One day in his life, Alexander the Great uttered a sentence he never knew would outlive him—would survive death far longer than his own flesh—and would be summoned forth every time a human being stood before the impossible:
"There is nothing impossible for the one who truly tries."
He spoke it as a young man who inherited no empire,
but decided to tear one from the world's grasp.
People did not believe it because they had faith in the words—
they believed because later history refused to let them deny it.
Yet what was never clearly said aloud…
is that trying without understanding
is not heroism—
it is the shortest road to ruin.
Lloyd sat with his back against a jagged rock scarred by battle. His body still hummed with silent complaint: dark bruises painted his skin, taut muscles refused to fully release. His breathing had steadied, yet it had not yet returned to the calm rhythm of peace.
Slowly he raised his hand before his eyes.
Fingers trembled—just a little.
Then he closed them into a fist.
Sensation remained.
Pain remained.
But control… had returned.
He closed his good eye and exhaled deeply.
"Very well…"
The words lived only inside him—not spoken, but declared.
The beginning of an execution.
"If I want to win next time, I must first face the truth."
He became perfectly still.
Then he began to replay the fight.
Not as a blurred memory, but as a scene deliberately taken apart—motion by motion.
"Let us start with the real reason I lost."
He paused.
Then admitted it to himself, without sugar-coating:
"The enemy was superior to me in every single way… literally."
The image of the dragon crystallized in his mind.
"Speed."
Its attacks arrived before his reaction could finish forming.
"Precision."
No strike was random; every blow had purpose.
"Reflex."
Even when it missed once, it never left an opening.
"And power…"
Lloyd's jaw tightened slightly.
"The gap was obvious. And humiliating."
But that was not the worst of it.
He slowly opened his crimson eye.
"The core."
Silence.
"I saw it."
"I felt its pressure."
His fist clenched unconsciously.
Then he spoke inside, low and sharp:
"Yet he did not use it."
Another pause.
A correction:
"No…"
"He had no need to use it."
A heavier silence settled.
"And there… lies my true defeat."
He lowered his gaze to his palm.
"I was not defeated merely because I was weaker."
"I was defeated because I entered the fight with the wrong mindset."
The scene replayed again.
His reckless charge.
His reliance on raw force.
His attempt to end it quickly.
"I fought to bring him down."
"Not to understand him."
A deep breath.
"And that was a fatal mistake against a being who does not fight on instinct… but on accumulated experience."
He lifted his head slightly.
"The dragon was not without flaws."
A faint, almost invisible smile formed.
"I simply was not yet at the level where I could see them."
Now came the real analysis.
"His wings are powerful… but they carry weight."
"Every wide maneuver demanded a fractional moment of stabilization."
Pause.
"His head is not a weak point… but it is the command center."
"Every shift in combat rhythm began there."
Then—a longer silence.
His crimson eye narrowed.
"But most importantly…"
Another breath.
"That pause."
The sensation returned.
"Before every decisive strike… he paused."
Not hesitation.
Not fear.
"Assessment."
Lloyd raised his head.
"A fraction of a second."
This time the half-smile became unmistakable.
"That is the opening."
He rose slowly. His body protested, but it did not betray him. Pain became background noise—not the commander.
He gripped his father's sword.
The weight felt familiar.
The balance—true.
"Strength alone will not suffice."
"Speed alone will not save me."
He looked toward the horizon where the creature had vanished.
Then he spoke—low, clear, needing no witness:
"Next time…"
He paused.
The smirk appeared fully now.
"I will not fight you to win."
His crimson eye locked forward.
"I will fight you…"
"…to force you to fight seriously."
The air did not stir.
But the world…
began to feel that something had irreversibly changed.
Night descended slowly—not as a sudden guest, but as a quiet gravity settling over the land.
The sky darkened to a profound velvet pierced by faint stars, and the air grew colder, carrying the scent of damp earth and stones slowly surrendering the day's heat.
Lloyd stopped.
Not retreat… but deliberate choice.
His body still bore the marks of the previous battle; pain no longer stabbed, but it lingered—reminding him with every movement that recovery was unfinished. More importantly, his mind—his true weapon—needed stillness.
"Charging now… would be suicide wearing a mask."
The thought formed silently as he moved toward a nearby cave: dark mouth, dry interior, reasonably safe. He kindled a small fire—just enough to fend off the chill without betraying his position—then sat, watching the flames.
His breathing quieted.
His body surrendered.
Lloyd slept deeply, dreamlessly—as though consciousness had been deliberately switched off for maintenance.
Some time later, a small shadow appeared at the cave entrance.
The young dragon.
It approached in silence, luminous eyes reflecting tongues of fire. It looked at Lloyd, then curled up beside him, wings folded in visible exhaustion. The strain of overusing its core was evident, yet its presence next to him felt… instinctive.
