Pocket Dimension SSS-Rank Dragon Tamer

The stars hung high in the sky. He wore a black cloak over his armor.

The guards at Sector 4-C barely glanced his way—most were half asleep or used to the rotating patrols at night.

He walked past them like a shadow and ducked into the tall grass beyond the outer road.

Sector 4-C, like the others, followed the city's defense grid. A was west, B was north, C was east, D was south.

The numbers marked the distance from the city wall in five-kilometer increments.

That made 4-C about twenty kilometers east of the city center. Just enough to be out of sight—and out of trouble.

Velkaroth floated beside him. Of course, no one else could see him.

The soul-binding allowed Velkaroth to phase in and out of visibility, but Marek always saw him—lucky him.

"You've got guts," Velkaroth said, glancing at the distant trees. "Sneaking out like some midnight rat. I'm proud of you, dumbass."

"I needed quiet," Marek muttered. "And a place to practice without getting caught."

They stopped by an open clearing. Marek looked around to make sure they were alone. It seemed safe—for now.

Velkaroth hovered a bit higher.

"Alright, shut your mouth and open your ears," Velkaroth said. "It's time I finally let you in on the real deal. Let's level up."

Marek raised an eyebrow. "You're finally going to explain the magic thing?"

"I'm not just going to explain it. I'm going to let you choose from my ten domains."

"Wait, you have ten types of magic?"

"Ten dominions," Velkaroth corrected, placing unnecessary flair on the word. "Five are elemental, the raw basics. And five are... well, let's just say they're the reason dragons like me used to be worshipped."

Velkaroth began listing them with dramatic pauses.

"Flame, water, wind, earth, and lightning. Those are the five basics. They're strong, but they've been done a million times."

He raised a claw and continued. "The five absolutes. These are rare, dangerous, and hard to control. But they break everything when used right."

"Gravity," he said, "it lets you pull, crush, suspend, or flatten anything."

"Explosion lets you trigger detonations without fire."

"Chrono Pulse affects momentum and relative time. Not full-on time travel, but slowing or speeding things in your zone."

"Void Cape. A black magic that hides, silences, or completely erases presence in a field."

"And finally, Space Manipulation. It lets you bend the fabric of space—cut, fold, or tear open a hole in it. You can make pathways, teleport short distances, and even erase incoming attacks... once you get good enough."

He took a moment to decide what he wanted.

I know now.

Marek's eyes narrowed. "Space. That one."

Velkaroth tilted his head. "You sure? It's not exactly plug-and-play, kid. You won't be opening portals like some anime protagonist on day one."

"I know," Marek said. "But if I can move unpredictably... if I can create openings or escape fast, that's more useful than a flashy fireball."

Velkaroth smirked. "Alright, edgy strategist boy. You get Spatia. My spatial domain. But don't cry when your nose starts bleeding."

Marek stood still, taking a breath. "Let's get it over with."

Velkaroth's body shimmered and collapsed into a stream of light that shot into Marek's chest. In an instant, his entire body jerked—like invisible hooks were twisting his nerves.

The world around him felt like it bent. The trees warped. The sky cracked, or maybe that was just his vision. A ringing sound overtook his ears, and he nearly collapsed.

Then, silence.

He blinked. His heart slowed. The stars above no longer spun. But everything—everything—felt heavier.

"There," Velkaroth's voice echoed in his head. "You've been synced with the Domain of Spatia. It's now bonded to your soul."

Marek dropped to one knee, gasping. "What... now?"

"Now," Velkaroth said, "you try it. You've got exactly one usage per day. That's all your pathetic body can handle until you build up your tolerance."

"One?" Marek asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

"One," Velkaroth confirmed. "So don't waste it. Try making a small rift. Just a hole, right in front of you."

Marek raised his palm and concentrated. He pictured the air splitting, not tearing like fabric, but folding like paper. He gritted his teeth and focused until his brain burned.

And then it happened.

A tiny slit in the air opened—maybe the size of a coin. It shimmered like liquid glass, and on the other side, he saw... the tree behind him. A tiny spatial loop.

But then it flickered and vanished.

Marek exhaled, shaking. "That's it?"

"That's it," Velkaroth said. "But in a month... maybe you'll open ten. Maybe one big enough to walk through, and even send something into something else. Space magic's slow, but once you master it, you don't fight fair anymore."

