Yuuta woke to a world that felt wrong.
His eyes opened slowly, painfully, each blink a struggle against gravity. The ceiling above him swam in and out of focus. His breath came in heavy, ragged gasps that didn't seem to give his lungs enough air no matter how deeply he inhaled.
He tried to sit up.
Failed.
His body simply refused to cooperate, as if someone had drained every ounce of strength while he slept. His muscles screamed. His head pounded. His skin burned with a heat that had nothing to do with the room temperature.
Fever, he thought groggily. Great. Just great.
He reached for his phone on the nightstand. The cheap device felt heavy in his hand, heavier than it should. He fumbled with the screen, opened the camera, and looked at his reflection.
Red eyes stared back at him.
Not his natural crimson—that was normal, hidden beneath contacts. These were different. Bloodshot. Inflamed. The eyes of someone whose body was fighting a war it couldn't win.
He coughed.
The sound rattled in his chest.
I can't go to college like this. I'll infect half the class.
He scrolled through his contacts and pressed call.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
"John Bosco Culinary College, Valencia speaking. How may I help you?"
Yuuta cleared his throat, trying to make his voice sound less like death warmed over.
"Hello, Ma'am. This is Yuuta Konuari from third year Culinary, Class D."
"Yes, Yuuta. What can I do for you?"
"I... I can't make it to class today. I've caught a viral fever. Really bad."
He coughed again, unable to stop it.
There was a pause on the other end. When Valencia spoke again, her voice had softened.
"I understand, Yuuta. I'll pass the message to your class incharge. Take rest and recover. And call me if you need any help—medical assistance, anything."
"Thank you, Ma'am. I appreciate that. I'll take care of myself."
"Goodbye, Yuuta. Feel better soon."
"Bye."
He ended the call and let the phone fall onto the bed.
For a long moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling his body burn and ache and fail. It would be so easy to close his eyes. So easy to sleep. So easy to just... stop.
But Elena's face flashed through his mind.
And Erza's.
They'll be hungry when they wake up. I have to make breakfast.
He couldn't let them down.
Couldn't let them starve because he was weak.
With a groan that came from somewhere deep, Yuuta pushed himself up. His vision swam. His legs wobbled. But he stood. He stood.
He walked to his desk on legs that felt like jelly and opened the drawer. Medical mask—he put it on. Disposable gloves—he pulled them over his shaking hands.
"Perfect," he whispered, his voice muffled by the mask. "Now let's make them breakfast."
He shuffled toward the bedroom door.
Opened it.
And stopped.
The living room was peaceful. Golden morning light streamed through the windows, painting everything in warm tones. Erza lay on the sofa, her romance novel still open on her chest, her silver hair spilling over the edge like liquid moonlight. Elena was on the floor, surrounded by dinosaur books, her tiny body curled into a ball, stickers still plastered across her cheeks.
They were beautiful.
They were his.
Yuuta smiled behind his mask.
"They'll be hungry when they wake up," he murmured. "I'll make them something good. Something healthy. Something that won't make them sick."
He turned toward the kitchen.
Took one step.
Then another.
The world tilted.
His knees buckled.
He reached for the counter, missed, and felt the floor rush up to meet him. The impact was distant, muffled, like it was happening to someone else. The tiles were cold against his cheek. The ceiling spun above him.
Just... rest, he thought. Just for a moment. Then I'll get up and cook.
His eyes closed.
And the kitchen fell silent.
---
Half an hour passed.
The sun climbed higher.
Birds sang outside the window.
And in the living room, Erza stirred.
Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the morning light. The romance novel had slipped from her chest and now lay on the floor, pages open to a chapter about confessions and first kisses. She blinked at it, then away, unwilling to examine why she'd been reading it in the first place.
She stretched.
Her gaze fell on Elena.
Still on the floor. Still surrounded by dinosaurs. Still fast asleep.
Erza rose silently, crossed to her daughter, and lifted her with the effortless grace of someone who had carried far heavier burdens. Elena murmured something about T-Rex but didn't wake. Erza placed her gently on the sofa, arranging a blanket over her small form.
