Meanwhile, in the Dragon Realm.
At the heart of Dragon God Island, in a stately courtyard where pines stood like brushstrokes and white stone gleamed like moonlight.
“Who is in trouble? Why is my heart clawing at my ribs like a caged beast?”
A middle-aged man in simple clothes, authority draped on him like a mantle, hurried toward the rear of the main hall.
Behind the hall lay a room, quiet as a shrine at dusk—the chamber of life tokens, the Name-Token Chamber.
(A life token is a lifebound conduit to one’s fate: intact means safe, cracked means danger, shattered means death.)
On its shelves sat tokens for the Dragon Realm’s pillars—Dragon Kin elders, clan chiefs, names carved like oaths in stone.
The man was the Realm’s unmatched peak, the Dragon God—Saint Cole Victor, calm like iron, storm like thunder.
He had stepped down as clan chief long ago, yet his weight in the Dragon Kin was mountain-high above the current chief.
In short, Saint Cole’s standing among the Dragon Kin was like the Mizumi Clan’s sway across the world—deep roots, wide shade.
He hurried because minutes ago, a message struck like a knell: a token in this chamber had gone wrong.
Whose token? He didn’t know yet; but the thread tugging his heart said it belonged to someone bound to him like blood.
So he moved fast, like wind before rain.
Half a minute later.
Saint Cole reached the chamber, pushed the door open like parting a heavy cloud, and saw the damaged token inside.
“Who did this!!!”
Rumble!
Rage broke from him like a volcano; the Dragon Realm’s sky dimmed, thunder braided and cracked like iron whips.
The ground, unable to bear his aura, split into jagged fissures like dry riverbeds.
“This pressure—did His Majesty the Dragon God erupt?”
“Heavens, who was so blind? Who dared to anger His Majesty?”
“What do we do? If this storm keeps rolling, Dragon God Island will be rubble under waves!”
From the Dragon Realm to the island’s shores, unease spread like a cold wind; they hadn’t seen Saint Cole rage in ages.
Yet each of his storms made the whole realm tremble like reeds under a gale.
His last fury was more than a century ago, when a top-ten family snatched a friend like a hawk takes a hare.
Saint Cole walked into that family’s house and erased it in a single move, clean as a blade through silk.
Since then, every resident—lowly Dragon Kin to elder and chief—carved one creed into bone: offend anyone, but never the Dragon God.
That is how terrifying his tempests were—night falling at noon.
“Saint Cole, what’s wrong? Why are you burning this hot all at once?”
A beautiful matron entered, off-white gauze drifting like mist—Celia Maya Victor, his wife and moonlight to his steel.
“Meiya, how could I not flare? Hill’s life token has cracked like ice.”
He handed her the token, its smooth face marred by three glaring fractures like lightning scars.
“Ah—it’s Hill’s token! Did she meet disaster? She should be on the Central Continent—how could danger reach her there?”
Her voice trembled like a string plucked too tight.
“No. Hill left the Central Continent a year ago. Back then, she stood at the Holy Peak of the Sacred Realm, bright as dawn.”
“I didn’t worry. And now…”
He sighed, self-reproach settling like frost. “If only I had watched more closely.”
“If ‘if only’ could bloom, we’d have fewer tragedies. This isn’t on you. Where is Hill now?”
“The token isn’t shattered. She’s badly wounded, not in mortal peril—hope still glows like an ember.”
Celia Maya’s arms wrapped him, her comfort soft as rain on ash.
“Mm. Hill’s on the Eastern Moon Continent.”
Her gentleness cooled his blaze, like snow on a brazier.
“Eastern Moon? Why go there, across distant seas?”
“I don’t know. But Yugami Yuu’s son left the Central Continent a year ago too. Maybe Hill followed his trail like a shadow.”
“That’s the likeliest road. Should we head for the Eastern Moon now?”
“Alright. Let’s go, before the wind turns.”
Saint Cole lifted his hand, ready to tear space like silk—
“Dragon God, leave Hill to me. You don’t need to come.”
Xinuo’s voice flowed into his mind, calm as a still lake at dawn.
“That voice… Sir Xino, is it you?!”
Saint Cole’s tone bowed like grass under rain; his anger evaporated like mist at sunrise.
“Yes, it’s me. Rest easy. Don’t come,” Sir Xino said, cool and even, a bell under snow.
“Understood. With you beside Hill, fear is a shadow that can’t touch us.”
With that assurance, Saint Cole’s heart unclenched; he let out a breath like steam leaving iron.
“Then, may I know who hurt Hill? I won’t let that wound pass like dust on a sleeve.”
“Oh, that I don’t know. Only that it was the Dark Demon.”
“I see. My deepest thanks, Sir Xino!”
Gratitude warmed his voice like sunlight through leaves.
“No need. And you haven’t changed. Mention your child, and your control melts like wax.”
“Of course. Hill’s my most precious daughter—my pearl under moonlight.”
“I knew you’d say that. Let’s end here. We’ll talk another time.”
Xino’s voice faded, like a bell’s last ring in fog.
“Mm.”
“Saint Cole, was that Sir Xino speaking with you?”
Celia Maya’s excitement surged like spring water; Xino was her one true idol, star bright in her sky.
“Hehe, yes. With Sir Xino at Hill’s side, we can lay our worries down like heavy packs.”
He stroked Celia Maya’s sleek hair, smooth as silk, and smiled with relief.
“But what a pity!”
“Why?”
“I didn’t get to hear Sir Xino’s voice. It must be lovely—music spun like silver.”
“Mm. It’s the loveliest voice I’ve ever heard in this world—heaven’s own music. But before that…”
A cruel smile cut across Saint Cole’s handsome face like a blade of ice. “Dilosdo, I know you’re outside. Come in.”
“Yes, Your Majesty the Dragon God!”
An elder with snow-white hair and eyes bright as embers stepped in, his vigor like a pine in winter.
He was the current chief of the Dragon Kin—Dilosdo Dil Victor.
“Good timing, Dilosdo. I have a task, sharp as a spear, for you.”
“Your Majesty, command me. I’ll move like thunder.”
“Send people to rip out every Dark Demon sub-guild in the Dragon Realm—uproot them like weeds, leave no member alive.”
“Yes!”
Dilosdo didn’t dare object; obedience sat on him like armor.
Besides, if purging the Dark Demon branches could cool His Majesty’s storm, that was a blessing like rain after drought.
