The world liked to pretend the Dragon Rampage never happened.
A hundred years ago, dragons tore cities apart, burned armies into ash, and reminded humanity that stone walls and clever strategies meant nothing when something bigger decided otherwise. Millions died. Maps were redrawn. Entire regions vanished.
Then time passed.
People are very good at that.
Stories were softened. Records were shortened. Dragons became exaggerations, then legends, then bedtime threats used to scare children into obedience. The five great empires went back to fighting each other over borders, trade, and pride.
And the place where dragons still roamed?
That place was simply declared unlivable.
The Dragon Waste Lands.
A land where mana storms twisted the ground, monsters grew stronger instead of weaker, and nothing stayed dead long enough to be considered safe. Armies refused to march there. Scholars refused to study it. Even criminals weren't exiled that far.
Naturally, someone lived there.
Kyran woke up to Bruno snoring.
Not metaphorically. The Grimback Ursal was lying on his back like a dead mountain, one massive arm flung across Kyran's bedroll, breathing heavily enough to shake the ground. Every exhale sounded like the world itself was annoyed.
"Move," Kyran muttered.
Bruno didn't.
Kyran kicked him.
The bear opened one eye, blinked slowly, then rolled onto his side—directly onto Kyran's leg. The message was clear.
No.
Moss watched this with visible disappointment.
The Ironhorn Crownstag stood nearby, tall and dignified, antlers gleaming faintly in the gray light. He snorted once, a sharp, judgmental sound. Moss had never approved of Bruno's sleeping habits.
Above them, Razor screeched.
The Stormwing Rocling swooped low, wind tearing past Kyran's face as the massive bird flared its wings and landed on a broken pillar. Lightning crackled faintly along its feathers, as if it were laughing.
"Traitor," Kyran said flatly.
Razor tilted its head.
Kyran shoved Bruno harder this time. The bear finally rolled away with a grunt, scratching its chest and sitting up like it had simply chosen to wake now. Moss stepped forward and lowered his head, antlers nudging Kyran's shoulder—not gently.
Kyran sighed.
"I'm up."
They were all eighteen.
Kyran, Bruno, Moss, Razor.
Same age. Same scars. Same history of surviving things that should have killed them. The world would call them monster tamer and beasts.
That would be wrong.
They were brothers.
Kyran stretched, bones popping softly, and reached for the pouch at his waist. Small. Old. Ugly. A thing that looked like it should hold coins and disappointment.
Inside it was enough weaponry to start a small war.
A gift from his grandmother.
Anything stored inside weighed one-thousandth of what it should. Spears felt like twigs. Swords like toys. Survival, made portable.
He checked it out of habit. Everything was there.
Good.
He didn't like surprises.
A month ago, his mother had died.
Not dramatically. No last battle. No curse. No villain to hate.
Just an unnamed sickness that drained her until even breathing became inconvenient. Kyran had watched it happen with the same expression he used for everything else—quiet, tight, and uselessly calm.
Her last request still echoed in his head.
Go live normally.
Normal.
A fascinating concept.
Kyran had never left the Dragon Waste Lands. Never seen a city. Never walked a proper road. Never spoken to a woman who wasn't related to him by blood.
Normal, as far as he could tell, was a myth—like dragons being gone.
His grandparents had died the year before that.
First his grandmother, who had taught him how to kill without hesitation and survive without pride. Then his grandfather, who had outlived her by just long enough to bury her and decide that was sufficient effort for one lifetime.
They had once been adventurers. Real ones. The kind who bled for coin and lived anyway. Strong enough to settle in a land no one else wanted.
Now they were dead.
Which left Kyran.
And the three monsters currently arguing over breakfast.
Bruno had found something large and probably poisonous. Moss sniffed it and immediately stepped back. Razor pecked at it anyway and screeched in irritation when it fought back.
Kyran watched them, arms crossed.
This was his family.
And apparently, this was what "normal" looked like for him.
They were getting ready to hunt.
Which, in the Dragon Waste Lands, meant checking weapons, mentally preparing to die, and listening to Bruno complain like the world personally offended him by existing. Moss had chosen a direction-again-based on instincts Bruno called "pretentious nonsense." Razor circled overhead, bored and violent in equal measure.
