Jinryong (1)
Dawn broke.
The small sailboat carrying the group was slowly navigating through the mist.
On the gently swaying deck, High Paladin Maug let out a wide yawn, his face drawn and weary. It was a yawn tinged with irritation.
“Damn rock trolls.”
“The frogmen were no better,” replied Fidna.
“They say frog legs taste like chicken. I was tempted to boil them all.”
She muttered, blinking her eyes shadowed by dark circles.
Their small sailboat had been battered overnight.
The hull was riddled with the frogmen’s poisonous darts, making it look like a dartboard at an inn. The middle mast was broken, caught in the web of spider-men.
When the rock trolls appeared at dawn, Maug had briefly thought their journey might end there.
The barrage of stones from the rock trolls was so threatening that even a single hit on the hull could have sunk them.
If not for the elder mage from the Elgaia Tower finishing his meditation and coming up on deck at just the right moment.
And if he hadn’t been a powerful earth mage capable of redirecting the stones mid-air.
Their journey might indeed have ended there.
“Thanks to you, we survived, Mage,” Maug said, still unable to forget the sight.
The mage had casually flicked his staff, sending the boulders back to crush the rock trolls.
In front of the high paladin’s admiring gaze, Felber stroked his brown beard.
“Think nothing of it. Are we almost there?”
“We should be there in about an hour.”
“Good.”
Felber nodded, leaning on his staff as he walked slowly.
He intended to go to the bow to see how far they had come.
Someone else had already taken that spot, seemingly with the same idea.
“Did you say it’ll take about an hour?”
“That’s right.”
The burly mercenary scratched his chin.
He was leaning on the broken figurehead’s base, staring out at the river.
His black eyes pierced through the mist-covered river, though they seemed a bit vacant.
Felber blinked, looking in the same direction. All he could see was mist.
Of course, without a spell, his body was just that of an eighty-year-old man.
But for the slightly dazed warrior, this thick morning mist might as well not exist.
Felber wiped the sleep from his eyes with his pinky and asked, “What are you thinking about?”
“The treasure in the dragon’s lair.”
“Don’t you already have a chest full of gold?”
“You can never have too much money. Isn’t that what capitalism is?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dalen didn’t answer. He shrugged and turned to Felber.
“How’s your health?”
“As you can see.”
“Sounds like you’re not doing well.”
Felber chuckled, leaning against the ship’s railing.
His eyes, usually glowing with magical energy, were now those of an old man contemplating the end of a long life.
“I’ve lived long enough. This might be my last journey.”
The old man spoke.
“It’s not about the state of my body. It’s about how meaningful the end is.”
“…”
“I’ll choose where I die. And how I die.”
And that’s a privilege not granted to everyone.
The old man added with a faint smile, leaving Dalen at a loss for words.
What could a man in his thirties possibly say about death?
In front of the old man, he was no different from the young blond man who had joined them last night.
As Dalen silently stared at the water, Felber laughed softly to lighten the mood.
“Cheer up. Do you think you’ll stay like this forever?”
“I think I’ll age slower than you, old man.”
“Hey! Watch your mouth. Do you want to be whacked by an old man’s staff?”
The old man raised his staff like a sword. Dalen let himself be hit a few times out of respect for the elderly and laughed heartily for the first time in a while.
It was a refreshing laugh, not low or harsh.
Their playful banter filled the bow with noise for a while.
As Maug had said, the boat reached land about an hour later.
At the entrance of a particularly wide valley, amidst a web of countless ravines.
The group dropped anchor and moored the boat near the sandy shore.
Crunch. Crunch.
Dalen was the first to disembark, feeling the sand give way beneath his feet. It was deeper than he had expected.
Despite the clouds obscuring the sun, the sand sparkled as if bathed in midday sunlight, giving it an oddly alien feel.
Swish.
Dalen scooped up a handful of sand.
The dry sand crumbled easily in his hand.
