Name: [Unammed]
CURRENT STATUS
Level: 12
Stage 3: Sovereign Apex Variant.
* Species: Sovereign Komodo Dragon (Primordial Sovereign Variant)
* Age: Approximately 9 years since hatching.
* Size:
* Length: Approximately 20 feet (from snout to tail).
* Weight: Estimated 1,200 lbs.
The plains stretched endlessly before Jannet, an undulating sea of tall grasses swaying under a crisp, autumn breeze. Compared to the dense cacophony of life in the jungle, the silence here was almost alien, broken only by the occasional rustle of a rodent scurrying through the underbrush or the faint call of a distant bird. For days, Jannet had wandered this expanse, his massive frame moving through the grass with predatory grace. The world felt open yet strangely barren, and the lack of activity gnawed at his instincts. Even his tail flicked with restless energy, his lizard mind struggling to reconcile the emptiness of the plains with the dense jungle chaos he had known. For days now Jannet had sustained on non horned rabbits, they reminded him of fast food like little meat nuggets. He did not complain but he began to wonder if this was the correct path to strength. But the warnings from the Massive crocodile and the Egg God rang still warm in his lizard mind, the north wasn't an option not yet.
It was the fifth day of his journey when Jannet finally saw the first true sign of humanity. The faint creak of wooden wheels and the rhythmic clop of hooves reached his ears long before the caravan came into view. Flattening himself against the grass, his scales blending seamlessly into the muted greens and browns of his surroundings, Jannet observed the scene with rapt attention.
Calling it a caravan was generous, Jannet thought as he watched the small group. It was a humble procession—a farmer and a handful of villagers moving a wagon loaded with goods. The horse leading the cart was no horse at all, Jannet realized with a flick of his tongue. The creature had long, rabbit-like ears that twitched with every sound. A donkey, he concluded after a moment of thought scanning his earth memories, though its peculiar traits suggested some evolution specific to this world.
The group wasn’t heavily armed, save for a few rudimentary weapons—a rusted sword, a farmer’s scythe, and a spear that looked more ceremonial than practical. Their conversation carried faintly on the wind, aided by the gnome-crafted ring nestled around one of Jannet’s massive claws. The magic translated their words into something intelligible, allowing him to eavesdrop as he moved silently along the wagon’s path.
“They’re saying Old Ben’s farm might have saved us all,” one of the younger men said, his voice tinged with awe. “Enough grain to keep the whole village fed through winter. Can you believe it?”
“Only ‘cause the beast didn’t find him,” another chimed in, his tone darker. “We’d all be in its belly if it had.”
Jannet’s tongue flicked, tasting the air. Beast. There was no doubt they spoke of the Ancient Noble Crocodile. Its devastating rampage through the region had scarred the human lands and left the kingdom scrambling.
At the front of the wagon, Old Ben—a grizzled, broad-shouldered man with deep-set eyes and a face weathered by time—listened in silence. He held the reins in one hand, while his other arm steadied a young girl perched on his lap. Her laughter rang out as the donkey’s ears twitched, and her small hands clutched at her grandfather’s thick fingers.
“Grandpapa’s a hero!” she declared, her voice bright with the conviction only children could muster.
From his vantage point, Jannet studied the group with a peculiar mix of curiosity and something deeper—something almost human. The scene tugged at a part of him he rarely acknowledged, a faint echo of his old life. A grandfather, determined to protect his granddaughter. A simple farmer risking everything for the survival of his village. The dynamics were familiar, even if the players and the world had changed.
The little girl’s laughter reminded Jannet of moments long buried in his past life, of days spent caring for his own family even if some of them did not deserve it. He shook the thought away with a flick of his tail, his sharp claws pressing into the earth. His lizard instincts reminded him that such thoughts were a distraction, but the human remnants of his mind clung to them stubbornly.
