When I finally reached the clearing, I fell face-first onto the ground.
My body simply gave out. The adrenaline that had been keeping me upright—that primal survival instinct that had dragged me through hell and multiple near-death experiences—finally ran dry. My legs buckled, my vision tunneled, and gravity did the rest.
I hit the scorched earth hard, tasting ash and copper. Every part of me hurt. My destroyed hand throbbed with a pain that went beyond physical, my shoulder bled freely through the tattered remains of my enchanted clothing, and I was pretty sure at least three of my ribs were cracked.
But I knew better than to relax.
In this hellish forest, no place was truly safe. Safety was an illusion, a comfortable lie that got people killed.
So I used every scrap of willpower I had left to lift my head and see what was in the clearing. Because surely there must be something here—otherwise, how could a clearing exist in this nightmarish forest? Everything in this place seemed designed to kill, maim, or terrorize. An open space like this had to mean something.
When I looked up, I froze.
A dragon loomed before me.
Not a juvenile. Not some lesser beast. A dragon.
It was easily forty feet long from snout to tail, its body coiled in the center of the clearing like a serpent of pure majesty and death. Scales of deep obsidian covered its body, each one the size of my palm, gleaming with an inner light that pulsed like a heartbeat. But what made it truly breathtaking were the accents—veins of molten gold running through the black scales like rivers of fire frozen in time, creating patterns that seemed almost deliberate, almost artistic.
Its wings were folded against its sides, massive membranes of shadow and flame that looked capable of blotting out the sun. Four legs ended in claws that dug furrows in the blackened earth, each talon as long as my forearm and sharp enough to split stone.
But it was the head that held my attention.
Three horns crowned its skull—one central, two sweeping back—all carved from what looked like crystallized darkness. Its eyes were closed, but I could see faint golden light seeping from beneath the lids, as if the dragon dreamed of fire. Wisps of smoke curled from its nostrils with each breath, and the air around it shimmered with heat that made the already oppressive atmosphere feel like standing inside an oven.
It was beautiful. Terrifying. Impossible.
Then came a voice.
"Quite good, Rishi."
My instructor materialized beside the dragon as casually as if he'd been standing there the whole time. His arms were crossed, and his expression was one of mild approval—the way a teacher might look at a student who'd finally solved a particularly annoying math problem.
"For someone who has just gone to the gym to build his body but has no combat experience whatsoever, managing to kill two beasts—each one higher than your own rank—is impressive."
I remained silent. I didn't even have the energy to curse him, to tell him what I thought of his "training methods" or his entertainment. My chest heaved with each breath, and keeping my head up was taking everything I had.
He met my eyes, and something in his expression shifted. Not quite pride, but close.
"You have fulfilled one condition," he said, his tone becoming more formal. "So now you can officially become my student."
I still remained silent. Not asking what the conditions were. Not asking if there were other conditions, or who had set them, or what becoming his "official" student even meant.
Because they were irrelevant. None of those questions had any impact on my current situation—bleeding out in a hellish forest while being hunted by vengeful dogs.
Priorities.
Then he continued, gesturing toward the magnificent dragon. "The second condition is this: if you kill all the wild mongrels behind you, I will give you this."
Suddenly, the dragon began to shimmer. Its massive form rippled like a reflection on disturbed water, growing translucent, fading. Within seconds, the entire forty-foot creature had vanished completely, leaving only a single drop of blood hovering in the air.
The droplet was perhaps the size of a pearl, suspended in space and glowing with that same golden-veined darkness that had covered the dragon's scales. It pulsed with power I could feel even from several feet away—a pressure in the air, a weight in my chest, like standing too close to a bonfire.
My instructor plucked the drop from the air and held it up between his thumb and forefinger, examining it with satisfaction.
"Dragon blood," he said simply. "A projection by the blood itself. Quite the impressive quality, don't you think?"
That explained it. The dragon was just a projection created by the drop of blood—an image of the dragon where the drop came from. This must be the reason why I hadn't felt the presence of a dragon even though I was so close to it. No killing intent and no overwhelming aura of these arrogant lizards. It was just an image.
Though "just" an image seemed like underselling something that had looked so real.
I looked back over my shoulder.
About eight mongrels stood at the edge of the clearing, frozen like statues. Their yellow eyes were wide, their multiple heads stock-still, not even breathing. They looked like someone had pressed pause on reality itself.
My instructor's doing, obviously. He must have stopped them the moment I entered the clearing.
I didn't thank him. He didn't deserve thanks for putting me in this situation in the first place.
Instead, I reached for my spatial storage bracelet with my working hand and pulled out a healing potion. The vial was small, filled with a thick red liquid that looked disturbingly similar to blood but smelled like mint and something floral I couldn't place.
I uncorked it with my teeth and drank the entire thing in one long gulp.
The taste was awful—medicinal and bitter with an aftertaste like licking copper. But almost immediately, I felt warmth spreading through my body, starting in my stomach and radiating outward to my limbs. The pain didn't disappear, but it became... manageable. Distant.