Upon closer inspection, the grains were different from ordinary sand. They resembled ice or crystal.
Each grain was a shard of cold, sharp enough to chill even Dalen’s thick skin.
‘Whatever it is, it’s definitely enchanted.’
Dalen stomped on the sand a few times. Even through his thick leather boots, he could feel the cold seeping in.
Perhaps that’s why Tommy, the last to disembark, shivered. Dalen chuckled.
“Cold?”
The young man shook his head.
“I’m fine.”
“It’s cold, alright. The domain of the Azure Dragon is filled with magical cold. Bundling up won’t help, so if it gets too much, use your magic to keep warm.”
Domere advised. Dalen stroked his chin and asked, “Have you been here before?”
“Once. When I came of age, about a hundred years ago.”
Over a hundred years old. He looked about seventy.
It was a reminder that appearances couldn’t reveal the age of superhumans.
Domere picked up a handful of sand, just as Dalen had, and continued.
“Thinking back, the situation was similar then. After a series of monster invasions, the Estra Fortress fell, and the commander led a group of elite knights on a dragon hunt. Unlike ordinary dragon hunters, they were after a true dragon, not a lesser one.”
“Hunting a true dragon. That’s madness.”
“Indeed. If not for the commander, no one would have dared.”
Domere chuckled, reminiscing with the laughter of an old man recalling fond memories.
“The hunt was… well, a partial success. The dragon, gravely wounded, retreated to its lair and hasn’t emerged since.”
“Couldn’t you kill it?”
“Unfortunately, no. The commander, the only one who could fight the dragon directly, was injured.”
With a gentle smile, the old man answered the young man’s question.
“The commander lost an arm and an eye that day. Of the fifty elite knights, only a few, including myself, survived.”
It was like an old man telling a story to his grandson, his voice soft and calm.
But the content held a faint regret.
A sorrow not fully worn away even after a hundred years. And a longing for those lost.
Tommy looked flustered, regretting his question.
Domere patted his back reassuringly.
“Since that day, the dragon hasn’t left its lair. The commander believed the wounds from the sword were too severe. Even if not, dragons are creatures that rarely leave their lairs.”
The deputy inquisitor smiled kindly at the young man.
“So, the chances of us encountering it on this mission are slim. Don’t worry too much.”
“…Thank you.”
Perhaps embarrassed at being caught afraid, Tommy lowered his head when the old man met his eyes.
Dalen lowered the hand that had been scratching his chin to his belt. The mist was thickening.
Even though they had moved far from the water, the mist, filled with cold, showed no sign of dissipating.
In fact, it had grown so thick that even his eyes couldn’t see as far as he’d like.
The sand beneath his feet was also growing colder compared to the valley’s entrance.
‘This isn’t good.’
His heart was pounding.
A little faster, a little harder than usual.
It wasn’t fear. Certainly not anxiety.
Uncertain of his body’s reaction, Dalen’s hand had moved from his belt to the hilt of his holy sword.
How long had they walked like that?
“Hold on.”
Felber, walking at the rear, stopped the group.
“There’s someone there.”
He said, and at the same time, Dalen drew his holy sword.
Swoosh—
A whirlwind started from his shoulder, traveling down his arm to envelop the blade. Dalen lightly scattered the whirlwind.
It wasn’t meant to attack anyone, so he widened its range and reduced its power.
Whoosh—!
As the whirlwind dispersed the mist, a slender figure appeared in the distance.
[What an intriguing talent.]
A chilling voice echoed in everyone’s ears.
The mist began to dissipate.
No, it wasn’t so much disappearing as it was crystallizing.
The dense fog compressed into crystal-like particles, similar to the sand beneath their feet, and fell, adding another layer to the sandy ground.
The crystals rustled as they slipped into their clothes. The added height of the crystals buried their ankles in the sand.
Yet, none of the group paid any attention to such trivial matters.
Their field of vision had suddenly expanded.