As the caravan pressed on, Jannet kept his distance, moving with predatory grace through the tall grass. He had no intention of revealing himself—not yet. The humans were perfect to observe, a window into the world beyond his jungle. And while the lizard side of him dismissed them as weak and inconsequential, the Sovereign part of him, the apex predator with a mind sharper than most, knew better.
These humans carried knowledge. They spoke of a village, of struggles and survival, and of a world Jannet was only beginning to glimpse. Their words were tools, and Jannet intended to use them.
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Ben glanced over his shoulder as the sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the plains in hues of gold and crimson. The sense of being watched hadn’t faded, and now, with the long shadows stretching across the grass, it felt more oppressive. He tightened his grip on the reins, his gaze sweeping the surrounding terrain.
“Everything alright, Old Ben?” one of the younger men asked, his voice tinged with unease.
Ben nodded stiffly. “Just stay alert,” he said. “We’re close to the village. Keep your eyes open.”
Jessica yawned against his chest, her small arms wrapping around his neck. “Don’t worry, Grandpapa,” she murmured sleepily. “You’ll keep us safe.”
Ben forced a smile, his heart tightening at her trust. “That’s right, Jess. I’ll keep us safe.”
As the wagon creaked onward, Jannet lingered at the edges of their awareness, a shadow in the tall grass. His golden eyes reflected the fading light as he watched, waiting, and learning.
A morning sometime later Ben smiled faintly, though his eyes betrayed a heaviness that never fully left him. His senses, honed over years as a soldier, pricked uneasily at the edges of his awareness. For days, he had felt watched. Not hunted—there was no malice in the presence, no imminent danger—but something was out there, just beyond the edges of sight and sound. It trailed them with a patience he found disconcerting.
But there was no point in voicing his concerns, not when the village boys accompanying him were green and jumpy. Their nervous chatter already set the donkey on edge, and the last thing Ben wanted was to frighten Jessica, his granddaughter. So he kept his worries to himself.
The plains stretched wide and unbroken before Old Ben and his modest caravan, a sea of tall, golden grass rippling in the late summer breeze. The vast expanse felt unnatural to Ben’s aged soldier’s instincts. It wasn’t the usual discomfort of the wilds—the absence of trees or hills where something might leap out. No, this was a different sort of wrongness, one he couldn’t quite name. It was as if the land itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
His gnarled hands tightened around the reins of the donkey—an old, stubborn beast with ears that flopped comically as it walked. Jessica, his granddaughter, giggled softly from where she sat in his lap, her tiny hands gripping the edges of the reins with determination.
“Grandpapa, are we heroes now?” she asked, her voice small but laced with pride. She asked for the 10th time on this trip.
Ben chuckled, though the sound came out more gruff than warm. “Not heroes, little one. Just folks doing what we should its important to help in times of need.” Ben had repeated this idea too many times.
The men walking alongside the wagon—three lads from the village, barely old enough to shave—grinned at the exchange. They carried simple spears and mismatched armor that marked them more as farmhands than warriors.
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“You’re modest, Old Ben,” said Thom, the eldest of the three and their informal leader, also the one giving Jess these ideas. “If it weren’t for your fields, half the village wouldn’t make it through the winter.”
Ben grunted. “We do what we can. Ain’t no glory in it, just survival.”
Jessica tugged at his sleeve. “But Grandpapa, heroes save people! Like in the stories!”
Ben glanced down at her, his grizzled features softening for a moment. “Maybe, little one. Maybe.”
The donkey brayed suddenly, its ears flicking back and forth in irritation. Ben’s grip on the reins tightened, his eyes scanning the horizon. The grass swayed gently, undisturbed by anything but the wind.
“Thom,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “Keep the boys close to the wagon. No wandering off, you hear?”
Thom nodded, his youthful face paling slightly. He adjusted his grip on his spear, motioning for the others to fall in line.
“Something wrong, Old Ben?”
“Just a feeling,” Ben replied, his eyes narrowing. “Keep your wits about you.”
