Reincarnated Monster

Chapter 1: Goblins and Death

Truth be told, my guest, I didn't always have this streak about me. And no, I do not mean the kind of streak where you possess a flattering, distinctive mark. I mean the kind of streak that allows you to eat someone... or something. Yes, that kind—an angry streak.

I should mention that I am an Astlan dragon of the older generation.

Surprised? You should be. After all, most dragons are not known for being very communicative or, for the most part, intelligent, especially in these lands. They are creatures of might, instinct, magic, and gluttony—if you care to listen to those callous human gossips. And trust me when I say that the rumor about dragons being gold-hoarding snobs is untrue, though we do like a little sparkle from time to time. Still, there are exceptions to every rule, and I am one of them—though my case is, to say the least, unique.

You see, before I was reincarnated as a dragon, I was human. Strange as it may seem, I retained all my memories from my human life, along with any intelligence I’d managed to accumulate. There are many different classes of dragons and distinctions between them, but that’s a topic best saved for later.

Now, on to the reason for my mean streak.

It’s quite simple, really. Years of fighting other baby wyrms, fully grown dragons, and facing countless challenges have given me this impatient, mean streak.

Well, enough about my complaints. Let me now tell you the beginning of my story as a human—and the lesson you should learn from its end: do not suffer fools or gossips lightly.

<><><><><>

When I was human, I went by the name Alan Mead. Of course, now I go by an entirely different name, in a different tongue—a leathery one.

I was the son of a fairly well-off merchant in a fairly well-off town. The names don’t matter anymore. The fateful day when the Lady—Death herself—decided to welcome me into her embrace was a hot and humid one. And as you’ve no doubt inferred by now, I do not mean the warm, loving embrace of a spouse or lover. I mean death, with her feminine skeletal frame in all its glory. It gets old not to imagine death as a cold lover after you’ve met her as many times as I have.

Still, in my human life, I only met the Lady three times up close. The first was at my mother’s death. The second, with a slave I’d met. And the third time, of course, was my own death. I suppose my luck had run out—or as they say, third time’s the charm.

The incident of my death occurred under the blistering sun. Our caravan had been moving at a slow crawl along the forest road, steadily making our way toward one of the larger cities thriving on trade. Just as the front caravan shouted that a clearing was in sight, we were attacked.

No one was prepared. Not the guards, not the two horses defecating by the road, not the couple exchanging spit and kisses in one of the finer caravans, and certainly not the merchant who had gone to relieve himself near me at the side of the road. Not even me.

And trust me—I’m an observant person.

It was unfortunate. Had we been attacked at the clearing, just a short stretch from our destination, our chances of survival would’ve been better. But here, on the forest road, those chances were slim.

The first sign of the attack came when the merchant fell mid-piss, a sleek black arrow lodged in the side of his head. Blood mixed with the puddle he’d made as his body thudded to the ground. I, along with the others, stared blankly at his corpse, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Then all hell broke loose.

Tattooed, black-skinned elves burst from the left side of the woods, while green goblins riding dire wolves stormed from the right. I had to laugh at our misfortune. What were the chances that both elves and goblin marauders would attack our caravan at the same time? The only certainty, besides our imminent deaths, was that the merchant’s piss puddle would spread no further. His blood had covered all of it and now pooled around his corpse.

I’d love to say that I went down fighting and that my life had cost them dearly, but the truth is, all I managed to do was step on a goblin’s oversized green toe and kick him in the groin. Perhaps if that goblin had been the leader and screamed a little louder while doing the ridiculous dance that comes with that kind of pain, I might’ve maintained some dignity before an iron-tipped arrow, shot by another goblin, pierced my skull.

Shows you shouldn’t believe the rumors—goblins aren’t terrible archers after all.

But don’t waste your pity on me. I died instantly, painlessly, as darkness overwhelmed me—though not before I heard a soft, seductive, and incredibly ancient feminine voice, giggling.

Chapter 2: Consciousness

I woke up with a sharp screech. As I opened my eyes, the first thing I realized was that I felt very cramped inside a dark space. The memories of my own death, and the deaths of others, came rushing back. How I was alive, I did not know, nor did I care to guess. There would be time for reckoning later, but for now, my present situation was far more pressing.

The walls around me felt hard, yet perhaps breakable if I applied enough force. I don’t know where this thought came from, but I had an irresistible urge to push against them.

And so, I pushed with all my might. The result was, to say the least, unsatisfying. Not even a dent. No sign that I had affected the walls at all. A sudden image of a green goblin shooting a bow flashed through my mind.

