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The Primordials
They were the oldest beings—existing before time had a name, before the boundary between existence and void was drawn. They were the very essence of power, the original dwellers of the Primordial Void, of whom modern humans recall only distorted myths and flickering shadows.
Their world comprised three exalted kinds: the Primordial Beasts, entities of pure instinct, knowing nothing but destruction; the Near-Human Primordials, who bore the first sparks of reason amid primal urges, striving to shape something akin to civilization in an age unworthy of such ambition; and finally, the Dragons—though counted among beasts, they deemed themselves above such a label.
Proud and wise, the Dragons saw themselves as heirs to ancient knowledge and noble blood. Believing others beneath them, they severed all ties, declaring their lineage too sacred for mingling. When the Primordials faded into oblivion, the Dragons clung fiercely to their purity, refusing hybridization even as their numbers dwindled.
And now… only eight remain.
Eight dragons—last witnesses of an age never written in history, but whispered in the pulse of the Void itself.
---
Silence fell.
Not the fleeting hush of shock—but something deeper… heavier.
As if the very space around them was reordering its priorities, bending slightly to listen.
The dwarf's words were neither loud nor theatrical—yet they were enough to change everything.
"He's… he's telling the truth…"
No explanation was needed. Everyone knew that Zimel—sharp-tongued and sardonic as he was—never spoke nonsense about matters this grave. Never.
The brown-haired woman's pupils contracted slightly—a primal reflex, the instinctive recoil of a mind realizing that what stood before it belonged to no drill scenario, no rehearsed script.
And yet, the Commander hesitated.
Doubt still clung to his eyes as he tried to speak:
"How…?"
At that instant, Arthur's eyes ignited.
Their glow was no longer mere light—it became pure radiance, blazing like rivers of molten gold, endless and searing.
And around him, the armor began to form.
Dark, obsidian scales—polished like prayer stone—erupted one after another, adhering to his body with seamless grace.
They did not reflect light; they devoured it, as though darkness itself had chosen to take shape… to become a shield.
When the armor was complete, a pair of wings unfurled behind him—black, exquisitely crafted, harmonizing with the armor so perfectly that any observer would pause—not in fear, but in awe at the design—before realizing the danger it heralded.
But the transformation was not finished.
The scales crept slowly up his neck, crawling over his skin with regal solemnity, until they reached his face.
Then—they formed.
Two long horns, sharp and black, gleaming with a dim, ominous luster, rose from his forehead as if carved from eternal night.
And then, another pair emerged from the sides of his skull—curved, interlaced—merging with the first to forge a crown of gleaming black horns.
Not a crown that announced a king…
but one that imposed him.
In that moment,
Arthur was no longer a transformed human.
He was the embodiment of a power never meant to be born and yet, it had been.
The four of them stood frozen in silent awe.
Not just from the majesty of his form,
but from the presence radiating from him—a primordial, royal force
that asserts itself even when unseen,
and demands obedience even if its master appears weak.
That is the nature of true bloodlines: they declare themselves the moment they draw breath.
Commander Alfrid said nothing more.
He remained rooted in place, his gaze locked on Arthur—
who, in turn, looked back not with arrogance or pride,
but with the quiet certainty of truth itself—
as if to say: "This is why I disappeared."
Alfrid smiled faintly.
His expression no longer carried the weight of imposed authority,
but the tension of a man reassessing the worth of what stood before him.
"Ulun Dragons…"
He finally spoke, voice low, testing the words before granting them their true weight.
Then he lifted his eyes—not to Arthur this time,
but to the emptiness behind him, as though staring into unwritten history.
"In the High Archives… this classification has only been assigned to two others—three years ago."
"And now…"
He slowly met Arthur's gaze again.
"You are the third."
The dwarf adjusted his glasses and stepped forward half a pace.
"Congratulations, boy. You are now… a new variable in history "
Arthur gave a slow, silent nod—not denial, but acknowledgment.
He understood, as they all did, that his existence was no longer a personal matter.
It was an earthquake in the chronicles of time
The third to awaken a primordial lineage in a world that believed its gates had been sealed forever.
(Author's Note: As of this moment, the curses binding Arthur remain active .)
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After the trio — the Commander, the Dwarf, and the woman with chestnut hair — vanished behind the sweeping architectural curves of the headquarters, Arthur and Celestia remained standing where they were, watching as shadows swallowed their footsteps.
The air hung heavy, as if charged with the scent of decisions yet unmade.
Celestia spoke softly, as though whispering a truth too vast to be declared aloud:
"So… this is why I felt that power radiating from you. Half-dragon. Pure blood. You don't just not understand what that means — you're pretending it doesn't matter."
(She means that Arthur could become one of the nobles of this world if he wanted to.)
Arthur replied with detached indifference, his tone dry as autumn leaves scattered by a careless wind:
"I don't care about this triviality. I have no desire to enter a world I know nothing about."