All eyes were fixed on a woman standing about an arrow’s flight away.
[It’s been a long time since I’ve had visitors. A hundred years, perhaps.]
Crunch.
The woman spoke as she slowly approached.
She was small and delicate.
Her long, dull blue-white hair cascaded down her back.
Her sharp features and slender jawline suggested beauty, but the aura she exuded was more chilling than beautiful.
Was it the unnatural pallor of her skin?
Or perhaps the vertical slit of her piercing yellow eyes?
Whatever the reason, a tense silence fell over the group, and the woman seemed to relish it, smiling as she observed them.
[So, I hope you’ll forgive the lack of hospitality. A hundred years isn’t just a long time for mortals, is it?]
“Cheongrin…!”
Domere spat the name out. The woman tilted her head slightly.
[Do you know me?]
There was no answer. Domere drew his sword and stepped forward.
Holy power surged from his body, and a white flame erupted from his blade.
“Run. Don’t look back. Get to the ship and leave. Tell them Cheongrin has left the dragon’s lair.”
His voice trembled slightly, a side of him they had never seen before.
The old man was always composed.
Even when the gnoll army stormed the knights’ fortress, or when the dragon’s minions ambushed them in the dead of night.
Even when he was injured in that ambush.
But the old man who had once clicked his tongue and trampled the giant gnolls was gone.
Only a tense, resolute paladin stood before the frail woman.
Rumble…
The sand beneath them shifted. The holy power he unleashed was more explosive than ever.
His aging body, unable to withstand such immense power, was reinforced by densely inscribed holy tattoos.
The woman, who had been staring intently into the old man’s fiery eyes, clapped her hands as if she had just remembered something.
[Ah, I remember now.]
She said.
[You were the child who came with that repulsive servant of the gods.]
That was the signal.
The air shifted. A tangible malice pressed down on them. The invisible pressure pricked their skin, causing the holy flames to flicker precariously.
[Did you know?]
The yellow eyes spoke.
[I’ve been waiting for this day.]
The old man’s eyes widened. He shouted.
“How did you recover from the wounds of that time…!”
Whoosh—
A cold breeze brushed his cheek.
In the wake of something that swept across the sandy ground, the paladin’s chest vanished in a spray of blood.
Only Dalen noticed that it was a massive tail.
The dragon’s tail swung with an almost mystical grace, as if meeting no resistance.
The head, now severed from its upper body, fell onto the sand, and the legs attached to the half-torso wobbled and collapsed.
The old man’s eyes remained wide open. Fidna screamed.
“Deputy Inquisitor…!”
Whoosh—
The trajectory sliced through the air again. This time, Dalen reacted.
Crash—!
Gripping his holy sword with both hands, he launched himself forward, exploding the sand beneath his feet.
Thunder roared within him. The holy sword resonated with the sound.
A whirlwind wrapped around the blade, weaving flashes of light, and flames sprouted from his hands, engulfing his entire body in an instant.
All of this happened in a mere moment.
At the end of that moment.
The holy sword met the tail.
Crack━━━━━━
It shattered.
Space itself tore apart.
It was less a clash of power and more a contest of mysteries.
The mortal’s mystery was strong, barely holding as a conduit.
But against a being whose very existence was a mystery, it was no match for even a single swing of the tail.
Boom—!
As the torn space healed, it was Dalen who was thrown back, the sandstorm reversing direction.
The sand that had accumulated over a hundred years surged like waves before the storm.
A massive gorge rumbled, and ancient rocks tumbled from the cliffs like bamboo shoots after rain.
Thud. Thump.
The rocks shattered upon impact with the exposed hard ground.
Only two figures stood on the trembling earth.
A warrior, steam rising from his body, standing firm with both feet planted on the ground.
And a few steps behind him, an elderly mage with gleaming golden eyes.
[Oh.]
The dragon, Cheongrin, Tethera Riulak, smiled gently.
[What fascinating guests.]