Rain fell for two days without pause.
Not a storm—no thunder, no violent wind—but a steady, patient rain that soaked Hollowdene Forest to its roots. Leaves bowed beneath its weight. Ash from scorched ground dissolved into dark mud. Blood—both human and dragon—was washed from stone and bark alike, sinking into the ancient soil as if the forest itself were drinking deeply.
Aldrich Yagurah did not wake.
His body lay where it had finally given out—beneath the great canopy near the dragon's resting place, katana still within arm's reach. His breathing was shallow but steady, chest rising and falling in quiet defiance of death. Bruises darkened his skin. Old wounds reopened and closed again. Muscles knotted, then slowly loosened as the rain cooled his fevered flesh.
For two days, he did not move.
For two days, the dragon remained.
It did not flee.
It did not attack.
It lay beneath a massive, ancient tree across from Aldrich, its vast body partially sheltered by thick roots and hanging moss. Its breathing slowed as hours passed. Blood clotted along its scales, hardening like crimson lacquer. Its eyes remained half-lidded, but never fully closed.
It watched.
Not as a predator.
As a witness.
On the morning of the third day, the rain finally ceased.
Mist rose from the forest floor, curling through tree trunks like pale spirits returning home. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in broken shafts, touching Aldrich's face for the first time since the battle ended.
His fingers twitched.
Then his brow furrowed.
Pain returned—not all at once, but layered, familiar, almost comforting in its honesty. Aldrich inhaled sharply and coughed, rolling slightly onto his side. Mud clung to his clothes. His hair was stiff with dried blood and rainwater.
Slowly, carefully, he opened his eyes.
Green.
Endless green.
For a moment, he thought he had died and woken somewhere gentler.
Then he felt the weight of his body.
The ache.
The scars.
"I'm alive…" he murmured.
He pushed himself up with effort, sitting against the trunk of a nearby tree. His entire body screamed in protest, but it obeyed. His gaze wandered—instinctively, cautiously.
And found it.
The dragon.
It lay across from him beneath the massive tree, its immense form partially illuminated by sunlight. Its wings were folded close now, torn membranes beginning to dry and stiffen. The wounds Aldrich had inflicted were still visible—deep, brutal, undeniable.
Yet the dragon lived.
Their eyes met.
Aldrich did not reach for his sword.
Instead, he exhaled slowly.
"…You stayed."
The dragon did not move.
But it did not look away.
Aldrich struggled to his feet, leaning briefly on his katana before letting it rest against the tree. Step by careful step, he approached the dragon. His heart pounded—not in fear, but in something closer to reverence.
When he reached its side, he sat down.
Right beside it.
He leaned back against its massive flank, the heat of its body radiating through his soaked clothes. It was warm—steadily, deeply warm—like resting against living stone.
The dragon shifted slightly.
But did not pull away.
Aldrich stared up through the canopy, sunlight breaking apart in the leaves.
"I fought you because I had to," he said quietly. "Not because I wanted to kill you."
The dragon's eye narrowed slightly.
Aldrich continued.
"I lost everything. My clan. My home. My parents." His jaw tightened. "The world didn't care. Law didn't care. Strength was all that spoke."
He swallowed.
"So I came here. To break myself. Or rebuild myself."
He laughed softly, bitter but honest.
"Didn't expect you to listen."
The dragon's breath rumbled—low and slow.
Aldrich rested his head back fully now, eyes half-closed.
"I don't know if vengeance will bring me peace. But I know stopping will kill me faster than any blade." He clenched his fist. "So I'll keep walking. Even if I walk alone."
For a long time, there was only the forest.
Then—
The dragon moved.
Its head lowered, massive and deliberate, until its muzzle was level with Aldrich's chest. Heat rolled off it, tinged with the scent of iron and something older—something primordial.
The dragon opened its jaws.
Not wide.
Just enough.
A single claw rose and sliced cleanly across its own neck scale—precise, controlled. Dark, glowing blood welled immediately, thick and luminous, steaming faintly in the cool air.
Aldrich's eyes widened.
"…You're giving this to me?"
The dragon did not answer.
It tilted its head slightly.
Invitation.
Understanding hit Aldrich like a hammer.
Legends.
Old whispers spoken in ruined halls and half-burned libraries.
Beasts do not give blood lightly.
To accept it is to carry their instinct.
To reject it is to deny strength the world does not forgive.
Aldrich did not hesitate.
He reached out, cupping his hands as the dragon lowered its neck. The blood flowed into his palms—hot, heavy, alive. It burned, even through skin.
He brought it to his lips.
And drank.
Fire tore through him.
Not like pain.
Like awakening.
His veins ignited, heart slamming against his ribs as dragon blood spread through his body. His muscles seized, bones creaking as if reforged from within. His vision sharpened violently—colors deepening, sounds pulling apart into layers.
He screamed.
Once.
Then clenched his teeth and endured.
Instinct flooded him—territory, dominance, survival without apology. He saw Hollowdene not as a forest—but as a living map. Every movement within it registered faintly in his awareness.
When it ended, Aldrich collapsed forward, hands in the dirt, breath ragged.
He laughed again—this time breathless, disbelieving.
"…So that's how they did it," he whispered.
Major clans.
Hidden bloodlines.
Beasts bound not by chains—but by choice.
The dragon withdrew, blood sealing naturally, its gaze steady.
Bond forged.
Not master.
Not servant.
Something rarer.
Aldrich remained in Hollowdene.
Years passed.
He trained alone.
Deep—where the dragon slept, where monsters did not intrude, where even Civil Law dared not step lightly. He learned the truth of Nophilis not from books—but from silence.
Chi was everywhere.
In the wind between leaves.
In the pulse of the earth.
In his breath.
He cleared his meridians through pain and repetition, forcing chi through blocked pathways until his body adapted—or broke. He learned to listen to the flow, not dominate it.
Swordsmanship became an extension of intent.
Each swing cut cleaner.
Each step lighter.
Each breath deeper.
Dragon blood hardened his body beyond human limits—speed that blurred, strength that bent steel, durability that turned bone into iron.
But it also sharpened his instincts.
And Aldrich mastered them.
When he finally sheathed his katana after years in the depths, the forest was silent again.
Not because it feared him.
Because it recognized him.
Aldrich Yagurah opened his eyes, standing beneath the ancient trees.
"I'm ready," he said.
And Hollowdene did not disagree.