Anger, cold and sharp, surged through me like fire in my veins, and I pushed again. This time, I was rewarded—a small, jagged crack appeared. Encouraged, I pummeled my head against the crack, and with a final burst of effort, daylight streamed in.

I stuck my head through the hole and, with a quick glance at my surroundings, felt a jolt—a lightning bolt of surprise. There were ugly little baby dragons of various colors rearing their heads from their own respective shells. Like me, they were checking out their surroundings—until their eyes all settled on something behind me. Every one of the wyrms stared intently at whatever was there.

A loud snort urged me to turn around. When I did, my vision was filled with the sight of a massive emerald dragon. Faced with a creature a thousand times my size, what could I do but drop my jaw in shock?

Seeing this, the emerald dragon tossed a slab of bloody meat directly toward my wide-open mouth. I would’ve applauded that perfect throw, truly, if my mouth weren’t suddenly filled with the rich, metallic taste of blood—delicious, delicious blood.

I hadn’t realized how ravenous I was until that moment. The conflicting sensations of disgust and enticement surged through me. I couldn’t decide whether to spit the meat out or devour it.

Then a sudden thought struck me, and I looked down at my body. There, I saw soft, black scales covering my stomach. The realization hit me like a donkey’s kick followed by a galloping horse. Even if both had struck at once, it wouldn’t have been enough to describe the shock I felt.

I had been reincarnated into a black wyrm—a hideous baby dragon.

The absurdity of it all washed over me. I, a twenty-year-old human male, now found myself trapped in the body of a wyrm. What could I do but lose all dignity once again?

I fainted… as a jet-black wyrm, if that was even possible.

Chapter 3: Flying Off Cliffs

When I opened my eyes again, I found myself free of the shell I’d been stuck in. I also found myself facing the emerald mother dragon along with my siblings. It was easy to accept this once I acknowledged the fact that I had been reincarnated as a black wyrm.

The slab of bloody meat was no longer in my mouth, and I felt a bit regretful about wasting it—whether that was the regret talking or my hunger, I wasn’t sure.

Our mother dragon called us to attention with a loud snort, and we all faced her, too intimidated by her size to disobey. She informed us that she would be naming us.

Greenie. Scarlet. Blue. Yellow. She named us after the color of our scales. And when it was finally my turn, she dubbed me Blackie in our reptilian tongue. What could I say? My mother was a simple creature of brawn and magic. I suppose the name fit, though—I was, after all, the black sheep, or rather, the black wyrm of the family.

Surprisingly, wyrms have a wide vocal range, leaning toward the deeper side, as I would soon discover.

Our mother led us into a large cave where she had stockpiled deer and other forest animals. An array of various prey, including sheep, lay inside. I figured the sheep had been stolen from unsuspecting farmers, though I doubted it given her massive size. Perhaps she had some ability to domesticate her food.

After I and my siblings gorged ourselves on the meat, we went to sleep. Believe me when I say that chewing through pounds of bloody meat and tendons is exhausting, especially for a ravenous wyrm who was once human.

Unlike my siblings, who had no doubts about what they were, I chose not to sleep just yet. Instead, I spent time exploring my new body, driven by both human and draconic curiosity. Quite amusing, really. So, on the day I was born, I was thoroughly inspecting myself before sleep finally claimed me.

<><><><><>

Two weeks passed swiftly—literally and metaphorically. I was now flying alone in the skies. It was exhilarating, if not for the memory of those horrible first two weeks of wyrmhood. I shuddered at the thought of that grueling training.

The second day was the worst of all. Our mother had led us to a series of high cliffs, and when she was finally satisfied with the height of one, I looked down. I could barely make out the bottom, even with my enhanced eyes.

"Jump," she said. A simple command, really, except for the small fact that none of us could fly yet. I don’t know what mother expected from us—mere two-day-old wyrms. I looked at my seemingly frail, short wings and wondered if they could even carry me.

No thank you, mother. I was not going to be the first one of our clutch to die today—err, I mean jump off the cliff. Sorry to betray your hopes, but I was a practical human... or wyrm. I was still adjusting to my new reality.

When mother saw that none of us were moving toward the edge, she added, "Jump, or I push."

Four words after what felt like six hours of silence since dawn. I would have been impressed if she weren’t commanding us to our deaths.

Annoyed that we still hadn’t moved, she let out a growl. One of us finally mustered the courage to obey. It was Greenie, judging by her scales. How did I know she was female? It was simple, really. Female wyrms, just like full-grown female dragons, had a small third horn.

