The moment those few scales lit up, Limpick instinctively took a step back.
It wasn't fear.
It was just too bright.
The scales at the tip of Number One's tail had been dull gray before, almost like a patch of mange. Now they blazed with a deep red glow that leaked out from underneath, lighting up the ground within three feet.
Limpick stared down as more golden text flashed in his head.
[Ancient Dragon Residual Flame Concentration: Low]
[Absorption Efficiency: 17%]
[Estimated Evolution Gain: 0.07%–0.12%]
He stared at that "0.07%" for a long time.
Number One had only gained 0.01% after days of eating, fighting, and scrambling around. And just standing here for a few moments could give it this much?
"Fuck," he muttered, not sure if he was impressed or cursing.
Number One ignored him. It stayed crouched there, tail raised, the scales pulsing like they were breathing. Its red eyes stayed locked on the pitch-black depths beyond the gateway.
Limpick followed its gaze.
He couldn't see anything.
The passage was too dark. Light from outside got swallowed up after three feet. All he could make out were the stone floor under his feet and blurry patterns on the walls—carvings or cracks, impossible to tell.
A cold wind blew from deeper inside, carrying the smell of mold and rust.
Limpick remembered the old man's words.
Burned by dragonfire.
The Targaryen dragons had scorched this place. Harren the Black and his sons had burned alive inside their own castle. How many years ago was that? A hundred? Two hundred?
The flames were long gone, the bones turned to dust. But what the hell was this "residual flame"?
He didn't understand it and didn't want to think about it right now.
The light on Number One's tail dimmed—not completely, just softened back into that grayish-red ember color. Its eyes were still fixed ahead, but it started moving, taking a few steps deeper into the passage.
Limpick followed.
After a dozen steps his eyes adjusted to the dark. He could see the walls now—covered in dense carvings of human figures and dragon-like creatures. Not quite the dragons he pictured. These were thicker, heavier, more brutish, like oversized snakes or lizards with wings and long necks.
Number One moved ahead at an easy pace, the faint glow at the tip of its tail bobbing like a firefly. Limpick followed that light, kicking things underfoot every few steps—stones, broken wood, and once something soft he didn't dare look down at.
After what felt like forever, the space suddenly opened up.
A hall.
Massive. He couldn't see the far end from the entrance.
The ceiling disappeared into blackness. Massive pillars lined both sides, thicker than two men could wrap their arms around, marching off into the dark. Every inch of them was covered in the same crowded carvings of people and dragon-like beasts.
The floor was littered with something. Limpick looked down.
Bones.
Not human bones. Way too big. One rib lay twisted on the ground, longer than his arm. Nearby was part of a spine, and farther away, half a skull with horns.
Dragon bones.
Limpick stood frozen, staring at that half-skull, throat suddenly dry.
Dragons were real.
Not just stories—something that had actually lived and died here.
Number One slipped past his feet and headed toward the skull. It moved slowly, the glow at the tip of its tail growing brighter and redder, like it was burning hotter.
Limpick followed.
Up close he saw it wasn't just half a skull. An entire skeleton was scattered across the floor—neck to tail vertebrae, broken apart. Some pieces were blackened like they'd been scorched, others pale and brittle, crumbling at a touch.
Number One crouched beside the skull, staring up into the empty eye socket.
Limpick crouched next to it.
The socket was bigger than his head, a black void big enough to hold several Number Ones. He ran his fingers over the surface—cold, rough, covered in deep grooves that looked like claw marks… or maybe letters.
He leaned in closer.
They were words.
Crude, deeply carved. He could still make out a few.
"…last…"
"…fire…"
"…return…"
The rest was shattered, the bone broken into pieces, the words cut off.
Limpick stared at the carving. Who had written it? When? And for whom?
Number One suddenly let out a sharp squeak—not its usual sound, but higher and thinner, like a challenge.
Limpick looked down.
Number One's red eyes were blazing. The tiny flame inside them had become real fire—actual little flames flickering. Its body was tense, every scale on its tail glowing like red-hot iron as it stared into the darkness behind the skull.
Limpick followed its gaze.
Something was moving back there.
Small. Far away. A quick flash in the shadow of a pillar, then gone.
But he saw it.
Gray. Furry. Crawling on the ground.
A rat.
One rat.
No—two. Three. Four—
He stood up and looked around.
Red dots were appearing everywhere in the darkness.
Tiny. Countless. Hundreds of them, like stars coming to life from behind pillars, from bone piles, from cracks in the walls.
All rat eyes.
Limpick's scalp went numb.
He had never seen so many rats in his life. Even at the docks the biggest groups were maybe a few dozen fighting over scraps. Here there were hundreds—maybe more. The sea of red eyes packed together made his skin crawl.
Number One hissed sharply at the largest rat in front. The thin, piercing sound echoed through the empty hall.
The rats didn't move.
They didn't run.
They just stayed there, hundreds of red eyes fixed on the two of them.
Limpick swallowed hard and took a slow step back.
The rats stayed put.
He took another step.
Still nothing.
Number One suddenly glanced back at him, then turned and took one step toward the horde.
Its tail was held high, the glowing scales shining like tiny lanterns in the dark. With every step Number One took forward, the big rat in front took one step back.
Limpick watched in disbelief.
A palm-sized gray rat was walking straight at several hundred others—and they were retreating.
Not from anything else.
From it.
Number One took a few more steps. The lead rat finally broke. It let out a terrified squeak and bolted. The rest followed in a wave, scattering in every direction and vanishing into the darkness in seconds.
The hall fell silent again.
Number One stayed crouched there as the glow on its tail slowly faded back to that dull red-ember color.
Limpick walked over and crouched beside it.
"You just…" He didn't know how to finish. "Scared them off?"
Number One blinked its red eyes, looking normal again.
Limpick suddenly remembered the progress bar. It had been at 0.01% when the first scale appeared. Was it 0.02% now? Or 0.03%? He hadn't had time to check before the system disappeared again.
He looked at Number One's tail.
There were more scales now.
Before there had only been five or six, scattered like bald patches. Now he counted eleven or twelve. They stretched farther up the tail. Some had already covered the fur—gray-black with reddish edges.
"That thing you absorbed from the dragon skull," Limpick said, pointing, "it worked."
Number One didn't answer, of course.
But Limpick already knew.
He stood up and looked around the hall. It was still dark and empty, but the red eyes were gone. Just the two of them now.
"This place," he said quietly, "is interesting."
That night they found a corner of Harrenhal to sleep in.
It was more like a small ruined room—door and windows long gone, leaving only four stone walls and half a collapsed roof. Moonlight spilled through the broken ceiling, lighting up a small patch of floor.
Limpick lay down at the edge of the moonlight. Number One curled up in his palm.
He couldn't sleep.
His mind kept racing—about the swarm of rats, the dragon skull, the "Ancient Dragon Residual Flame" the system had mentioned. What exactly was that residual flame? Something left behind when the dragons died? Or something else?
He rolled over, facing the wall.
The wall had the same carvings as outside—dense human and dragon-like figures. In the moonlight their long shadows stretched across the stone, almost seeming to move.
As Limpick stared at them, he noticed something.
All the carved human figures—whether they were holding objects, kneeling, or lying down—faced the same direction.
Toward the main hall.