They both slept.
The night passed in rare stillness.
With dawn, everything shifted.
Golden threads of light slipped into the cave. The morning smell—grass, moisture, life—filled the space. Lloyd opened his eyes slowly, feeling the weight of his body, but it was now a bearable weight.
He rose.
Moved carefully.
Caught a rabbit near a small stream, skinned it with the practiced efficiency born of experience rather than teaching. As the meat roasted, the warm, honest scent of grilled flesh spread through the air—an unspoken declaration that life continued.
He ate quietly.
Drank from the stream.
Closed his eyes for a moment.
Body… better.
Mind… present.
Will… sharpened.
He stood, cinched his sword belt tight.
Then he spoke aloud this time:
"Very well…"
A pause.
A small, confident smile.
"Let us see this time… who prevails."
And he set off.
The path to the gate was no longer silent.
The forest thickened, light fractured, air grew heavier. Every step cracked leaves; distant creatures watched, unseen.
Then—
the feeling changed.
Light pressure on the chest.
Metallic scent in the air.
Unnatural silence.
Lloyd halted instantly.
"Not the dragon…"
he thought.
"…but no less deadly."
The ground trembled.
Then it emerged from between the trees.
A massive beast, nearly three meters long, armored in dark bony plates cracked by glowing red fissures. Its head was a grotesque hybrid of wolf and predatory insect: elongated jaws lined with serrated teeth dripping thick saliva. On its chest pulsed a visible core—dark crimson—beating slowly.
Garmoth… Path-Breaker.
A regional apex predator.
Feeder on those who dared approach the gate.
It roared.
The sound was not mere threat—it was a pressure wave that made nearby trees shiver.
Lloyd did not move.
His breathing leveled.
"Very well…"
he said, voice lethally calm.
"An excellent training opportunity."
Garmoth began circling him in a half-arc—testing distance, measuring reach, reading shoulders and knees. An ancient hunter.
Lloyd understood the message.
"If I rush… it will read me."
He drew his sword slowly.
He did not attack.
Garmoth moved first—low, angled charge, forcing Lloyd to pivot.
The instant Lloyd felt that retreat would mean being bisected—
The crimson eye answered.
Not as light.
Not as pulse.
But as sudden, icy clarity in the mind.
Sound faded.
Colors shrank.
The beast's motion became… transparent.
Not slower.
Clearer.
Garmoth's front claw dug into the earth a fraction of a second too long before the lunge. Its jaws did not snap shut immediately—it waited for a defensive flinch.
"It wants to force my guard… then bite."
Lloyd did not raise his sword.
He slipped sideways—one short, calculated step. The air that passed his neck was hot enough to blister skin.
The tail came instantly.
Follow-up strike.
But Lloyd had seen it before it began—not because the eye saw the future, but because it read muscle tension and center-of-mass shift.
He angled the blade—not to block, but to deflect.
Sparks.
Half a step back.
Garmoth stopped.
For the first time.
Its head tilted slightly.
Recalculating.
"Clever…" Lloyd thought.
"Then I must be more precise."
The beast attacked again—this time not aiming for Lloyd, but for the ground behind him. The impact cracked earth, raised thick dust, killed vision.
Tactical move.
But Lloyd felt the ki swirling around both of them—vibrations, sound, air pressure.
He moved the instant the tail emerged from the cloud.
A single swift strike against one glowing fissure.
It did not penetrate.
It sealed the crack.
Energy faltered.
Garmoth roared—not in pain… in lost balance.
"The core is not struck directly…"
Lloyd told himself.
"…it is surrounded."
The fight began to transform.
Lloyd no longer attacked the body.
He attacked rhythm.
Two steps back.
Half a feint.
One strike—then withdraw.
The crimson eye now burned from within. A faint headache bloomed; vision narrowed.
"One minute… maybe less."
Garmoth charged with full power.
Mistake.
Lloyd waited.
The instant the beast exposed its chest to gather energy—
He struck.
Focused blow on a third fissure.
Then a fourth.
The red energy flickered, the core lost rhythm.
A deafening shriek.
One final strike—not powerful… precise.
The core cracked.
A heavy collapse.
The forest fell silent.
Lloyd dropped to one knee.
The crimson eye extinguished.
Pain arrived all at once—sharp headache, heat behind the eye, light bleeding. He breathed deeply, with effort.
But he remained standing.
He looked at the beast's corpse.
"So that's how it is…"
A murmur.
"I don't need to be stronger."
He raised his eyes toward the horizon.
Toward the gate.
Toward something that could not be fooled twice.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"Next time… I will make you use your full strength."
And the crimson eye—silent now—
was still watching.
꧁End of Chapter ꧂
꧁Wait until next month, there will be a pleasant surprise for you꧂