Upon the expansive and intricate Wind continent, the topography weaves a complex tapestry. The southern realms, a dominion ruled by the demon tribe, are imbued with formidable magical forces. Enigmatic and saturated with magical energy, the demon tribe's domain houses ancient magical legacies and arcane secrets. Stretching northeastward, the orc tribe's territory is marked by their belligerent disposition, innate bravery, and an instinct for combat honed by challenging terrain. This region has fostered a robust war culture and social system among the orcs. Finally, the northwest claims Alarasia, a territory under human rule, known for their industrious and intelligent civilization.

Alarasia, a picturesque paradise adorned with fertile land, dense forests, and meandering rivers, could be an Eden for all races were it not for the stain of perpetual conflict. Over centuries, the quest for control over this lush land has led to the spilling of countless drops of blood.

Three centuries past, the advent of George I, the Dragon Warrior of the Three Golden Dragons, rewrote the destiny of Alarasia. George I, regal and majestic, exuded an innate kingly aura. Possessing not only resolute courage but also formidable magical abilities and combat skills, he led the new human army to triumph in successive wars. Simultaneously a wise monarch, his leadership steered humans towards prosperity. Under his guidance, the new human army vanquished the demon tribe, establishing the Empire of the Wind. Alarasia flourished as a land shared among various races.

Termed the First War of the Divine Dragons, this historic conflict altered the continent's topography dramatically. The once-divided land, ruled by demons, elves, and orcs, transformed into a new order with humans, demons, and orcs sharing power.

In the subsequent three centuries, the Empire of the Wind witnessed over forty remarkable Dragon Warriors rise to prominence. Despite their valor, they couldn't unify the entire continent, merely securing Alarasia.

Dragon Warriors, however, bear a curse from the gods—a formidable and binding fate. This mysterious curse acts as heavy shackles, determining the destinies of these warriors. In their moments of glory, unexpected disasters often befall them—some fall in battle, others succumb to illness, and a few even descend into madness. This relentless curse ensures their demise before reaching sixty, haunting these mighty warriors like a perpetual nightmare.

The curse traces its roots three hundred years back when George I and his six brothers, to defeat the demon tribe, resorted to forbidden means and became Dragon Warriors. While saving them from immediate peril, this brave act exacted a tremendous cost. A mysterious force enshrouded these seven heroes and their descendants in an inescapable destiny.

Despite the curse, the Empire of the Wind prospered. Windhaven, its capital situated in the eastern part of Alarasia, stands as the largest, most populous, and most prosperous city on the continent. Hosting four renowned Magic Swordsmen Academies—Agni Academy, Varuna Academy, Vayu Academy, and Prithvi Academy—Windhaven nurtures future leaders in swordsmanship, magic, and magic swordsmanship. Graduates of these academies contribute significantly to the empire's strength and prosperity, with Windhaven evolving into the cultural, intellectual, and political epicenter of the Empire of the Wind.

At the heart of Windhaven lies the Dragon Plaza, erected to commemorate the seven Dragon Warriors of the First War of the Divine Dragons. Dominating the plaza is a towering Dragon Warrior monument, engraved with the names of the seven heroes and the ten sages instrumental in their creation three centuries ago. Vivid statues of the seven Dragon Warriors and the ten sages flank the monument, seventeen near-ten-meter-high sculptures crafted by the renowned sculptor Roman Rodin.

Behind the monument stands a seven-story Dragon Warrior memorial tower, recording the names of the Dragon Warriors who have passed away over the centuries. This tower, with a history spanning over a century, immortalizes each Dragon Warrior's name on a massive stone tablet at its pinnacle.

Standing amidst the plaza, I gently caress the grandiose Dragon Warrior statue carved from white jade, feeling the cool texture. This statue represents the Dark Dragon Warrior, second only to George I among the seven, depicting my great-great-great-great-grandfather, William Johnson. The ancient stone emanates a profound chill, as if the scent of blood permeates the air. The echoes of dragon roars and wizard chants envelop me, transporting me through time to an era of ancient history when humans fiercely battled against demons.

I am David Johnson, the eighth-generation descendant of the Dark Dragon, at least in name. Tonight, on my eighteenth birthday, according to family tradition, every heir inheriting the Dark Dragon's power awakens that power. My father, a seventh-generation Dragon Warrior, awakened it at eighteen, becoming the most outstanding warrior of his generation. Valiant in battle and strategically astute, he achieved numerous victories but succumbed to the curse at the age of fifteen, becoming the forty-third Dragon Warrior engraved on the tower. My mother, grieving for her husband, also perished from sorrow.

