Start of Arc 2 of Voume 1!
Time for get some answers on where mc is!
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He was running again. Feet slapping against synthstone. Breath catching in the acid fog. The neon sigils of Camelot burned high overhead, ancient circuitry embedded into the bones of the city, spelling out names no one remembered.
He ran through alleys lit by dying plasma lamps, chased by the hum of patrol drones. His lungs burned, his heart raced, and through it all he smiled as he clutched the bundle of stolen food. A boy had to eat after all and it wasn't as if out of the kindness of its heart that the state would feed him.
He was an orphan of the Albion Sector, a ghost among ruins, a nobody scraping by on the carcass of a planet that had once been great.
Camelot, oh sweet Camelot. Once a dream. Now a dirge. He still feels the laments of the people everyday in the streets and in their homes as their world had fallen to such a poor state when their great and noble King fell and a tyrant took over.
Now the world of towers and domes, spires of silver, and seas that shimmered like mirrors had turned into a monument to decay. A planet named for an idea long since lost to dust. The banners that hung above the citadels were faded relics from before the fall, depicting kings that had ruled not one world, but a thousand.
Not only that, but the Empire was dying. The stars around Albion had long gone red. Even the great orbital rings that circled the planet were falling apart, raining debris like shooting stars every night.
And yet, people still came to this sector. He saw them now as he reached the edge of the city: pilgrims, nobles, offworlders, outsiders cloaked in the mantles of a thousand cultures, all drawn by the same thing. The Sword in the Stone.
The Gathering of Claimants stretched for kilometers across the old amphitheater plains. The sword sat in the center of it all, embedded in an anvil of fused star-iron, surrounded by gravestones of those who had tried and failed. Above it hung the banners of a dying realm, fluttering in artificial wind.
And high above, from the balcony of the sky-palace, King Vortigern of the Ninth Dynasty stood flanked by his power-armored knights. The man looked carved from steel and pride, his cape trailing like the flag of a forgotten empire.
He raised his hand. The crowd went silent. "By decree of the Albion Star Council," his amplified voice boomed, "this day marks the one thousandth attempt to draw the Sword of Kings. Let those who believe themselves chosen step forward and prove their right beneath the dying suns."
The crowd roared. One by one, the chosen stepped forward, knights in radiant power armor, psionic mages humming with power, cyborg nobles whose bloodlines traced to the Great Expansion. Each laid a hand upon the sword. Each failed.
Sparks. Silence. Disappointment. Hours passed. The twin suns sank low, turning the clouds crimson. The boy, Artorius no, Arthur watched from the shadows of the market wall, his stomach still hollow even with the stolen food he ate, yet his heart fuller than it had ever been. He didn't know why he couldn't look away. The blade called to him. Not like a voice, but like gravity.
When the last challenger left and night finally fell, he crept closer. The plaza was empty now, the air electric. Before this place might have been well guarded but after thousands of years of failed attempts it just became an ornament of the world. The sword glowed faintly in the dark, a thin line of light running along its fuller like a sleeping heartbeat.
He placed a hand upon the hilt. It was warm. For a heartbeat, the whole planet seemed to pause. Then it happened. The stone cracked. Light spilled upward, swallowing the dark night sky.
The boy gasped, wrenching the blade free with a cry that echoed across the empty field. The sword's radiance flared, filling the sky, striking the orbital rings high above until they shimmered.
Somewhere distant, alarms began to sound. On the sky balconies high above, the royal guards stirred, crimson visors flashing. "Unauthorized retrieval!" one barked. "The Sword, someone has taken it!"
Power-armored knights leapt into the air, their thrusters igniting like comets. The boy blinked against the glare, clutching the sword to his chest. The weapon hummed, weightless, alive. Then he heard the shouting, saw the lights closing in and ran.
He sprinted through the shattered plazas, the blade's glow illuminating the streets. Overhead, drones swooped low. The knights were on the hunt. From within the shadows stepped out an ancient Magi robes whispering like dust, eyes burning with the memory of ages. He had been waiting for this moment for thousands of years, the Heir had returned!
