Better, as it turned out, was still relative.

Over the next four hours Alarion ‘died’ in innumerable ways. He was burned alive in a wave of dragon fire. He was pierced with glistening talons and shattered under the weight of a swatting tail. He knew the fear of being devoured, the terror of watching his own headless body collapse some feet away.

The ritual was doing something to his mind. It was muting the horror and the pain of his failures. Alarion felt the wounds clear as day during combat, but when he tried to recall them afterwards the whole experience was fuzzy, indistinct. A half-remembered dream, or someone else’s poor retelling.

That Alarion knew he would soon forget what it felt like to have the crushed bones of his left arm grind against one another was small comfort in the moment. That he’d made the dragon experience something similar, was slightly more so.

One of his earliest revelations was this was not a battle he could win in a single stroke. As Elena had explained, the Void Arena produced a Draconic foe suited to his level, and Alarion was simply not that strong. Its scales were durable and thick, the strongest of them able to deflect even a clean strike from his oversized blade, while the weakest would still impede the impact as they cracked or tore.

There were vulnerable areas. Joints were the most common. Areas where the the creature needed to be flexible. The eyes, mouth and nostrils were likewise only slightly tougher than his own skin. But his opponent was not stupid. It did not seem to remember him between battles, for it did not adapt to his tactics, but it seemed to know its own weaknesses.

That, and Alarion was much too slow to exploit them. He’d been improving, but directing his beast of a weapon in anything more intricate than sweeping brutal strikes was still well beyond his capabilities. He would never admit it, but ZEKE had a point.

Without the finesse to land a telling blow, he had little choice but to fall back on persistence to force an opening of his own. Over twenty minutes he had danced with the dragon, and for the most part, Alarion had given as good as he had received. The dragon no longer loomed over him as an immeasurable obstacle. After all, it was quite difficult for anything to loom with two broken legs.

The damage he’d done to it would have been ruinous to any other living thing Alarion was aware of. Two dozen impacts to its head, chest and primarily its left flank had left the once majestic creature quite humble. It was curled like a snake, its weight leaned back onto its still functional limbs while its whole body remained tense, waiting for the next exchange. It was not afraid of him, but it was wary, the domineering attitude that left it so vulnerable to an early strike now replaced by a grudging acknowledgement of the danger Alarion posed.

For his part, the boy was a mess. His arm was broken, though it remained locked in a death grip on the lower hilt of the blade for fear that the dragon would realize just how badly it had hurt him with just a glancing blow from its tail. The same side of his body had been burned an angry red by a near miss from the dragon’s signature attack and he was covered in dozens of nicks and scratches from where he had rolled on the broken ground to dodge, or had that same broken tile thrown at him by the sheer force of the dragon’s movements.

Even with his body in such a state of disrepair and his HP drastically reduced, Alarion knew it was the closest he’d yet come to victory.

“Come on, worm. You’re not going to make me come to you, are you?” Alarion taunted with an air of bravado he most certainly did not feel. It was a petty gambit, easily ignored by the wyrm in question. Appealing to its pride worked when it did not think its life was at stake, but it would not be so easily provoked when death was on the line. It was biding its time, waiting for the moment when it could once again wreath the young man in flames from a safe distance.

Not knowing, of course, that Alarion was waiting for the same opportunity.

Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight. Alarion counted, trying not to cringe as an intrusive thought reminded him how he’d lost a very successful attempt by counting aloud rather than in the safety of his own head. He wasn’t sure what the duration represented, whether it was the slow uptick of the dragon’s MP, or some internal cooldown on the fire-breathing skill. All he knew was that at exactly fifty-seven seconds-

Fwoosh!

An appropriately reptilian fear at the back of Alarion’s brain screamed as super-heated gouts of blue-white flame erupted from the dragon’s mouth. The fire traced him step by step, one moment behind, unable to do more than lick at his feet. Originally its most lethal attack, the flame was by now one of Alarion’s few moments of respite. Once provoked to breathe by way of injury, the dragon took to using its breath attack at every opportunity. Which in its case meant exactly once every fifty-seven seconds. Easy to track, and easy to dodge if you knew it was coming.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

So long as you didn’t lose count in all the excitement. If you did, well, Alarion’s missing eyebrow and aching left side could attest to how difficult it was to avoid if your timing was even slightly off.

That said, the real prize was not merely avoiding damage. The fire was blinding and deafening, but not only for Alarion. Even at its best, the dragon had difficulty tracking his movements while it attacked and the dragon was no longer at its best. Its right eye was heavily swollen from an earlier blow to the head, creating a blind spot that Alarion neatly slipped into.

