Defeating the World with the Power of One Dragon!

Year 362 of the New Calendar, spring.

Dusk descended quietly as always, the sky holding only a faded smear of orange-red, the clouds drifting slowly.

There was no earthquake, no blazing sunset.

After such an ordinary twilight, the Red Emperor, Garoth Ignas, felt his consciousness sink and settle into silence, formally entering the long slumber all adult great dragons must endure.

The Aola Kingdom, which carried the emperor’s will, did not grind to a halt because of it.

This colossal entity—composed of dragons and many other races—after a brief adjustment like a breath, continued to operate according to the plans the king set before sleeping.

Powerful legions still garrisoned critical passes, banners snapping in the cold wind.

Soldiers’ armor plates and the scales of dragon-blooded troopers flashed a hard, cold sheen under the sunlight.

But the changes were clear.

The trumpet of offense no longer sounded; large-scale forward reconnaissance and cross-border raids were nearly extinct.

Patrols became more regular, defenses were repeatedly reinforced and repaired, and the strategic focus shifted from sharp expansion to rock-solid defense.

Within the broad realm, the tone of development also turned toward cultivation and accumulation.

Because of the emperor’s clear instructions before sleep, attention previously buried under conquest began to be directed at those areas: the transmission of knowledge, and the nurturing of the populace.

“A kingdom that only knows how to swing swords is coarse and fragile.”

The Red Emperor’s words were engraved on the cornerstone of every newly established academy.

The first “Foundation Knowledge Academy” built in the Citadel of Crimson Flame soon became a model, then sprouted across border towns and inland settlements.

These academies opened to all freeborn offspring, teaching basic reading, arithmetic, and the kingdom’s general history.

Language courses included two main tongues.

One was the draconic tongue, used as Aola’s official administrative language; the other was the Common Tongue of the continent, to facilitate communication with other races.

Textbooks were reviewed and stripped of content that might shake loyalty to the emperor and kingdom, while chapters praising the emperor’s achievements and legendary epics were woven in, so that loyalty took root in the young alongside literacy and numeracy.

At the same time, large-scale raids and pillaging of resources were suspended and replaced by careful management of already controlled territories.

In the kingdom’s interior, artisans and farmers of settled races were organized to receive instruction in practical farming, waterworks, and mineral surveying, all within a relatively stable environment, supported by field guidance from Aola’s scholars.

Wasteland was systematically reclaimed, long-neglected canals were dredged, cold- and drought-resistant crops were promoted.

Mineral extraction abandoned rapacious practices, emphasizing planning and sustainable use to prolong vein lifespans.

Roads connecting major towns to resource areas were widened and hardened, with regular patrols guarding caravans so goods flowed more smoothly across the realm.

Everything felt steady and deliberate, yet there was a solid sense of flourishing.

The whole Aola Kingdom resembled a dragon curled in its lair, sheathing the claws and edge that once reached outward, tucking its massive body tighter to polish its scales, mend weakened sinews, digest the harvest already in its belly, while watching the world beyond the nest with a vigilant, quiet gaze.

It waited, and it gathered strength.

Time, however, never paused for any ruler’s slumber, nor did it speed up for a kingdom’s progress.

It was like an invisible hand, nudging all things.

Every seemingly small choice, every casual meeting, under that nudge either drifted apart or snapped together into new weaves.

Unnoticed, seeds of new stories were sown.

Some faded away in silence; others brewed quietly and would one day spread far and wide.

A breeze starts on the edge of a green reed, clouds surge between hidden valleys, all things change tracks without sound, and the gears of fate turn slowly.

Year 364 of the New Calendar, Serene Spirit Wilderness, Verdant Home Grove.

The scenery here differed slightly from the Material Plane; the vista remained springlike year-round.

Luminous moss lay like a soft emerald carpet across woods and slopes; giant flowers, like colored lanterns, opened quietly on hanging vines, shedding gentle halos and faint, pleasant fragrances; clear brooks meandered, and singing lotuses drifting on the surface chimed bright notes in the breeze.

This place was home to many gentle fey creatures.

Flower sprites danced among the bushes, sapling spirits peeked from behind trunks, light sprites traced glittering paths in the air like fireflies.