But Ben felt like it, that feeling whatever the source was, had gotten closer.
The sun dipped low in the sky, painting the plains in hues of orange and gold. The long shadows cast by the caravan stretched out like dark fingers, merging with the endless grass. Ben felt his muscles ache from hours of vigilance, but he refused to let his guard down.
A faint rustle caught his attention, the sound barely audible over the creaking of the wagon. His head snapped toward the noise, his sharp eyes scanning the grass.
“Did you hear that?” Thom asked, his voice hushed.
Ben nodded, his grip tightening on the reins. “Stay close.”
The rustling stopped, replaced by the eerie stillness that had plagued them for days. The lads shifted nervously, their spears clutched tightly.
“Grandpapa,” Jessica murmured, stirring in his lap. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing to worry about, little one,” Ben said, forcing a smile. “Just the wind playing tricks on us.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded and rested her head against him once more.
The caravan moved steadily onward, the sounds of creaking wood and the rhythmic clop of the donkey’s hooves the only company in the vast emptiness. Jessica had fallen asleep, her head resting against Ben’s chest as he guided the wagon. The lads walked in silence, their earlier banter replaced by a tense quiet.
The sense of being watched grew stronger with each passing hour. Ben’s sharp gaze darted to the edges of the road, searching for movement in the grass. Nothing. Whatever it was, it was smart—too smart to be a simple predator.
He considered stopping for the night but dismissed the idea quickly. They were close to the village now, maybe another two days’ journey. Better to push on than risk whatever was out there catching them unprepared.
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Night fell, and the caravan halted to make camp. The lads gathered wood for a fire, their movements quick and nervous. Ben stood watch, his spear in hand, as the flames crackled and cast flickering shadows across the grass.
The sense of unease persisted, but the presence—whatever it was—remained at bay.
“Old Ben,” Thom said, his voice low. “What do you think it is? Wolves? Bandits?”
“Could be either,” Ben replied. “Could be neither. Best we don’t find out.”
The lads nodded, their youthful bravado tempered by the unknown.
As the fire burned low, Ben sat with Jessica nestled against him, her small frame rising and falling with the rhythm of her breathing. The lads dozed fitfully, their spears within arm’s reach.
Ben stared into the darkness, his mind racing. He had left the life of a soldier behind for a reason. The blood, the loss, the constant threat of death—it had worn him down until there was nothing left. But now, with his granddaughter’s life in his hands, he felt the old instincts returning.
He would keep her safe, no matter what.
The rustling began again, faint but unmistakable. Ben’s eyes snapped open, his body tensing. The lads stirred, their hands reaching for their weapons.
“Stay close to the fire,” Ben ordered, his voice a harsh whisper.
The rustling grew louder, closer. The tall grass swayed unnaturally, as if something massive moved through it. Ben’s heart pounded in his chest as he raised his spear, ready for whatever came next.
But the rustling stopped, and the plains fell silent once more.
Ben didn’t relax. He knew better.
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Jannet watched as the wagon creaked into the village, his massive form concealed in the tall grass at the outskirts. He had followed them for days now, moving with a predator’s silent precision. Over that time, he had grown strangely attached to the small group of humans. Their struggles, their simple joys, and the way they clung to one another in this harsh world stirred something in him that was both unfamiliar and profoundly nostalgic.
Old Ben, with his wary eyes and unyielding determination, reminded Jannet of the kind of steadfast protector he had wished for in his human life. Young Jessica’s boundless enthusiasm and laughter tugged at a part of him he’d long buried—hope, perhaps, or the remnants of a longing for innocence. The three young men accompanying the wagon, inexperienced and earnest, were endearing in their own way, trying to prove their worth despite the fear Jannet could smell rolling off them in waves.