Were Alarion uninjured, his counter-attack likely would have ended the fight. As it was, the one-handed thrust was still devastating as it crumpled one of the dragon’s underbelly scales and continued halfway to the hilt. The boy knew nothing about the inner workings of a dragon, if the shadowy facsimile even had any, so he settled for raking the weapon up and down, shredding its insides before wrenching his blade free and retreating one step ahead of the enraged, snapping jaws.

Thrice more he dodged as he sought to make distance, narrowly avoiding two claw strikes and a whip of the tail before he felt confident to take stock of his situation.

The battle had swung in his favor, there was no denying it. His foe was not merely disabled by a smattering of bruising and cracking strikes, but for the first time severely injured. It might have caught him with a backhand if it had been faster, but the dragon had been so intent on staunching the ragged wound in its belly that attacking Alarion had almost been an afterthought.

“I can beat you.” Alarion said, as much to himself as to the dragon. He paced at the outer perimeter of its reach, stepping in now and again to provoke attacks that did not come. It was conserving its strength, unwilling to commit to punishing his novice feints.

Or unable? Could he have hurt it that badly?

He took three paces towards the dragon daring it to challenge him, before thinking better of it. ZEKE had punished him over and over again for overextending during their training bouts. Alarion had the advantage, yes, but why push his luck? Especially when he had a surefire way to finish the bout?

Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four.

The wounded animal eyed him with fury as Alarion withdrew to a safe distance and continued to circle his prey. It followed him with slow, uncertain steps, uttering low grumbles of pain as it was forced to put weight on its injured legs to keep up with his pace. Through previous battles Alarion had learned the value of mobility. He could fight, albeit at a greatly reduced capability, with one arm. Fights where his legs were crippled ended almost immediately, as the dragon was now so painfully aware.

Forty-one, Forty-two, Forty-three.

Alarion understood better why ZEKE promised he’d be taught to use both magic and possibly throwing weapons as well. The dragon’s single greatest advantage over him was its reach. It could attack him, and at best he could strike the limbs that came after him if they presented an opening. Were he able to pelt this creature with knives or spells, he could kill it outright, or at the very least force it to close the gap. To make an opening of his own.

Fifty-five, Fifty-six, Fifty-seven.

“You’re mine!” The words were lost in the roar of the dragon fire as Alarion began his mad dash, circling toward the right, toward the dragon’s vulnerable side. Toward his victory.

And then he was back in the moonlit courtyard, staring at a rolling ball of ink and smoke, Elena sitting on a distant bench, book in hand beneath a flickering lantern.

“Wha-” Alarion asked, incredulously. Had he run out of time?

“I believe that makes forty-seven for the Young Master.” ZEKE said, voice positively dripping with disappointment.

“No.” Alarion protested firmly. When ZEKE said nothing the boy’s frown only deepened. “Status.” The quest was still there. Taunting him almost as much as the dismissive attitude of his instructors.

“I had it.” He insisted, with considerably less conviction.

“You had its tail strike you with such force that it shattered every bone in your body before you could even register you were dead.” Elena replied rather absently from the sidelines.

“I-”

“Alarion.” ZEKE’s tone brooked no rebuttal. “The creature doesn’t retain memories between battles like you do, but it can still learn during the fight. Did you really think you could telegraph the same attack for a fifth time and not be punished for it?”

Put so bluntly, no. No he did not.

Alarion visibly deflated, his righteous indignation at being ‘robbed’ of his rightful victory now ringing quite hollow in his ears. It had been close fought, but he might as well have surrendered for how obvious he’d been. Would he even get another chance like that?

“None of that. You’re too old to pout.” Elena said, her book clapping shut as she stood and straightened her clothing. “It is late, and you need to eat and sleep. We’ll pick up again tomor-”

“But my quest!” Alarion blurted.

“Tomorrow is a figure of speech, Alarion. It is already after midnight and the timer on your quest lasts twenty-four hours. You’ll have plenty of time to throw yourself at the dragon after a good night’s rest.”

“Mm.” Alarion grunted noncommittally. His pride still stung from the loss, but as the adrenaline high drew down the weight of a day’s exertion felt heavier and heavier on his shoulders. “I could eat.”

“Then to the dining hall with you, then to bed.” Elena smiled.

Alarion nodded, paused, then promptly set off in the entirely wrong direction.