He woke up screaming. His hand clawed for a weapon that wasn't there. The smell of blood and crystal smoke filled his nose. His muscles tensed, ready for another round of agony for the gleam of silver scales, for the voice of the Noble Dragon promising another round of "experiments."
Silence answered him. He forced a breath and took stock. The room was an elegant nightmare, sculpted from argent crystal and tempered light. Walls curved like the inside of an eggshell, seamless and faintly alive. The air was too clean, clinical, with the metallic tang of silver dust and alchemical smoke clinging at the back of his throat.
Chains of runic metal hung from the ceiling, their sigils still pulsing with faint glow, restraints once strong enough to bind a dragon. At the center, a massive crystalline dais rested like a dissecting altar, scorched in places where dragonfire had struck or where essence had been drained. Shattered glass vials and scales littered the floor around it, each fragment catching light like frozen tears.
And beyond it all, a massive window of argent glass revealed the storm outside, silver lightning slashing through a night sky filled with drifting shards of crystal dust. Even though Artorius had never been here before he was pretty sure he was in the bedroom of the silver dragon.
Looking at the constant messages at the corner of his eyes, he addressed it, letting it click into focus.
You have slain [Noble Silver Dragonling — Level 13]
Congratulations! You have leveled up. Class: [Storybook Squire] → Lv. 6
Congratulations! You have leveled up. Race: [True-Blood DragonMen] → Lv. 6
Congratulations! You have leveled up. Archetype: [Leader] → Lv. 6
Stat gains: +1 INT, +1 WIL, +1 CHA
It looked as if each one had jumped a level which was great but for the hard work he put in killing that thing he deserved way more! Then the next thing he did was bring up his character sheet, something he hadn't done in a while.
Character Sheet
Name: Artorius Pendrath
Titles: None
Archetype: Leader[Awakened] – lvl 6
Race: True-Blood Dragonmen(Homo Draconis)[G-hatchling] – lvl 6
Class: Storybook Squire(House Pendragon)[Tier 0] – lvl 6
Health: 140/140 | Stamina: 120/120 | Mana: 150/150
Stats
Strength - 14
Dexterity - 10
Constitution - 14
Intellect - 16
Willpower - 20
Perception - 11
Charisma - 22
Luck - 23
Trait: Commander, Stoic
Skills: Inspect, Heroic Blow, Last Stand
Mutation: Draconic Adaptation, Draconic Communion
Laws: None
Technique: None
Words of Power: Flame
Artorius noticed he had a new line for words of power, he did not know the system could do that, but it was nice to have everything neat and organized. Though that did make him wonder what other avenues of power were there that he didn't know?
Just then he was pulled out of his thoughts when a familiar voice, lazy and dry, called out. "Hey, you are awake, how are you doing?"
Artorius turned around and saw Ouroboros floated into his room, eyes gleaming faintly like twin suns. "You…" He stopped, throat still feeling patchy and dry. "We…won?" He still couldn't recall what happened when he activated the skill, everything was a blank.
"You should've seen yourself," Ouroboros said, tail flicking as he handed him a bowl filled with something. "A mess of blood, light, and melodrama. You even glowed. Scared me for a second. We managed to patch you up…sort of."
Artorius sat up slowly and ate whatever was in the bowl. He learned long ago not to pay too much attention to what he ate here. His body still ached. The air was thick with the scent of molten crystal. "How long was I out?"
"Three days," Ouroboros said, stretching. "Long enough for your little rebellion to start redecorating." The serpent gestured toward the open chamber beyond.
Artorius stepped out onto the balcony. The tower once the pristine sanctum of the Noble Dragon was now a ruin of melted walls and half-healed wounds. The once-silver crystal glowed dull amber under the artificial light of the Nest. And yet, it was alive.
Draconic creatures scurried through the debris, repairing cracks with molten resin and weaving runes across the walls. Wyverns hauled crystal blocks; smaller constructs welded supports; and at the center of it all, the survivors of his army worked in organized chaos.
Some bowed as he stood above them on the balcony. Others just nodded, eyes filled with a strange, quiet reverence. Ouroboros slithered up beside him. "Most decided to stay. A few wanted out, so I gave them the boot."
