Iron Dragon's Advancement Journey

Page 156

　The father appeared.

　He gripped the bronze greatsword, its blade bent and deformed. His body was constantly disintegrating and reforming, like a clay figure being kneaded by an invisible hand.

　"Take good care of your mother," he said, and then walked toward the dragon.

　No. He never said that. In my true memory, my father said nothing, he simply raised the knife silently.

　The dragon opened its mouth.

　That wasn't a mouth. It was a bottomless abyss, churning with lava and bones. Father walked in, as naturally as if he were returning home. The sound of chewing rang out, crisp enough to make your teeth ache.

　What was spat out was not a knife.

　It was a hand. My father's hand, still wearing the brass ring he never took off.

　The mother is running.

　Her movements were stretched out infinitely, each step like walking on water. She reached for the bent knife, but the blade suddenly came to life, turning into a bronze snake that coiled around her arm.

　Flames gushed out.

　These were not ordinary flames. They were liquid sun, melting hatred, and tangible despair. They did not burn the mother, but rather reshaped her.

　Her skin peeled away, revealing bright red muscle beneath. The muscle melted, revealing snow-white bone. The bone burned, turning into swirling ashes.

　But she was still moving.

　The formless mother continued to crawl towards the dragon, wielding nonexistent weapons with nonexistent hands. Her voice echoed from all directions:

　"Run, Dorn! Why don't you run?"

　Dorn wanted to run. He really wanted to run. But when he turned around, he found himself standing in front of the dragon.

　It lowered its head, its amber eyes reflecting countless images of him: him at nine years old, him now, him aged, and him dead.

　"You hate me," the dragon spoke, its voice like a million whispers at once. "Very well. Hatred makes you strong. Hatred keeps you alive."

　The dragon stretched out its claws.

　He remembered that blow. The tearing pain, the sound of bones shattering, the warm gushing blood. But this time was different. This time he could see how his body was torn apart, how his internal organs slipped out, how his life was slipping away.

　He fell.

　My face is turned toward my mother. Or rather, toward the place where my mother once stood. Now, there is only a pile of smoking ashes there, slowly drifting away in the wind.

　The dragon is eating.

　It ate slowly and carefully. First its toes, then its soles, then its calves. With each bite, it would pause to savor it, as if enjoying some exquisite delicacy.

　Dorn watched.

　He had to watch. Even with his eyelids feeling as heavy as a thousand pounds, even as his consciousness fading, he had to watch. Because only by watching could he remember. Only by remembering could he take revenge.

　The scene suddenly changes.

　He stood on another battlefield. Beneath his feet lay the corpses of dragons—blue dragons, green dragons, black dragons, white dragons. Their blood flowed like rivers on the ground, their scales scattered like fallen leaves.

　His right hand wasn't a hand. It was the arm of an Iron Golem, covered in runes. The Dragon Slayer's Sword burned in his hand, its blade dripping with still-smoking dragon blood.

　"Not enough," he heard himself say. "Never enough." Mei misses me, are you free? Lin Zai, are you there...?

　More dragons appeared.

　They surged in from the horizon, covering the sky and blotting out the sun. Each one was like that red dragon, each one had amber eyes, and each one was mocking him.

　"You can't kill us all," they cried in unison, "because we are you. We are your hatred, your pain, your reason for existence. Without us, you are nothing."

　Dorne swung his sword.

　The blade sliced ​​through the air with a sharp whistling sound. Dragon blood rained down, staining the entire world red. But no matter how many he killed, more dragons always appeared.

　They are multiplying, dividing, and being reborn.

　The dead dragons crawled out of their own corpses, taking on even more ferocious forms. They were no longer just red dragons, but a mixture of all colors—red for anger, black for malice, green for treachery, blue for arrogance, and white for cruelty.

　The world is collapsing.

　The sky shattered, revealing the endless void beyond. The earth cracked, lava spewing from the fissures. The only thing still intact was the small patch of land beneath his feet.

　"Is this what you wanted?" a voice asked.

　It was his mother. She stood behind him, unharmed, even smiling. But when he tried to turn and embrace her, she turned to ashes.

　"Is this the path you've chosen?" The father appeared, holding the intact greatsword. He walked toward Dorn, his body decaying with each step.

　"We would die for you," they said, "but you live for hatred."

　Dorn wanted to argue, to say that this was not his choice, but fate's arrangement. But when he opened his mouth, he exhaled flames.

　He is burning.

　From the inside out, from soul to body. The flames devoured his humanity, leaving only pure killing intent. He felt himself changing, becoming alienated, turning into the very thing he hated most.

　Scales emerge from under the skin.

　Wings tore out from behind.

　Its tail extends, its claws sharpen, and its pupils swell.

　He became a dragon. A red dragon. A red dragon exactly like the one that killed his parents.

　"No!" he tried to shout, but only the roar of a dragon could be heard.

