Oh, Thalador, I thought my thundering heart might betray me right there and then, but the moment I saw the last of who I presumed to be in charge slip out through the tent flaps, I finally exhaled a sigh of relief. And just like that, I was left alone in their sanctum. Learned a fair bit, far more than I’d anticipated.

A bloody ritual to elevate someone to low-gold? By the gods, what in all of Lithrindel were these Elves plotting? It made a twisted sort of sense, of course. Cults rarely moved without noble strings tugging at their leashes. And wouldn’t you know it, they were trying to ascend some prancing heir. But that Heralas guy didn’t seem too chuffed about the whole ordeal. Can’t say I blame him.

And as for that noble elf they were so desperate to exalt? What a prize-winning whingebag. The sourness of his snivelling attitude could curdle milk. That’s the would-be leader they’re grooming? Lithrindel’s doom might arrive faster with that berk at the helm. Stupid sods, the lot of them.

My eyes swept the tent as I stepped out from my hiding spot, each detail snagging on my attention like brambles on a cloak. It wasn’t luxurious—functional, mostly—but there was a touch of carelessness that set my claws itching. A heavy oak table dominated the center, groaning under the weight of maps and scrolls haphazardly scattered across its surface. Corners were pinned down by whatever was to hand: a polished silver dagger, a rune-etched stone, and a half-drained goblet with a rim sticky enough to make me wince.

To one side, a cot sagged under a tangle of unmade blankets, and against the wall where I’d been lurking, a low shelf held a mess of scrolls and leather-bound tomes. Their spines were cracked and stained, promising secrets I didn’t have time to uncover. But perched atop the shelf, gleaming under the hues, was the real prize. A glass case, its contents arranged as neatly as a jeweler’s display.

Alchemy supplies! My claws twitched with anticipation as I slid the latch open, careful to keep the hinges from creaking.

My air sense stayed sharp, tuned for any incoming disturbances, but once my eyes locked onto the treasures inside, nothing short of a thunderclap would’ve torn me away.

The first vial I snatched up practically sang in the hues—a clear liquid shot through with a silvery shimmer. A quick shake confirmed it. Silvershade Sap. The lazy, deliberate way the bubbles clung to the glass before slinking upward was unmistakable. By Thalador, this was high-tier stuff. Finicky to distill, near impossible to purify without fouling the batch. Whoever brewed this had the patience of a saint.

But knowing it was one of these bloody cultists? That left a foul taste in my mouth. Wasted talent. What a bloody shame.

My gaze flitted past yet another vial before landing on a thick, crimson beauty. With a flick of my claw, I uncorked it, raising it to my nose for a cautious sniff. The acrid, metallic tang tickled my senses—Nightthorn Extract, perfectly matured. Too fresh, and it reeks of rotten onions; too old, and it’s nothing but a sticky sludge. But this one? The Goldilocks of poisons: just right.

The next few vials? Utterly pedestrian. But the herbs, oh, the herbs were a different story. My eyes lit upon a sprig of Barrowgrass, its red tendrils curling inward like an offended houseplant. Poisonous, naturally. A spark of inspiration danced in my head, and before I could second-guess myself, I channelled four points into my fire gland. Down to 50 mana points. Worth it. I plucked a single leaf, popped it into my mouth, and chewed.

Bitter as sin, with a wicked afterburn that prickled my tongue—Barrowgrass, fresh and feisty. My Macro-Trophic sac kicked into action, absorbing the venom. The result? My mana ticked up by one. My eyes widened with glee. I knew that Toxicity Immunity upgrade was worth every last point! Not just for its mana-conversion prowess, but for the sheer audacity of what it allowed me to do.

Imagine returning to civilization as a proper alchemist! No tedious processes for identifying herbs. No delicate sniffing or careful infusions. No, no—I could just poison myself! AHAHAHAHA! Ahem. Back to the matter at hand.

More ingredients beckoned. Nearby, powdered Blightcap offered a familiar, waspish tang that stung my nose delightfully. I leaned closer and inhaled sharply—my reward was another glorious burn and a small mana boost. Ahhh, addictive! I was tempted to take another hit before slapping some sense into myself. Alchemy was turning me scatterbrained again. Still, how could I not? This trove was a playground for my mind, and the possibilities were endless.

And then, the resin. Sticky, golden-brown Coppervine Resin, with a faint aroma of burnt sugar. I pinched a bit, rubbing it between my claws. Sticky, yes, but not gummy—a sign of proper patience in the harvesting process. Whoever collected this knew their craft and took their time letting it seep naturally from the bark. Expensive stuff, this.

My thoughts buzzed as I considered brewing a mana potion. Alas, no Foxglow or Greymoss graced this stash, so that dream would wait for another day. Poisons, however? An absolute treasure trove. Whoever had prepared this cache was no amateur, but the real shame? They didn’t anticipate someone like me coming along. Their loss, my goldmine.

I clutched the chest tightly to my body, holding it close with my claws as I walked bipedally back toward the tent’s entrance, slipping behind the shelf where I’d first come in. A thought struck me, one that had somehow eluded me until now—could I phase through barriers while carrying something with me? Odd that it had never crossed my mind, but oh, Thalador, the last thing I wanted was to leave these glorious ingredients behind.

I had a plan. A delightful, audacious plan to utterly ruin these ritualists’ day. The irony wasn’t lost on me—everything I needed to bring their efforts to ruin had been handed to me on a silver platter, right here in their tent. Usually, there was only so much a sneaky little dragon like me could do against an army. But this time? This time, they’d face a poison dragon.

