Chapter 941: On the Dragon’s Back

As the great dragon ascended at a breathtaking angle, soaring swiftly through the clouds, Gawain didn’t feel the slightest turbulence or the fierce winds of high altitude.

This was undoubtedly a rare and extraordinary journey, and he was determined not to miss a single detail. He noticed that during the flight, Melita’s entire body seemed enveloped in a nearly transparent shield—so subtle that if not for the disturbances caused by external airflow and mist, he might not have noticed it at all. The shield blocked the harsh winds and temperature fluctuations of the upper atmosphere. It functioned somewhat like a combination of a gentle breeze shield and a wind elemental blessing, but its effect was clearly far superior to either.

After inquiring, he confirmed that this protective barrier wasn’t just for the comfort of the “passengers” on this trip—it was an essential aid for Melita’s flight.

“I wonder if Maggie has a similar ‘protective talent’ when she flies,” Gawain mused as they broke through the clouds into a bright expanse of sky. “The dragons’ flying altitude and speed seem to far surpass those of the Dragonborn, even those equipped with steel wings…”

“Stop overthinking it, it’s exhausting,” Amber muttered from beside him, then brightened with excitement. “Honestly, this feels like a dream! I never thought I’d get to ride on a dragon’s back in my lifetime… You don’t hear bards bragging about that kind of thing lightly! That’s a hero’s privilege near the grand finale of their story…”

“So when we get back, you’ll be boasting about this in the tavern for six months straight, right?” Gawain gave the half-elf a wry look. “Be careful—falling off here isn’t like just missing a few Shadowsteps.”

Amber’s pride only grew, completely unabashed. “Six months? Not nearly enough. I’ll be bragging all the way to the All Souls Festival three years from now…”

“Don’t worry, you won’t fall,” a deep female voice came from ahead. Melita turned her head slightly and addressed her “passengers.” “I’ve already reinforced the edges of my back scales for protection.”

Gawain glanced at Melita’s neck, admiring the beautiful scales covering it and the horn-like keratin protrusions on the sides and back of her blue dragon head—majestic and gleaming in the sunlight.

“Looks like we’re getting much better treatment than Modril Wilde six hundred years ago,” he chuckled. “Back then, you carried him in your claws all the way across the icy ocean.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t remember any of it,” Melita said, clearly in a chatty mood despite the dull flight. “But that’s understandable. You’re guests invited by the gods, while that adventurer was an uninvited trespasser in dragon territory. There’s a big difference.”

She paused, shaking her head with a hint of regret. “Still… if I had the chance to meet that adventurer again, I’d really like to have a proper conversation with him. We might even become friends. I’d gladly carry him on my back to explore those fascinating places. We could even go on adventures together… for ten years, or a hundred. Humans don’t live that long, but for dragons, that’s a brief contract. I think it would be wonderful.

“After all, judging from that travelogue, he seemed like a very interesting fellow.”

Gawain was silent for a moment, his gaze drifting to the distance. Below the dragon’s wings, the clouds rolled and shifted like endless mountain ranges, layered and overlapping. Gaps and wide openings in the clouds revealed the far-off land below, and the faint outline of the coastline.

Human cities dotted the landscape between mountains and lakes, sparkling like jewels in the sunlight.

This truly was a beautiful world, worthy of an adventurer’s lifelong exploration.

“Yeah, he really was an interesting guy. I admire him,” Gawain finally broke the silence with a sigh, then grew curious. “You mentioned signing a hundred-year contract with Modril to travel and adventure together—is that serious? Do dragons really do that? Like the stories bards tell?”

“It’s not that simple,” Melita replied. “Dragons need strict applications and permissions to leave Talrond for extended periods. But yes, it does happen, though rarely. Many bard tales aren’t entirely made up—after all, bards are the dragonkind’s favorite profession when they travel in the human world, and we’re quite good at turning facts into dramatic stories.”

“Bards… some of them are just masters of fabrication,” Gawain muttered, a certain “Bard C” popping unbidden into his mind. He quickly shook it off, dismissing the inappropriate thought.

He then glanced back at the large equipment strapped to Melita’s back. Despite the high altitude, still within the magical static layer, the specially designed arcane network terminals and omnidirectional crystal arrays were receiving clear signals from powerful hubs on the surface. The recording devices should have already logged the signal strength and interference changes during Melita’s ascent and flight.

Honestly, these data were almost as valuable to Gawain as the Talrond journey itself—such precious information was rarely obtained under normal circumstances. Especially once they left land and flew over the sea, the parameters these devices could collect were beyond the current technological reach of the Empire.

He treasured this opportunity. Although he was familiar with Melita, he couldn’t just ask a great dragon to carry several tons of experimental equipment around all day for human data collection. Even he, who valued “benefits,” understood the limits.

“Will we stop to rest along the way?” Amber asked casually.

“I could fly straight to Talrond without stopping,” Melita said, “but there’s no rush. We’ll rest a few times near the coastline and on some islands in the northern seas. You’ll be able to get off and stretch—after all, you’re creatures who can’t fly, and such a long journey is a heavy burden for first-timers.”