Then she walked to the bathroom.
The morning routine had become familiar now—a ritual she'd learned from the children's habit books Yuuta used to teach Elena. Wash face. Brush teeth. Prepare for the day.
She created her ice brush with a thought, added toothpaste, and began to brush. The cold was pleasant against her teeth, the minty freshness a small luxury in this world of strange human customs.
Where is he?
The thought came unbidden.
Yuuta usually woke Elena. Usually dressed her. Usually had breakfast started by now.
But the apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
She finished her brushing, dismissed the ice, and walked toward the bedroom.
The door was open.
The bed was empty.
But his bag was still there. His phone on the nightstand. His shoes by the door.
He hasn't left.
Erza's eyes narrowed.
Then where is this idiot mortal?
Erza turned away from the bedroom, her mind already cataloging the possibilities.
Yuuta's belongings were still here—his bag, his phone, his shoes. He hadn't left for college. He hadn't gone anywhere voluntarily.
Then where is he?
The thought was interrupted by something else.
A feeling.
The prickle of eyes on her back.
She froze.
Her senses expanded instantly—centuries of survival instinct kicking in before conscious thought could catch up. Her gaze snapped toward the window. Toward the tower in the distance. Too far for human eyes to see anything clearly. Too far for anyone to be watching.
But someone was there.
She could feel them.
"Annoying."
Her voice was quiet. Cold. The voice of something that had ended countless lives and felt nothing about any of them.
Her hand rose.
Magic gathered in her palm—not the gentle healing she'd used on Yuuta, but something else. Something lethal. The air around her hand grew cold, then colder, then absolute. Frost formed on the windowpane. Ice crystals danced in the air.
"Frozen Death Bite."
She flicked her wrist.
And destruction flew from her hand.
The spell took shape as it traveled—a dragon of ice, massive and terrible, its jaws open, its claws extended. It crossed the distance between her apartment and that distant tower in less than a heartbeat, a blur of white death against the morning sky.
It struck the rooftop.
BOOM.
The sound reached her apartment a full second later—a thunderous crack that shook windows and sent birds scattering from nearby buildings. The rooftop exploded. Ice spread across every surface in an instant, freezing water tanks and ventilation systems and everything in its path.
Then the dragon shattered.
Not died—shattered.
Millions of pieces of ice exploded outward, each one a tiny blade, each one carrying enough force to kill.
The water tank burst.
Pipes ruptured.
Water sprayed everywhere, mixing with ice and blood and things that would never be identified.
Erza watched for a moment longer.
Her eyes narrowed.
Then she sighed.
Probably nothing, she thought. Just some human with binoculars. Or a pervert. This world is full of them.
She turned away.
Continued her search for Yuuta.
---
On that distant rooftop, chaos reigned.
Or rather, chaos had reigned.
Now there was only silence.
The sniper—a lower-half demon, created for observation and assassination—had been watching the apartment for hours. His orders were simple: observe, report, and if the opportunity arose, eliminate. He'd been so focused on his target that he never saw the spell coming.
Never felt the ice.
Never knew what killed him.
His body was scattered across the rooftop in pieces too small to recognize. The ice dragon had torn through him like paper, freezing and shattering simultaneously. Then the water tank had burst, flooding the area with gallons of water that washed away what little remained.
By the time the sun finished rising, there would be no evidence.
No body.
No blood.
No proof that anyone had ever been there at all.
---
But someone else had been watching.
From further away.
From somewhere safe.
Allen Vaelorith stood in the shadows of another building, his golden eyes fixed on the frozen rooftop, his expression unreadable.
"Subharshi," he murmured. "Subharshi."
He had hoped. Planned. Calculated.
And failed.
"Just as I thought," he continued, more to himself than to any audience. "Getting the Children of Chaos blood is impossible with that dragon involved."
He should have been frustrated.
Should have been angry.
Instead, he smiled.
"But how long can you protect him, Dragon Queen?" His smile widened, sharp and predatory. "How long before your attention slips? Before you're distracted? Before he's alone?"