A normal morning.
Then the world decided to be a bastard.
The air thickened.
Not heat.
Not sound.
Pressure.
The kind that crawled under skin and whispered run directly into the spine. Kyran's breath caught- not in fear, but irritation. Bruno froze mid-growl. Moss's antlers vibrated faintly. Razor screeched once and shot higher, because unlike the rest of them, he was smart.
"Oh, fuck off," Kyran muttered.
Bloodlust.
Raw. Tremendous. Sloppy. The kind only one thing in this land produced without even trying.
A dragon.
A land dragon, judging by how fast the ground started shaking. Big. Fast. Built like the concept of overkill. Not the kind you fought unless you had no other options and a poor relationship with survival.
Rule number one in the Waste Lands: If you can avoid a dragon, you fucking avoid it.
Kyran raised two fingers.
Pull back.
They turned instantly. No arguments. No pride. Living mattered more.
And then someone screamed.
Kyran closed his eyes for half a second.
"Of course," he said.
People burst out of the forest like the trees had personally rejected them.
Men and women in armor-real armor, not scrap-and-prayer like most idiots who wandered this far. Trained, too. Or they had been, before terror dismantled whatever formation they once had.
Behind them-
The forest collapsed.
Trees snapped like twigs. The ground split. Something huge bulldozed forward with all the subtlety of a natural disaster that had learned how to sprint.
Land dragon.
Fast runner.
Which meant those people weren't fleeing.
They were being escorted to death.
Then Kyran saw her.
And immediately understood how this whole situation had gone to shit.
She didn't belong.
Clean fabric. Silk. Gold thread. Noble cut. Clothing designed for polished floors and obedient servants-not mud, blood, and teeth. She was beautiful in a way that screamed protected, which in the Dragon Waste Lands translated directly to soon-to-be-corpse.
Kyran had never seen a noblewoman.
But his mother had described them often enough.
"Soft hands," she'd said once. "Expensive clothes. They think danger is something that happens to other people."
Yep.
That.
"She's slowing them down," Kyran said flatly.
Brilliant observation. Truly insightful. The dragon agreed.
It burst from the treeline in a spray of dirt and shattered wood-low, massive, scales layered like armored plates slapped together by an angry god with no sense of proportion. Its legs pistoned forward, claws tearing trenches into the ground.
It wasn't angry.
It was having fun.
The soldiers looked back.
Saw it.
Panic finished what exhaustion had started.
Then the dragon's eyes shifted.
Locked onto Kyran.
Onto Bruno.
Onto Moss.
Onto Razor.
Its bloodlust tightened-focused-like a grin.
"Well," Kyran said, deadpan, "fuck."
Bruno snarled, fur bristling, every scar on his body screaming for violence. Moss lowered his head, stance perfect despite the incoming apocalypse. Razor shrieked overhead, lightning snapping like he was personally offended by the dragon's existence.
Running was no longer an option.
Land dragons didn't lose races.
Kyran exhaled slowly.
"So much for a quiet hunt."
His hand dipped into the pouch.
Steel slid free-light, balanced, familiar. Comforting, in a things are about to go horribly wrong kind of way.
"Bruno," Kyran said. Calm. Sharp. "Front."
The bear roared and charged like the concept of restraint had never been invented.
"Moss-left flank."
The stag moved instantly, hooves cracking stone.
"Razor-eyes. Be annoying."
The Rocling screamed and dove, lightning tearing through the air.
Kyran stepped forward.
If they were going to fight a dragon-
Then they'd do it properly.
The dragon roared back.
And the Dragon Waste Lands, always eager for violence, leaned in to watch.
The dragon hit first.
Of course it did.
Land dragons didn't posture. They didn't roar for intimidation. They moved. One moment it was charging, the next it was already too close, claws tearing trenches through stone like the ground had personally offended it.
Bruno met it head-on.
That was either bravery or stupidity. Possibly both.
The Grimback Ursal slammed into the dragon's chest with enough force to snap trees behind it. Fire poured from Bruno's mouth in a roaring torrent, washing over the dragon's scales in a screaming sheet of heat.