As Melita spoke, Gawain’s mind wandered to ideas about long-endurance aerial vehicles and extended air routes. He instinctively considered other applications for the Empire’s anti-gravity craft and the possibility of establishing a long-distance air route from the Wasteland’s edge to the Silver Empire. His thoughts roamed freely for a while before he reined them in.

Then he noticed Veronica sitting quietly nearby.

Since Melita took off, the “Saint Princess” had barely spoken. Though she usually gave off a calm and serene aura, her silence now felt unusual.

She sat quietly, hands folded on her lap, staring blankly ahead with unfocused eyes. Her ever-present platinum staff was not by her side—Gawain knew she had entrusted it to Light before departure, which made sense. Still, Veronica’s quietness made him uneasy.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Gawain asked as he approached. “You haven’t said much this whole trip.”

Whether it was his imagination or not, Veronica seemed slow to respond. She finally lifted her head and replied calmly, “Thank you for your concern. I am well.”

Gawain frowned. Something about Veronica felt off. After a moment’s thought, he realized what it was: compared to usual, she lacked a certain human liveliness. Though he had always felt the Saint Princess was almost too perfect, like a delicate doll rather than a real person, that was only a vague impression. Now, he genuinely sensed a mechanical stiffness in her, as if her emotions had been muted.

Frowning, he scrutinized her again. “Are you really okay?”

Veronica met his gaze with her crystal-clear yet unfeeling eyes, studying him for a long moment before nodding slowly. “Ah, I suppose I overlooked some details… Rest assured, my condition is normal. My bodily functions and cognitive abilities are intact. But you may indeed sense something unusual… There is no cause for concern; it is normal.

“When far from the continent of Loren, I experience some weakening.”

Weakening when far from Loren?

Gawain’s expression grew serious, questions flashing in his eyes. Before he could speak, Veronica smiled faintly and said, “It is simply the price of survival.”

“…I understand,” Gawain said after a few seconds, relaxing his expression and nodding slightly. “If you prefer not to elaborate, I won’t press. But someday, I hope you’ll satisfy my curiosity. For now… just make sure this ‘price’ doesn’t affect our mission.”

Veronica returned his gaze with the same serene smile, as if it had momentarily solidified on her face. She nodded and said in her usual calm tone, “Of course. I calculated everything before departure.”

…

Below, the murky clouds churned and rolled like a nauseating, semi-gelatinous swamp blanketing the sky, pressing down on the earth. The entire world felt suffocating beneath these low-hanging clouds—and even more oppressive was the dead, heavily corrupted land below.

The former imperial heartland, soaked in arcane energy and turned into wasteland, stretched endlessly in black, hardened soil. Ancient shockwaves had left folds and radiating cracks spreading outward from a central point. From above, it resembled a monstrous, bloodshot eye.

At the center of this eye lay a massive explosion crater shaped like a ring mountain, and at its bottom, a conical structure formed by molten crystal pillars.

Seven centuries later, the Deep Blue Well still operated. Within the remaining reactor tower, unimaginable energy surged. A towering blue beam shot into the clouds, where lightning crackled continuously at the boundary between light and mist.

Around the Deep Blue Well’s crater, many new structures had appeared—small fortresses built from a black polymer, watchtowers that looked like a strange fusion of plants and stone, eerie, writhing groves, and figures moving among the trees, fortresses, and towers.

Those shadowy figures were several patrol squads, all clad in the ancient mage uniforms of Gondor’s bygone era. Whether male or female, each possessed impeccably proportioned bodies and faces so exquisitely crafted they seemed almost artificial. They were making their rounds around the imperial capital’s outskirts—just as they had done seven centuries ago.

Yet, when it came to the newly erected fortresses and watchtowers surrounding the impact crater, these patrols seemed to turn a blind eye. They simply bypassed the barricades blocking their path, naturally altering their pre-set patrol routes.

In fact… it almost looked as if they were there to guard those very fortresses.

At the edge of the crater, within the cluster of black fortresses, thick vines and a gray, mycelium-like substance blanketed the ground and nearby structures. Suddenly, with a rustling sound, a patch of plants at the fortress’s forefront began to writhe and retreat to either side. From underground tunnels emerged several twisted creatures—part human, part tree—bearing withered bark and an overgrowth of gnarled branches.

The leader of these twisted beings shifted his roots and stepped to the crater’s rim. On his dry, wrinkled bark appeared an ancient face, its pale yellow eyes fixed on the crater floor below—the radiant “Crystal Pillar Hill.” The blue light bursting forth from the crystals reflected in those eyes, igniting a fierce gleam of greed and longing.

“The Deep Blue Well… we are but a step away…” the treant leader murmured to himself. He shook his branches, and instantly, a tangle of vines at the fortress boundary responded, rising high and stretching toward the crater’s depths. But no sooner had the vines crossed the boundary line than the “Crystal Pillar Hill” reacted. Bright beams of light flashed, and the encroaching vines were instantly incinerated into vapor by scorching plasma rays.

“Damn it!! This cursed tomb, this damned coffin, and these blasted gravekeepers! Seven hundred years—can’t any of this just die quietly already?!”

The treant leader, the current Grant Priest of the “Order of All Things’ End,” erupted into a furious tirade.

(End of chapter)