Artorius smiled faintly. "You didn't eat them, did you?" He asked, he noticed long ago how savage the nature of dragons were and the inhumane things they would do.
"Tempting," Ouroboros said. "But no. You're rubbing off on me, boy."
Artorius leaned on the balcony rail, watching the work below. They weren't human, not even close. Each was alien and something made in defiance of cruelty. And now they looked to him.
"So, what's the plan, boss?" Ouroboros asked, tone casual but eyes sharp.
Artorius exhaled. "That's a good question." He turned to face the horizon, a roiling expanse of crimson clouds and drifting shards of stone. The air shimmered with heat, and the horizon bent under a perpetual twilight glow. Then turning back to the old dragon and looking him head on, he said. "I think it's time you tell me more about this place!"
Ouburus's wings rustled, scales catching the dying light. "You want to know about the Nest?" he asked, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Fine. Walk with me."
Ouroboros led him through the tower, talking as they walked. The corridor beyond the Silver Dragon's chamber was half-collapsed, its once-gleaming walls dulled to gray. Shattered columns laid everywhere with runes sparked weakly along the floor, dying embers of power seeping into the cracks. Every step Artorius took echoed through the ruin, the tower no longer sang with power; it groaned, as if mourning itself.
The air was thick with dust and the faint tang of molten metal. The heart of the tower, once a sanctum of order and perfection, had been ripped open and gutted. The Silver Dragon's death had not been clean.
"As you may or may not know," Ouroboros began, claws clicking against the floor, "this place you've been fighting in isn't ordinary. It's a Dragon Nest. One of many buried deep within the Dragon Eyrie. The Great Dragons built them long ago as incubators for hatchlings, crucibles for the young. Training grounds. Testing chambers. Playpens of cosmic cruelty."
They stepped through a hall where molten light ran down the walls like liquid veins. "So all this…" Artorius gestured. He recalled the message he got when he arrived here. "Is a test?"
Ouroboros said nothing at first. They descended the fractured stairs that wound down the side of the tower. Each step trembled under their weight, shedding flakes of argent crystal that fell into the mist below. The wind was alive here, full of whispers, carrying echoes of long-dead roars that might've been memory or something worse.
"Yes," the dragon said finally, gesturing with a clawed hand at the ruins sprawling below them, "these Dragon Nests are a cradle and a grave, depending on who you ask."
Artorius glanced around. The tower's base merged into the terrain, a jagged landscape that shimmered faintly with scales, as though the very ground were alive. "A grave," he repeated. "A grave for what?"
"For them," Ouburus said, and his eyes flicked upward. Artorius followed his gaze and saw nothing but desolation wasteland all around.
"I don't see it…" he slowly intoned.
Ouroboros snorted, the sound sharp and scornful. "You young ones are always blind to what's under your feet." His tone darkened, reverent and cold. "Every Nest is built atop the corpses of dragons who came before. The ancients, the powerful, the greats, and the ones whose names even the stars forgot. The Dragons Above cast their dead down here to feed the next generation. A feast for the young."
Artorius felt his stomach turn. The ground underfoot, the plains, the cliffs, the rivers of molten light all of it was made from the flesh and bones of beings so vast he barely even noticed he was walking on their corpses.
"Thus each biome you see here which are as varied as the stars is one or more dragon corpses that changes the landscape and leaves treasures and creates natural resources. For example when a dragon of flame falls it leaves behind deserts of molten glass and rivers that burn like liquid dawn; from its bones, fire-orchids bloom and drink embers instead of water. When a storm dragon comes, its scales dissolve into the air, becoming thunderclouds that never disperse lightning veins eternally across the sky above its corpse, each strike an echo of its old rage.
From all of them, treasures form. Scales harden into crystal lattices more valuable than any metal. Their teeth fossilize into blades sharper than magic. Their blood becomes rivers of condensed mana, and their hearts beat for millennia, radiating pure power."
He looked out again, seeing now what his mind had refused to recognize: ridges that were ribs, valleys that were wings folded in eternal rest, rivers flowing through the sockets of dead eyes. "Like a whale fall," he murmured. "Life feeding on death."