At this moment almost all the fey had gathered in a clearing, forming a loose circle, eyes filled with excitement and awe toward the center.

There stood a red iron dragon over forty meters long.

Its scales were a metallic weave of dark red and deep black, giving a cold, hard luster in the grove’s soft light; on the half-spread wing membranes energy flowed like magma veins; horned crests and dorsal spines pointed to the sky, and deep black vertical pupils watched calmly.

On the ground before the dragon lay a patch of charred ash.

One could make out the outline of some massive creature that had fallen there.

It was the remains of an earth colossus.

“Lady Vira! Amazing! Incredible!”

Flower sprites squealed as they flew closer, circling the dragon’s head and sprinkling tiny rainbow dust.

Sapling spirits ran out from their hiding spots, hopping and shouting around the dragon’s footprints; light sprites clustered, wrapping the dragon in a dreamy river of starlight.

Chomp!

A surge of light rippled, and the massive red iron dragon’s form rapidly contracted and shifted, finally reverting to the familiar faerie dragon, Vira.

“Calm down, calm down.”

“I hadn’t even tried, and that clumsy thing fell—hardly worth a mention.”

The faerie dragon waved aside the praise with a flick of her mouth and spoke plainly.

Yet the straight tilt of her spine, the faintly raised eye, and the amused crookedness at the corner of her mouth betrayed her pride completely.

Earth colossi were cyclical pollution monsters in the Serene Spirit Wilderness.

They condensed from rotting soil, withered plants, and accumulated negative emotions into mobile mounds that bred foul-smelling molds and crawling vines.

They would devour luminous moss, foul clear streams, and turn beautiful groves into reeking marsh.

In the past, when colossi struck, the fey paid a heavy price to drive or slay them, but now things were different.

Because they had “Lady Vira.” 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

A few years ago, the faerie dragon Vira returned to the Verdant Home Grove.

The young fey were unfamiliar with the sudden companion, and even the older generation who remembered her were surprised by how she’d changed.

Vira quickly integrated in her own way.

She painted playful patterns on flower sprites’ wings with harmless pigments, taught sapling spirits novel games she’d learned in the outside world, and told the most enthralling Material Plane stories by the night bonfire.

She told how she struggled in that distant, dangerous world and acquired powerful shape-change skills; how she had taken the name “Garoth Ignas,” risen from a perilous wasteland, unified clans, gathered tribes, defeated mighty foes, and ultimately founded a vast kingdom; how a small faerie dragon could become the feared “Red Emperor.”

These stories were full of detail, vivid and lifelike.

For most fey who had never left the Serene Spirit Wilderness, they were pure legend.

Of course, some privately doubted parts of the tales were too fanciful or had shaky details, but those doubts vanished the day an earth colossus came again.

When the stinking behemoth trampled moss that time, the fey panicked.

Vira flew out composed, transformed into a red iron dragon before their eyes, and within ten breaths her fiery breath turned the colossus to ash across the ground.

From that day, suspicion turned to worship and awe.

Vira became the acknowledged guardian of the Verdant Home Grove, the most powerful fey, a miracle-working hero.

Flower sprites wove fresh garlands for her daily, sapling spirits brought the sweetest berries, light sprites held special glow-dances for her beneath the night sky, and even fey from neighboring regions came across miles just to see this Red Emperor.

“Lady Vira... could you transform again? Just once...”

A palm-sized flower sprite with wings thin as cicada veil flew closer timidly, eyes bright, and whispered the request, “...into the Red Emperor’s form...”

Silence fell, then more expectant faces turned toward Vira.

Although they had seen it several times, the grandeur and overwhelming strength that form embodied always set their hearts racing.

If it had been an unknown giant beast, they’d have been only terrified.

But knowing the dragon was their kin’s shape inspired pride and longing as much as reverence.

Vira blinked and surveyed the adoring crowd; pride nearly spilled out of her.

She cleared her throat theatrically and put on a “reluctantly indulging” expression.

“All right, just this once. Watch closely—this is the symbol of power, the manifestation of majesty, it is—”

“Vira.”

A gentle yet worried voice came from behind the gathered fey.

They parted respectfully.