Presently, the three surviving Dragon Warriors of the seventh generation in the empire are aged and approaching the "limit" of a Dragon Warrior's life.

My father's life taught me a harsh truth: heroes cannot evade the decrees of fate.

"I don't aspire to be a Dragon Warrior. I abhor fighting, detest death, and loathe war even more. My interests are diverse, and I cherish almost every hobby, but I'm unwilling to invest all my thoughts into one thing. I am the kind of person who can never focus on one thing.

Why live? Why fight? Why kill? When alone, I often ponder these mundane questions without concrete answers.

I once posed these questions to my father. He paused briefly, then replied, 'For the emperor and justice.' This response almost compelled laughter from me.

"Such a flavorless answer. Can you genuinely say that with a straight face? What is the emperor? Why should we trade our lives for him?"

"Justice? Whose justice? The Demon Clan's? Humans'? Or the Dragon Warriors'? Justice is but a fabrication spun by adults to sway children, a pretext for kings to dupe naive youths into becoming cannon fodder on the battlefield. I'm no fool; I never believed in justice!" I stifled laughter, grappling with a stomachache induced by amusement, and challenged my father, "Cease your deceit, old man!" In this world, I alone dared to address him so disrespectfully.

My father's response caught me off guard. He refrained from the customary sharp tap to my forehead that followed my rebellious remarks. Instead, he pondered for a moment and then shared with me, "Perhaps it's for the honor of a swordsman and the allure of beautiful women." As he spoke, he added more words, his expression adopting the solemnity reserved for duels.

Suddenly, my father's demeanor shifted; he seized my collar with hands as robust as those capable of tearing through lions or tigers. He peered at me intently. "Your character differs entirely from our forebears. Your thoughts perpetually swim against the current, in discord with the world. In that case, your fate will be at one of two extremes: either you become a hero like George I, etching an immortal legacy and amassing great deeds, or..."

I cut in, grinning, "If I become a hero like George I, won't you be a hero's father? So, esteemed Dark Dragon, Mr. Charles, how did you educate your prodigious son in those days?"

The old man shot me a cold look, tightening his grip until my neck felt on the brink of being twisted. Displaying his sharp, white teeth, he spoke word by word, "Your alternative fate may well lead to the guillotine, a place devoid of a burial ground!"

"I'm your son; don't curse me like that!" I dismissed the old man's words with an indifferent laugh, yet the gravity of my father's expression lingered in my memory.

That year, I was a mere ten-year-old. Such words from a child of that age undoubtedly alarmed my father. However, today, eighteen years later, at the age of twenty-eight, his concerns have manifested into reality.

Stolen novel; please report.

Since then, the old man subjected me to various torments, relentless training, and rigorous martial arts practices. Even during his absences for battles, he enlisted the aid of a peculiar teacher named Cataclysm, the Red-haired Red Demon, for my specific instruction. This eccentric instructor, claiming the title of the second pervert as none dared to be acknowledged as the first, found me to be a prodigy. He vowed to mold me from raw stone into a polished gem. The torments inflicted by this perverted teacher eclipsed even those of my father.

One day, the Red-haired Madman made his way into our abode. With a single glance, he spotted me, and an unusual gleam lit up his eyes. Without ado, he extended his hands, resembling animal claws, pinched me a few times, and nodded approvingly.

"What's amiss with you? Do you harbor a penchant for children?" I confronted him frankly.

He responded with an impassive expression, "My name is Cataclysm. Henceforth, I am your martial arts instructor. Your talent is considerable, but you're far too indolent. I shall henceforth subject you to rigorous training. Start with ten laps around Wind City; don't even entertain thoughts of dinner until you complete them." That night, my throat was so parched, and my body so fatigued from the midnight running that I couldn't even swallow saliva.

"Well done; I doubted your endurance. Rest well; tomorrow brings two additional rounds of such training." He had scarcely finished speaking when I crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath.

Being one to resist manipulation willingly, I initiated various forms of rebellion—scheming and trying to harm him. I even contemplated hiring someone to rid me of this perverse teacher.

Regrettably, the Red-haired Madman proved not only a perverted instructor but also a master of his craft. What's more infuriating is his intellect matched my own. Despite my numerous attempts to frame him, I invariably ended up the victim.

Left with no recourse, I begrudgingly accepted his ludicrous training. Thanks to this, my martial skills attained an unprecedented solidity.

