Return (3)
A deafening crash echoed through the city streets, a blinding white light flashing beneath the blood-red sky.
Sienna, who had been catching her breath in an alleyway, suddenly turned her gaze.
Beyond the Platinum Street, where the battle with the demon raged, a white flash struck down like lightning.
“Lucia…”
[The demon slayer… is still holding on.]
A voice, cracked and strained, reached her ears. Sienna lowered her head again.
The voice belonged to her bartender—a once-mighty dragon known as the First Roar of the Dragon God, now a mute bartender she’d worked with for over a decade at the Crow’s Nest.
“Bourbon.”
[Go to her, young witch. Staying with me only puts you in danger.]
“Bourbon, shut up. How can an injured dragon talk so much?”
[I’m not just injured. I’ve finally found a place to rest eternally.]
His voice was gentle, almost soothing. Sienna gritted her teeth in silence.
Before her lay not the tall, stoic bartender she was used to, but the massive form of a dragon, large enough to fill the alley and dwarf the Crow’s Nest itself.
His body, capable of leveling buildings with a flick of his tail, was a wreck.
“Don’t talk about eternal rest. If you have the strength to talk, try to hide your presence.”
His wings were torn to shreds, his bronze body bloodied. His emerald-like horns were broken, and his severed hind leg bore marks of being savagely bitten.
Even a great dragon, capable of obliterating a small city with a single word, couldn’t emerge unscathed from a fortnight of fierce battles.
Moreover, being one of only two dragons allied with humans made him a prime target for the enemy.
[Young witch.]
”…”
[I understand your desire to hide me. You have a kind heart, even if you pretend otherwise. You’re strong enough to act on that kindness. But… cough!]
The dragon paused, his snout twitching.
[Cough! Gah!]
Dark blood gushed from between his teeth.
A dragon’s blood is usually a potent acid capable of melting stone, but the blood flowing over the cobblestones held no magic.
“Bourbon…”
It was the power of the creature that had inflicted the fatal wound.
A beast more dangerous than a great demon, one that Kylebercus had sealed away for millennia.
Its curse of devouring was so powerful it even consumed the dragon’s blood magic.
Normally, a dragon’s regenerative powers would heal a severed wing or leg in an instant, but now they were utterly ineffective.
[The devourer was trapped with me in my seal for thousands of years. No matter how you hide me with your witch’s power, it won’t take long for it to catch my scent.]
”…”
[So withdraw your magic and go to the demon slayer. It’s a more efficient course of action, young witch.]
His green eyes looked at Sienna intently. The once-bright eyes were losing their vitality.
Kylebercus was right. Even if she hid him, the dragon’s death was inevitable.
But the witch’s spell that cloaked the area remained unbroken. Her voice emerged from beneath her black hair, cascading over her shoulders.
“Don’t talk nonsense. Even if I leave you now, where could I possibly run to?”
[The demon slayer is still alive. Some of the transcendents from the Golden Palace might have survived. It’s better to be with them, even if the odds are slim…]
“Dallon wouldn’t have done that.”
The dragon fell silent.
“Dallon wouldn’t leave his loved ones to slightly increase his chances. He wouldn’t abandon dying comrades on the battlefield just because it was hard to endure.”
Her voice was tinged with emotion.
“Dallon will come back. He promised.”
Sienna remembered.
The conversation she had with Dallon in the bottomless swamp on the third floor of the labyrinth.
By the campfire, she spoke of the new contract she had made with Bourbon.
The promise to retrieve the remains of the First Feather Witch, sleeping in the Dream King’s underground palace, in exchange for Bourbon siding with Dallon in the battle against the Dragon God.
‘Will you come with me to the Dream King’s underground palace someday?’
She had asked if he would accompany her when the time came to fulfill that contract.
The answer hadn’t come immediately.
Amidst the crackling fire and the oppressive humidity of the swamp, the silence had felt particularly stifling.
‘I…’
But as she lay down in the tent, the voice that reached her from beyond her closing eyelids was clear.
A response that bore the marks of deep contemplation, precisely because it hadn’t been immediate.
A promise spoken into the void, one that would never be broken.
“When Dallon returns, even if I can’t greet him with a smile… I want to be remembered as someone who tried to protect those dear to me, just like he did.”
[…]
“Bourbon, you’re my family. My benefactor. My friend. My partner.”
[Well, I never imagined this ending, but it might not be so bad.]
The dragon chuckled softly. Despite the blood trickling from his teeth, his laughter was strangely cheerful.
Sienna mirrored his smile, turning to lean against the dragon’s head.
”…Phew.”
Closing her eyes, she focused her mind, sensing the familiars scattered throughout the city. Crows, pigeons, and other birds crafted by the witch’s magic.
Most had lost their connection amidst the demon’s onslaught, but a few still relayed information.
“I checked on Lucia earlier, and Felber is still holding on. Unfortunately, it seems he’s lost his apprentice.”
[The master of Elgaia’s tower, you mean. Inheriting the vision to manipulate time isn’t easy. It’s a shame.]
“Felber’s technique, I’ve never seen it before. The target is… Parn? He’s still alive.”
[The one-eyed, one-armed paladin boy?]
