, carrying without force. "And I'm not here to run."
The dragon's jaw parted.
Not wide.
Not threatening.
A single, controlled exhale burst forth.
The impact threw Aldrich backward.
He barely rolled in time, heat ripping across his coat, scorching fabric, skin stinging instantly. He came up on one knee, boots digging into the dirt, heart hammering.
That wasn't fire.
That was breath alone.
So this was the gap.
Speed.
Precision.
Endurance.
The dragon moved.
Faster than something that large should.
Its forelimb slammed down where Aldrich had been standing a breath earlier, the impact cracking the earth, throwing fragments of stone outward like shrapnel. Aldrich sprinted sideways, muscles screaming as he forced his body to accelerate beyond comfort.
He cut.
Once.
Not to wound—testing distance.
The katana struck scale and slid.
No penetration.
No damage.
Aldrich didn't curse. Didn't panic.
He adjusted.
The dragon turned, tail sweeping across the clearing in a wide arc. Aldrich leapt, twisting midair, the tail passing beneath him with enough force to flatten trees at the edge of the clearing.
He landed badly.
Pain exploded through his ankle.
He ignored it.
Day One was not about victory.
It was about learning.
The dragon pressed.
Step by step, breath by breath, it advanced, forcing Aldrich to move constantly. He couldn't stop. Couldn't think too long. Every second demanded reaction.
Aldrich used terrain—rocks, tree roots, elevation shifts. He ran up slanted stone, leapt from trunks, slid beneath wing shadows that blocked out the sun.
When fire finally came, it wasn't dramatic.
It was efficient.
A focused stream, short and controlled, aimed not to burn the forest—but him.
Aldrich rolled through dirt and damp earth, heat licking his back, coat igniting briefly before he smothered it with movement. His lungs burned. His throat tasted of ash.
He cut again.
This time at the joint.
The blade bit shallow—but it bit.
The dragon roared.
The sound slammed into Aldrich's chest like a physical force, driving him to one knee. Blood trickled from his ear. His vision blurred for half a second.
Half a second almost ended him.
Claws raked across his side.
Not fully.
Enough.
He flew, struck a tree, and collapsed hard.
Ribs screamed.
Something cracked.
Aldrich laughed.
Not loudly.
Not proudly.
A breathless sound torn from his chest.
"So this is you," he muttered, pushing himself up. "Good."
The dragon reared back.
This time, the fire came full.
Aldrich ran toward it.
He sprinted at an angle, using speed and timing, feeling heat sear his skin as he cut through the edge of the blast. His coat burned away. His bandanna blackened but held.
He leapt.
Not high enough to reach the head.
High enough to reach the neck.
He struck again.
Deeper.
Blood—dark and steaming—splashed across his arms.
The dragon slammed him into the ground.
Everything went white.
He didn't lose consciousness.
He refused to.
Hours passed like this.
Strike. Evade. Burn. Break. Rise.
By nightfall, Aldrich could barely stand straight. His hands shook. His breaths came ragged. Blood soaked into the earth beneath him.
The dragon, too, bore marks now. Shallow wounds. A torn membrane along one wing. Blood darkening its scales.
It did not retreat.
Neither did Aldrich.
Moonlight replaced sun.
The forest watched.
And somewhere far above pain and exhaustion, Aldrich understood something vital:
This creature was not a wall.
It was a trial.
And Day One was not about winning.
It was about earning the right to see Day Two.
Aldrich planted his feet.
Raised his blade.
And waited.