“What did Tiamat mean? System, got any ideas?” Sitting astride Typhon like a gull riding a wave, Lilith spoke in her head.

She was stuck on Tiamat’s last label, a phrase like frost under starlight: “a Saint blessed by star-power, stained by death.”

Saint, fine—it’s a cloak that fits for now, like a mantle over thin shoulders.

But death and stars? Those were two strangers knocking at her door like midnight rain.

She wasn’t about to march on Egypt; no caravan waited on that desert road.

“Death should mean the Taint,” the System popped up a tiny blue head, bright as a firefly at dusk, and offered a guess.

“The Taint corrodes life like rot in wet timber, so it spreads death like a cold tide.

You’re the White Holy Maiden who absorbed all Taint; calling you a Saint brushed by death isn’t wrong.”

“And what about star-power? Don’t tell me the Hero’s power comes from some dot in the sky.” Lilith raised her right hand, playful as a fox flicking its tail, and pointed at the back of her hand.

“Of course not. The Hero’s power is a miracle forged from people’s faith in cleansing the Taint, sparks piling into flame on a winter night.

It comes from the heart, not from distant stars,” the System shot down her guess with a huff, like wind slapping a door.

“If you want star origins, guess that I, the System, came from the stars, like a seed falling from the high sky.”

“Hey, that actually makes sense. So you really came from the stars?” Lilith’s thoughts lit up like lanterns in a night market, and she stared at the azure little figure like a child at a firework.

“Look, look. You’re a helper the Goddess made for me, and the Goddess lives in the sky like a moon over a river.

If the Goddess is what people here call the stars, doesn’t that make you star-power?”

“What even are those guesses.” The System couldn’t hold it; the blue little person rolled their eyes, cool as a winter lake under thin ice.

“Don’t drag your past-life habits into this one; you’ve changed gender and species like a snake shedding skin in spring.

Why still assume the Goddess here lives in the sky like a fixed star?”

“Then what, she lives under the ground? Ow!” Lilith yelped as a knuckle tapped her head, and she cupped her little skull like a chick guarding an egg.

The System glared, then slipped back into the Little White Dragon’s not-so-bright head like mist into a cave at dawn.

“I’ll run another scan on your body, see what we both missed, like fishermen hauling nets again.

Don’t stew up nonsense here; think instead about what Fafnir can offer you, like a smith weighing steel.”

“Got it,” she answered small, voice thin as a reed in wind, and the System didn’t reply—already busy, probably, like gears turning in the dark.

Bored, the Little White Dragon hugged the Silver Dragon beneath her like clutching a warm pillow, and stared at the passing scenery like a sparrow at clouds.

According to Typhon, Fafnir lived on Gaia’s neck, like a hawk perched on a giant tree above rolling hills.

After leaving Tiamat’s place, Typhon beat his wings straight upward like a silver arrow slicing blue silk.

Soon, they reached a pure-black dragon nest, a dome like an Easter egg wrapped in midnight.

Lilith had grown used to nests decorated like Christmas baubles, glittering like winter fruit on branches.

She pushed open the nest’s black door, shadow pooling like ink in water, and saw a short-haired black-haired girl at the threshold, eyes closed like a resting blade.

When Lilith stepped in, the girl opened one eye and pinned the Little White Dragon with a cold stare, sharp as frost.

“Lilith Absolut?” The short-haired Black Dragon carried a pressure like thunder behind clouds, heavy as summer storm, and Lilith nodded fast, too rattled to question the strange surname trailing her like a loose ribbon.

“Come in. Teacher’s been waiting awhile,” the Black Dragon stepped aside like a gate swinging smooth.

When Typhon tried to follow, she swung the door shut like a falling slab, flattening the poor Silver Dragon against it like a leaf on stone.

Lilith trotted after the regal Black Dragon girl, keeping small and tucked behind her like a shadow skimming a wall.

“Nidhogg.” The sudden word cracked the quiet like a twig underfoot, and Lilith almost jumped like a startled hare.

“W-what?” She hadn’t caught the line and asked, voice fluttering like a moth.

“My name. Call me that,” Nidhogg pointed at herself, voice cool as stone by a river.

“Teacher wants you to call her Fafnir sis. Remember it like a knot tied tight.”

“R-right?” Lilith agreed, unsure, lifting her small head to peek at the Black Dragon girl like a sprout seeking sun.

The other said nothing more and led Lilith deeper into the room like guiding a boat into harbor through morning mist.

A not-so-tall black-haired girl sat at the deepest seat, holding a book like cradling a silent bird in her lap.

When Lilith entered, the woman closed the pages and lifted her gaze toward the doorway, smiling warm as firelight in winter.

“What should I say now—good evening?” She waved kindly like a breeze through bamboo, then stood.

The cloth heaped on her slid down like falling petals, pooling by legs that weren’t long, pale as moonlit bark.

Only then did Lilith realize she wore a mature, almost-special kind of nightdress, silk like night water.

On Lilith’s skinny frame, such a thing would hang loose like a child stealing her mother’s robe, half solemn, half absurd, like a sparrow in a crane’s mantle.

“Ahem. I am the mentor of Black Dragons, the magic dragon Fafnir, wielder of boundless might like a storm caged in a palm.

Come, let’s begin the inheritance ritual,” her voice rang like bronze.

“Teacher, until Lilith meets all mentors and chooses, you’re not allowed to start the ritual,” Nidhogg stood by her, voice a whisper like rain at the eaves.