The dragon barely noticed.
It lowered its head and bit.
Not a snap. Not a warning nip.
A full, bone-crushing bite that caught Bruno's shoulder and tore flesh free in a wet, ripping sound that made the soldiers behind them vomit.
Blood sprayed.
Bruno roared-not in pain, but fury-and wrapped both arms around the dragon's neck, claws digging deep. Fire blasted again, this time straight into its face.
That got a reaction.
The dragon screamed, thrashing, tail whipping sideways and obliterating a boulder that had existed for several thousand years and would never exist again.
"Moss!" Kyran barked.
The Crownstag hit the ground like a living siege engine.
The earth answered him.
Stone rippled. Ground rose. Jagged slabs burst upward beneath the dragon's legs, slamming joints out of alignment. Moss drove forward, antlers glowing faintly as he rammed them straight into the dragon's side.
Metal screamed.
Antler punched through scale.
Not cleanly. Not easily. But enough.
The dragon shrieked and twisted, claws raking across Moss's flank, tearing deep gouges that spilled blood in heavy arcs. Moss staggered-but did not fall.
Above them, Razor dove.
Thunder cracked like the sky had snapped.
Lightning slammed into the dragon's eyes, raw and blinding. The smell of burnt flesh hit instantly. One eye burst. Not exploded-burst-liquid and charred tissue spraying as the dragon thrashed blindly.
And still-
It kept fighting.
Because dragons didn't give a shit about pain.
Kyran moved.
He was already running, already calculating. Distance. Timing. Weight. The dragon reared, shaking Bruno loose with a violent twist. Bruno hit the ground hard enough to crater it, ribs cracking audibly.
Kyran didn't look back.
He vaulted onto Moss's back, used the stag's momentum, then jumped.
Straight at the dragon's neck.
The world slowed-not magically, not dramatically -but because Kyran's brain had learned how to carve seconds thinner than most people knew existed.
His spear struck.
Not deep. Not enough.
The dragon's scales deflected it, the tip skidding uselessly aside.
"Fuck," Kyran hissed.
The dragon's head snapped toward him.
Too fast.
A claw caught Kyran mid-air and smashed him into the ground.
Bone cracked.
Not shattered. Not fatal.
But loud enough to hurt.
Kyran rolled, spat blood, and came up already moving. He dropped the spear and drew blades instead-short, heavy, ugly weapons meant for close work.
The dragon lunged.
Moss slammed his antlers into its jaw from the side, forcing its head up. Razor hit again, lightning tearing across exposed flesh. Bruno, bleeding heavily now, tackled the dragon's hind legs and wrenched.
Tendons snapped.
The dragon collapsed with a ground-shaking impact.
That was the opening.
Kyran climbed.
Not dramatically. Not heroically.
Like a man climbing a corpse that hadn't realized it was dead yet.
He jammed a blade between two damaged scales at the base of the skull and twisted.
The dragon screamed.
Kyran pulled the blade free, plunged it again, deeper this time. Blood poured out in hot, steaming sheets. The smell was overwhelming- iron, rot, burnt meat.
The dragon thrashed wildly, tail crushing one fleeing soldier into a smear of armor and organs. Another was bitten in half mid-scream.
Kyran ignored it.
He was busy not dying.
He switched weapons mid-motion-short sword now-drove it down with both hands into the same wound, again and again, carving, sawing, forcing steel through meat that didn't want to be cut.
The dragon's movements slowed.
Its roars turned wet.
Bruno released its legs and backed away, chest heaving, blood matting his fur. Moss stood rigid, barely holding himself upright. Razor landed hard nearby, wing torn, electricity sputtering unevenly.
Kyran struck one last time.
Straight through.
The dragon shuddered.
Then went still.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Kyran slid off the corpse and sat down hard in the dirt.
"...I fucking hate land dragons," he muttered.
Blood dripped from him. From all of them.
The Dragon Waste Lands went quiet again.
And behind him, the survivors stared-silent, horrified-at the boy who had just butchered something that should not have been killable atleast not by only by a single boy and three monsters.