Under the constant shine of warm sunlight that seemed like melted gold, the massive body of the young Golden Dragon Alberto trembled slightly, his consciousness like a pearl sinking into the deep sea, slowly floating up to the bright surface.
He woke up leisurely, feeling every scale on his body immersed in a long-lost sense of peace and comfort.
The mental strings that had been taut for five years completely relaxed, presenting a sense of lazy tranquility.
The world before him, whether it was the swaying wild grass or the rugged mountain rocks, seemed to be covered by a soft and warm color filter, making everything appear less sharp and glaring.
He clearly recalled the last scene before falling asleep.
— That overconfident challenge.
The result was naturally a crushing defeat without any suspense.
He had been completely knocked unconscious by the Red-Iron Dragon's final, terrifying Dragon Breath, and in the most wretched state, he had knelt before that figure covered in black-red scales, resembling burning metal.
The result was extremely wretched. However, the arrangements of fate are always unexpected.
It was this coma brought about by the crushing defeat that, by a stroke of luck, granted him over a month of undisturbed, deep-as-death rest.
This long slumber was an unimaginable luxury for him.
You must know, in the entire five years prior, he had been like someone whipped day and night by an invisible lash, firmly imprisoned by invisible shackles.
His longest rest time had never exceeded a pitiful single day!
Every brief breath was awakened and driven by the vow, forcing him back into the endless tempering.
At this moment, comparing it to the suffocating agony of every second spent in those five years, this complete relaxation of body and mind actually made the proud Golden Dragon feel a strange, indescribable soreness rising deep within his nasal cavity.
Huh? No!
This soreness was not just emotional; it was a real physiological irritation.
His nose was not only sore but also accompanied by an unbearable itch, as if countless tiny, fuzzy tentacles were gently scratching inside.
This feeling was definitely not an illusion; it was rapidly intensifying as his consciousness became fully awake.
"Achoo!!!"
Alberto could no longer endure it and suddenly opened his massive dragon maw.
A deafening sneeze, carrying scorching breath, erupted outward.
Several meters of golden-red flames, like an angry fire dragon, instantly surged from his nasal cavity, incinerating a cluster of tickle-flowers that some hateful fellow had quietly stuffed deep into his nostrils while he was asleep, turning them into ash.
Wisps of blue smoke with a charred smell drifted out from his nostrils.
The Golden Dragon raised his massive foreclaw and rubbed his still uncomfortable nose, looking slightly annoyed.
However, when his gaze inadvertently swept over his forelimbs, which should have been dazzling and magnificent, he couldn't help but widen his molten-gold vertical pupils!
For on the surface of those dragon scales covering his forelimbs—which were originally as brilliant and magnificent as cast gold—were covered in countless crooked, childish, and ugly graffiti drawn with all sorts of extremely bright and glaring pigments—glaring fluorescent green, tacky pink, and eye-stinging bright purple!
There were lines resembling twisted worms.
There were patterns like flattened mushrooms.
There were even a few crooked, barely recognizable stick figures that looked like turtles or pigs.
Turning his head to look, it wasn't just his forelimbs; his entire body had been covered in graffiti.
A bad premonition arose in his heart; he quickly propped up his massive body, took heavy strides, and walked quickly to the nearby lake, which was as clear as a mirror.
He lowered his head, his massive golden skull reflected in the shimmering lake water. Sure enough!
What met his eyes was a still massive, majestic Golden Dragon head.
However, at this moment, this majesty was completely ruined by those colorful, ridiculous graffiti covering his cheeks, forehead, and even around his eyelids, as if he had been used as a graffiti wall by a group of drunken dwarf artists.
"Who?! Who dares to draw these abominable things that desecrate dragon majesty on me, Alberto!"
The Golden Dragon whipped his neck around, scanning his surroundings.
"Aha! It was me, Vera, who did it!"
A voice as crisp as a silver bell, yet carrying a thick sense of satisfaction from a successful prank, rang out.