I would have applauded her bravery if I wasn’t so sure she’d die from the fall. I could already imagine her hitting the ground at impossible speed, splattering herself into tiny wyrm pieces.

If she were human, she’d have had the biggest metaphorical balls I’d ever known. She put the rest of us males to shame. Not that we had the anatomy to feel such shame—I’d explored myself thoroughly, as well as my fellow wyrms to some extent. The exploration, combined with the three horns on our mother and the fact that I couldn’t imagine fate being cruel enough to reincarnate me as a female, led me to my conclusion.

As Greenie prepared to leap, I thought, maybe that third horn signified something. Perhaps female dragons were braver or crueler. It was food for thought, but I set it aside for now.

Annoyed that Greenie had shown her courage, the other three males followed suit. I, however, stayed put. There was no way I was dying today. I was determined to live, having been taken from my first life so abruptly and so young.

Mother glared at me, but I avoided her gaze by staring at the ground. She snorted, as if to say she’d deal with me later. I saved a shred of my dignity by telling myself that the hero always arrived last. Just like in the picture books I’d read as a child.

Greenie was the first to jump—no surprise there. Soon, all of my brothers followed. It would have been a comical sight if I weren’t in the same situation.

I paused, trying to blend into the ground, but mother’s sharp glare forced me to move. As I edged closer to the cliff, I was rewarded with the sight of... well, nothing but air. I took a calming breath, torn between two life-changing decisions. One look at mother’s intimidating size made the choice for me.

I jumped.

Like a heavy boulder—or rather, a big, fat wyrm—I plummeted. For what seemed like minutes, I flapped my wings frantically as I hurtled toward the ground at breakneck speed. In reality, it was only a few seconds.

But for the life of me, I couldn’t get my wings to work. They refused to move. It seemed I was destined to become one with the earth. Too in tune with nature for my liking. I had no desire to turn into one of those green-loving druids I’d once heard travelers gossiping about. I’d rather stay a black wyrm than be a tree-hugger.

And then I hit the ground. Blackness overwhelmed me.

That was the second death of my life.

Chapter 4: Amusing Lies and Indifference

Hah, I was only toying with you. I didn’t actually hit the ground. In fact, I didn’t even make it halfway down the cliff before I started flying.

You see, it’s just like getting used to new boots—except much more extreme. Very much more so.

Once I realized I was safe from any immediate danger, I glanced around and saw all three of my brothers, intact and flying. Greenie, however, was nowhere to be found—not at the top, not at the bottom.

So, the rest of us, minus Greenie, flew back to the top of the cliff, where we found our mother waiting impatiently, with what looked like an arched brow-ridge. Yes, dragons don’t have eyebrows.

Our mother was also chewing on the carcasses of two deer, much like a cow chewing cud—except with loud bone-cracking sounds. I found that action oddly endearing. It gave off a sort of “you kept me waiting so long, I had time to hunt two deer and leisurely chew on them” vibe. Quite endearing, really.

She took one look at us and immediately noticed that Greenie was missing. She puffed out a short breath of air and went back to chewing, waiting a few minutes as if expecting Greenie to show up.

When Greenie didn’t appear, our mother snorted with what seemed like disdain and looked down at us. It wasn’t a kind look, but it wasn’t unkind either—just somewhere in between. I sensed indifference more than anything.

“The weak do not survive. Greenie was... weak. Such is the way of life.” That was all our mother had to say about her daughter’s death. That brief comment was the only acknowledgement Greenie would get.

Without any further ceremony, the mother dragon turned around and flew off, expecting us to follow her back to the cave. She was ready to put our newly-acquired flying skills to good use.

As we flew, I imagined Greenie plummeting toward the ground and disappearing into nothingness. Who knew that it would actually come true?

Still, I didn’t feel sadness over her death. A two-day bond, at best, would have earned her a brief prayer. A twenty-year bond might have given me a day of silent grief, which I’d eventually allow myself—someday, I thought, thinking of my father.

Those were my thoughts as our mother led us back to the cave, each of us lost in our own reality, each of us relieved to have survived. It was only later, as I was preparing to sleep in the cave, that I realized our mother had taken the long route home.

Chapter 5: Before the Final Day of Training

[DISCOURSE #1]

Now, a little discourse is needed to answer the burning question in your mind—or to bring it up, if you haven’t already wondered: How did my siblings and I understand our mother’s words when we were just days old?