Approaching was a graceful unicorn, its mane silver as moonlight, a crystal-clear horn on its brow, radiating an ancient, steady presence—the true guardian of the Verdant Home Grove, Elder Elven.

The unicorn walked to Vira and stared into her clear eyes.

“Have you forgotten my warning last time?”

Vira’s wings involuntarily folded a bit.

Of course she remembered.

Half a year ago, after she’d used the Red Emperor’s arrival technique to drive off a pack of dire wolves, Elven had given her a solemn talk.

The unicorn elder had emphasized she needed rest; each use of that transformation consumed her life’s root and hastened her aging.

“You are no longer young, Vira,” Elven had said. “Faerie dragons already have a limited span; you are long-lived among your kind. Frequently using power beyond your limits will only speed away what time you have left.”

Now, facing the elder’s worried gaze, Vira pushed her chest out again.

“Elder Elven, you worry too much!” she answered cheerfully and confidently. “I am Vira who once established a kingdom in the Material Plane! This little drain is nothing!”

She turned to the tiny flower sprite with a grin. “Watch closely, little one!”

Boom!

Light flared, her small body expanded rapidly, dark red and deep black scales again covering her, and a red iron dragon over forty meters tall stood in the clearing, wings casting broad shadows.

“Woooaaah—!”

The fey cried in unison. Some timidly took a half-step back, but their eyes shone with excitement and worship far more than fear.

The flower sprite flew onto the dragon’s foreclaw with joy. Others clustered—clambering along the spine, touching the cool scales, frolicking around the wings.

The red iron dragon stood quietly, patient as the fey played on it.

Sunlight filtered through leaf gaps, scattering mottled light over the dark red scales; the distant stream murmured; singing lotuses chimed, blending with the fey laughter into a strange but harmonious tableau.

A majestic beast and a gentle grove.

Elven stood to the side watching, not with reproach but with deep concern.

As guardian, he saw more.

Within that grand dragon body, Vira’s life flame was diminishing; each heartbeat and breath burned what little root remained.

“That’s enough, Vira.”

About ten minutes later Elven spoke again, his voice gentle but resolute. “Return to your form.”

The red iron dragon bowed its head and met the unicorn’s calm gaze.

Light surged, the massive body contracted, and in an instant Vira returned to faerie dragon size.

Her wings drooped slightly; her breath was a touch ragged, but she straightened and forced a relaxed expression.

“See that, Elder Elven?” she said with a smile. “I told you this little drain is nothing.”

She looked back at the excited fey and raised her voice, “Don’t worry! Lady Vira will one day receive the Primordial Breath recognition from the ancestral land and rebuild her life’s foundations—start a brand-new second life!”

“Ha! When I return to the Material Plane as king, I’ll take you all to my kingdom to play!”

The fey bounced and cheered, “Yay, we want to go to the Material Plane too!”

Elven stepped forward and touched Vira’s brow with his horn.

A cool, gentle current of energy flowed in, easing the faerie dragon’s fatigue somewhat.

“Vira,” the unicorn said softly, “you don’t have to always show off for everyone. We all know you’re strong, and that you’re the grove’s hero.

“But heroes need protecting too; heroes have the right to be tired.”

Vira paused.

In Elven’s clear eyes she saw her reflection.

A dragon whose scale edges had turned gray, wing membranes furrowed with fine creases, iridescence faded—this was not the Vira she remembered.

In the Material Plane, beside Garoth, she had been the smallest in stature but the brightest in color, the most lively and tireless one.

She’d jumped on throne armrests, zipped through halls, played countless harmless pranks...

Back then she had thought aging was a distant matter unrelated to her.

“I...”

Vira opened her mouth, the color draining from her face, words caught in her throat.

At that moment—

Hum!

The Verdant Home Grove trembled slightly.

All the luminous moss brightened at once, hanging lantern-flowers glowed without wind, and the lotuses in the stream rang a clear chord.

The fey froze and glanced around.

Then they saw, in the oldest, tallest grove to the east, tree grain glowing with a soft golden radiance at the same time; light rose along branches, gathered, and formed a pure pillar that shot into the sky, piercing the clouds and rippling across the blue canopy.

“The ancestral land... it calls...”