Ouburus gave a low hum of approval. "I don't know what that is, but I feel as if that is a good comparison. The death of one great dragon feeds countless young ones. The scales become hills, the blood becomes rivers, the marrow becomes storms. From death, creation." His tone softened, almost fond. "That's the way it's always been."
They reached the bottom of the stairs, stepping onto a plateau of smooth, silvery stone. The surface pulsed faintly beneath their feet, veins of faint light running through it like blood still flowing in the corpse of the world.
"This tower," Ouburus continued, tapping a claw against the ground, "used to be her claw. The Noble Silver's mother, to be exact. A Dragon lady, dead long before even my time. Her corpse fell here, and the Silver whelp made it her domain. Fitting, don't you think?"
Artorius stared at the tower rising behind them, the jagged spire now revealed to be part of a titanic claw, its other fingers buried deep in the mist. "This… all of this is her body?"
"Part of it," Ouburus said. "The rest is scattered for leagues. You could walk for a lifetime and not reach her heart."
Artorius was silent for a long time. The sheer scale of it all pressed down on him, suffocating. Every breath felt smaller, more meaningless. "That's really messed up, to have these Nest built from the dead," he said quietly.
"Yes." Ouburus's tone was almost casual, but there was something old and tired in his eyes. "This is the nursery of dragonkind. Hatchlings are sent here or born here to feed, fight, grow. To prove they deserve to exist. The weak die and join the earth. The strong consume them and climb higher."
He swept his claw through the air, tracing invisible circles. "And the cycle continues. Birth, hunger, death, ascension. Over and over."
Artorius let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. "That's insane. You are all insane!"
"Welcome to dragonkind," Ouburus replied dryly. "Sanity's never been one of our virtues."
They continued walking along the plateau. In the distance, fields of luminous moss grew over bones the size of citadels. Strange creatures, scaled and wingless fed from the glowing marrow. Further out, massive geysers of flame erupted at irregular intervals, each one marking where a dragon's heart still beat faintly in death.
Ouburus's voice cut through the roar of the wind. "See, this place isn't just a prison. It's a test. A proving ground. The Dragons Above built the Nests so their offspring would never grow soft. Only the ones who survive here are allowed to ascend to the heavens and take their place among the stars."
"Tell me," Artorius said quietly. "You said this is one of many? So is there more?"
Ouburus gave a low, humorless chuckle. "Countless. Millions, maybe more. This is just one of many Nests in the Dragon Eyrie, it is afterall the center of the Dragon Faction's domain and spans countless realities. You're standing in the heart of the multiverse's largest dragon lair."
Artorius said nothing. The scope of it was beyond comprehension. Each dead dragon that once been great and mighty now reduced to soil and stone, their glory stripped away, feeding the next cycle their corpses just fodder for the next generation. It was beautiful. It was grotesque. It was magnificent and horrifying.
Ouburus glanced at him sidelong. "You look pale, boss. Don't tell me the view's too much for you."
Artorius's lips twitched, a bitter ghost of a smile. "No," he said softly. "Just… realizing how small I really am."
"Good," Ouburus said with a rumble of amusement. "That's the first step to surviving here."
Coming back inside, the air was colder inside and the walls pulsed faintly, still alive, still bleeding faint silver light. "Tell me something," Artorius said at last. "You said this is a proving ground. For who, exactly? All these creatures are they… dragons?"
However suddenly out of nowhere his body shuddered mid-step. Pain rippled through his chest, a delayed echo of his Last Stand. He stumbled, catching himself against the wall.
"Careful," Ouroboros said, flicking his tongue. "Side effects. You pushed too far."
"Yeah," Artorius breathed, steadying himself. "Feels like every nerve is on fire."
"Because it is," Ouroboros replied. "Skills like that, powerful ones they eat at you. The System gives, but it always takes. Don't use it recklessly again unless you plan to die."
"I will try not to put if something tough needs killing I will do what I need to," Artorius smirked through the pain.
"Then you're even dumber than I thought," Ouroboros muttered affectionately. "Come there is something that might be able to help." They walked in silence after that, the only sound the faint hum of living crystal and the distant echoes of the storm above.