It’s simple yet complex at the same time. Through my travels and experience with other intelligent dragons, I’ve come to understand that it’s due to our racial and instinctive magic. Essentially, this magic allows us to comprehend all spoken languages and to translate our words, too. There also seems to be some sort of hereditary magic that passes down a basic understanding of our language. Don’t ask me how it works, because even I have yet to figure that out. All I care about is how handy it is—it’s helped immensely in communicating with other races.

Just as my tale will be filled with life-threatening incidents, it will also be interspersed with many minor discourses. With that said, I’ll continue my story.

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The next five days of our two-week training went fairly well. We learned how to hunt, fly more efficiently, and master other basic survival skills a dragon needs. The only time things got remotely dangerous was when a hunting party of six green-skinned orcs decided to hunt us wyrms instead of the deer they’d been chasing across the plains. To their regret, Mother quickly made short work of them and had us feast on their bodies. To my delight, they tasted remarkably like cooked pork.

My brothers, however, expressed disgust after one bite. They preferred their meat bloody and raw, while my more refined palate could appreciate both raw and cooked meat—thanks to my previous human life, I suppose.

Seeing me continue to dig into the pile of cooked orc flesh, my siblings gave me looks of disgust. Even Mother snorted a little, watching me eat so enthusiastically. I guess she preferred her meat raw too. I shrugged with my wings, thinking, *Oh well. More for me.*

---

By then, I was used to everything Mother threw at us, so the eighth day of training came as a surprise. She told my brothers and me that we would have a free day. Needless to say, I was suspicious of this sudden generosity—and I was right to be. Or should I say, disappointed?

We learned that we were to spend the day in a specific location. Judging by the sun’s path and my sense of direction, we were in the southern reaches of the forest where I was born. Calling this place a forest didn’t do it justice—it was more like a sprawling maze of many forests combined, stretching for leagues.

I was scratching my back against the bark of a tall tree, finally relieving the itch that had been bothering me since our morning flight, when Mother started speaking.

“This,” she said, eying me as I let out a small sigh of contentment, “is where you will spend the day.” She looked at me as though expecting me to disobey. “You may not leave this southern part of the forest.”

She stretched her wings and looked ready to take off. “Oh, and each of you will bring me back a souvenir.” She glanced at me as if she knew the question on my mind. “You will know what to bring me when you see it.” Without waiting for a response, she flew off. The only signs she’d been there were the deep imprints left in the soft grass and the scattered leaves and twigs as though disturbed by angry winds.

I turned to my brothers to see if they had any idea what Mother meant, but they looked as clueless as I felt—maybe even more so. Scarlet, alert and wide-eyed, was slowly taking in his surroundings, probably committing it all to memory for future use. Meanwhile, Blue and Yellow, inseparable as ever, stood close together. Except for the color of their scales, they were so similar that I wondered if they might be twins.

We were all alike in size and strength, each of us around six feet tall, with Scarlet a slight half-hand taller. By the way, I was the second tallest and largest. Dragons grow quickly, after all.

None of us looked particularly worried about being left alone for the day. What could possibly hurt us? Deer? Boars? Ha! It would be like striking an iron sword with a twig. Our scales were harder than iron, and besides, we could still sense our mother’s presence nearby. It was likely some form of instinctive magic that allowed us to sense her.

Satisfied with my back-scratching, I was about to take a look around when it came. Something hurtled toward Scarlet, with only the snap of a branch and the rustling of leaves as warning. Before I could see how he reacted, another one of them came crashing down from the tree above me.

In seconds, I was on the ground, wrestling with a dark mass of fur and claws. Its black claws scraped at the softer scales on my belly but barely left a mark. It was like iron against iron, except mine was stronger. Realizing it couldn’t pierce my belly, it went for my wings.

But by then, I was ready. My mind snapped into a cold, focused state—clearer than I’d ever felt, even when my human life had been in danger. There was no room for emotions or distractions now. All that mattered was eliminating the threat.

I lunged for the thing’s neck, sinking my teeth in and tearing a chunk of flesh free. The taste was vile, even for my accommodating palate, so I spat it out, splattering its face with its own hot blood. I had flipped the creature over, and now I was on top. Almost instinctively, my right forelimb came down with the force of a horse’s kick, crushing its neck beneath my talons.

With my senses still heightened, I scanned the surroundings for more enemies but saw only my brothers wrestling with their own. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that there were exactly four of these creatures, one for each of us. Scarlet was swiping at his opponent, already wounded from several strikes, and soon enough, a deadly blow tore into its throat, dropping it with a thud.