Elven murmured, voice full of reverence.

All the fey held their breath.

They understood what this meant: the ancestral land had recognized a fey and was about to bestow the legendary Primordial Breath!

Hum!

At the same instant a gentle but brilliant golden beam descended and accurately enveloped Vira.

Warm, abundant, life-filled energy wrapped her like a spring, dispelling fatigue and weakness.

This was only the aftermath of the light’s shining.

If she could truly receive the baptism... Vira’s heart surged with eager expectation and joy.

Wait for me, Garoth, I will return! Stronger, renewed!

The faerie dragon breathed a contented trill; the gloom in her eyes vanished.

“Go, child,” Elven said as he stepped forward, eyes full of pride and blessing. “This is your deserved opportunity.”

Vira inhaled deeply and looked around.

The fey watched her with mingled admiration, worship, and sincere blessing.

A faint smile curved the dragon’s lips; she straightened, spread her wings, and let her scales shimmer in gold and iridescence.

Then she faced the unicorn elder and, with the light tone of someone taking a stroll, said, “See, Elder Elven? I told you great Vira would live a second life.”

Elven was silent for a moment, a look of helpless love touching his eyes.

Who taught this child that swagger?

The little prankster he remembered, who used to tug his mane, had gone to the Material Plane and now returned even harder to read.

Vira did not delay. With a gentle flap she followed the beam’s guidance toward the ancestral land.

The gold light narrowed with her approach, and finally she and her figure were swallowed into the ancient grove, vanishing.

That year, the faerie dragon Vira in the Verdant Home Grove was recognized by the ancestral land and received the Primordial Breath baptism.

The invisible hand of time nudged again; the gears of fate continued to turn.

Year 368 of the New Calendar, Theo Kingdom, capital, Silverglow City.

Early spring sunlight pierced the city’s perennial haze and cast soft shadows across white marble buildings.

Streets were packed, a human tide blocking passage.

Citizens, merchants, minor nobles, scholars, and those who looked like casters craned their necks, all eyes fixed on the temporary dais at the city center.

The platform was still empty, but uniformed guards stood round to keep order.

The air thrummed with barely contained excitement and collective anticipation.

Rumors about that “young legendary” had fermented in the capital for months; today was the official confirmation and reward ceremony—whispers, debates, and held-back gasps rose and fell through the crowd.

“An eighteen-year-old legendary... gods above, I was tossing over whether I’d pass squire trials at eighteen!”

“Aola’s observers personally verified it—no illicit cultivation, purely innate talent!”

“The Norlin family? The little baron from the southern border near the Black Forest? Unbelievable...”

“We, Theo... we finally...”

The words dissolved into choking emotion.

Twenty-four years had passed since Theo’s crushing defeat and the humiliating signing of the Norton Treaty.

The younger generation hadn’t lived through it, but the old remembered painfully.

The despair under dragon shadows, the national silence at the treaty’s signing, and the years of reparations, restrictions, and suppression—“no strategic war engines,” “limits on training of legendary or higher”—these clauses were a chokehold preventing the kingdom’s breath for over two decades.

Theo’s power faded and morale sank.

Now, an eighteen-year-old from humble border origins had indisputably reached legendary status.

For Theo this was more than one person’s triumph.

It was a dawn piercing a long dark sky, igniting the long-buried flame of restoration in every Theo heart.

At noon the bell tower tolled.

King Oliver Chapman of Theo appeared on the dais.

His features were clear, time carving deep lines in his face; hair and sideburns frosted like hoarfrost, his back slightly bowed—every sign of age.

Yet in this moment his sunken eyes shone startlingly, gaze intense as if youth returned.

After signing the Norton Treaty and betting on the future, he had pushed aside opposition to lean the kingdom’s dwindling resources into education, basic magic, and grassroots talent cultivation.

This gamble saw its first astounding return today.

His gaze fixed firmly on the young figure walking steadily up the steps.

Reinhart Norlin.

The eighteen-year-old legendary.

He stood straight as a pine, not in the lavish dress typical of noble youth, but in a well-cut, modest dark-blue standing-collar uniform, more like a military civilian outfit. Aside from a slightly worn Norlin family crest on his left chest, there were no ostentatious ornaments.