I fully comprehend that in an age where killing is as commonplace as breathing, lacking strength poses an imminent peril. Consequently, I have ceaselessly honed my martial arts skills. Furthermore, in the present era, heroes often garner the favor of beautiful women. A handsome individual proficient in martial arts frequently commands more attention than an inexperienced practitioner. The relentless pressure from the Red-haired Madman compels me to toil beyond my limits daily; otherwise, I would find myself on a precarious trajectory.

A persistent voice echoes within me—I am fated to become a Dragon Warrior, burdened with the duty of safeguarding the empire. Yet, I harbor no aspirations to be a hero and abhor facing that cursed fate. I merely yearn to be an ordinary individual.

In the prime of my youth, brimming with curiosity about the world, I aspire to explore mountains and rivers with friends, savor the myriad flavors of life, and spend my days with a loved one in tranquility. While I acknowledge my aspirations may verge on the extravagant, I still strive to attain them. I hope my ancestors extend their blessings, allowing me to evade destiny and live an unremarkable life.

Presently, spring envelopes the empire, casting its warm sunlight upon the earth. Tourists converge, relishing the delightful weather. Beneath the imposing statue of the Dragon Warrior, several innocent and playful children frolic, their laughter filling the air.

Were it not for wars, Alarasia would truly stand as a divine gift.

As I tenderly touch the statue of my ancestors, I silently beseech: Great-great-great-great-grandfather William Johnson, please spare me the mantle of a Dragon Warrior! It's not cowardice but a disdain for participating in meaningless conflicts, an earnest desire to lead a peaceful existence.

"David!"A sweet voice pierces through my contemplation.

I turn, and a striking beauty already stands before me. Possessing delicate features and an enchanting aura, she commands the attention of all beholders. With flowing black hair, fair skin, deep purple eyes radiating wisdom, and an elegant ensemble, she exudes grace. This is Erin, the campus belle of Varuna Academy, acknowledged alongside my teacher Catherine and the empire's Grand Princess Amelia as the three beauties of Wind City. Our shared love for music forms a bond of friendship.Over time, as we've grown closer, our relationship has become somewhat ambiguous.

Luckily, I pride myself on possessing above-average looks. After all, my father, a renowned figure of handsomeness in the Empire, and my mother, the captivating beauty who once ensnared many hearts, are my progenitors. Legend has it that when she wed my father, numerous suitors relinquished their pursuits, and some even met their demise in bitter despair.

Born to the world's most exceptional and illustrious parents, I naturally don't disappoint. By the age of six, admirers were already delivering flowers as confessions, and each Valentine's Day, crates of gifts would find their way to me. Even my mother, before her untimely departure, clasped my hand and entrusted me with an unusual vow.

"David Johnson, son of Charles, my son, your eyes gleam with the untamed light. I believe you'll be as captivating as your father in the days to come. Despite your frequent contradictions with your father, I know deep down you two are remarkably similar; you just haven't realized it. I implore you to swear that, in the future, you'll treat every girl you engage with kindly, bring them joy, and shield them from tears or harm."

I comprehended my mother's well-meant apprehension. She dreaded that I'd inherit my father's tender-heartedness, leaving a trail of heartbreak among the fairer sex. However, in my youthful heedlessness, I treated love as a game, scarcely heeding my mother's wisdom.

"Here, a birthday gift for you, David!She handed me a package of gifts and then shyly murmured, "I'm sorry, but I may not be able to celebrate your birthday tonight."

Like a splash of cold water, I was jolted awake from the dream of being a romantic man. If someone were to ask me who I wanted to celebrate my birthday with the most, it would undoubtedly be Erin.

Despite my reservations, I refrained from questioning Erin's absence. Instead, I responded with a smile, "I'm already very happy to receive your gift."

Erin offered another apology before taking her leave. Not far away, a red-haired girl awaited her. The girl cast me an intense glare before dragging the beauty away.

Astrid Copper, nicknamed "Tomboy" by us at Varuna Academy, was the foremost martial artist—a magic swordsman. Despite her fearsome reputation, she possessed a striking beauty with short red hair and a figure only slightly shorter than mine.

Due to her extensive athleticism, she almost forgot her femininity, earning her the nickname. When she faced The Tiger's flirtation during the Empire Martial Arts Grand Competition, The Tiger narrowly escaped a dire fate—his thigh nearly severed, only escaping castration.

It was rumored that as the long sword left The Tiger's lower body, it took countless black hairs with it, most assuredly those of his cherished friend. Needless to say, the fallen hairs were now a macabre keepsake.

Such a ruthless beauty unnerved the boys. Behind her back, everyone dubbed her a tomboy, and The Tiger was unfortunately labeled the "featherless rooster" by busybodies.

