With that done, we head to the ali… alui… aliusists! That is, the guys who blame their becoming dragons on their family, friends, and acquaintances.

They felt pretty promising when Goss described them, but once we showed up to visit, those hopes were dashed. For one, they were all crammed inside this tiny cavern, piled on top of one another like sunbathing snakes. And that’s another thing—all of them were there! All fourteen dragons, each one big enough to eat an elephant like an apple, were present to form the pile, arms and wings and tails and necks intertwined. When we tried to converse, they all talked above each other, chattering about how much they hated the people they blamed for turning them into dragons. And, sure, some of it was absolutely deserved, but for the most part, it came across as more of a blaming game.

“And my mother? That witch of a goblin ran me ragged, she just…”

“My brother would hit me, and my dad would hit me, and honestly, they got what they deserved, so I don’t see why…”

“Purgatory is better off without those kinds of people—if you’d only heard what they called me behind my back…”

It was difficult to make out any one of them. At the very least, though, I could hear Goss as he said, “Sure, they pushed me pretty far, but it’s not like I did it because of them alone. My mother could be kind of harsh, but I don’t think I hated her enough to become like this.”

I agreed, and off we went to the next party; namely, the universalists.

“...If only that detestable General Warsson hadn’t invaded at that moment, then Lithia would have remained pristine, and this would never have happened!”

“Blame us all you want, but you began this war!”

“Oh, blame the oppressed! How goblic of you, Gut!”

A lot of shouting, and even more arguing, half of which I was too distracted by the numerous flags, military statues and royal portraits to pay attention to.

They tried to convince Goss that he did it because of the famine that struck the Tenn Dukedom, which in turn was a result of the ongoing conflicts with the nearby kingdom of Ret-inn, which was tumultuous because of the arduous state of the princess and prince, the latter of which had been provided by the Empire. By this point, though, I felt it pertinent to mention that this wasn’t possible, since the princess and prince would only be killed a year or so after Goss’ transformation.

In the end, Goss and I both dismissed his being a type six on account of the fact that he didn’t even know he was living in a dukedom.

The next ones, the progressivists, could hardly be seen over the piles of books covering their small shared space. Only one of them was willing to step away from his frantic research to explain why the unstoppable march of time was to blame for their becoming dragons. He was very adamant that the reason Goss became a dragon was out of despair of his aging parents, alongside his own becoming older. Unfortunately, since Goss was ten at the time and neither of his parents were older than thirty, we dismissed these guys as well.

“So, who’s left?” I ask him as we leave, watching with curiosity as he begins counting his fingers, eventually using the ones he’s holding me in.

“We’ve gone through five of the nine types, so that leaves us with…” I can see the formulas circling behind his eyes. Nine minus five equals…? “Um…” The question of whether dragons can or can’t sweat is answered as beads of sweat roll down his forehead.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“...Four?” I say, to which he turns orange around the cheeks.

“Heh, um, yeah. My brother didn’t finish teaching me plus and minus before he, before I, you know…” His smile fades slightly. “But, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, already deciding that I need to teach this kid how to do his math.

We head to the next ones, called the metaists. Unlike the religists, who hate the gods who actually exist, these guys have made up a new god specifically for the purpose of hating them. That is, a singular god, who reigns over not only purgatory, but also the world humans came from, and every other world, place, and person, too. According to them, this singular god has created everything there is, has been and will be for the sole sake of its own cruel entertainment. Dragons, then, are merely another piece of tragic comedy, their plight of karmic indifference and their wants of no matter.

Goss and I both agreed that these people were lunatics.

The solitarists, who we met with next, shared our opinion. In fact, according to them, both the metaists and religists were completely off their rockers. There were no gods and no god, no purpose or meaning, and no reason behind why they became dragons. Even if they had transformed following a failed murder attempt, even if it followed betrayal, despair and agony, it didn’t matter. They had a lot of credible sources for this, their small room filled with more academic literature than the progressivists had.