Marek stood up.

"One hole a day... it's a start."

Velkaroth chuckled. "Yeah, yeah."

"I hate you."

"Good. Now we're getting somewhere."

---

They returned to the house quietly.

Inside, Marek kicked off his boots, shut the door behind him, and dropped his cloak onto the nearest chair.

"So," Velkaroth started, voice casual but clearly digging for something, "why'd you even pick Spatial Manipulation, huh? Out of all the magic I offered?"

Marek sat on the floor, legs crossed. "Because I'm not trying to become some flashy swordsman throwing fireballs in public. I don't need to win fights in one hit. I just need to survive."

Velkaroth blinked. "So your grand strategy is running away?"

"I mean, yeah," Marek said bluntly. "That's the point. I can't overpower most people. But I can outpace them. I can disappear if it gets bad. That alone can save my life."

Velkaroth grinned, tail flicking. "You are so lame. But I kind of get it."

Marek reached into the air and summoned the same blade he used during the Bowler fight.

It materialized slowly, forming from a ripple in the air, metal drawing together in long strands until it solidified.

He caught it midair.

The sword was sleek, black-silver in color, the grip wrapped in old leather.

The edge was straight, single-sided, and bore a tiny scratch across the guard—familiar, too familiar.

Marek's eyes tightened.

"This is Lucas' sword," he said quietly. "It's exactly the same."

He ran his hand over the worn grip. It even felt the same.

Velkaroth hovered lower now, watching.

"You're able to summon it," he said, "because it exists. You've seen it. You remember it. The memory is real and it has existed in the physical world."

"So I can copy any weapon like this?"

"No," Velkaroth snapped. "Don't get cocky. The pocket dimension isn't a god-forge. It can only replicate things that exist or have existed—and only if you know them well enough. You can't summon a blade you made up in your head. That's not how this works."

"What if I tried?" Marek asked.

"You'd get either a broken replica or nothing at all," Velkaroth replied. "Try saying 'Give me the strongest blade in history!' and it won't give you squat. Why? Because you don't know what it looks like, how it was built, or what makes it powerful. You don't even know if it really exists."

Marek grunted. "So, right now, I'm stuck using Lucas' blade."

"That's the only one your dumb brain has clear enough to form," Velkaroth said. "But there's a problem."

Marek already knew. "If I keep using it in public..."

"They'll think he's the one fighting," Velkaroth finished. "And when your brother shows up and says, 'No, I wasn't there,' people are going to start asking who was. You're lucky most people didn't get a close look during the Bowler fight, but if you keep flaunting it—"

"They'll figure it out," Marek muttered.

Velkaroth nodded. "Exactly. So, unless you want to start rumors about your brother being some hidden hero with teleportation magic, you might want to keep that blade under wraps."

Marek sat in silence, gripping the sword tighter.

"So what do I use, then?" he asked. "I don't own any swords. I don't have money to buy one. Everything I imagine ends up broken or unstable because I haven't actually seen those weapons."

Velkaroth smirked. "Well, guess what? You've seen a lot of expensive weapons in shops and catalogs. Maybe not in your hands, but your eyes have passed over them. They're fair game."

Marek raised an eyebrow. "So I just start memorizing every blade I walk past?"

"If you ever want variety, then yes," Velkaroth said.

Marek's eyes widened as the thought hit him like a spark in his brain.

"Wait a second…" he muttered, standing up fast. "My dad—he's a blacksmith! Why am I stressing over weapons when I literally live with the guy who makes them?"

Velkaroth blinked slowly, then facepalmed. "There it is. The most obvious solution finally found its way through your thick skull."

"I just need to get to his forge. He's got all kinds of swords—maybe not fancy royal ones, but real ones."

Velkaroth floated backwards, arms crossed. "It's about time you connected the dots. I was starting to think your brain only ran on potatoes."

"Come on, if I get a proper weapon, I won't have to rely on my brother's sword again."

But just as he reached for the door—

BOOOOOOMMMM.

A thunderous sound tore through the streets, followed by the sharp howl of a siren.

The city's emergency bell tower only rang for one reason.

Velkaroth's expression turned serious. "That's not a drill."

Marek's breath caught in his chest.

"That's the monster alarm."

Which means, the city is under attack.