She served as Erin's guardian and showed no mercy to those with ill intentions toward her. Furthermore, she bore the ominous epithet of the "Red-Haired Toothless Witch."

To repel overzealous admirers, she relished knocking out their front teeth. A well-intentioned person once calculated that the teeth she knocked out could string into a necklace adorning her chest.

Contemplating this, I couldn't help but touch my own front teeth, thankfully finding them intact...

Erin's gift to me was an ancient sheet of music, accompanied by a note: "See you at the Wind City Grand Theater in three days."

Since Erin can't attend my birthday celebration tonight for other reasons, I found solace in the thought and eagerly anticipated our upcoming date in three days.

Bringing the sheet music to my abode—an ancient castle bequeathed by my forebears, a three-story structure with a roof crafted from translucent crystal stones—I contemplated its dilapidation. Since my parents' demise, I had lived alone.

For some inexplicable reason, gazing upon this crumbling castle always stirred an indescribable emotion within me.

The ground floor harbored an exceptionally spacious living room, ample enough to accommodate a hundred people for a dance soiree. When my father was alive, visitors frequented the space, with romantic trysts unfolding amidst the beauty of the soirées.

On my eighteenth birthday, my classmates, along with the school's most beautiful female teacher, Catherine, convened to celebrate.Their arrival brought solace to me on the Day of Judgment of My Destiny

"David, happy birthday." My childhood companions—The Wind and The Tiger (the featherless rooster)—accompanied by a horde of ill-intentioned fellows, extended fake smiles.

"This is a little something from us." The Wind proffered a gift.

Cough, cough, really? Using tissue paper as a gift again. How miserly. These guys dared call themselves my brothers; inwardly cursing, I clutched the contents inside. The last time, I even gifted him several pounds of bananas for his birthday.

However, upon unveiling the seemingly simple wrapping, a hand-drawn painting by an imperial court artist lay within, leaving me dumbfounded. I had coveted this painting for an extended period, but financial constraints forced me to relinquish the idea.

Observing my astonished expression, The Tiger erupted into laughter. "Hahaha, brother, this time we didn't hoodwink you with tissue paper. Behold, this is a birthday gift we scrimped and saved for you by working part-time jobs."

A peculiar sentiment welled within me. Despite my reproaches, accusing them of guzzling my family's wine under the guise of celebrating my birthday, I secretly cherished their efforts.

Catherine smiled, stepping beside me and presenting a beautifully wrapped box. "This is my gift to you—an ancient sheet of music containing exquisite pieces. I believe you'll appreciate it." I accepted the box, unveiling a sheet of music crafted from sheepskin paper, featuring compositions inscribed in ancient symbols, exuding a mysterious aura. I hadn't anticipated Catherine gifting me the same as Erin.

She elucidated, "I acquired this sheet music from an antique shop. It is said to have been composed by an ancient Dragon Knight deeply passionate about music. He inscribed these pieces with his blood and soul, each harboring distinct meanings and tales. I presume you'll find them intriguing. Given your keen musical talent, you can channel the essence of these pieces through your guitar."

Surprised, I met Catherine's gentle gaze and warmly embraced her in gratitude.

My mother's brewed wine, renowned in high society as the "Potion of Dreams," bore a mild hallucinogenic effect, rendering the drinker a tad otherworldly. Despite its peculiarity, this wine was benign. It was merely pricey, within the means of nobles alone.

Seizing this rare chance, the destitute, along with those who had succumbed to starvation in past lives, seized the opportunity to drink their fill.

"It's truly excellent wine!" The Wind wiped a droplet from his mouth, procuring another jug of fine wine and imbibing it like a parched beast. "Bro, let's engage in a drinking game." These individuals, drinking like whales, boasted various techniques for consuming alcohol. Oh dear, it was truly regrettable; I had to leverage this moment to let them drink.

"David, see you tomorrow!"

"See you next year, David!"

Next year again? If you guys come a few more times, I'll go bankrupt. These guys, not even washing a dish for me, would depart after feasting and imbibing to their heart's content.

Fortunately, my long-time crush, Teacher Catherine, stayed behind to help me manage the mountain of dishes.

How detestable. Despite the continent being rife with magic—utilized even for cooking—why had no one devised a magical incantation for swift dishwashing?

"It's getting late; I must return."

After assisting with the cleanup, Teacher Catherine bid me farewell. Unanticipatedly, after traversing a few steps, she stumbled, teetering on the brink of a fall. She was intoxicated.

Indeed, Potion of Dreams was exceptional wine, but its aftermath proved potent.