Echo of the Dragon God

The forest held its breath. No rustling leaves. No wind. Even the birds had gone silent.

Two beings faced one another.

One—old, wise, a master of countless battles. The other—young, blood-soaked, and trembling, yet harboring power buried in forgotten memories.

The elder elf descended from the tall tree in absolute silence. His feet touched the earth without a sound, as though the wind itself obeyed his will, cradling him like a falling leaf.

His eyes locked onto the dragon child.

And then, they drifted. Down. To the bloodstained soil where flesh had once stood. Where his son—his pride, his hope—had drawn his last breath. A boy he had trained to lead the tribe. A boy he would now have to bury.

"Do you even understand what you've done… child?" the elder asked quietly.

There was no rage in his voice. Only something far deeper. A raw and quiet sorrow. A calmness that belied the storm within.

But Dravion said nothing. His eyes, wild and confused, flickered with uncertainty. He didn't speak because he didn't understand, not fully.

And the old warrior saw that with his skilled gaze:

The fear. The dissonance. The beast who had devoured his kin… was still a child.

Even so, there could be no forgiveness. Not when so much had been lost.

"I killed them… I think…" Dravion muttered, his voice thick, muddled by confusion and bloodlust. "Now… my body craves you. But you… not easy… grrr…"

His tail coiled around his body like a serpent, tense and twitching. It was an instinctive gesture—defensive, protective. Like a frightened child seeking shelter in its mother's arms. His body braced for danger, but refused to flee.

"I see…" the old elf whispered.

So there truly is no clarity in him… no remorse. But even so…

He exhaled, long and deep, his gaze sharpening as he studied the dragon child.

To hold the strength of a trained warrior at the peak of the Pulseforged Realm… while still in the Ember Spark stage, a realm where it all starts… Truly magnificent. A raw, terrifying gift. 

And yet… he's not in control of it. Why? Dragon kin should be able to channel their bloodline power with ease. This boy—he's unstable.

Then he moved.

One moment he was standing still. The next, he was gone—vanished like a whisper, a blur swept away by the wind.

But Dravion felt the mysterious pressure build up from the left. He turned and raised his claw, just in time.

CLANG!

Sparks exploded as steel met scale. The elder's silver blade clashed against Dravion's guard, ringing through the trees like the cry of thunder.

Just as I thought… That body. Those reflexes. Even the most skilled warriors would envy such talent. No wonder the others fell. They were never meant to win. This child… is a beast blessed by fate. A faint smile crept up on his lips.

"Get away from me!" Dravion roared, voice raw and trembling with instinct. His tail uncoiled in a blur—like a spring unleashed—and slammed toward the elder with vicious force.

The old elf's eyes narrowed. He felt the shift in wind, the tremor in the air. In the blink of an eye, a small vortex spun around him, a compact wind shield flaring to life.

BOOM!

The tail struck, and the barrier cracked like glass under pressure. The elf was hurled backward, boots scraping the ground, his stance faltering—but not collapsing.

"Not bad, little one…" he muttered, brushing off his sleeve. He hated to admit it, but this was becoming troublesome. Far more than he'd expected. And though he kept his expression calm, his thoughts churned. If another dragon falls from the sky like before… and I'm the only one left to take that strike... His old bones weren't built for divine-scale battles anymore.

But none of that showed on his face.

No fear. Only faint amusement.

"Left, right, right again—leg, tail," he muttered, weaving through the storm of wild attacks like a dancer through falling blades. "So easy to predict."

But then—

"Right—wait… not good..."

He misread.

Instead of the anticipated claw swipe, Dravion spun low and slammed a kick into his abdomen.

CRACK!

It was like being struck by a falling boulder. The elf's body twisted from the impact, crashing into the burnt earth with a spray of ash and blood. He rolled once, twice, before catching himself mid-slide. A gust of wind burst beneath his heels, steadying his body upright. He spat crimson and wiped it from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

He looked down, stunned. That strength… His ribs ached. "He's… improving mid-fight? That fast?"

His heart thumped hard.

I can't afford to be careless anymore… I underestimated this little beast.

"Huh?" He blinked. "Where did he—?"

A flicker.

Too late.

CRACK!

A knee slammed into his jaw from bellow.

The elder's neck snapped back, blood spraying from his mouth as he was thrown into the air—airborne now, vulnerable. And Dravion didn't stop.

He was already following it up.

"I hate this!" Dravion roared, wings flaring wide as he surged forward like a thunderbolt. "Why does everyone want to challenge me?!"

But mid-flight, the old elf opened his eyes.

They shone—brilliant, searing green—glowing like twin stars. His frail frame pulsed with mana, bones straightening, muscles tightening. Age melted away. What once was a withered elder was now a youthful war-god in elven skin, and the air shifted with it. The scent of his blood hit Dravion like a drug.

It was sweet. Divine. Irresistible. And yet… unreachable. Some part of Dravion knew—he couldn't devour this one. Not today.

Even so, this battle wasn't meaningless. It stirred something inside him. Something old. A glimmer of memory, hazy and fragmented, surged to the surface.

A dragon. No... Himself.

Colossal and celestial. His wings casting shadows across galaxies, his roar shaking stars. It was only a glimpse, like light refracted through shattered glass. But it was enough. Enough to remember what he was. What he once fought for. What still held his broken soul together.

"I have to patch the universe… rebuild what was lost… before it all—"

SHHRRRAAAAKK!!

A howling burst of wind roared forward, as sharp as a million blades. The sound shattered his words mid-sentence.

"Enough blabbering, young one," the elf's voice rang clear. "Now's not the time to lose focus." The silver sword flashed.

For a heartbeat, Dravion thought he'd lost his arm. But it was only wind pressure.

Still, it rattled him to his core. His heart pounded. Fear spiked. But pride surged alongside it—fierce, golden, defiant.

His eyes flared, ablaze with fire and rebellion. He twisted through the air, dodging with a snap of his wings, and launched himself forward once more. No hesitation. No retreat.

He knew the truth now; If he didn't win this fight, he wouldn't leave alive.