I saw that petite and exquisite Faerie Dragon Vera, her scales shimmering with colorful light, nimbly swaying her slender tail like a streak of colorful light, suddenly darting out from the dense flower bushes by the lakeside.
She smugly did a somersault in mid-air, grinning as she announced her own crime.
At the same time, she didn't forget to pull an extremely standard funny Face at Alberto's colorful dragon Face, stretching her mouth exaggeratedly.
Alberto looked at this mischievous little fellow, not feeling much surprise in his heart.
Among the members of Dragon Valley, apart from the Faerie Dragon, no other dragon liked to play such pranks.
However, having been teased like this, he had to regain a little Face.
Alberto's eyes flickered; he decided to give this ignorant Faerie Dragon a little scare, letting her know that a Golden Dragon was not to be trifled with.
Thus, his dragon Face, which originally looked somewhat comical due to the graffiti, suddenly stiffened, deliberately restraining all gentleness and revealing the fierce appearance of a top predator.
"Help! Help!"
Vera didn't hesitate at all, crisply opening her tiny throat and letting out a sharp cry for help.
Her butterfly-like thin wings flapped rapidly, and her petite body, like a colorful stone shot from a slingshot, zoomed backward with a whoosh, instantly putting a large distance between them.
However, a few seconds later, the expected pursuit did not come.
Vera stopped flying backward in confusion, carefully turning her head to look; the scene before her made her tilt her little head, full of bewilderment.
The massive Golden Dragon was currently exercising his muscles and bones on the spot as if no one else was around.
He first vigorously stretched his long neck and strong limbs, then began to rhythmically flap his pair of broad, powerful golden dragon wings, one beat at a time.
He did not mobilize the sacred vow energy within his body, nor did he use any Demonic Energy to assist in flight; he was merely relying on the strength of the wings themselves, flapping purely.
Every downward beat struck the ground heavily, kicking up a flurry of sand and stones, filling the air with dust.
His massive body could only rely on this pure physical strength to clumsily lift off the ground for a few meters, then land heavily with a thud, causing the ground to tremble slightly.
"Strange Golden Dragon, his brain must have been broken by Garros."
Vera blinked her big eyes, muttering to herself, then silently flapped her wings and quietly moved dozens of meters away from the Golden Dragon, afraid of being infected by the silliness radiating from him.
On the other side, Alberto clearly felt the strange look full of sympathy and confusion from the Faerie Dragon, and a trace of helplessness and bitterness couldn't help but rise in his heart.
But how could he explain it?
Just a moment ago, when he wanted to scare Vera and regain some Face, a bone-deep chill suddenly wrapped around his heart.
This was not a problem with his body or his mind. It was the vow he had made himself, like an iron decree, issuing a stern reminder and ruthless urging to him.
In the entire past five years, he had long been as familiar with this feeling as breathing—every slackening, every deviation from the path of becoming stronger, would invite this Soul-whipping chill.
For example, right now. Just because he thought about scaring the Faerie Dragon instead of engaging in a real combat sparring that could hone his fighting skills, the essence of this behavior, in the judgment of the vow, was meaningless, time-wasting leisure.
Thus, that invisible, cold whip of the vow immediately raised high, preparing to lash fiercely at his Soul that was attempting to relax.
Sternly reminding him: Alberto! Your time should only be used for training! Used for becoming stronger! Not for being distracted by such childish and boring matters!
Fortunately. Perhaps it was because he had just experienced an unprecedented, over-a-month-long deep slumber.
His mental strings, which had been taut for five years and were almost on the verge of snapping, had finally received precious relaxation and repair.
At this moment, Alberto's spirit and energy were in an unprecedentedly vigorous state; although he was still in awe of the vow, he did not feel much fatigue or strong resistance in his heart.
Moreover, the vow had truly made him more powerful and made him increasingly self-disciplined. He chose to accept it in silence.
