The human allied forces and heroes ventured into the primitive forest—a desolate, secluded expanse at the kingdom’s edge.

Their mission: to rescue the little princess of the Fairy Tale Kingdom from the evil dragon. Fully prepared, they carried advanced arms—magic rifles, arcane cannons, and dragon-hunting crossbows forged from rune steel, arrowheads tipped with anti-magic stones.

Armored infantry led the column, followed by cavalry, siege crossbows and cannons hauled by towering warhorses, and finally the bounty-seeking heroes.

Yet none were the true protagonists of this hunt.

In fairy tales, the spotlight always falls on one or two: Cinderella, persecuted by kin; Sleeping Beauty, cursed by a witch; the Little Mermaid, dissolved into foam… Heroines suffer, yet remain undisputed stars of their tales.

Here, three held that role:

The dragon.

The little princess.

And the one yet unseen…

The prince.

True to legend, the youth astride a white steed was handsome, ever-smiling—a warmth like winter sun, or sun-drenched cotton.

Mightiest swordsman, finest violinist, he traveled kingdoms for his coming-of-age rites. The Fairy Tale Kingdom was his final stop.

Fate intervened: upon arrival, he learned of the princess’s abduction. After pledging aid to the grieving king—and moved by tales of her kindness and grace—he gladly joined the expedition.

They trekked through mountains and rivers to the rumored dragon’s forest. Heavy siege gear proved useless among the trees, so they switched to lighter arms, advancing in a spaced grid search.

Soldiers. Heroes. Prince.

Dragon slayers scoured the woods.

Above them, silent and still, the dragon hung—wings spread, cold vertical pupils scanning below.

It slowly opened its maw.

Pinpricks of light ignited, swirled, wove a radiant sigil. Heat surged. In an instant, it became a second sun suspended at the zenith, blazing with unbearable light.

Then—silently—it shattered.

Like a gentle meteor shower, luminous fragments drifted down: slow, weightless, feather-soft.

Some in the forest blinked at the sudden brightness. Others looked up—seeing the dragon, the magic.

Shields flared. Others froze, mesmerized.

Too late.

The stardust settled.

*Pop.*

A chorus of soft pops—like uncorking wine bottles—rippled through the woods. Then, blinding white erased all color.

Compressed energy erupted. Searing heat vaporized flesh, cloth, steel. Nothing remained but pitch-black ash and circular craters, each two meters wide.

Only then did thunder roar across sky and earth.

The king’s hopeful army… annihilated the moment they saw the dragon.

*Forbidden Spell: Baptism.*

The dragon descended, scanning the scorched land for survivors.

Then it saw him: a youth kneeling, leaning on his sword.

*So even the Forbidden Spell couldn’t erase the prince… Is this the Child of Prophecy?* it thought.

Under its gaze, the boy slowly rose, gripping the Sword of Virtue. His expression dazed, he looked around—companions gone, reduced to ash.

Pain. Grief. Rage.

Negative emotions clung like a bone-deep curse. He tightened his grip, lifted his eyes to the sky.

“Unforgivable…” the prince gritted, jaw clenched.

The dragon shook its head, voice flat. “Unforgivable? You came to kill me. Had I not struck first, I’d be ash now.”

“You see dragon blood, scales, bones—even flesh—as treasure. You’d skin me, strip my bones, forge me into scrolls, armor, weapons… Am I wrong, Prince of Humanity?”

“…”

Silence.

He used quiet as armor. The dragon saw through it.

“Spare the grandiose justifications,” it sneered. “I killed to live. You came to kill. So come. Show me why you still stand.”

It lowered its head. Light and heat swirled in its throat.

Dragon’s breath erupted—blazing, devouring all—

Then recoiled.

Stopped by the blessing upon him.

The Lady of the Lake’s grace: no blade could wound him, no dust stain him, no flame burn him… no malice of this world touch him.

Dragonfire included.

The dragon narrowed its eyes. *As expected.*

Like the princess, he was cherished by the world. Ordinary power failed. Only the Dragon God’s might could break that shield.

It bit its chest scale—ripped it free, bloodied.

The reverse scale. Key to the Dragon God.

Mist curled in, delicate as thread, veiling the forest in pure white. A dragon’s roar echoed.

The fog churned—but revealed nothing. Only two golden vertical pupils hovered, coldly fixed on the prince.

Sky darkened. Lightning flickered, coiled into a violent vortex, and struck.

*CRACK.*

World flashed monochrome.

The blessing faltered.

From behind—silent, swift—a claw slashed upward.

Lightning was the feint. The claw, the kill.

But the mist tore apart.

Like a blade parting water—the prince spun, Sword of Virtue slicing through fog, blocking the strike that would have cleaved him in two.

Sparks flew. Steel met scale.

The dragon emerged, locking eyes with the prince.

“For my fallen,” the youth murmured, “for my justice… for the little princess.”

The Sword of Virtue vanished—as if skipping a frame—

Then reappeared.

Embedded deep in the dragon’s chest.

Holy flames erupted along the blade, reducing its heart to ash.

Mist cleared.

The dragon slumped, wings limp, collapsing like crumpled cloth, breath ragged.

A legendary race—heart gone, yet not dead. It strained to turn its head toward the treehouse. Mouth open. Pupils fading. Words unspoken.

*Ah.*

*So the evil dragon was never meant to win.*

Like bards’ epics: knights, mages, prophets, witches—all tools. Side characters exist to serve the story.

How could a side character steal the spotlight?

No matter how noble… they become foils.

Every tale ends with prince and princess living happily ever after.

Not dragon and princess.

The dragon only exists to fall.

A bitter, human-like smile touched its lips. Eyes closed.

Cold spread through its limbs. Numbness crept inward.

*This… is the final moment, isn’t it?*

Humans see their lives flash before death.

What of dragons?

What would it remember?

Two thousand years in the lair. Empty. Monotonous. Like imprisonment.

Until her.

She showed it wonder beyond gold and slumber.

That not all humans were cunning.

That kindness existed.

She became the sole light in its silent world.

Yet moments ago, she’d asked, bewildered: *Why can’t my simple wish come true?*

*Yes… why?*

No answer. Never would be.

Regret surfaced—*I should have said I could grant it.*

Too late.

Drowsiness swallowed thought.

*What a pity.*

*How sorrowful.*

*How sad.*

*I’m sorry. I can’t return. I can’t fulfill your wish.*

*Farewell…*

*My little princess.*

[To Be Continued]

—