Ah, Varkaigrad—a sprawling behemoth of a city that I’d scarcely imagined, let alone seen in my backwater days. From the moment I arrived, one thing tickled my curiosity like a mischievous imp. My teacher, with all her self-important wisdom, had one piece of advice she delivered with the gravity of a saint warning a sinner: steer clear of the Lower District. Apparently, it was the "bad part of town," a phrase as quaint as it was ominous. Lawlessness ran rife there, or so she said, though her warnings sounded more like the fretting of a hen than gospel truth.

Naturally, this decree slotted itself into the unofficial rulebook of my existence: I, the hapless apprentice with the charm of a flailing jellyfish, wasn’t to set so much as a toe near the Lower District. Bit controlling, really, but fair enough, given the reputation I was meant to uphold—or fabricate, depending on who you asked.

Still, it wasn’t Randall or even Alcoa, those sleepy hamlets of my past, that taught me just how titanic Varkaigrad truly was. This was no ordinary city; this was the city. The mighty heart of Vraal’kor, a leviathan of culture, commerce, and chaos. And as with any creature of such magnitude, it bristled with factions and rivalries—threads in an umm, rather unseen tapestry of power and ambition.

The Middle District housed the Official Enforcers, those who fancied themselves paragons of law and order, though their shine didn’t quite extend to the lower depths. And the Lower District? A nest of rogues, rebels, and so-called heroes dabbling in ventures more dubious than righteous. Villains, they were called by polite society, though such labels felt... reductive. The truth was knottier than any tidy distinction of good and evil. I often caught myself pondering the invisible strings that bound it all, pulling people into roles like marionettes on a stage. But such philosophical musings were for another day.

Today, however, the quarry before me demanded my full attention. The crowd erupted into a cacophony of screams and chaos, scattering from the square like leaves in a storm. But then again, what could one do when faced with the question of existence in its most visceral form—a massive monster materialising from nowhere and skewering someone right before your eyes?

My gaze settled on the creature that had seized everyone's attention, the so-called monster. A bit of an exaggeration, really, considering I knew full well it was a Drakarri in their beast form. And oh, their beast form—it was clear now why they were whispered to have dragon blood running through their veins. Inferior. The word crept into my mind, uninvited and sharp.

Was it my own draconic heritage that made me see this mimicry of the draconic as inherently lacking? Or perhaps it was the stench—a nauseating reek of rot that clawed at my senses. The very same scent that had haunted my nightmares ever since that encounter with the abomination. I couldn’t say. Likely a bit of both. But the real draw, the source of my morbid fascination, was undoubtedly the latter.

My eyes flitted momentarily to Viera. She was twisting back, scanning the chaos for me. She wouldn’t find me—not yet. Her role in this debacle was done. All I’d wanted was for her to witness this creature with her own eyes, and now that she had, I exhaled a long, quiet sigh of relief. She, like the others, turned tail and ran. Good.

With a subtle shift, I released the shroud of my technique, letting myself emerge from the cloak of distortion. My gaze locked on the beast below as I stood on the second-floor ledge of a crumbling building, a silent observer. It was, if anything, a humanoid amalgamation of dragon-like traits. Scales blanketed its muscular frame. A massive tail lashed behind it, wings unfurled in ominous grandeur, and a sinuous neck stretched forward, ending in a serrated, serpentine maw. It was almost as though someone had taken all the defining features of a dragon and awkwardly stapled them onto a human frame.

In its clawed grasp was a tusked Voruun, half-shredded and still writhing. The Drakarri seemed halfway through dismantling its victim with brutal efficiency. But the Voruuns were hardly pushovers. No, these green-skinned brutes were nothing if not resilient—and well-armed.

The square steadily filled with their ilk, each bearing the same tattoo—a mark of allegiance to their band of ruffians. One particularly eager specimen surged forward, mana crackling as it coursed through his core. The ground cracked beneath his feet, and with a force akin to a runaway boulder, he launched himself headlong at the beast. The impact sent it hurtling through the air, smashing into abandoned stalls with a satisfying crunch.

They retrieved their half-mangled comrade, pouring cheap healing potions down his gullet. I was genuinely surprised he wasn’t already a corpse. But then again, Voruuns were renowned for their remarkable resilience, bouncing back from the brink with all the tenacity of a bad penny. More of them gathered, surrounding the creature. What started as a mismatched skirmish quickly turned into a proper beatdown. Wings ripped. Tail ensnared. Scales shattered under relentless, bone-crunching blows. A few spells were tossed about, but it was clear this lot thrived on raw, unbridled brute force.

Ah, but that was merely the overture. The real performance began when the Drakarri stepped out of the shadows. Their forms twisted grotesquely as they entered their beastly states—scales rippling like liquid armour, muscles bulging obscenely. Bones cracked and flesh groaned as their shapes warped into something altogether monstrous. Within moments, the square was teeming with these hulking horrors.

The air turned thick with the stench of rot—a smell so disturbingly familiar it made my teeth itch. Something was definitely off with these Drakarri. Their transformations weren’t natural, not for anyone operating below red-core level. It had to be connected to that thing Gwen had mentioned, a trail I’d been sniffing out for almost a month now. My first real lead in ages, and I wasn’t about to botch it. So, I watched. Eyes sharp, nerves taut. The leader would show himself eventually. He had to.