　Mirrors appeared before him. Countless mirrors, reflecting countless versions of him. Some were human, some were dragons, and some were monsters in between.

　"You are me," said the original red dragon. "I am you. We have always been one."

　Dorne swung his dragon claws and smashed all the mirrors.

　Fragments danced in the air, each piece reflecting a scene—a mother's smile, a father's embrace, childhood joy, and everything lost. They swirled in the air, forming a giant vortex.

　At the center of the vortex was that nine-year-old boy.

　Thin, terrified, and helpless. Curled up on the ground, looking at this world made up of hatred and madness.

　"Help me," the little boy said. "Please, help me."

　Dorn reached out—a dragon's claw or a human hand? He couldn't tell anymore. But just as his fingertips were about to touch the boy, the whole world collapsed.

　Darkness swallowed everything.

　Only hatred continues to burn. Burns forever.

　Dorn suddenly awoke.

　Cold sweat soaked his clothes, and his heart pounded like a war drum. The room was pitch black, with only pale patches of moonlight casting through the window.

　"It's that dream again..." he gasped, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Father, Mother."

　The lingering images of the dream still floated before his eyes; the distorted scenes, the disordered timeline, the inescapable loop—all reminded him of that afternoon that changed everything. Reality and illusion intertwined, making it impossible for him to distinguish between memories and the terror added by the nightmare.

　But one thing is certain: his hatred for dragons is deeply etched into the depths of his soul, like a brand.

　Just then, a strange sensation instantly snapped him back to reality. Years of fighting instinct screamed for danger.

　There were other people in the room.

　The pungent smell gradually filled the entire space, like a mixture of sulfur and fire, or an intertwining of blood and death. Only he, the dragon slayer blessed by the gods, could smell this odor.

　The taste of dragon.

　By the faint moonlight, he saw the uninvited guest, a female paladin dressed in full black armor, the Bahamut emblem on her armor glowing faintly in the darkness.

　But beneath that holy exterior lies the essence of a dragon.

　Dorne's right hand—the arm transformed into an Iron Golem—quietly reached under his pillow. There lay his most trusted companion, the nameless dragonslayer's sword. This divine weapon, stained with countless dragons' blood, was about to reveal its sharpness once more.

　"Dorn Greybrook, right?" the newcomer said indifferently. "If I were you, I wouldn't touch that sword."

7. Professional

　"Heh!" Dorn Grey Creek's cold laugh echoed in the small room, his voice full of hatred and disdain for dragons.

　His movements were lightning fast—as he drew his sword with his right hand, half of the Iron Golem's body erupted with inhuman power. Runes lit up his metallic muscles, and magical energy surged like magma through his modified veins, driving the meshing gears to rotate and making the hinges rattle.

　The wooden bed collapsed instantly under the immense force of the Iron Golem's outburst, splinters of wood scattering like a torrential rain. Dorne, meanwhile, had transformed into a silver streak, like an arrow shot from a crossbow, hurtling towards the uninvited guest.

　The nameless dragon slayer's sword gleamed with a bloodthirsty chill in the sunlight streaming through the window, its tip aimed directly at the black-armored paladin's heart. Every strike of his sword was imbued with a deep-seated hatred for dragons, every ounce of power a testament to the bloody memory of that sweltering afternoon.

　嘡！

　A crisp metallic clang rang out, sparks blooming in the darkness like stars in the night sky. The paladin didn't even draw his longsword; he merely raised his left hand, covered in black armor, and blocked the fatal blow with his palm. The Dragon Slayer's Sword—that divine weapon that had drunk the blood of countless dragons—couldn't even penetrate a mere layer of iron armor.

　Dorn's pupils contracted sharply. Years of combat experience made him instantly aware of the danger, but it was too late. A tremendous force surged from the sword, and the entire world spun around him.

　boom!

　With a dull thud, Dorn's body flew out like a rag doll. The Iron Golem's half-body smashed into the wall, creating a hole more than two meters wide. Lime and bricks fell down, and the dust kicked up danced in the moonlight.

　Pain shot through his entire body, but Dorn gritted his teeth and made no sound. He tried to struggle to his feet, only to find that parts of the iron golem were making ominous cracking sounds—the power of the attack had been so terrifying that even the golem's body, which had been strengthened countless times, had cracked.

　Footsteps echoed from the dust, unhurried and measured, each step covering the exact same distance and landing on the exact same corresponding angle. A paladin in full black armor slowly emerged from the hole, the Bahamut emblem on her armor gleaming with a cold light. She looked down at the immobilized Dorn on the ground, a sigh of disappointment escaping from beneath her helmet.

　"Too weak." The woman's voice came through the helmet, echoing with a metallic quality. "I heard you'd slain quite a few dragons. I thought you were something special. Turns out, this is all... Have you reached the Paragon level?"

　As she spoke, she shook her head. The gesture revealed not anger or murderous intent, but pure disappointment, like seeing a long-awaited gift turn out to be a cheap imitation.