“Yes. Judging by the density of magic, it seems to be a sixth-tier unique technique… Oh, the connection’s lost. Let’s see… The Golden Palace’s main gate has been breached. If you’d been there to support them, they might have held out longer. Why did you fall so soon?”
She lightly tapped the dragon’s bronze scales.
[It’s frustrating. In my prime, the devourer would have been a mere snack. But it appeared only after I’d exhausted myself against the shield and armor. No sense of honor, that one.]
The dragon chuckled at his own jest, a sound that echoed through the alley where they hid.
Above them, the shadow of a massive beast loomed.
The Bronze District, swept by the horde of monsters, lay silent.
Not a soul stirred in the half-destroyed inn, until a portal suddenly swirled open, filling the air with magic.
Whoosh!
A figure was hurled from the portal, landing on the charred second-floor hallway. The floor, unable to bear the weight, collapsed.
Crash!
The rafters fell, sending a cloud of ash billowing upwards. The ceiling and pillars crumbled, and the figure from the portal fell to the first floor.
“Cough! Damn it. Would it kill you to teleport me to a stable street?”
Dallon emerged from the debris, waving his hand to clear the air. He pushed open the creaking inn door to step outside.
The door, barely ajar, fell with a thud, leaving the entrance permanently open.
”…Damn.”
He cursed again, this time at the sight beyond the fallen door.
[…It’s hell.]
The dragon’s voice whispered softly in his mind.
The streets of the Bronze District were beyond ruin.
Charred cobblestones, thorny vines sprouting between them. Houses coated in sticky ichor. Red eyes blinking from crumbled walls.
A mournful wind carried the groans of the dead. The debris of collapsed buildings sprouted human limbs.
Hands with horns instead of fingers. Feet with tendrils writhing through holes.
A lake of viscous lava, like a living creature, melted buildings as it expanded. A scene that could only be described as a mass of malice directed at the living.
“Yes. It’s hell.”
Dallon didn’t linger. He moved quickly, heading for one of the largest forges in the Bronze District.
As he walked, he recalled the conversation on the snowy mountain, just before taking the portal to this place. A conversation with a man once known as Hadash.
‘Ah, and I need a sword.’
‘A sword?’
‘My holy sword broke fighting Dalline. I need your Torthanis, imbued with divine power.’
‘You already have divinity within you. You can fight without a holy sword.’
‘I don’t like fighting barehanded. Will you give me that sword?’
‘It’s a relic thousands of years old.’
The conversation, not particularly productive, ended with the man providing information.
The gist of it was something like, “If you need a sword, you’ll have to find the blacksmith who twisted fate himself.”
“Tch. You’d think a god could just hand over a decent sword without making a fuss.”
Muttering to himself as he navigated the hellscape of the streets, Dalen eventually arrived at the blacksmith’s place.
Or rather, what was left of it. The only indication that he was in the right place was the creaking sign that read “Mithril Forge.”
[…Dalen.]
“I know.”
Ignoring the worried voice in his head, he stepped inside the ruins of the forge.
Just like the sign that hung precariously despite the building’s collapse, the owner of the shop remained at his post amidst the wreckage.
”…Old blacksmith.”
The body was in an advanced state of decay. It seemed he had been dead for quite some time.
A long, dried trail of blood at his feet told the story of the blacksmith’s final moments.
Wounded, he had dragged himself to a corner of the forge, cleverly concealing a long box with his own body—the last act of a master of mithril.
”…I’ll make good use of it.”
Inside the box lay a sword and an axe.
Both weapons were crafted from a blend of dragon bones, a result of the blacksmith’s skill in working with the materials sent by the Holy Knights as they fled to the labyrinth city.
With practiced ease, Dalen strapped the axe to his waist and tied the sword with a leather cord. He sighed, turned slightly, and spoke.
“Come out. I know you’re there.”
”…The captain was right. You really did come here.”
Dalen turned around. Emerging from behind a collapsed pillar was a young man.
He wore armor emblazoned with the insignia of the Holy Knights, and his neck and face bore sacred tattoos.
The divine power emanating from him confirmed he was indeed a paladin. Dalen tilted his head and asked.
“Do I know you?”
“Yes, Dalen. Of course, you do.”
The young man, who had been half-turned, now faced him fully. His left sleeve fluttered empty, and his eye was a prosthetic. Seeing the one-eyed, one-armed figure, a name slipped out unconsciously.
“Parn?”
“Yes, Sir Dalen. I’m Paladin Parn. Thanks to you saving me as a child, I’ve grown up to be called a swordmaster, though my skills are still lacking.”
Dalen furrowed his brow. The kid he remembered had grown into a young man nearing thirty?
The sight brought thoughts of the labyrinth’s warped time to mind. As he remained silent, Parn stepped closer.
“Sir Dalen, I imagine you’re confused by all this. But the situation is urgent, and we must move quickly.”
“Give me a brief rundown.”
“The Diamond Palace has fallen. Most of your comrades have been defeated.”
Rumble…
At that moment, a corner of the ceiling collapsed.
As the blood-red sky became visible through the gaping hole, Parn continued.
“Sir Dalen, the city has become a hunting ground for demons.”