To Scarlet’s right, Blue and Yellow were teaming up against two of the creatures, moving in perfect harmony. Their coordination made their enemies look clumsy, and within moments, their deadly dance ended with both monsters' stomachs split open.

Feeling safe, my cold state faded. I turned to examine my fallen enemy. Now that the battle was over, I could see it more clearly. It was no longer just a dark blur; it was almost humanoid—about five feet tall, with triangular ears jutting from its head, slanted black eyes, a dog-like nose, and thick black fur covering most of its body.

I also noticed that it was male, judging by the bulge below its stomach. Mother’s command to bring back a souvenir flashed in my mind, so I cut off one of its paws. My brothers were doing the same, except Scarlet, who chose to take the head of his enemy.

Later in life, I’d learn that these creatures were called gremlins and that their magic made them hard to detect.

Once we’d all collected our souvenirs, we started heading back toward Mother’s distant presence. I, however, decided to spend some time in a nearby lake before returning. After all, Mother hadn’t said we had to come back immediately. I needed a good wash to get all the vile blood off me. And if I hadn’t mentioned it before, dragons are deft swimmers—or so I hoped at that time.

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The ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth days of training were both exhilarating and frustrating. We were learning how to breathe fire. It wasn’t until the eleventh day that I managed to blow out even a smidgen of flame. Still, I was proud to be the first to succeed—my brothers only managed it on the twelfth day. Mother had made it clear that if we didn’t learn how to breathe fire, she would kill us. We didn’t argue with someone more than twenty times our size. And no, that’s not an exaggeration.

The thirteenth day of training was a genuine rest day—no strings attached, which only made me more suspicious about what the next day would bring. I was certain it would be something terrible. Still, I pushed those thoughts aside and spent half the day practicing my fire-breathing before finally relaxing.

Oh, how I wished I had been wrong about the next day.

Chapter 6: First Tribulation (1/3)

[Discourse #2]

I stared at my little “guest,” who had chosen to enter my domain, knowing that questions were running through their mind. I had, after all, chosen to withhold parts of the story, leaving out certain details. It was more amusing that way—and some things are better left unsaid.

Now, I suppose I should clear up a misconception you might have about dragons, particularly my family. Unlike most other dragons, we were more intelligent and more ancient in our ways. By that, I refer to the training my mother put me through when I was a wyrm. It was vastly different from what the lesser dragons experienced. Their broods were not subjected to life-threatening training like we were. We were of the old generation, far superior to the newer dragons. And though we were part of Astlan—the collective name for the clans of the old dragons—our family belonged to one of the most superior clans.

As I soon found out, my mother was no ordinary dragon. She was one of the mightiest, from the oldest and most powerful bloodline. Our simple names reflected our wyrm status, mere babes to her, undeserving of true names—at least, not until our training was complete.

Ah, our dear mother dragon—fierce, enormous, fiery, harsh, indifferent, and brutal.

Once more, I locked eyes with my guest, knowing I would have to kill them once my story was finished. I did not relish the task, for I had come to like my only audience. My guest had such brave eyes, green and unafraid, a rare trait when staring into the eyes of a dragon. They even complemented my own emerald gaze.

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The fourteenth day of training reared its ugly head at the crack of dawn. We followed our mother into the depths of the northern forest and arrived at an ancient-looking arena. It was circular in shape, spanning more than two hundred feet in diameter by my estimate. The perimeter, made entirely of stone, had walls no more than six feet high. The inside was bare, with rough soil and no obstacles. "Ancient," "plain-looking," and "large" summed it up perfectly.

Gazing at the arena, my mother, and my wyrm siblings, I knew what was coming. We would fight, either as a group or individually. Perhaps more gremlins or stronger foes awaited us. My curiosity about new creatures was boundless—one aspect of my personality that remained unchanged even in this new life as a dragon. Thinking back now, I wish my assumptions had been correct. It would have been better than the reality of what awaited us.

Yes, the fourteenth and final, most dangerous day of our wyrm training would be a deathmatch between siblings, a fight to the death until only one or none of us remained. There was no choice. Mother made it clear—anyone who fled the arena or refused to fight would be killed by her own hand. Even now, I remember that grim day clearly, despite being a fully grown dragon.

My state of mind was perplexed, tinged with annoyance. What was the point of us siblings killing each other? Would it not weaken our family? The question would have to wait. Cold determination and survival instincts took over, flooding my body with focus.