One Drakarri, his scales a deep bronze, let loose a bellow that shook the square as he charged. Another, lean and wiry, with jagged crimson spines trailing down his back, darted in with blistering speed. His claws slashed through a Voruun’s hastily-raised shield like it was parchment. The Voruuns had the numbers, but the Drakarri boasted sheer power.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Still, the Voruuns didn’t crumble. They regrouped, falling into well-practised formations. Three of them tackled a single Drakarri at a time, dodging claws and retaliating with mana-infused punches and kicks. One particularly massive Voruun hurled himself into a newly-shifted Drakarri, grappling it in a bear-like embrace before slamming its skull into the cobblestones repeatedly, each blow leaving a crater. Another lobbed a mana-charged metal club with deadly precision, catching a beast square in the chest and sending it sprawling.

The square was pure chaos—a cacophony of snarls, shouts, and the sickening crunch of flesh and bone. Claws carved through sinew, tails lashed with bone-shattering force, and fists struck with the weight of a collapsing building. The noise was deafening. An orchestra of carnage.

I had half a mind to tip the scales in the Voruuns’ favour with a well-placed spell or two, but I held back. This wasn’t my fight—at least, not yet. Instead, I watched the brutal ballet unfold, every moment a snapshot of raw, visceral mayhem. A Voruun flying through the air. A Drakarri’s scales bursting under a hammer-like blow. Flashes of mana streaking through the murk like lightning in a storm.

Even then, something about the whole affair felt… diminished. The scene before me wasn’t a desperate fight for survival, not really. It reeked of desperation, yes, but it lacked the visceral weight of true survival. The primal terror. The life-or-death urgency that sharpens every movement. Maybe I’d been ruined by battling real monsters, the kind that didn’t just end you but erased you. Watching these guys thrash about felt oddly… hollow. The brutality was there, but the stakes? They felt cheap.

Perhaps that was the crux of it. After seeing the abyss blink back at me one too many times, anything less than total annihilation just seemed a bit... quaint. I shook my head sharply. Focus, Jade. You’re not here for entertainment!

It was hard to tell who had the upper hand. For every Drakarri that fell, another rose to take its place. They lacked numbers, true, but their ferocity more than matched the Voruuns’ stubborn resilience. Mildly amusing. Could’ve used a bit more blood. And maybe some snacks.

And then, finally, he showed up. I’d pieced together his existence from scraps of information gleaned through my, shall we say, frugal investigations. He was a big fellow, but not so massive as to send people scattering at the sight of him. No, his menace lay elsewhere. His horns, curled and glinting silver, were striking against the bronze hues of the others. His features were hidden behind an ornate metal mask, intricate but practical, while his bare torso displayed sprawling tattoos that wound from neck to waist. Dragons, each one painstakingly accurate, though a touch more sinuous than natural.

They called him Iron. His real name? Eh, no clue. What I did know was that this guy had gone toe-to-toe with entire teams of Enforcers and somehow avoided both prison and death. His presence here only underscored his reputation. The stench of rot was strongest around him, almost suffocating. My instincts screamed that he was the key to it all.

I exhaled slowly, steadying myself. Runes began to form at my fingertips, shadowy lines crackling with dark mana. Tendrils erupted from beneath my cloak, sleek and serpentine, holding a collection of alchemical concoctions ready for use.

In my drakarri form, I was woefully limited. A situation I was desperate to rectify—alchemy was my best bet for now, though I was painfully aware I needed more time. Time I didn’t have. Not today. Not here.

I couldn’t risk anyone catching a glimpse of my true dragon form here, so I’d be fighting at a distinct disadvantage. But don’t mistake that for weakness. Dark mana affinity gave me an embarrassment of options, and today, I’d be using them against a real opponent for the first time.

As for what I knew about my enemy… well, I’d scrounged up some intel by eavesdropping and watching a few of his brawls. No guarantees, though. He was clearly a high yellow core—practically on the verge of crossing into red. I’d also gathered that he followed a metal pathway of some kind, one that seemed to involve molding his body in some way.

But with him? It was all guesswork. For all I knew, he could’ve been feeding people misinformation about his powers, keeping a secret weapon up his sleeve for a rainy day—or maybe he had some subtle ability that didn’t show up on the surface at all.

I didn’t know yet, but I would soon enough.

So, I kept my stealth active, and my fingers began to twist into sharp talons, scaling the wall like some sort of deranged spider. With quick, precise jumps, I circled around to the rear of the building I’d been lurking beside. Out of sight.

And then, Air Sense kicked in, feeding me every minute detail. The rhythm of his breath was like a beacon, pulling my attention to him. Dark mana runes twisted and rippled into place, and I began shaping them. A simple animation spell, designed to summon a dark mana golem.

It wasn’t much, in terms of power. Dark mana might have vast potential, but as a flail—a blunt instrument—it didn’t matter how concentrated it was. A golem, no matter how massive, would go down fairly easily. Not to mention, creating a swarm of smaller golems was absurd. Why on earth would I want to throw teddy bears at my enemies?

And, of course, there was the limitation: you could only control so many at once. Imagine a swarm of dark mana insects trying to hold something—ridiculous. If only there were a way to increase cognitive processing, to allow for greater control and more golems. Oh, wait.

A grin crept across my face as the threads of mana tightened. Hundreds of them. Five hundred. A thousand. Small, inconspicuous, every single one of them accounted for in my mind. The sheer volume of information would have driven anyone else mad, but not me. Those points in intelligence? Worth every bloody one of them. I was reaching a level of cognitive processing that could only be called inhuman.

And as the swarm raged beneath my cloak, I considered what else it might hold. Naturally, the plethora of poisons I’d brewed would be at the ready. I’d learned the hard way not to underestimate my opponents. If civilization was kind enough to offer a dragon its tools, who was I to refuse?