"In regards to your question, yes all these creatures here are draconic creatures. There are endless multitudes of dragons in the multiverse, but you can divide all of dragonkind into three groups, boy. Remember this, it'll save your life, if you're lucky."
He lifted a claw, the silver light of the sky glinting across its ridged surface. "First, there are the Lesser Dragons. They make up nearly all the population here, ninety-nine percent of what you'll see. Hatchlings, ferals, fledglings. Some are clever enough to form packs or lairs, but most are beasts born, they fight, they die. Simple as that."
Artorius frowned. "You mean the ones I've seen, the scaled horrors, the things that hunted me through the lands and sky, those were lesser?"
Ouburus chuckled, low and deep. "Aye. The common breed or whatever scraps of rank they squabble over, they're still the bottom rung. Most will never see their first molting. They die screaming in someone else's stomach."
The memory surged unbidden, a nightmarish blur of pursuit through a forest of bones, the sky filled with shadows and fire. The shrieks, the eyes burning with mad hunger. He'd thought them gods once. Now he realized they were children, gnawing each other to survive.
His stomach turned cold. "If those were the weak," he muttered, "then I'm already dead."
Ouburus's tail flicked. "You've already killed one of the strong. That puts you above most."
"The Silver Dragon?"
"Mm." The old dragon's tone shifted, losing some of its humor. "That brings us to the Greater Dragons, the second group. The ones born of noble bloodlines, scions of the Elders and Dragonflight Leaders. Nobles, kings, sovereigns, they play a different game entirely. Where lesser dragons only seek to survive, the greater ones seek to rule."
Artorius turned his gaze downward. He could almost feel its presence again, the Silver Dragon's voice, calm but merciless, its claws gleaming in the light of its experiments. He'd fought it for what felt like eternity, every blow shattering bone and will alike. "So that was… one of them?" he asked quietly.
"The weakest of them," Ouburus said. "A noble, yes, but barely fledged. One of the brood who couldn't ascend. It made this tower its cage because it feared the sky above it."
Artorius felt his throat tighten. The Silver Dragon had been a nightmare given flesh, a creature who twisted minds and bodies alike. If that was weakness, he didn't want to imagine what true power looked like.
He forced himself to ask, "And the last group?"
Ouburus smiled faintly not with warmth, but with the weariness of someone who had seen too much. "The Supreme Dragons. The pinnacle. Beings born from the cosmos itself. They're not rulers, not really, they're laws. Concepts given form. Each a living principle. I doubt one's even around here except me of course. Last one had been here eons ago"
Artorius gave him a look. "You're one of them?"
Ouburus glanced at him, angered by his disbelief. "Don't give me that look, boy. I am a mighty and powerful dragon! None can dare mess with me"
Patting softly on the back, he said. "Of course, whatever makes you happy buddy." He was pretty sure the little dragon had deluded himself into thinking he was great and mighty after spending who knows how long under the thumb of the silver dragon.
It was as if the little creature could see what was passing through his mind and became even more aggrieved. "Just you watch, boy. You will regret underestimating me."
Laughing softly, Artorius tried to pat him again, but his hand was smacked away, to change the topic and make him stop blowing his lid. Artorius asked on the off hand. "So whatever happened to the one here long ago?"
"The last Supreme born here in this Nest basically took over the entire place before it even grew wings. For a time, this place burned brighter than the heavens. All had to swear fealty to him and for a time there was peace here and order."
Artorius stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or shudder. "And what happened to it?"
"Who knows?" Ouburus's gaze drifted to the horizon, where the clouds churned like a sea of blood. "Maybe it ascended. Maybe it devoured itself. Power like that never ends quietly."
Silence fell between them. The wind whispered across the ridge, carrying with it the faint echoes of roars too ancient to belong to any living throat. "So what if I want out… I climb."
Ouburus's grin faded into something more somber. "If you want out," he said, "you ascend."
The word hung heavy between them, vast and hollow. "Ascend," Artorius echoed. "What does that mean, exactly?"