In the center of the arena, we all readied ourselves, prepared to use any means necessary to kill at the first sign of weakness. I could feel the cold anger rising, the hard soil under my talons grounding me. Scarlet, the largest of us, stood ahead, while Blue and Yellow were to my left and right. All of us were poised for battle, and I waited for mother to give the signal.

I glanced at Blue and Yellow, giving them a barely noticeable nod before locking eyes with Scarlet. Crimson as blood, he was the biggest threat, and none of us were confident we could take him down alone.

Mother, standing just outside the arena's perimeter, looked indifferent—perhaps more so than usual. The realization dawned on me, and as if on cue, she gave the order to start the deathmatch.

On all fours, wings folded since aerial combat was forbidden, I dashed toward Yellow, ignoring Scarlet and Blue. The sudden betrayal caught them off guard, especially Scarlet. His usual cruel, indifferent expression faltered. He must have assumed we would team up against him, resigning himself to the inevitable. But before anyone could react, I had already closed the distance between Yellow and myself.

Yellow recovered quickly, but it was too late. My momentum was unstoppable. I pounced, knocking him down with a tumble, his soft underbelly exposed. But I didn’t aim for his belly. I went straight for his head.

My jaws clamped down hard on his snout and brow-ridge, iron-like teeth piercing the softer scales. I tasted his blood—hot, almost like fire itself. It was intoxicating, a sensation I could only compare to a human’s most intense pleasure coupled with their favorite meal. But I had no time to savor the flavor. I disengaged, spitting out pieces of leathery flesh and what remained of his eye.

Yellow's face was a mangled mess, his left eye gone, his right eye half intact. A single bite, and a brother was dying. His agonized roar echoed through the arena, quickly followed by another from Blue.

I glanced at Blue and saw my suspicion confirmed. The twin wyrms shared their pain. Blue, his yellow eyes blazing with fury, charged at me, blinded by rage.

But he never reached me.

Scarlet, swift and merciless, attacked from behind. His larger teeth clamped onto Blue’s throat, though unable to pierce the scales. With his greater weight, Scarlet pinned Blue down and, using his talons, stabbed them into Blue’s left eye. The sickening crunch of bone and flesh echoed as Scarlet pulled his bloodied claws free. Blue's final scream filled the air before his body went still.

Scarlet turned to me, a cruel smile on his bloodstained face.

"You made a smart choice, brother. If you had teamed up with them, you’d have been next. Now, it’s just the two of us."

His red eyes gleamed with excitement as we faced off.

Chapter 7: First Tribulation (2/3)

A weak roar, not my own, was the only response to Scarlet's speech. It came from behind me, making it Yellow’s. It was the roar of a wyrm clinging to life by the thinnest thread. If death were a god, Yellow would have been desperately grasping at his coattails.

With the bodies of our two brothers—one dead and one dying—behind us, we examined each other. It was obvious that Scarlet, being the larger one, was stronger than me. After witnessing how he killed Blue almost instantly, I had no doubts about his speed. Gauging the ten feet between us, I harbored no delusions as to who was at a disadvantage.

Even though my emotions were dulled to near indifference by my cold anger, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement at the prospect of a challenging duel. Despite my cold state, the excitement coursing through my blood, boiling at the anticipation of this imminent death match, was undeniable. It was intriguing. Was this feeling brought on by the blood I had ingested earlier or by the inevitable battle ahead?

There was no time to dwell on these thoughts as Scarlet suddenly charged at me, wings folded for maximum speed. I responded in kind, charging toward him, and my awareness shifted; in that moment, the world was reduced to just Scarlet, my surroundings, and me. Everything else faded away—mother, watching quietly from a distance with her usual indifferent expression, was ignored.

As Scarlet lunged, I swerved to my left, narrowly dodging him. I felt his proximity, but my right wing wasn’t spared; despite anticipating his straight charge, aimed to capitalize on his size, his attack left a tear. Though painful, it wouldn't impede my fight. After all, wings were off-limits in this battle, as mother had forbidden aerial combat.

Having dodged by mere inches, I turned swiftly and lunged at him. Before Scarlet could fully recover from his landing, I tackled his side and sank my teeth into his right wing. I felt the resistance of the flexible yet sturdy bones beneath his leathery hide, but my bite drew hot, powerful blood, making me feel ecstatic, almost wild. The sensation was intoxicating, but I forced myself to release him, knowing the fight wasn’t over.

Scarlet’s enraged roar signaled the damage I had inflicted; his wing joint and leathery membrane were now half-torn, resembling a quarry ravaged by a predator. He bled profusely from the wounds, and I knew this would slow him down, tipping the scales slightly in my favor—an advantage I desperately needed.