His face still wore some youthfulness, but the contours were already hardened; his skin tanned from time outdoors.

Short dark-brown hair neat and sharp, eyes calm as an autumn lake, his steps steady, unfazed under countless gazes.

Reinhart walked up to the throne steps, placed his right hand over his heart, and bowed smoothly and respectfully to the king.

“Your Majesty, good day.”

His voice was clear and steady.

King Oliver rose slowly.

An attendant presented a tray lined with deep-blue velvet; on it lay a medal and a scroll of sheepskin tied with silver ribbon.

“Reinhart Norlin,” the king said, “I, Oliver Chapman, in the name of the Theo crown, hereby bestow upon you the Dawnbreaker Silver Radiance Medal!”

He lifted the medal.

Its design was a longsword piercing clinging clouds, surrounded by olive branches and star motifs, forged of mithril and electrum, pouring cold brilliance in sunlight.

“This medal is unique and given only to one who has offered epoch-making service to the kingdom, bringing hope and a turning point in history!”

The king placed the medal on Reinhart’s chest.

Silver radiance flashed against the dark-blue uniform.

Then the king opened the sheepskin and read aloud.

“From this day forth I confer upon Reinhart Norlin the title of ‘Star Knight,’ grant marquisate rank, impart gubernatorial authority, and allot the southern province of Sarl as his hereditary fief. May you keep a loyal heart, temper yourself in hardship, defend the kingdom with sword and wisdom, enlighten those who follow, and illuminate the path for Theo’s revival!”

A marquisate, real gubernatorial power, and a provincial fief.

This reward far exceeded the usual grants for a legendary, even breaking centuries of precedent.

The king’s intent was plain.

He planned to center the kingdom’s revival around this suddenly risen young legendary, to reforge the scattered hearts and fortunes of the realm, and—taking advantage of Aola’s recent strategic contraction and the Red Emperor’s apparent slumber—vigorously push Theo’s resurgence.

“Thank you for Your Majesty’s magnanimity!”

The young legendary again placed his hand over his heart and bowed; though his voice remained calm, a flame fitting his age finally sparked in his eyes.

“Reinhart will not betray Your Majesty’s trust nor the kingdom’s hopes! Guided by the Silver Radiance, I vow steadfast resolve!”

The king slapped his shoulder firmly, then turned to the tens of thousands in the square, inhaled deeply, and spoke with all his strength.

“Today we do not merely award a young legendary! Today we crown Theo’s future! May the Silver Radiance never extinguish! May Theo be reborn!”

Twenty-four years of suppressed humiliation, resentment, and yearning burst like a volcano.

The crowd erupted in a deafening roar, thousands of arms raised as shouts became a torrent.

“Silver Radiance lives! Theo forever!”

The clamour swelled toward the skies as if it would tear apart the city’s clouds.

At the crowd’s fringes, a group of observers from Aola in dark travel garb and restrained aura calmly recorded everything.

At first their faces were neutral, detached, but even they were slightly moved by the sweeping fervor, exchanging a look.

One adjusted the angle of the magical crystal that captured the ceremony, preserving the scene in full.

After the ceremony the crowd lingered, still chanting.

At the same time the report and the recording of the complete ceremony were instantly transmitted back to the distant Aola Kingdom with top priority.

Dragonback Mountains, Citadel of Crimson Flame.

“An eighteen-year-old legendary... hm, indeed remarkable.”

The iron dragon murmured, his vertical pupils void of joy or anger. “Our Aola youth know that when a mighty enemy looms you must lie low and accumulate strength, not... flaunt yourself in such triumphal celebration.”

He muttered, then shifted tone.

“Still, Theo had no choice—they desperately needed a banner to rally a nearly fragmented people.”

The bad news: he had lately felt fatigue and slumber approaching; Samantha’s condition was similar.

The good news: he had not yet entered full sleep.

“The dream of revival... let it be for now; after all, dreams end.”

The iron dragon gazed toward the Theo Kingdom, as if light had pierced space and shone on that celebrating land.

“And the process of waking people from their dream is often the cruelest.”

He paused, and a trace of delight flickered in his vertical pupils. “—and by chance, I rather enjoy that process.”