The dragon turned his head toward the horizon, eyes glinting with faint amusement. "It means what it sounds like. You rise not just in strength, but in essence. You shed the lesser forms of flesh and soul. You become something more. That's the only way out of the Nest, to prove you're worthy to leave it to the ones above who watch."
"Wait…" Artorius said as something like that did to happen to him, twice. "Do you mean when you draw the attention of powerful dragons and get messages from the system?" Artorius asked.
The small dragon paused and looked at him, "Don't tell me you drew the attention of some higher-ups unto you?"
"Yep," he nodded his head bringing up the Void worm who had been happy he slew the luck dragon and the Weather Ryu which was pleased with his fight against the Dragon Lancer.
"Well I be damned," Ouburus said. "There is some hope to you after all!"
"Hey…" Artorius called out for himself in defense.
Ignoring him, Ouburus continued, "You drew the attention of the Void Worm Dragon Elder Vorthuun and the Weather Ryu Dragon Lord Raigetsu! Not a bad start now all you need to do is to have them patronize you."
"Patronize me, what for?"
"So they can give you their blood," it rolled its eyes as if he was a nitwit.
"Wait you mean like this," he said, pulling out the item that Ser Ector gave him. White Dragon Queen Blood(Evolution Crystal)
Once again Ouburus was shocked, "How do you have that? Wait, don't tell me you are a royal heir…"
"No really," Artorius answered, "this is just something someone gave me."
Snorting, the dragon cursed under its breath, "He says something someone gave him!" Turning to look at him, he said. "Do you know what you have there?! That's the blood of a Dragon Queen. Your path is set for you, all you have to do is make it to Level 25 and you are out of this hellhole."
"Wait really?" Artorius asked in surprise, now finally seeing the light after so long. Though to be honest besides being prisoner here in this tower which he did not know for how long, he had only been travelling for a week or two outside.
"Don't get too excited," Ouburus said. "Why has that thing been at level 13 for so long when it had access to so many weak creatures it tortured day in and out with plenty dying on its table."
"Yeah, why is that?" Artorius wondered.
"Because it only gets harder from here, you will need to seek out tougher and tougher opponents to get any levels. That's when you run into the real bastards in this place." Ouburus explained.
"Anyways this is starting to make sense, you said your race was True-Blood Dragonmen? I never heard about Dragonmen, but you must be descended from the White Queen. Most likely she is an ancestor and your bloodline must have degraded, you dropped in rarity or you are a half-breed with some lesser being!"
"I'm not too sure about that," Artorius disagreed. He was pretty sure he would know if his ancestor was a dragon or for that matter his mother. Though on the other hand, in the last minute before he came here it looked as if family knew a lot of stuff which they had been keeping from him and he never knew who his mother was. It was a subject his father barely spoke about.
Looking at Ouburus, maybe he was on to something. Artorius had to ask, "So if I can't make it to Level 25 what happens?"
Ouburus shrugged, the motion lazy and indifferent. "Then you stay. Forever. The Nest doesn't open its claws for failures. You either transcend this place or become part of it."
He gestured toward the endless plains; the mountains of bone, the rivers of molten blood, the forests of crystallized scale. "Every stone, every corpse, every scrap of power under your feet once tried and failed. You'd be in good company."
Artorius's jaw tightened. The enormity of it pressed down like a physical weight. Ascend or rot. Those were the choices. He took a step forward and staggered. Pain lanced through his ribs once again sharp and sudden. His vision flickered white for an instant, and the world seemed to tilt.
Ouburus's eyes flicked toward him. "Still feeling it, I see."
Artorius pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the faint, erratic pulse beneath the scar that marked where his body had nearly been torn apart. "Yeah," he muttered. "The skill… takes more than it gives."
"Anyways we are here," it said at last, the corridor opened into a vast chamber, the heart of the tower. And there it was. The corpse of the Noble Silver Dragon.
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A/N: Start of a new arc, hate to start it with a lot of lore dump but it was time to give answers. Now we all know the way out!
Reach level 25 and ascend!
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Chapter 13 Recap!
Leveled up True-Blood DragonMen Race to Lvl. 6!
Leveled up Leader Archetype to Lvl. 6!
Leveled up Storybook Squire Class to Lvl. 6!