As the wagon pulled into the village, Jannet's gaze swept across the collection of thatched huts and wooden fences. The state of the place shocked him. The village was small, even by rural standards, but its condition spoke of a deeper despair. The buildings leaned precariously, their repairs patchwork and crude. Gardens that might have once been vibrant were sparse, their rows of crops withered and dry. Chickens pecked listlessly at the dirt, and the few cattle Jannet saw were gaunt, their ribs showing through thin hides.
The people were no better. Their clothes were threadbare, their faces gaunt and hollowed by hunger. Yet as Old Ben’s wagon rolled in, a spark of life lit up their eyes. Children ran out to greet the newcomers, their small hands reaching for Jessica as she waved from the wagon. The villagers gathered quickly, their expressions a mix of relief and desperation.
Jannet’s tongue flicked out, tasting the air. The emotions were palpable—happiness, hope, but also an undercurrent of fear and exhaustion. It was clear that this village had barely survived the aftermath of the Ancient Noble Crocodile’s rampage, compounded by the already fragile state of the kingdom. Watching them, Jannet felt a flicker of respect. These people were clinging to life with everything they had, and despite their suffering, they hadn’t turned on one another.
As the wagon was unloaded, Jessica’s laughter rang out as she played with the other children. Old Ben supervised with a watchful eye, his stern demeanor softening as he handed out sacks of grain to eager hands. The young men from the wagon joined in, their weariness forgotten as they exchanged greetings with the villagers.
Jannet allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. For all the darkness he had witnessed in this world, there was light here too. These people weren’t like the ones he remembered from his previous life—those who turned a blind eye to suffering or exploited the weak. These humans, at least, seemed to care for one another.
He remained hidden throughout the morning, content to observe. The village bustled with activity, a rare energy lifting the spirits of its inhabitants. It was a sight that filled Jannet with an odd sense of fulfillment. He had no connection to these people, yet their happiness felt like a victory.
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It was mid-afternoon when the mood shifted. Jannet had moved closer to the village, his massive form blending into the tall grass. He sensed the change before he saw it—a ripple of unease spreading through the crowd.
The sound of hooves broke the quiet hum of the village, and Jannet’s golden eyes narrowed as a group of mounted men rode in from the north. There were six of them, their armor gleaming dully in the sunlight. They wore the sigils of nobility, though Jannet couldn’t and wouldn't recognize their house. Their horses were well-fed and imposing, a stark contrast to the gaunt livestock in the village.
The leader of the group dismounted, his polished boots crunching against the dirt. He was a broad man, his face weathered but stern. He carried himself with the confidence of someone used to being obeyed, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.
“People of this village,” the man announced, his voice carrying easily over the murmurs of the crowd. “By decree of the crown, the grain you have harvested will be requisitioned for the capital.”
A collective gasp rippled through the villagers. Old Ben stepped forward, his shoulders squared. “You can’t be serious,” he said, his voice steady but laced with anger. “This grain is all we have. If you take it, the village won’t survive the winter.”
The nobleman’s gaze flicked to Ben, his expression unreadable. “The capital has suffered greatly in recent months. The crown requires all available resources to stabilize the kingdom. This is not a request.”
A murmur of despair spread through the villagers, their earlier hope crumbling into panic. Jessica clung to Ben’s leg, her wide eyes filled with fear. The young men from the wagon exchanged nervous glances, their hands tightening on the shafts of their spears.
Jannet’s claws dug into the earth as he watched from the grass. His tongue flicked out, tasting the sharp tang of desperation and fear. The villagers’ anguish was a bitter reminder of the cruelty he had witnessed in his previous life, the way the powerful trampled the weak without a second thought.
His mind raced. He couldn’t reveal himself, not yet. But the sight of these people—Jessica, Old Ben, the villagers—being crushed under the weight of authority ignited a fury deep within him. He would not stand by and let this happen.
The nobleman gestured to his men, who began dismounting and unloading sacks from their horses. The villagers shouted protests, but they were unarmed and outnumbered. The tension was palpable, a fragile thread that could snap at any moment.