He ignored Vera's gaze, gathered his scattered thoughts, and devoted all his focus to the tempering of his wing strength.
"Perhaps, as long as there is appropriate, deep rest time like this one."
Alberto repeated his dull and arduous movements while thinking to himself, "I can actually endure the shackles of this oath."
As he thought this.
A bold, perhaps even masochistic, plan quietly took shape in his mind.
"Perhaps I can find more opportunities to challenge Garros in the future? Wouldn't being knocked unconscious by him be the perfect way to get a mandatory, sufficiently long period of sleep and rest?"
If he were to actively choose to sleep and rest on his own, that damned oath would absolutely not allow it.
That would be equivalent to slacking off!
And to proactively challenge and provoke other unfamiliar, powerful beings? The risk factor was simply too high; a slight misstep could lead to dire consequences. It was far less secure than challenging the relatively "familiar" Garros.
Besides.
What if, during one of those challenges... he miraculously won? Wouldn't that both break the shackles of this damned oath and prove himself?
The only problem that gave him an immense headache was this.
Challenging Garros required paying a price.
If every challenge required sacrificing valuable gems or gold coins.
He suspected that for a very, very long time, he would be unable to pay off this mountain of debt. He feared that all the wealth he earned for many years to come would have to be poured into the bottomless pit of repaying Garros.
Just then.
A sudden, violent gust of wind swept by, kicking up clouds of dust that obscured the warm sunlight and casting a vast, oppressive shadow upon the ground.
The Red-Iron Dragon descended, his body as rugged as a mountain and as strong as if cast from steel, blotting out the daylight.
His massive wings, more than twice the length of his body, slowly folded, and with a heavy, steady thud, he landed directly opposite the Golden Dragon Alberto, who was flapping his wings, and began to examine him with great interest.
Given the massive body proportions and immense weight of Dragonkin, flight was a miracle.
Were they not top-tier magical creatures, whose wing structures were primarily used for adjusting angles and direction with very limited lift, ordinary Dragons would struggle to even glide for long with their wings alone.
The Alberto before him was able to momentarily lift off the ground purely by the physical flapping power of his wings, without relying on a powerful leap from his hind legs.
This was enough to prove something.
The power contained within his pair of golden dragon wings had already surpassed the vast majority of Golden Dragons of the same Rank; it seemed he had indeed poured a great deal of effort and sweat into training his wing strength over these past five years.
However.
His current training method and movements, in the eyes of Garros, an expert who had tempered his own body to the extreme, were full of flaws and highly inefficient.
Every point of force application, every extension of the wing membrane, and every adjustment of his center of gravity made Garros frown slightly.
He couldn't help but want to offer some pointers.
"Stop, Alberto."
His gaze swept over the Golden Dragon's slightly trembling wing-root muscles, and he said, "Your training method is too inefficient; it's a pure waste of stamina and time."
Without waiting for Alberto to respond, Garros turned around.
He took heavy strides and walked toward another area of Dragon Valley, leaving behind only a brief sentence.
"Follow me."
Led by the Red-Iron Dragon, Alberto followed him with confusion to a special training ground.
The ground here was not soil or rock, but cast with several meters of cold, hard, special alloy steel plates. Around the training ground stood several metal pillars, inscribed with complex Alchemy Runes.
Immediately after.
Under the puzzled gaze of the Golden Dragon Alberto, the Red-Iron Dragon started those Alchemy devices on his own.
Accompanied by a low humming sound, black light spread from the pillars and instantly enveloped the entire steel training ground. Alberto immediately felt his body sink heavily, as if an invisible giant hand were trying to press him to the ground, and the air became incredibly viscous.
Next, a scene that left Alberto dumbfounded and feeling incredulous unfolded.
Garros seemed completely unaffected by the hypergravity—or rather, he had long since grown accustomed to this pressure.
He began a series of high-intensity, extreme exercises within the hypergravity field that made the Golden Dragon's eyes widen.