He turned.
Prepared to leave.
"I will drink his blood," he whispered. "I will become a Follower of Zani. And when I do, not even you will be able to stop me."
The shadows swallowed him.
He was gone.
Leaving only the frozen, shattered, empty rooftop behind.
Erza finally reached the kitchen.
She'd checked everywhere else—the hall, the balcony, the bedroom, even the bathroom twice. The only place left was the small kitchen where Yuuta spent so much of his time creating meals that made her heart do strange things.
She pushed open the door.
And froze.
Yuuta lay on the floor.
Curled on his side, his body limp, his face slack. He wasn't moving. Wasn't responding. Was just... lying there on the cold tiles like a discarded ragdoll.
For a moment—just a moment—Erza's heart stopped.
Then her brain caught up.
He's sleeping. The idiot is SLEEPING on the kitchen floor like some kind of animal.
Relief flooded through her, followed immediately by irritation.
She walked over.
Kicked him.
Not hard—by her standards, anyway.
"Wake up, you dumbass idiot mortal! This is not a place to sleep!"
He didn't move.
She kicked again.
Gently.
(Her gentle kick was still enough to send a soccer ball flying into the goal from midfield, but she was trying.)
"You lazy monkey! Wake up already!"
Yuuta stirred.
His eyes fluttered.
He tried to sit up—and immediately began coughing.
Not a normal cough. Not the kind that clears the throat and fades. A deep, wracking, wrong cough that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.
Erza blinked.
What is this? Did he eat something that got stuck?
She didn't understand.
In all her centuries of existence, in all her battles and travels and experiences, she had never encountered anything like this. Dragons didn't get sick. Their bodies were too strong, too resilient, too perfect to be affected by such things. Even if a dragon somehow contracted an illness, they had secret techniques—elder knowledge passed down through generations—to cure themselves instantly.
Fever was foreign to her.
Sickness was incomprehensible.
This weak, coughing, struggling human made no sense.
---
Yuuta sat up fully.
His eyes were distant, unfocused. His face was pale beneath the flush of fever. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He looked at Erza—or tried to—but his gaze kept slipping away, unable to hold.
"I'm sorry, Erza." His voice was hoarse, barely audible. "I think I—"
He coughed again.
Hacked.
Wheezed.
Erza's eyes narrowed.
Something is stuck. He ate something bad. That's the only explanation.
She reached out.
Slapped his back.
Hard.
Trying to dislodge whatever was blocking his throat.
The coughing got worse.
His eyes—those strange, crimson eyes that he always hid behind contacts—began to glow. Faintly at first, then brighter. A soft, pulsing light that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him.
Erza stopped.
What is this?
She didn't understand.
Couldn't understand.
This wasn't choking. This was something else.
---
"PAPA!"
Elena's voice cut through the confusion.
She ran into the kitchen, her dinosaur book forgotten, her small face twisted with worry. She'd heard the coughing. Heard her mother's voice. Heard something wrong.
She threw her arms around Yuuta.
Hugged him tight.
And immediately recoiled.
"Mama!" She looked up at Erza, confusion in her violet eyes. "Papa is like hot fire!"
Erza stared at her daughter.
Hot fire?
What does that mean?
Finally—finally—she reached out and touched Yuuta's neck.
His skin burned against her fingers.
Not warm. Not feverish by human standards. Hot. Unnaturally, impossibly hot. Like he'd been standing in a furnace. Like his body was trying to cook itself from the inside.
Erza's eyes widened.
What is this?
Is this... is this normal for humans?
Do they just... heat up and stop working?
She didn't know.
Had never known.
In her world, beings didn't get sick. They fought. They healed. They died in battle or lived forever. There was no in-between. No slow decline. No mysterious internal fires.
Yuuta looked up at her.
His eyes—glowing, strange, beautiful—met hers.
"I'm sorry," he whispered again. "I'll be fine. Just... give me a minute."
Then his eyes closed.
And he slumped against her.
---
To be continued...