　Dorn, feigning unconsciousness, suddenly opened his eyes, his neck twisting at an unsettling angle as he stared intently at the paladin. The paladin's words told him his disguise had failed, but his eyes still burned with fierce hatred, a mocking smile playing on his lips: "Why don't you try transforming back into your dragon form?"

　Even in such a disadvantageous position, his voice remained steady, even defiant. This was Dorne Greystream, the dragon slayer, who would never bow to a dragon, even in the face of death.

　"Oh?" The paladin tilted his head, seemingly amused by his reaction. "So you just use that mouth to provoke those stupid, colorful lizards down to fight you hand-to-hand, and then use that dragon-slaying power to kill them?"

　She paused, her tone now tinged with approval: "At least you have some brains. But don't look at me like that; I'm not on the same side as that Red Scale villain who killed your whole family..."

　"Pah!" Dorn spat fiercely, blood and saliva mingling on the ground. "Dragons are all the same! You winged lizards, you're all the same in your bones—arrogant, greedy, and cruel!"

　"Is that so?" The paladin's voice turned playful. She crouched down, and even through the helmet, Dorn could feel her eyes scrutinizing him. "You really think so? Then why don't you go and cause trouble for those bronze dragons? This is Imbutu, the land of the bronze dragon knights!"

　"Hmph." This question was like a sharp blade, precisely piercing a corner of Dorn's heart. His expression froze for a moment, then he snorted coldly and turned his head away, no longer looking at her.

　The paladin rose and slowly paced around Dorn. Her footsteps were exceptionally clear in the silent night; the heavy sound of her steel boots pounding on the ground was like a drumbeat striking Dorn's heart, making it hard for him to breathe.

　"Looks like you're not completely blinded by hatred after all." Her tone suddenly lightened, as if the battle just now was merely a minor incident. "In that case, I have a job for you: slaying a dragon. Are you interested?"

　Dorn abruptly looked up, staring at her in disbelief. Suren's radiant light shone directly onto the paladin's openwork visor, reflecting a cool luster that obscured her expression.

　"Are you kidding me?" Dorn's voice was hoarse with shock. "You're a dragon, and you want me to kill a dragon?"

　"Is there a problem?" the paladin asked matter-of-factly.

　"Aren't you afraid I'll kill you first?" Dorn asked tentatively, while secretly gathering his strength, looking for an opportunity to counterattack.

　The paladin chuckled softly. "We'll see if you can actually do it. If that sword strike had even the slightest chance of harming me, I might have thought more highly of you. Too bad..."

　She didn't finish her sentence, but the meaning was clear. Dorn clenched his fist, still half-fist, his nails digging deep into his palm. Shame burned within him like a raging fire, but reason told him that now was not the time to act impulsively.

　"Speak," he took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, "What job? What dragon to kill?"

　"Slayed many dragons." The paladin's voice suddenly turned serious. "Red, blue, green, black, white—all kinds, even some that were dead..."

　"Dead?" Dorn frowned. "How can you kill someone who's dead?"

　"Have you spoken to the dragon lich?" The paladin's tone turned sarcastic again. "I thought that since you hated dragons so much, your understanding of them wouldn't just be limited to how to kill them."

　Dorn was silent for a moment. "Mei, are you free? Lin, are you free...?"

　He had certainly heard of dragon liches. They were beings far more dangerous than living dragons. With their dragon souls freed from the constraints of a physical body and possessing the characteristics of undead creatures, even he had never faced one head-on.

　"Haha!" He suddenly burst into laughter, his laughter filled with madness and relief. "I'll take it! Any job that involves slaying a dragon, no matter what!"

　"Very good." Paladin Agatha Dorothyron nodded in satisfaction. "Then get your squad ready; this won't be an easy task..."

　"My men are ready to go at any time." Dorn struggled to sit up; the Iron Golem made a creaking sound, but it was still functioning normally.

　"See you in three days, Basil." Agatha turned and walked towards the door, casually tossing a heavy bag of gems behind her, which landed precisely in Dorn's hands: "This is the advance payment. Fix yourself up..."

　"Wait," Dorn called after her, "Why me? The Dragon Sea has no shortage of powerful adventurers, why specifically target my dragon-slaying team?"

　Agatha stopped and turned around. The moonlight shone directly on her helmet, and through the slits in her eyes, Dorn saw a pair of vertical, bluish-green pupils.

　"Because someone said you're the most professional," she said softly, "and that's exactly what I need."

　After saying that, she disappeared into the night, leaving Dorn alone sitting in the ruins of the room.

　Ilraforn, a remote town nestled on the edge of the Dragon Sea, is perpetually shrouded in sea fog. It serves as a transit point for adventurers and a temporary base for dragon-slaying teams. The Fisherman's Tavern occupies the busiest spot in the dock area, its weathered signboard creaking in the sea breeze.