But he was lying… partially.
He truly didn't grasp the aristocracy's logic here — their world was alien. In his own realm, class wasn't merely social hierarchy; it was the bedrock of governance itself.
Celestia gave a single, slow nod — as if to say:"I know."
Then she looked at him, eyes sharp as polished glass that didn't reflect images, but pierced beneath skin.
"Why does your voice… your gaze… speak as if you've lost someone important?"
He froze.
He hadn't realized anyone could crack his mask. He'd spent years crafting a face of stone, expressionless, seamless. But she… saw the fractures he never wanted seen. And stranger still — he had no idea how.
Before he could gather his thoughts, the Commander's returning voice sliced through the silence like rain breaking a desert's drought:
"Alright. You may enter. But you must still undergo inspections before full freedom is granted."
Arthur and Celestia nodded in silence, then followed him — as if walking into a funeral… but this time, the funeral was for his old life.
---
Time stretched as if it were an eternity…
Until his official identity was recorded. Until his new form was documented. Until the sensitive details — those hinting at the awakening of his lineage — were sealed away, stamped with "Top Secret." For revealing them now, before academy enrollment, could spark chaos… or war.
Arthur stood before the Central Embassy building, staring at his new digital ID card as if gazing into a mirror reflecting a stranger wearing his name.
Celestia asked, her voice softened slightly, as if soothing a child after battle:
"Well, we're finally done with this place. Do you wish to head to the Academy immediately? Or would you prefer to rest here for a while?"
He answered with a voice weighted by exhaustion — perhaps something deeper:
"I'd rather rest a few days before heading to the Academy."
She didn't object. Instead, she gestured for him to come closer.
"Even if you can fly… flying within this city is strictly forbidden. So, we'll ride this."
She pulled out a key — stranger than anything Arthur had ever seen. Not ordinary metal, but something sleeker, almost technological — or enchanted.
Yet this time, no motorcycle appeared.
Instead, a sleek, modern sports car gleamed under the sun, its surface shimmering like it belonged to another world — black with golden streaks resembling folded dragon wings.
Arthur smiled, despite everything:
"You know… your taste in vehicles has always been impeccable."
She replied with a light, playful tone:
"Glad you approve."
And they drove off.
---
An hour later, the car stopped before a secluded house…
Overlooking a quiet public garden. No noise. No bustle. Just swaying trees and silence that felt like peace.
Arthur paid little attention to the location. All he wanted was simple: food, sleep, and maybe a shower — it had been two months since he last touched water.
The moment they entered, he didn't pause for greetings or pleasantries. He marched straight to the kitchen, driven by a hunger gnawing at his insides like a feral beast.
(It seems the lineage's influence has transferred to you… and I am bound to you through the Essence of Predation. I am the Left Head — the Spirit of Hunger. I never sate. Always starving.)
"Wonderful… now you add hunger to my suffering? As if things couldn't get worse."
(You must understand — the hunger I speak of isn't mere craving for food. It feeds your lust for slaughter… and perhaps… who knows? It might feed your masculine hunger too.)
He was about to question the suggestive edge in that last sentence…
When he heard Celestia's voice:
"Were you speaking to the spirit of your lineage?"
He turned. She stood holding several food bags, placing them on the kitchen table with calm precision — as if laying out an altar for a hungry god.
"Is this… food?"
"Yes. I assumed you were tired and starving, so I ordered ahead. And since you're such a glutton, I'm certain this will suffice."
"Hmm?... I'm not."
(Oh, but you are.)
"Shut up... how do you even know that?"
(She said it. I merely confirmed it.)
He didn't bother arguing further.
He sat down, emptied bag after bag, devouring with ravenous haste — as if he hadn't eaten in weeks. Each bite swallowed more than chewed. One bag gone, then another, until all orders were devoured — enough food for ten people, consumed alone.
Then, as if balancing sugar levels, he devoured four plates of banana pudding and two chocolate cakes.
Celestia watched him with amused indulgence, as if she'd finally succeeded in feeding her long-lost little brother.
But the moment he rose from the table…
A sudden, searing pain tore through his heart.
He collapsed to the floor, trembling violently. His veins began to swell, glowing beneath his skin as if something inside him was trying to break free.
Celestia knelt beside him instantly, her face twisted with panic, screaming his name…
But Arthur could no longer hear.
All he saw… all he heard…
Was text blazing inside his mind, as if delivered from another realm:
[System Alert: Curses have begun interacting. Host will be re-cursed. Please endure what follows.]
In one instant…
His vision faded.
And he vanished.
---
End of Volume Two — For Now…
(But the true beginning has just begun.)
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Note: This chapter opens a new gateway — where Arthur begins to comprehend his power, and confront what lies within him. Hunger… is not merely hunger. Blood… is not merely blood. And the spirit… is not merely a voice.
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