Why hadn't I drunk the potion while running and fighting?
Simple: healing potions should only be consumed when you're in a rest position. The body needs to be still for the magic to work properly, to direct the healing where it's needed most. Drinking it while moving—especially while fighting—would cause the magic to disperse randomly, potentially healing the wrong things or, worse, causing internal damage as torn muscles tried to knit together while still being used.
I'd learned that lesson from one of the original Rishi's etiquettes tutors. One of the few useful things that lazy bastard had actually retained.
I sat cross-legged on the scorched earth and closed my eyes, slipping into the meditation technique which was the most common thing in this world, even more common than sleeping. It wasn't complicated—just controlled breathing and focusing inward, allowing the healing magic to do its work without interference.
The world faded to a dull background hum.
Ten minutes passed in what felt like seconds.
When I opened my eyes and checked my body, I found the wounds were still there—angry red lines across my shoulder, purple bruises along my ribs, and my left hand still looked like it had lost an argument with a meat grinder. But they were no longer bleeding. The pain had reduced to a dull ache rather than the screaming agony from before. And most importantly, I could move my bitten hand now, though the fingers were stiff and responded sluggishly to my commands.
Not perfect. But workable.
I turned to my instructor, meeting his eyes with an expression I hoped conveyed exactly how tired I was of his bullshit.
"Okay," I said flatly, my voice hoarse. "I accept your condition."
Without saying anything more, I started walking toward the frozen dogs.
Behind me, my instructor's voice carried a note of amusement. "As your teacher, I should give you some pointers."
I didn't stop walking, but I listened.
"You survived and killed two beasts above your rank because of your enchanted sword and clothes. Without them, with just your current strength, you wouldn't even be able to scratch their hides properly." He paused, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "This is the plus point of having a big background. Even 'normal' equipment from a Duke's household is capable of handling these low-level beasts."
Low-level. He'd called those nightmare creatures low-level.
I was beginning to understand just how screwed the power scaling in this world was.
"Your survival instincts and observation skills are good," he continued, his tone becoming more analytical. "But your fighting style is worse than terrible. No form, no technique, just flailing and hoping. You fight like someone who learned combat from watching bar brawls."
"Thanks," I muttered sarcastically, still walking.
"But," and here his voice took on a note of genuine approval, "the thing I liked most about you is your readiness to sacrifice. You sacrificed your own hand to create an opening, to have even the smallest chance of survival. That takes a certain... purity of desperation. Most nobles would hesitate, would try to preserve themselves. You didn't."
I stopped walking and glanced back at him, my expression deadpan.
"Of course a sadist will definitely like a masochist," I said flatly.
His smile widened into something that would have made sharks jealous. "As your teacher now, I should give my student a gift."
He reached behind his back—where he'd been keeping it, I had no idea—and threw something.
A sword spun through the air, blade over hilt, catching what little light filtered through the ash-grey sky. It moved in a perfect arc, coming straight toward me before the point stabbed into the ground and stuck there, quivering slightly from the impact.
The sword stood before me like Excalibur waiting for Arthur.
I stopped and grabbed the hilt, pulling the blade from the scorched earth with a metallic shing. Even though I'd only had it for a short time, I could tell immediately what it was.
The training sword. The one I'd left plugged into the mother hound's neck.
I ran a finger along the blade. It had been cleaned—no blood, no ash—and felt... different. Sharper. Like something had changed about it during its time embedded in monster flesh.
Ah, what a gift, I thought bitterly. Returning my own thing to myself. How generous.
I turned my head toward my instructor, meeting his amused gaze.
"If I am 'your student' and about to die," I asked carefully, "will you help?"
His expression shifted into something that might have been reassuring if his eyes weren't glinting with that constant undercurrent of amusement.
"Of course," he said, his tone suddenly warm and teacher-like. "I will not let my new toy—" he caught himself, cleared his throat dramatically, "—ahem, I mean my new student be spoiled by some shitty mongrels."
"..."
I stared at him for a long moment, parsing what he'd just said, specifically the part where he'd almost called me a toy.
Then I turned my head back toward the frozen hounds without another word and started walking again.
The sword felt good in my hand. Balanced. Light. The hilt fit my grip like it had been made for me—which, technically, it had been. Standard-issue training equipment for noble houses, sized and weighted for the user.
I didn't know if the allure of dragon blood was greater than the pain I was about to inflict on myself by fighting eight more three-headed nightmare dogs.
But I was about to find out.
The eight hounds remained frozen at the clearing's edge, their six eyes per creature tracking my approach but their bodies locked in place by whatever technique my instructor had used. They looked furious—muscles tensed, fangs bared, saliva dripping from their multiple mouths.
Waiting to tear me apart.
I stopped about ten feet away and took a breath, feeling my ribs protest. Then I looked over my shoulder one more time.
My instructor stood by where the dragon had been, the drop of blood still hovering beside him, pulsing with golden light.
Waiting.
I turned back to the hounds and raised my sword.
"Alright, you sons of bitches," I muttered. "Let's finish this."