Echo of the Dragon God

An indescribable thirst gnawed at Dravion's mind. It felt raw, primal, and unrelenting. He had just been reborn, and his dragon blood howled for sustenance. Anything, be it flesh or mana, or... life. And here, before him, stood a banquet of power and vengeance. A perfect feast.

"He's insane..." muttered an elf gripping a silver staff. He had been preparing a wind spell to bind the beast, but now his own ally was within the blast zone. If he cast it now, it would kill them both.

"Go to hell!"

A golden light erupted from the tip of a spear. The one-armed elf, bloodied but defiant, clenched the shaft under his armpit and charged. His eyes held no hesitation or fear. He gave a final nod to his comrades—a silent farewell—and locked eyes with the mage. He gave his permission.

"Thal'dareth... you fool…" the mage whispered, voice trembling. A tear slipped down his cheek.

Then the forest shifted. The wind began to wail. A heavy, mystical pressure descended like a judgment, foreboding and absolute. It was as if ancient spirits were chanting the spell. All in order to imprison their enemy.

Dravion felt the air thicken, and his instincts screamed to run. But a sharp sting tore into his side.

"Growl!" A painful and furious growl left his mouth.

His gaze dropped.

The spear had pierced his scale. Just barely a few centimeters. But it was enough to stop him in place.

It was stuck there, embedded in his flesh, but the one who thrust it no longer moved. He stood defiantly, meeting Dravion's gaze with a grin of hate.

"Curse you…" He whispered.

And then Dravion's claw came down, rage incarnate. The warrior was reduced to pulp—nothing left but torn meat and scattered blood.

"Now's the chance! Everybody! Use your strongest attacks and end him!" the mage shouted, his voice shaking with urgency as the enchanted wind howled around Dravion, locking his limbs in place. It wrapped him like an invisible serpent, holding him still—arms frozen, wings tight to his sides, legs planted like stone.

"Charge!" Sylvaran roared, his blade raised high as he led the charge.

The others followed without hesitation. Spears glinted. Arrows tore through the air. Swords flashed like lightning, each one aimed to kill.

Dravion stood there, helpless, eyes wide. Not with rage. But with confusion. Real fear.

For the first time since his rebirth, he truly understood the intent behind those weapons. They wanted him dead. And even if he didn't yet comprehend death completely, he didn't want to experience it.

Boom... boom... boom...

A heartbeat. Deep. Ancient. It pulsed louder with every second. It didn't come from his chest. It came from something deeper—from the soul he carried, from the dragon god buried beneath that childish shell.

A pressure began to rise. Swelling. Refusing to be bound. Refusing to kneel.

His soul thrashed against the spell that held him.

It will not end like this.

Boom... boom...

The rhythm grew louder, like war drums echoing across the battlefield of time.

I am the firstborn...

Time froze.

Arrows halted mid-air, caught in a grip they couldn't see. Swords trembled, unable to move even an inch further. Spears cracked against an invisible wall. And in that silence, death crept in.

They all felt a suffocating, absolute sense of something ancient awakening. 

And then, something occurred that would be etched into history. Carved into memory. Whispered across generations by those who witness it from afar.

The sky darkened, and the very air began to ripple like the surface of a disturbed lake.

Then—CRACK!

A thunderbolt descended.

But it was no ordinary strike. This one could be seen from mountains away. It descended slowly, like the hand of a god. Thick as a mountain, its form twisted as it fell, shaped like a majestic dragon. 

The dragon of lightning crashed into the battlefield.

And in one blinding instant, everything was gone.

All that had stood turned to dust, obliterated in the wake of that divine wrath. Where once thirty warriors stood, now only scorched earth remained. All but one.

Sylvaran.

He remained standing. Just barely. Bloodied. Burned. His armor gone, hair scorched, hands trembling in fear.

His wide eyes stared at the child who now stood at the center of the crater.

Golden runes moved across Dravion's body like living creatures—shifting, flowing, pulsing. They slithered from shoulder to chest, spine to thigh, wrapping him like dancing dragons, each stroke alive with divine power.

Even Dravion didn't understand what had just happened.

The runes whispered to him—not in words, but in intent. They didn't ask. They simply offered help. They yearned to serve him.

And he accepted.

The moment he did, the world trembled.

But now, it was over. The surge had passed. His limbs felt heavy, his vision dim. His mana was nearly gone. The thunderous display… it had been a fluke. A dying ember of something ancient that answered his need. It had saved him. But he didn't know whether it was his own power or not.

Thank you, he thought, though he didn't know who he was thanking. Perhaps the world itself. Perhaps the god he once was.

The fear was gone. The weight of death that once pressed against him had vanished.

Now, only hunger remained.

His gaze locked onto the last living figure. Sylvaran.

"No… Stay away!" the elf gasped, stumbling back.

Dravion moved. Slowly. Barely able to hold his shape. His body shook, twitched, and in the next moment, it cracked. His form twisted and expanded, bones snapping, muscles warping. Scales rippled across his skin as wings erupted from his back.

Sylvaran watched in mute horror as the child vanished. In his place stood a full dragon. Large. Monstrous. Divine.

The beast growled, smoke leaking from its jaws. Then it pounced. There was no mercy.

Sylvaran's scream was silenced the moment the jaws closed around his head.

In the end… I failed them all. He smiled.

Forgive me… The final thought flickered through his mind. And then, everything went dark.

Blood sprayed, bones shattered, and the predator began to feast. Flesh, armor, bones—nothing was spared. Nothing was left.

With each bite, mana surged back into Dravion's body. It flooded his limbs, restored his strength. And when the hunger was briefly satisfied, his body shifted once more. He shrank, twisted back into humanoid form—naked, blood-soaked, golden eyes glowing faintly beneath the fading light.

And then—

"By the spirits of the forest…" A voice entered his ears. It was calm yet deep and old.

Dravion turned, instinctively lowering his stance.

An elf stood on a high tree branch above, silhouetted by the dying sun. His silver sword rested easily in one hand. No armor. No aura. No display of strength.

But Dravion felt... danger.

The kind that didn't need to roar. The kind that didn't announce itself.

"I was too late…"

The Chief had arrived.