Listening to them, I thought their opinions mirrored Goss’ thoughts a little, only to find him making a face of reluctance, almost disgust. When I asked him about it, he was quick to clarify, saying, “Sure, I don’t know exactly why it happened, but I do know that there was a reason. It just wasn’t any of the reasons everyone else has mentioned so far.”

We moved on. The second to last ones, the naturalists, were a bit difficult to find. Apparently, they actually lived on top of the mountain rather than inside it, roaming about and sustaining themselves. Goss doubted that we could find them, but with my nose, such doubts were trivial. We left the caverns and headed out, using my nose as a guide until we found one.

Despite hulking over the trees, the dragon we found was not especially visible. Without my skill, it would’ve been difficult to tell his striped, green feathers apart from the foliage he surrounded himself with. Nevertheless, we found him, and he wasn’t especially happy about it. Even explaining that I could find anything I sought didn’t placate him. It almost seemed like he would attack us for a moment until Goss explained that he was curious about what made him a naturalist. At that, he softened a bit.

As he told it, anyone who was a dragon would always have become a dragon. They were simply predisposed to it from birth. Trying to find meaning in it was like trying to figure out why the sun shone. It simply did. He didn’t understand why I took issue with his analogy, but it didn’t anger him too much to continue his tale.

Essentially, to him, there was something inherently different about dragons. Not everyone could become one, but everyone with the predisposition would eventually become a dragon.

The annoying thing about his argument wasn’t that he was right, but rather that he couldn’t be disproven. At the same time, he couldn’t be proven, either. Everyone who’s become a dragon was always going to become a dragon. It’s circular reasoning and doesn’t actually prove anything. Though, of course, when I tried to explain that, he got annoyed and lumbered off. I was kind of scared Goss would be upset with me, but he was actually okay about it, since he agreed with me.

“If I was always going to be a dragon,” he said, “I would have come out of the womb with feathers on.”

I couldn’t disagree with that one.

With type one done and over with, we head back to the mountain. It’s gotten fairly dark now. “That was the eighth one, right? Including the religists we didn’t visit, that is.”

“Yeah,” Goss answers. “And with that, there’s only one type left.” He falls silent for a moment.

“That type being…?”

“Huh?” Goss says absently. “O—oh! Um… that is, type five. Suicidalists.”

Suicidalist? Haven’t I heard that dumb-ass name somewhere before?... “You mean, as in Kempt, and…”

“And Ymir, exactly,” Goss finishes for me. “That’s the problem. There’s only Ymir, and I don’t know where he is, so…” He pauses for a moment, focusing on his flying as he swoops through a bend in the tunnel. “...But it’s not like we need to meet him or anything. Clearly, there’s no need to go on. Everyone else knows who they hate and why they turned, and I don’t. So, there’s something wrong with me. It doesn’t mean I’m a suicidalist.” The chuckle he shoots out is desperate at best. “But you can still hang around, right? There’s no reason to—”

“If you follow the tunnel going right a few paces down,” I say, “you’ll start heading towards him.”

“Wh—what?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” I say, looking up at him from between his fingers. “I can find anything I’m looking for. Anything.”

His eyes dart down at me, then back up at the tunnel spiralling ahead of us. “Yeah, sure, but…” The tunnel loops, closer and closer. “Do we really have to—” The fork in the road approaches swiftly. “I don’t…” He falls silent. I can smell it. Closer, closer. His eyes squeeze shut. A glint of light shows the fork in the road only seconds away, and I barely have time to wonder if we’re going to bash our brains out on the midpoint before Goss abruptly rolls to the right, bringing us down the proper road.

“Good,” I say, loud enough for him to hear. “This is no time to be a coward, Goss!”

In the darkness, I can’t tell if he’s smiling or frowning. But I can hear his words as he chokes out, “I will try, Kitty.”

I ask nothing more of him.