“Figures—only someone bound to become a Titleholder could peel this off a pre-Titleholder dragon. Still… with my current strength, this treasure will have to sleep on ice.”
Nero exhaled, a weight sitting cold in his chest before the breath left him. He craved power like a thirsty man craves a spring, yet his path had hit a ridge long ago. From super-grade to pre-Titleholder took insight into power itself, and he didn’t have time to sit with the storm.
“What’s this armor… called?”
Aphelia’s pale hand brushed the black scale plates like moonlight skimming a lake. She guided Arcane Power into the shell, and a faint, buried will answered with a caged roar.
“Dark Dragon.”
“Clean and simple… So I wear it in battle, right? Then nudge the scraps of Arcane Power inside to wake.”
She pictured her power kindling what lingered in the armor, a dragon’s bellow breaking out that could rival a pre-Titleholder’s roar. A perfect mask for a shadowed name.
“Good. Just remember to take off that ring when the time comes.”
Aphelia palmed the black armor into her ring. Nero spoke as the dragon-scale door swung shut with a dull slide, then handed back the key. They drifted toward the guest hall, words trailing like smoke, and settled in to wait for Jasmine’s map.
“But I need to warn you—don’t underestimate the Plague of Beasts. That kind of ruin makes even Titleholders wince. If you run into one, avoid the fight if you can.”
Nero’s voice was steady as stone. Aphelia nodded; his rank was only super-grade, yet advice was a lantern in fog.
Truth be told, this was the most precious kind of intel she could hold right now. To those born in the Demon World, the Plague of Beasts was almost routine. Even with Nero insisting they were living things, she couldn’t shape a clear image. Better to move by his light first and sidestep the unknown.
Worst case, save strength like coals under ash. If more than two enemy Titleholders show, she needs a line of retreat.
“Ah, Jasmine’s already here.”
They stepped into the hall. Jasmine stood waiting, a map in hand, still as a reed before wind.
“This is the latest map from the family. That old man… wasn’t entirely lying. The Plague of Beasts is hitting more often. Oddly, near the Hydra Temple, it’s been especially frequent…”
She spread the map across the table, marked it with sharp, dark strokes, and talked Aphelia through the lay of the land. At “Plague of Beasts,” her voice caught like a string pulled too tight.
“It can’t be helped. We still don’t have a way to control them. If it isn’t their plot, it means… something’s wrong inside the temple.”
Nero thought it through three times, then asked Aphelia to probe the Hydra Temple again. If she found anything, all the better.
“Here are the major Hydra clusters. Smaller tribes ring them; ignore those unless needed. These are the outposts… the closest to us is here. Start here. The other spot…”
Jasmine explained each mark as if setting stones on a board, passing every scrap their watchers had gathered. Aphelia would weigh the rest when steel met flesh; Jasmine’s job was to lay the known on the table.
While they tightened their plans like knots, in the Hydra Temple an elder knelt, posture humble as dust, reporting on Nero to a middle-aged man whose flame-red hair burned like a torch.
“Interesting. Have them keep a close watch. Nero will likely send someone to sniff around. If they show—kill without mercy.”
The man’s mouth said “interesting,” but his face twisted with boredom, a coiled disgust for the elder kneeling below him.
“Yes, my lord…”
“I’d skip any clever ideas if I were you. Hydra is a vassal of the Dark Dragon Clan. We do what we want.”
“Want to rebel? Fine. The ‘Plague of Beasts’ outside is your best example. Understood?”
“Of course—your surrender was voluntary. Be grateful; His Majesty is a sympathetic, reasonable soul. That’s why you have this chance. If your service stands out, we won’t forget it. Especially your grandchildren—we’ll take good care of them.”
The words were threats, yet the tone had the dead flat of a clerk reciting a script. Still, they ran cold along the elder’s spine; sweat beaded under his collar, and his thin arm clenched inside the roomy sleeve.
The man flicked him a look, then walked past as if stepping over a fallen leaf. No matter how the elder’s face shifted, it meant nothing. He never met the elder’s eyes. He gave a few orders to the guards and swaggered out of the temple.
A temple, no matter the race, is a place for gods and bones, incense and faith. Now it was trod under boots, its doors flung open to whoever barged in.
The elder stayed kneeling, a statue with no readable face.
Look closer: every guard here wore the traits of the Dark Dragon Clan. The Hydra soldiers who should’ve been on watch had vanished like mist. Their eyes on the elder were the eyes you turn on trash, denying him even the rank of a living equal.
Look closer still: dark, crusted blood stained the stone pillars that held up the roof.
“Nero, huh? With that level, he dares call himself crown prince…”
The man stepped into the light outside and snorted. From the temple’s high perch, the Hydra Plains stretched like a map beneath his boots. From here, any troop movement would lie bare under their gaze. Nero couldn’t twitch a wing without their notice.
They’d seeded the Plains with secret posts. Their lord already had victory curled in his palm. A mongrel like Nero…
What he didn’t expect was Aphelia, the stray spark.
Five days later, Hydra Plains, a certain tribe.
Aphelia had a Dark Dragon Soldier by the throat, her armor wreathed in black fire that breathed dragon might like heat off a basalt cliff. The aura swallowed her face; the soldier’s eyes shook with doubt.
He would die not knowing why someone who looked like a Titleholder of his own kind was cutting down kin.
“M-my lord, please don’t kill me. I—I don’t know what I did wrong…”
He trembled under her weight. The pressure was a chain hammered by caste—high rank to low, same clan, no escape. Fear bloomed like frost up the spine.
“Simple. You’re in my way.”
The armor roughened Aphelia’s voice to the rasp of an old, dried reed. No one seeing that helm would guess her name, unless she lifted the mask or shed the guise.
“M-my lord, we—we only act on the Princess’s orders. We never meant to stand against you…”
“And I act for the Princess as well. Everything you’ve done cuts across her will. For that, you deserve death.”
Her spear flickered and reshaped into a black blade with a whisper like smoke. She woke the armor’s power again, and a dragon’s roar blasted point-blank, rage boiling out like thunder from a gorge. Her Dark Dragon mimicry was flawless; the soldier’s mind crumbled.
“In the Princess’s name, I will purge the traitors!”
She raised the blade to strike. The soldier shrieked.
“It was Lord Kadanlen’s orders! Please, spare me, my lord!”
The blade paused. Inside the helm, Aphelia smiled.
Under the press of death, you feed a man a line—“for the Princess,” “purge the traitors”—and a lie becomes true in his bones. Plant the seed of righteous cause; fear waters it. His mind will grow its own excuse and toss guilt uphill to a higher name.
“Oh? Then what orders did he give that defied the Princess? If I catch you lying, you’ll die ugly. Your kin will be branded traitors and hunted.”
She speared the blade into the dirt for show, hauled the soldier close, and let naked killing intent drip through the visor like ice. His last bit of inner wall collapsed.
“I—I only know Lord Kadanlen ordered us to escort several prisoners to the nearest major tribe. The rest, I swear, I don’t know. Those prisoners are locked in the underground stone chamber. We never—”
His body went light, then slack, and the world cut to black. Even on the lip of death, he clung to the foolish hope that Aphelia would spare him.
