As Aren summoned the power of the Dark Dragon, an intense surge rippled through his body, pushing his senses to their absolute limits. Every sound sharpened, every breath quickened, and the air around him seemed to thrum with raw energy. The bandit's eyes widened in disbelief, flickering between shock and disdain.
"So, we've got another Awakened here!" the bandit spat, his voice thick with venom. "You can hide your face all you want, but I see right through you — just a kid playing at war. Do you really think I'll show mercy because of that?"
Aren's expression didn't flinch. Years of brutal battles in a past life had taught him never to fall for taunts—succumbing to such provocations was a sure path to defeat. His gaze sharpened, tracking the pulsing energy coiling within the bandit's body. Both lethal snakes—their blades shimmering with sinister purple light—emerged from the same source: the back of his right hand, where the emblem glowed ominously.
I need to either sever his emblem's hold or kill him before he wreaks more havoc.
Time was critical. The poisoned villagers would not last much longer.
Focusing every ounce of his energy into his feet, Aren launched forward in a blur, dashing straight at the bandit. The right snake lunged ahead, poised for a deadly strike. Aren instinctively dropped lower, rolling across the rough street just in time to evade the serpent's razor edge.
The momentum carried him forward, and he came to a halt just two meters away—heart pounding, dagger ready—aiming for a lethal thrust to the bandit's chest. But the other snake suddenly coiled around Aren's body, forming a crackling shield of violet energy that blocked his attack.
"I've got you!" the bandit snarled, swinging his left arm with the sword to strike at Aren's head. Aren barely ducked back in time, the blade slicing through the air inches above him.
He was too small to maintain distance. His weapons were short and ill-suited to counter the bandit's long, deadly limbs and serpentine swords.
Without time to strategize, Aren began circling around the foe, baiting him to follow. The bandit's eyes tracked every move, and with a flick of his wrist, he commanded the snakes to give chase, their blades slicing the air with deadly precision.
When the serpents closed in, Aren sprang upward, propelling himself into the air. With a swift flick, he threw his black dagger, glowing faintly with dark energy. The bandit raised his right arm to block—only for the blade to slice clean through it, detonating in a burst of shadowy power that shredded the hand and sent the bandit screaming in agony.
"Ahhh! You little shit! You're dead now!" the bandit howled, clutching the stump where his hand had been.
Aren cursed under his breath. The dagger had hit the ribs, not the heart—his throw deflected, but it was enough to cripple the connection to one of the snakes.
He still had his axe, but the fight was far from over. He couldn't keep running; his energy reserves were already draining rapidly.
With renewed determination, he charged again. This time, one of the snakes vanished—severed by the loss of the bandit's right hand—leaving only the cobra blade coiling tightly around his left arm. The serpent seemed larger now, pulsing with concentrated energy.
Aren braced himself, gripping the axe with both hands as the cobra struck. He deflected blow after blow, the axe ringing sharply with each impact. Then, seizing an opening, he leapt forward, ready to throw the axe mid-air for a killing strike.
But the bandit wasn't finished. Just as Aren was airborne, the missing snake and sword suddenly reappeared, slicing through the air with deadly speed. The blade shattered the axe's handle with a clean cut.
"Hahaha! And now you die!" the bandit taunted, eyes wild with fury.
Aren crashed to the ground, sunglasses knocked loose and tumbling off. The bandit raised his sword for a fatal downward strike. Aren barely twisted away, rolling to the side as the blade buried itself deep into the cobblestones.
Suddenly, a sharp voice rang out.
"You!"
An old woman, sword raised and fierce as fire, charged at the bandit. She thrust forward with desperate strength—but the bandit caught the blade with his bare hand, still shielded by the serpent emblem.
"You bitch! This is all your fault! Die, pig!" he roared, tightening his grip.
But then the bandit noticed something—the sword was firmly stuck in the ground, rooted by the force of the strike. Before he could react, Aren was already on him, eyes blazing with unnatural light—a chill crawling up the bandit's spine.
"Thanks for the help," Aren said quietly, voice steady though the words were lost on the woman. She stepped back, nodding trustingly.
Aren's hands gripped the old woman's sword. Dark energy pulsed from his chest, flowing through his arms and into the blade. The silver gleam of the sword shifted and blackened, crackling with raw power.
With a brutal shove, Aren drove the blade through the bandit's torso. Twisting the sword sharply, he made a smooth, devastating rotation. The bandit's body was sliced clean in two as if made of paper.
