After days of relentless flight, I finally found refuge in what I hoped would be a secluded cave. My body had been on autopilot ever since the shocking revelation—I was a Dragonoid. That knowledge had shattered the fragile remnants of my calm, flooding me with confusion and searing pain. I longed for a moment to process it all. Exhausted beyond measure, I let myself slip into what I prayed would be peaceful slumber.
But when I opened my eyes, I was no longer in a cave. Cold, damp stone walls enclosed me in a prison cell, the air thick with decay and despair. Every inch of my body throbbed—not just from fatigue, but from something far more sinister, a gnawing darkness that clung to my very soul.
"Oi, looks like the flying pest is awake," a gravelly voice sneered from beyond the iron bars.
I lifted my head slowly, eyes locking onto a figure standing there—an old man whose very presence screamed villainy. He carried the weight of centuries on his twisted frame, his sharp, calculating eyes reflecting a mind steeped in cruelty and ancient malevolence.
"You'll help me destroy the strongest nation that adores your kind," he declared with regal arrogance. "But first, we'll make you awaken your third eye and see the true extent of your power." From beneath his robes, he produced a tattered, ancient scroll.
"Who says I'll help you do anything?" I growled, venom dripping from my words.
Ignoring my defiance, he tossed the scroll into my cell. With a snap of his fingers, unbearable agony tore through me as if my very essence was being shredded and rewoven in a relentless cycle. I doubled over, clutching my sides, struggling to stifle the screams ripping free from my throat.
The old man's eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction as he watched me writhe in torment. "You'll suffer until you awaken. You'll learn who holds the reins here." He turned away, closing his eyes in silent meditation.
Gasping for breath, I noticed two more figures entering the chamber. A tall, slender man watched me with a sadistic grin, eyes glinting with mockery. Beside him, a young woman with fiery red hair tied in intricate Chinese buns entered, her dress emblazoned with a strange bird insignia fluttering with her every step. Her gaze fell on me, twisting into a scowl so fierce it burned with bloodlust.
They exchanged pleasantries, their disdain palpable, before exiting and leaving me alone with my ceaseless agony.
Days melted into nights, time losing meaning as pain surged relentlessly. My suppressed screams echoed through the hollow corridors, a haunting symphony of suffering.
Desperation clawed at my mind. To survive, I forced my thoughts to wander—to anything but the torment. I counted the passing days: on this planet, days stretched over eighteen hours, weeks spanned nine days, and months lasted twenty-seven days. By my reckoning, 283 days had passed in this living hell. The pain never dulled—it intensified, tearing me down piece by piece.
I prided myself on my iron will, my capacity to endure. But even I broke.
Driven by desperation, I grasped the ancient scroll. The moment my fingers touched the parchment, the text revealed itself, glowing with divine clarity. I understood every word despite never having seen the language before. It was the god factor—my divine connection unlocking forbidden knowledge.
The scroll spoke of awakening my third eye, unlocking my full potential. The old man's voice broke into my thoughts, now tinged with the calm authority of a teacher.
"You've read it. Meditate. Are you not from this world?" he asked, his words cutting through my pain.
I sneered but obeyed, retreating to a corner to begin the cultivation the scroll demanded. The power felt natural—like a river long dammed now free to flow. Slowly, strength returned.
Two weeks later, my power surged back stronger than ever. I tried to conceal my aura, but the old man was no fool. He sensed the shift instantly.
"Don't think of trying anything," he warned calmly, though his voice held an unmistakable edge of authority. He could crush me with ease—even now.
"Follow me," he commanded, unlocking the gate with a wave.
I caught my reflection in a puddle on the floor: dirt-smeared light brown skin, tangled hair cascading down my back longer than ever before. I had always wanted long hair, but not like this—this was the price of captivity.
As we walked the shadowed halls, I kept my eyes on his back, noting the bracelet encircling my wrist—a pulsing reminder that my power was shackled, that I remained his prisoner for now.
But that would change. One day, I vowed, I would kill them all—him and his disciples. I just needed strength first.
We entered a vast chamber where nine figures knelt in silence, heads bowed, faces blank of emotion. They were his disciples—beasts who reveled in brutality. I sneered at them, halting at the threshold as the old man took his seat.
In eerie unison, the disciples rose, their synchronized movements haunting in their precision.
I stood defiant, watching them with disdain. Their screams and torments echoed through the castle walls. They were heathens—all of them—and one day, they would fall.
For now, I played the broken pawn, feigning submission while my mind wove plans of vengeance. I would obey, bide my time, and grow in secret.
When the moment came, I would no longer be a prisoner.
I would be their destroyer.