He was not simply flapping his wings; instead, he used them as weapons, performing high-speed and precise cutting and slapping motions in the hypergravity environment, his body hanging firmly in mid-air, maneuvering with agility.
Compared to Garros.
Alberto's pathetic wing-flapping practice from just a moment ago was practically like a Young Dragon at play.
The intensity, difficulty, and danger of the two were not even in the same dimension, separated by countless Ranks.
"No wonder... no wonder..."
"No wonder I, Alberto, have spent five whole years of sleepless, near-masochistic tempering and grinding, yet still cannot surpass him."
He thought silently to himself.
He realized that during these long five years, while he was driven forward by the oath, Garros had not stopped either.
Moreover, looking at Garros's skilled posture, which was as natural as breathing.
It could be concluded.
This was definitely not something that could be achieved by a mere five-year whim, but rather the accumulation of decades, day after day.
At this moment.
The Golden Dragon Alberto finally understood the root cause of his failure: Garros did not need the constraints of an oath; he was self-disciplined to a degree that ordinary creatures could not imagine.
Even if he were a White Dragon.
He would surely be able to shed the identity of the weakest Dragonkin and uprightly win the respect and awe of other Dragons.
However, before the complex emotions churning within the Golden Dragon could continue to ferment, that familiar, chilling sensation appeared coldly, like a frozen whip-tip lashing against his Soul, sternly urging him on.
[Do not stand there stupidly feeling sentimental! Immediately! Right now! Begin your own training!]
"I know! I know!"
Alberto roared impatiently in his heart, suppressing his turbulent thoughts.
He took a deep breath and then walked into the steel-cast training ground.
He gritted his teeth and tried hard to imitate the precise and efficient training posture of Garros nearby.
The Golden Dragon's physical constitution was inherently excellent, making him a standout among the Dragon Clan. Coupled with the crazy tempering driven by the oath over the past five years, it had laid a foundation far exceeding that of Golden Dragons of the same age.
With such a foundation, he managed to barely hold on.
Although his movements still appeared incredibly clumsy, sluggish, and slow, completely unable to keep up with Garros's storm-like rhythm and intensity.
But at least.
He was able to, in his own way, follow that steel-like figure step by step and begin more efficient training and tempering.
And as time passed ruthlessly.
The sun in the sky gradually sank to the west, finally disappearing below the horizon.
The deep night, like a vast velvet curtain, slowly enveloped the entire The Borderlands, wrapping it in silent starlight.
In the training ground, the Golden Dragon Alberto had long since exhausted his last ounce of strength.
He collapsed on the cold, hard metal ground, breathing heavily, lacking even the strength to lift his tail.
However, right opposite him.
That figure, as if cast from steel, was still continuing.
Accompanied by a rumbling sound like muffled thunder rolling across the earth, he tirelessly tempered his already terrifyingly strong body, like an unquenchable furnace, a machine that never stopped.
Even if his scales shattered, even if his dragon blood was shed like sweat, even if his heartbeat pounded like a war drum.
He still did not stop.
"To be able to be an ally with him, rather than a mortal enemy, is truly a fortunate thing."
The Golden Dragon thought silently to himself.
Watching this scene, what even Alberto himself did not realize was this.
His heart, once full of the pride of a Golden Dragon, was changing bit by bit as his understanding of Garros increased and as he witnessed this will to train beyond the limits.
A brand new emotion, called admiration, was quietly sprouting in his heart.
In fact.
In truth, anyone who could know the sacrifices Garros made on the path to becoming stronger, and had witnessed his tenacious and unyielding will—not to mention allies or friends, even opponents and enemies—would find it hard to say anything derogatory about him.
Meanwhile.
Garros glanced at the Golden Dragon, noticed the change in his eyes, and nodded with satisfaction.
[Dragon Taming Art: Golden Dragon Chapter]
[The strength of the body and power cannot earn the admiration and respect of the head of the Metallic Dragon, but spirit and will can.]