The upper half slumped to the ground. The lower half twitched for a moment, then collapsed silently.
The dark energy ebbed away as Aren emptied himself with that final swing. Without pause, he bent down to search the bandit's pockets.
In a small pouch at the belt, he found several pills.
"Val, run a quick scan and tell me if those could be antidotes for the poison," Aren commanded silently.
[Scanning… Affirmative. Their composition matches a known antidote structure.]
His intuition was right. Poison and curse users often carried their own cures—for accidents or allies.
"Val, I need to make the crowd understand. Help me communicate!" Aren whispered.
[I can reverse-translate and simulate your voice. There will be a slight delay.]
"I've got a scarf covering my mouth, so it won't look odd," Aren said.
[Ready, Your Majesty.]
He cleared his throat, voice ringing out despite the muffled scarf:
"Everyone, search through the bandits' belongings! Find any medicine or pills! Those are the antidotes for the poison! Time is running out!"
The crowd stirred, confused and fearful, many in shock. Aren felt his strength ebbing fast—he could barely stand.
Then the old woman's voice cracked through the haze.
"What the hell are you waiting for? Do you want to just stand there while people die? This kid's the reason any of us are still alive! So get up and help find those medicines!"
She hurried to Aren's side, steadying him as he nearly collapsed.
"God, you're so light. I knew you were young—but you're just a kid!"
Aren's eyes fluttered closed. Her face blurred and softened before him, reminding him painfully of old Val—wondering how she would face a moment like this.
⁂
The chamber was shrouded in darkness, as it had been the last time he stood before this place — an endless void pierced only by the looming silhouette of the Dark Dragon, its presence both terrifying and awe-inspiring. The great creature regarded him with eyes like molten fire, burning with ancient knowledge and inscrutable intent.
"Welcome back, Aren of House Valoria," the dragon's voice rumbled, echoing through the shadows like distant thunder.
Aren lowered his head in respect, his posture humble yet resolute. "Your Eminence," he intoned, aware that every encounter with this being was a delicate balance—a dance between salvation and ruin, depending entirely on the dragon's mood.
"I have watched you from my realm, observing how you wielded the fragment of my power I bestowed upon you." The dragon paused, the silence thick as the weight of impending judgement settled over Aren's chest.
"I granted you but a fraction, yet you have used it wisely. I am... intrigued. But I must ask you a question."
"Ask, Your Eminence. I hold no secrets from you."
"Why did you intervene? Why help those people? You could have passed by, ignored the bandits, and spared yourself the trouble."
Aren's gaze lifted, steady and unwavering. "What kind of person stands idle while others suffer? Especially when they possess the strength to change the course of injustice?"
The dragon's fiery eyes narrowed, reflecting both approval and a hint of curiosity. "Indeed. As a king, your moral compass guides you. As bearer of my emblem, you possess the power to reshape fate itself. But tell me, what do you think of those who wield such power for darkness and cruelty?"
Aren's voice hardened with conviction. "They do not deserve it. Such power is a burden, and when abused, it must be stripped away."
A subtle grin crept across the dragon's fearsome visage—something almost human in its complexity. Aren lifted his head slowly, locking eyes with the entity. The flames danced within those eyes, but behind them he glimpsed a profound understanding.
"I believe I can aid you with that." The dragon's voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "My power carries many gifts—abilities yet unseen. You have already experienced one."
The power to see the flow of energy, to discern the emblems hidden within others.
"Your emblem granted you sight—my sight," the dragon continued. "It allows you to perceive the Alma of emblems."
"Alma?" Aren admitted, brow furrowed. "I have not heard this term before."
"Alma is the living essence coursing through the emblems—the force that breathes life into their power. Your body serves as a vessel for my Alma, as do all others who bear these emblems."
Aren's mind raced, piecing together fragments of his recent battles. "I could see it… and touch it. I remember disrupting the energy flow of those emblems. Is that a part of this power?"
"Exactly. You can not only perceive the Alma but interact with it. You can reveal its true form, and if you are strong enough, manipulate it—interrupt it."
"Strong enough?" Aren asked, feeling the weight of his own limitations. "What are my boundaries now?"
"Your physical form surpasses most of your age, but it is not yet perfected. With time, training, and growth, your connection to my emblem will deepen. Stronger emblems will contain more Alma, making them harder to perceive and influence—sometimes even invisible to you for now."