Both of us were injured in similar areas, but my wounds and bleeding were less severe. The fight had become a waiting game, and the anger in Scarlet’s red eyes showed he despised this tactic. Yet, within that fury, I glimpsed something else—was it respect, or more anger?

“Not bad,” Scarlet whispered just loud enough for me to hear, his grim smile chilling. “I expected a direct confrontation, maybe some tricks, but not this, brother.” A pause, subtle but noticeable. “Coward.”

His taunt didn’t faze me, and Scarlet knew it wouldn’t work—his attempt was half-hearted at best.

I stayed silent, carefully observing his broad-shouldered, serpent-like body for any sign of an attack. I didn’t have to wait long. With muscles rippling, he dashed toward me, baring his fangs.

Instead of meeting his charge, I stood ready to dodge at the last possible moment. When he was within six feet, he inhaled deeply, his stomach expanding. Realizing what was coming, I dove toward his left, attempting to avoid the inevitable fire breath.

But Scarlet anticipated this and adjusted smoothly. His mouth opened wide—wider than I had thought possible. Realizing I couldn’t escape in time, I dropped to the ground, closing my eyes just as three massive, chained fireballs shot from his mouth. One dipped low enough to explode near my face.

Agony shot through me as flames engulfed my head. Despite a dragon’s natural resistance to fire, this abnormal heat seared my flesh. How was this possible? I had been the first among us to breathe fire, but my flames had never come close to this intensity. Even when I tested it on my brothers, it barely singed them. It highlighted just how resistant we were to flames.

A second later, the burning subsided as my body’s fire resistance finally overcame the heat. I opened my eyes—thankfully unharmed—only to see Scarlet’s massive form hurtling toward me.

His weight crashed onto me, driving the air from my lungs. My softer underbelly was exposed beneath him, and my wings were pinned to the ground. But our wings were built to endure, and I knew they wouldn’t tear.

Scarlet, aiming to finish me, went straight for my throat, but I found his neck first with my teeth, halting his deadly strike. Wasting no time, I clawed at his mangled right wing with my left talons. Blood soaked my limbs and belly as I tore the wounds open wider, feeling the hot liquid flow over me.

Unable to withstand the pain, Scarlet heaved, lifting us both off the ground. My jaws still clamped around his neck, and my claws still dug into his wing as he shook and spun, thrashing his tail in a frenzy of pain and rage.

With a final, violent shake, my grip faltered, and I flew a short distance, landing hard on the arena floor. But I had dealt a devastating blow—I heard the sickening tear as I was thrown.

I scrambled to my feet and turned to face Scarlet. Blood poured from his body, and his right wing was completely torn off, leaving only jagged remnants hanging beneath his shoulder. Even if he won this fight, he would never fly again. He would be nothing more than a crippled ground dragon.

Scarlet let out an ear-splitting bellow, his eyes turning a fiery red. He looked possessed—though I had no frame of reference for what that would look like. His once yellow pupils shrank into tiny, glowing pinpricks, and those abnormal eyes now locked onto me with murderous intent.

Calmly, I remained where I stood, still burning with cold anger that dulled unnecessary emotions and heightened my battle focus. Scarlet’s limbs tensed, and I could swear the stone floor groaned beneath him. Whether it was from his immense power or the arena’s ancient wear, I wasn’t sure.

Then, with a speed that almost defied my sight, Scarlet lunged. His strength, now monstrous, drove him forward like a force of nature. Were it not for the fact that I could still track his movements, I might have been terrified. But I wasn’t. I was ready.

Chapter 8: First Tribulation (3/3)

He was now a battle-crazed creature. And if you’ve never seen a red wyrm, larger than usual for its age, rippling with muscles, with a torn right wing, and soaked in blood, then you’re lucky. Any human without a death wish would have peed themselves on the spot. So, consider yourself fortunate to have avoided such fear—kudos to your survival instincts.

As Scarlet was about to pounce, I dived to my left. Just as I thought I had successfully dodged his charge, something blurry, whip-like, slammed into my face with such force that I was knocked back a foot. Only after hitting the ground did I realize the blurry whip was his tail.

Knowing he would come for me any second, I quickly regained my balance. I wasn’t swift enough, though, as Scarlet tackled me once more, putting me in that familiar, disadvantageous position. His strength had nearly doubled, and I had no delusions about whether I could fend him off.

