3—!
2—!
1—!
Whoosh! ×3
Three hands rose above three heads, like three suns lifting past the horizon, deciding humanity’s fate while the world slept under fog.
King Alex’s gaze swept upward in a flash, quick as a hawk’s shadow cutting the sky.
Left hand… left hand… left hand. Like a drumbeat thudding in his chest.
?!
Old man, can you tuck that shocked face away? A king showing his mind like an open window is a shame in the cold wind.
Alex ignored Gill’s thorned voice; he pointed with his right hand, his lips stuck on “you… you… you,” like an engine choking in winter.
Old man, I’m no fool. A tech nation letting a fool be king isn’t some star-written fate.
But just now, you clearly—
That was just then. In three minutes, thoughts stormed like summer rain. As the Dorado maiden said, Plan One’s the best path under the moon.
But—
No buts. I’m agreeing to Plan One, but I won’t swallow “your daughter isn’t human.” One day I’ll drag proof into the light, like a net hauling fish.
Alex didn’t keep wrestling. He let the embers dim; he knew the man wanted a fight, hooks glinting in the river, and he wouldn’t bite.
Seeing Alex quiet, anger cooling like dew at dawn, Gill clicked his tongue, a pebble on metal, then shifted the wind.
Of course, my agreeing to Plan One comes with another condition, sharp as frost.
Speak. If it’s reasonable, we won’t push against the tide.
If—if Plan One fails, we execute Plan Two at once. And you, old man, won’t block it; you’ll lead troops into the field like a banner in storm.
Alex hesitated, leaves trembling in a breeze, then nodded like a tree settling in soil.
No problem. If… they truly don’t care about human lives, I—
It’s not “care or don’t care about humans.” I said “Plan One fails.” Don’t play word games like smoke and mirrors.
Fine, fine. If Plan One fails, I’ll lead troops. For heaven’s sake… why nitpick an old man like a woodpecker? Do I look like a liar under dim lamps?
In short, the stone dropped into the river; the matter of humanity’s future was set, ripples widening under a pale sky.
They sketched the next steps, lines simple as charcoal on rice paper, and settled on this:
King Alex brings Ling and Alicia to the table, like two stars drawn into an orbit, and the three of them push for their best interests with steady oars.
Yes, that’s the whole plan—a reed raft, not a gilded ship; rough, nimble in the current.
Often, the more intricate the map, the less it bends to mountains and rain. A crude sketch can glide like a swallow through changing winds.
And the key players—Alicia and Ling—were up there, flying happy as kites in clear blue, with the Mystic Realm stitched below like green patchwork.
Sister! Sister! I can see the Mystic Realm, ah! And the Elvenfolk’s floating isle! Land on the ground or the sky isle?
Her voice was a bright bell, clearly tilted toward the sky isle, eager as a child eyeing a carnival on cloud-steps.
Reality wouldn’t allow it. The Dragonfolk and Elvenfolk’s knot wasn’t untied; landing dragons on their isle would be a spark in dry grass.
They signed peace accords, yes; but you don’t rattle the other side for sport. If faces tear like paper, the wind gets ugly.
So—
Let’s land on the ground first. Next time we visit the sky isle alone, light as swallows at dusk.
Mm…
Alicia had spoken. Ling still drooped like a wilting flower, but she followed, better to keep rain from old grudges.
Their chatter was simple, little stones skipping the surface. Yet the Ninety Nine Maiden carrying them felt her resolve firm like iron under frost—ally with Alicia.
After all, a friend who thinks for you like shade in noon heat, who knows the secret bristles between Dragonfolk and Elvenfolk and chooses to avoid sparks—that kind of ally smells of good wind.
Roar, roar… roar! (Everyone, we’re landing!)
The Ninety Nine Maiden bellowed in dragon-tongue, a horn rolling down the ridge. Dragons beside her passed it along, wave by wave to the tail.
They dropped below the Elvenfolk isle’s level, then, led by the Ninety Nine Maiden, dove in sequence like arrows in rain—no dragon broke the pattern.
Clean command, solid trust, sharp efficiency—and with the Mystic Realm at zero danger, the dragon host touched down smooth, like snow settling on stone.
Whew—I thought you dragons were all proud rebels who ignore orders, but you kept discipline like straight rows in a winter field.
Ling spoke in a whisper only the Ninety Nine Maiden and Alicia could catch, a breeze behind a fan, and it pricked Jiu Jiu’s scales.
As high minds, we don’t throw discipline to the wind. That’d stain the name of sapient beings like mud on jade. Is our image that poor in your eyes?
Ling gave an awkward laugh and scratched her nape, a cat caught on the sill. She couldn’t say she’d imported game-dragon tropes from a past life.
Arrogant, rude, self-righteous, fond of kidnapping princesses—those old sketches didn’t match these mountain-backed giants under the clear sun.
If any tag brushed the edge, it was “strong” and “greedy for treasure,” labels like iron and gold; neither was a rotten root.
Ling kept smiling silly, a lantern with warm light, while Jiu Jiu still stared, hoping for a better answer, eyes like flint.
Alicia cut in, smooth as rain easing summer heat. Enough. Nothing worth arguing here. What matters is where your dragons live; otherwise, where do you sleep tonight?