"Do others share this ability? Can anyone see the Alma?"
"Some can. Despite my efforts, my true power can only be concealed to an extent. Many have spent lifetimes honing their senses, able to see beyond the veil—with or without emblems."
"Thank you for your guidance, Your Eminence," Aren bowed, his heart swelling with both gratitude and the burden of knowledge.
The dragon's voice shifted, colder now, laced with a hint of impatience. "Do you think I summoned you here merely to lecture on Alma?"
Aren held his silence, sensing the true purpose lingering beneath the surface.
"I come bearing a gift," the dragon announced, as the floor beneath them shimmered and tiles began to glow with ethereal light. A path of illumination snaked towards a solitary door, suspended in the void as if floating between worlds.
Without hesitation, Aren stepped forward, eyes alert for any deception. Standing before the door, he realized no walls enclosed this space—only endless darkness, save for the doorway and the fading shadow of the dragon.
"Enter, and witness what I bestow upon you."
The door swung open to reveal a vast, radiant chamber—a blinding expanse of pure white marble floor stretching into infinity, devoid of walls, ceiling, or horizon. Behind him, the door stood sentinel, a gateway between realities.
At the room's center, two easels held canvases, each bearing faint pencil sketches—unfinished and ghostlike. Yet, beneath the faint lines, Aren sensed a pulse, a whisper of something alive.
"This space is a reflection of my power projected through you," the dragon explained. "Its form is shaped by your subconscious. What do you see?"
Aren studied the canvases. "I... I'm not sure I understand. What am I to do here?"
The dragon's tone was gentle but probing. "What would you do in a place like this? Before these images?"
He reached out, fingertips grazing the rough paper. A faint vibration tickled his skin—soft whispers not quite words. He leaned closer, discerning shapes beneath the haze.
"Are these... emblems? A snake, a beast... These look familiar."
"Precisely, Aren of House Valoria. These are the emblems you have confronted, the emblems you have vanquished with my power. What will you do now?"
A quiet stir of emotion welled within him. "They… they are asking for a second chance. They want to be remade, Your Eminence."
The dragon's voice was solemn. "Will you grant it? Remember, these emblems brought you pain."
Aren's voice was steady, filled with compassion. "If it were only for me, I would forgive them. They acted through their hosts, bound by circumstance and suffering. Power is neither good nor evil—it is the wielder who defines its path."
A long silence followed, heavy with unspoken truths.
"Then," the dragon finally spoke, "I charge you with a new task. Mend them. Breathe life into their broken forms. Can you do this, Aren?"
Without hesitation, Aren raised his right hand. The whispers crescendoed, flowing through his veins like liquid fire. Energy coalesced, shimmering and thickening until it formed a tangible shape in his palm—a paintbrush, sleek and black, its tip already glistening with ink as dark as night itself.
He moved to the first canvas, tracing the contours of the feral emblem with deliberate strokes. With each line, the image sharpened, growing alive beneath his hand. He turned to the second, recreating the sinuous cobra emblem with equal care.
When the last stroke fell, the canvases lifted, drifting gently in midair. The emblems now radiated a pure, obsidian black—void of color but unmistakably themselves.
"Call us, and our power will be yours," came the voices, two distinct yet harmonized.
Aren closed his eyes and summoned his will. "Bear emblem, Cobra emblem, come to me!"
The emblems flared, dark energy swirling like smoke, enveloping his limbs. Power surged within him—strength, speed, vitality—echoing the feral might of the bear.
The energy shifted again, coalescing into a sleek serpent that wound itself around his neck like a living scarf. But it brought no fear—only a quiet assurance that it understood him, as he understood it.
This bond would serve him well.
As the display ended, the emblems' glow faded, and the canvases drifted apart, settling at the room's edges.
"This," the dragon intoned, "is your new power. You may now choose to pardon the emblems you encounter and harness their gifts. But heed this: at your current strength, you can only wield one at a time. Mastery will come with time and discipline. These are other emblems, yet they draw from my essence."
Aren bowed deeply, a mixture of humility and resolve flooding his heart. "An extraordinary gift. I am deeply grateful, Your Eminence."
The dragon's voice softened, tinged with finality. "Go now, Aren. This gift is a mirror—reflecting your choices, your growth. Through it, I shall judge you."
With that, the luminous chamber faded, darkness reclaimed the space, and Aren found himself lying on a bed—alone, changed, and ready.