Again, I clamped my teeth on his throat, but this time it was only to buy a few precious seconds. I knew I couldn’t overpower him or hold him off for long. With those seconds, I dug into the large, jagged hole where his right wing had torn off. I was a bit shocked that Scarlet didn’t even flinch. My grip on his neck was weakening, so I chose a new method to free myself.

I decided to use my tail as a weapon. It was stupid that it hadn’t occurred to me before, but I blamed my human memories and sensibilities from when I reincarnated as a black wyrm. Without hesitation, I lashed my tail, flexible as it was, at Scarlet’s face, aiming for his eyes.

Maybe he sensed my move, or maybe his instincts were heightened in his crazed state. He lowered his head at the last moment, so my tail only scraped the top of his head. The spikes on my tail screeched against his hard scales, but neither of us was bothered by the sound.

Seconds passed, and my grip on his neck weakened further as he thrashed around. Sensing this, Scarlet shook his head violently, throwing me off. I landed dazed, but before I could recover, Scarlet bit down on my snout. I barely managed to lift my head, so instead of clamping on my eyes, his fangs pierced the fleshy, unprotected part of my snout.

I roared in agony as blood flowed freely from the wounds. Desperate, I lashed out with my tail again, this time striking Scarlet’s face with all my strength. The spikes on my tail tore into his face, and I heard the satisfying smack of the impact. Scarlet, though momentarily disoriented, dug his fangs deeper into my snout. Blood poured from my wounds.

I knew then that it was now or never.

As his bite tightened, I repeatedly bashed his face with my spiked tail. My breathing grew labored, and I could feel my snout being shredded, held together only by the last few intact scales. But I kept hitting him, each strike spraying blood into the air. One of his eyes became loose, and the other was smashed like a fragile egg. His face was as mangled as mine.

It seemed eternal—a vicious cycle of him biting and me bashing his face. Time dragged on, and I was sure I was going to die. I could barely breathe through my left nostril, and I could no longer feel my snout.

So, this is it, I thought. This is how I die. Stupid and undignified. But at least I’ll go down fighting, unlike my human death.

Suddenly, I felt the grip on my snout loosen. Scarlet went limp on top of me. His face was now an unrecognizable mass of wounds, bruises, and torn scales.

But it was too late for me. I could feel myself dying, the lifeblood draining away. Scarlet’s weight on top of me made it even harder to breathe. Blood dripped from his face onto mine, our faces inches apart, mixing in a pool of death. A drop of his blood fell into my mutilated mouth.

Without warning, I felt aroused. How ridiculous that this would happen with my brother’s corpse on top of me, rather than with a woman. Was I some kind of necrophiliac? And a wyrm one at that?

As these absurd thoughts crossed my mind and my consciousness began to fade, I felt a spark of strength return. My nostrils, damaged as they were, could now smell my brother’s blood. Before I even knew what I was doing, my fangs bit into Scarlet’s mangled face. Blood filled my mouth, and I swallowed greedily. Almost instantly, I felt my strength returning and my wounds healing at an astonishing rate.

Before long, I had drained more than half of his blood, and Scarlet’s weight on me lessened. I felt empowered, stronger than before the fight had even begun. Most importantly, I was going to survive.

Scarlet’s corpse was now just a husk, drained of nearly all its blood. I didn’t know how I could consume so much blood without exploding, but it seemed to fuel my healing and make me stronger. It was as if I had absorbed some of Scarlet’s strength.

Intrigued by this new ability, I pushed Scarlet’s corpse aside and approached Yellow’s body. After draining him, I did the same to Blue. With each one, my strength grew. I felt more powerful than Scarlet had been in his crazed state.

The death match was over. I stood in the middle of the arena, drenched in the blood of my brothers, surrounded by their corpses. I felt like one of those gladiators from the eastern continent’s stories—slave warriors fighting for survival. Once, I had been human, but now I had no idea where I was. Perhaps just a random forest in a random part of this world.

The enormous emerald dragon—my mother—finally acknowledged me. She lumbered toward me, her cold, calculating eyes fixed on me. If she chose to kill me, I knew I wouldn’t stand a chance.

“That was well done, though a bit lacking in certain aspects,” she said, pausing slightly before adding, “my son.” It was the first time she had ever acknowledged our relationship. She had always treated us with indifference, as though we were strangers.

“Why the death match, mother?” I asked, curiosity overcoming the horror of my surroundings. “Why this senseless killing?”

Her emerald eyes, cold and vast like the abyss, bore into mine. “Why, you ask, my son?” She grinned, baring her sword-like fangs in a feral smile that could freeze the heart of any lesser creature. “Because we are dragons.”