“For now, you may introduce Black Dragon magic and display your power, like opening a curtain to the first scene.”

“Huh? Fine.” Fafnir’s head drooped like a wilted sprout after noon heat.

To Lilith, her mental age felt more child than maiden, like spring bud still soft.

She puffed her cheeks, unhappy, and pulled a scale from inside her clothes, placing it in Lilith’s palm like setting down a dark moon from a clouded sky.

“I meant it as your entry gift. Now it’s bait to lure you into becoming my disciple, a hook in calm water.

So annoying!” she huffed like a cat.

“Uh… Fafnir… sis? What is this?” Lilith studied the scale, eyes tracing its edge like a river following shore.

Its pitch-black surface carried thick magical effects like storm-cloud sheen, heavy as rain before it falls.

She doubted her power could cut it, like a reed against iron.

“Oh! You called me sis! Fantastic!” Fafnir bounced on the chair like a sparrow on a branch, bright as morning chatter.

Nidhogg grabbed her by the neck, setting her back with the calm of a keeper, hand firm as a pillar.

The mentor didn’t mind the “rude” handling; she beamed at the Little White Dragon like sun breaking through cloud.

“That’s my scale, you know.

In all the Dragon Territory, unless you dig up a scale Gaia left while alive, this is the hardest thing you’ll find, iron of the night.

With it, every dragon out there will know you’re under Lady Fafnir’s wing like a fledgling under shade.

No one will dare bully you—just steer wide of that old woman Asterios, like avoiding a thorn thicket,” she warned with a grin.

“Thanks,” she said, voice small as a reed in wind, gratitude warming like tea.

Fafnir looked unserious, but the gift was solid as bedrock under a stream.

The girl who’d once thrashed Ophelia knew Red Dragon scales were terrifying in defense, a shield like a cliff face.

Fafnir, a Black Dragon with a stronger body than Reds, must have scales hard like night-forged iron from a cold forge.

“Heh-heh! See my power now?

If you’re willing, you can bow to me this instant,” the Black Dragon girl puffed out her very flat little chest like a brave sparrow, hands on slim waist like a willow.

“I’m the strongest Black Dragon; no one beats me in strength or defense, stone and steel in one.

And in magic, I’m at least on par with Reds,” she declared like a drumbeat.

“Teacher, you haven’t explained Black Dragon magic yet,” Nidhogg added, voice steady as a riverbank holding back the flood.

“She needs a general feel for its power, a map before the road.”

“Fine. What a hassle,” Fafnir stuck out her tongue like a child, then lifted her right hand, pale as milk.

On the little palm, a strand of black fire bloomed like ink burning through silk, devouring the light around her like a sun-eating eclipse.

“This is our most common magic.

Black Dragons wield shadow and death, two rivers running under night.

The all-devouring black flame is our basic skill, though newborn Blacks shouldn’t start with it,” she said like a teacher tapping the board.

Fafnir shook her hand, scattering the dark flame like torn smoke in wind.

It crept along her arm like frost spreading on glass at dawn, thin and inexorable.

Lilith’s own forearm twinged in sympathy, a phantom ache like a string plucked, though Fafnir showed no sign of pain.

“Like this: without a strong body, a Black Dragon gets bit by her own spell like a dog by its leash, snap and sting.

So most start by training the flesh, iron before fire.

You’re an exception—nobody’s foolish enough to make a White Dragon train body-first,” she said with a wry smile like a crescent.

She hooked a finger and pulled the flame back from her shoulder like plucking a thread from cloth.

“This fire isn’t like Red Dragon flame; there’s no heat, no sun-bite.

It’s a reuse of darkness itself, a night turned into a blade, a shadow hammered into edge.

With deeper understanding, you can add other things inside it, season the night.

Like this,” she murmured like water over stone.

The black fire paled into ashen gray, weak like a candle in wind near a window.

But in that colorless flame, Lilith smelled the same death-scent as the Taint clinging to her—cold as stone in rain and grave earth.

The blaze shrank, yet its danger leaped a whole tier, a quiet knife sharper than a roaring torch.

“Enough. That’s as much as you get,” Fafnir clapped, and the ash flame sank into the floor like dew into earth at morning.

The Black Dragon looked at Lilith, weariness like mist in her eyes that wouldn’t lift.

“Death is the most fearsome force in this world, a river that drowns kings and peasants alike.

Until you truly inherit my power, I won’t teach you how to wield death—even though you reek of it more than I do,” she said, voice soft as smoke.

“Mm, I almost don’t want to let you go.

Next you’ll meet that old woman Asterios, and there’s no helping it,” Fafnir glanced at Nidhogg, like a sparrow glancing at a hawk.

“Nidhogg, see our dear White Dragon out.

Don’t let her get lost—wait.

Why do I smell Tiamat’s flame?” she asked, nostrils flaring like a hunting hound.

“Uh… Tiamat gave it to me,” Lilith took the little flame from her sleeve like drawing a firefly from the fold and handed it to the Black Dragon.

“He said you’d know what to do,” she added, hope flickering like a wick.

“Mm… I do have a way,” Fafnir rubbed her chin, thinking like clouds gathering before rain.

“Young Little White Dragon, go visit that old woman first.

I’ll reshape this flame to suit you and send it to Tartarus’s house, like a courier hawk,” she promised, tone bright as steel.

“That so? Thanks, Fafnir sis,” Lilith bowed her head, gratitude like a warm river.

“Heh-heh. Bow before my might!” Fafnir laughed, pride sparkling like shards of night.