I’d never used my alchemy to harm before. And when I had needed to harm, alchemy wasn’t an option. Now, for the first time, I had both the means and the motive. And I was determined to make it count.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

First, the setup. I activated Air Sense, scanning for any signs of lurking cultists. The air was clear. Good. I triggered Phantom Dragon Dance, and a flickering distortion enveloped my form. My perception sharpened, and I turned my attention to the tent fabric. Time to test the theory. I closed my eyes, focused, and tried to phase through with the chest.

The result? Disaster. Over and over, I attempted the maneuver, only for the chest to clatter noisily behind me like a child’s tantrum. The conclusion was clear—while I could phase through, my cargo didn’t seem keen on joining me. An unfortunate limitation. No sneaky escapes for me this time.

But that didn’t mean I was out of tricks. If sneaky wouldn’t do, I’d go with something… less subtle. My grin stretched wide at the thought. These cultists already considered me a nuisance, and oh, how they deserved it. Why not turn that irritation up to eleven?

I set to work, tearing a large sheet of cloth from a nearby pile and carefully wrapping it around the glass container of poisons. Using another length of fabric, I secured the bundle to my back. A quick hop and a double-check confirmed it was steady. And because I couldn’t resist, I fashioned a makeshift bandana to tie around the tips of my horns. A poison dragon should look the part, after all.

I inhaled deeply. Phase one complete. Now came phase two: breaking out. That accursed barrier was my main obstacle, but I’d already seen it crack under the charge of a Stage 4 beast. My lightning should be more than capable of piercing it.

But I’d have to push myself. Hard. Time to see exactly how far these reinforced conduits could take me. A shiver of anticipation coursed through me.

I stood steady, claws gripping the ground as if anchoring myself to the very earth. My fire gland was primed with four volleys of fire, and my mana points hovered at 53. A deep breath steadied me, though my heart thundered in time with the storm building within me. The barrier was ahead, but I couldn’t see it clearly. Cutting the fabric would have been easier, but I couldn’t risk being spotted early.

Lightning mana raged obediently through my veins, the sensation both agonizing and exhilarating. It responded to my command like an overzealous hound, surging forward in threads as I began weaving the runes. The delicate structure shimmered as the threads intertwined. Three runes formed quickly, and I funneled 15 mana points into it.

But it wasn’t enough.

With a growl, I pushed further—25 points, the pain biting at my arms like smoldering embers. Still not enough. 35 points. My claws curled, smoke rising as the mana scorched through my body. I screamed internally, my body threatening rebellion. But I pressed harder.

40.

45.

50!

The pain was unbearable. Lightning tore through my limbs like molten shards, and the runes flared with instability, sparking wildly as electricity danced around me. The air smelled of ozone and burnt scales. Shouts erupted outside the tent as the mana buildup reached a crescendo. My ears rang, and my vision blurred with static as every nerve in my body screamed.

Then I heard her voice again—Lotte’s question. How much did my body truly understand lightning? My mind grasped it, but for my body to accept it… perhaps the key lay in surrender. And so, I let go.

My instincts took over, guiding the final steps. I took aim at the barrier, the runes glowing with dangerous, unstable light. A single breath escaped my lips as I roared.

“LIGHTNING BOLT!”

The bolt erupted with a deafening crack, a spear of blinding blue-white energy that tore through the tent and hurtled into the barrier. The recoil hit me like a battering ram, but my claws dug deep, keeping me grounded. The sheer force left my arms trembling, the burned scales on my claws screaming in protest.

The barrier didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in a furnace. The impact reduced it to glittering shards, splintering like glass under a sledgehammer, glowing fragments scattering in a radiant storm. The explosion surged outward, scorching trees and toppling the smaller ones like hapless bystanders. Cultists shrieked as the crackling bolt split into deadly arcs of electricity, searing earth and beast alike.

A grin tugged at my lips—oh, the rush! Pain knifed through my body, but the chaos? Bliss. Destruction on this scale had a heady sort of allure. A symphony of terror, their yells, their scurrying, their desperate flails against the inevitable.

Flames licked at the trees. Monsters crumpled like discarded puppets. Notifications burst onto the system screen, but I swatted them away without a second glance. The forest? An artist’s canvas now. Painted strokes of carnage, of fire, of ash. A masterpiece forged in fury. And oh, how the destruction coursed through me—like lightning, but softer this time. Gentle. Euphoric.

The sweet intoxication of destruction made the throbbing in my body a mere whisper compared to the symphony of ruin.

But even amidst the revelry, I hadn’t lost the thread of purpose. My will kept me tethered, though only just. Through the haze of pain and pleasure, I stretched my wings. Charred muscles screamed as I launched skyward. My focusing lenses slid into place, granting me a crystal-clear view of the devastation I’d wrought.

The cultists scrambled below, an army of ants whose hill had just been kicked. Orders were shouted, spells fumbled, chaos reigning supreme. At the heart of it all stood Heralas, rooted in place, staring at the wreckage of his precious barrier. His face was a masterpiece, horror and disbelief mingling beautifully. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to peek into his thoughts at that moment.

A few hasty spells streaked my way, but with my sharpened perception, they might as well have been butterflies in a hurricane. I wove through the air with effortless grace, the Phantom Dragon Dance cloaking my movements in rippling distortion. Upgraded Flight kicked in, speed turning my escape into a mocking blur.

By the time they’d pieced together what had happened, I was already deep in the dungeon’s embrace, the foliage swallowing me whole.

Safe.

For now.