The wind carried the unsettling scent of smoke and ash over a battlefield scarred by relentless hunt for the prey. Once vibrant forests and beautiful landscapes had fallen to ruins, leaving traces of burnt blood and wreckage.
Valmyros, the one remaining dragon, stood among the the crowd of empire's army.
He stood still, as though the weight of time had turned him to stone. His scales, once shimmering like molten gold, were dulled by endless attacks. Smoke clung to him like mourning garb. His wings, vast as storms, hung heavy and tattered.
"So this is all that remains," he thought, his gaze sweeping the ruined horizon. "Ashes, echoes, and the stink of iron."
Around him, silence followed the echoes of his kin's disappearance—dragons hunted to near extinction by human hands. Not long ago, the skies had thundered with the calls of his brethren. Now there was only this terrible hush, broken by the distant march of boots and metal.
Ahead, the disciplined ranks of the emperor's army advanced. Their armor clinked softly under a gray sky, a subtle rhythm like death's quiet knock. Spears and blades crafted to pierce dragon hide glimmered in the dim light.
Valmyros let his breath linger in his throat.
"They never understood," he mused. "We offered wisdom. We gave them fire so they could build, not destroy. And yet, here they come."
The war was not new. Fear had corroded the fragile alliance between dragons and humans long ago, giving way to suspicion and slaughter. The emperor's forces believed the dragons' ancient power invited destruction and chaos.
"A convenient lie," Valmyros thought. "Fear makes tyrants bold."
With a roar that shook the valley, Valmyros unleashed his final struggle. The flame magic lit the dusk like a fleeting sun, casting long shadows across broken siege weapons and fractured shields. Trees ignited in the periphery, flame curling around ruined stones as it slowly melts.
But the soldiers pressed on, unwavering.
"Fools," he growled aloud, his voice like an avalanche. "Will you burn the last root of the world just to say you conquered it?"
Arrows tipped with enchanted metals whistled through the air. Their sharp cries sliced through wind and fire, seeking the last dragon's vulnerable spots. Each one let a cry, a hymn to humanity's hunger for dominion.
Steel clashed against scale. Fire met cold iron. The ground trembled beneath their fury.
Valmyros twisted through the onslaught, fire pouring from his maw, wings stirring windstorms. He crushed a line of soldiers beneath his tail, flung others into trees like discarded leaves. For a moment, the sky remembered what it meant to fear a dragon.
But it wasn't enough.
A flash of silver pierced his left flank. He stumbled, blood—hot and bright—streaming down scales long thought impenetrable.
He turned sharply, hissing in pain. In the chaos, through the smoke and shouting, Valmyros caught sight of a young general striding forward. Not running. Not faltering. Just moving forward—blade drawn, eyes focused.
Their gazes met.
Time held its breath.
The young general's eyes were steady, clear. Not filled with hate, but something more dangerous—resolve. A spark of understanding passed silently between them, quick and sharp.
"You fight for a future born in fear," Valmyros thought. "Yet what future remains when the past is burned away?"
The general didn't speak. He simply nodded once, almost imperceptibly. A soldier's answer. Duty, not emotion.
Valmyros's heart, ancient and weary, twisted with something he could not name.
So this was the end.
A blade found its mark. Pain seared through Valmyros' side. His wings faltered, and the sky—once his cradle, his dominion—seemed to close in.
He staggered backward, flame dying in his throat.
"I am the last," he thought. "The last note of a forgotten song."
As the life fled from his body, a single thought echoed:
If the flames of old must die, let them light the way for something new.
Darkness swept him away—cold, deep, endless.
Then, a sudden light.
A cry.
A breath.
A world unknown.
Yoo Minjae's eyes opened to a new sky—soft and unfamiliar. Pale ceiling lights blinked above him. A quiet beeping ticked nearby, steady and persistent. His limbs felt small, awkward. Weak.
No magic stirred within him.
No ancient fire warmed his veins.
Only the steady rhythm of a human heart—fragile, yet persistent.
He blinked, slowly, trying to piece the world together. A ceiling. A scent—clean, like linen and antiseptic. Soft voices.
"Is he awake?"
"Minjae, you're finally awake," a woman's voice whispered, full of relief.
Her voice was strange. Familiar, yet utterly alien. There was no telepathy, no ancestral resonance. Just sound, tender and mortal.
"His eyes are open," a man said with quiet amazement. "You've got sharp eyes already, little one."
Minjae—no, Valmyros—tried to speak, but the muscles wouldn't obey. His body was too new. Too... human.
What is this weakness? Where is my fire? My wings?
He looked toward the source of the voices. Two faces leaned over him—warm, smiling, eyes glassy with emotion. His parents. Human. Ordinary.
Yet not without strength.
He stared at them, unblinking. His gaze, though infantile in body, held something older. Wiser. The mother flinched for a moment under the weight of it, then softened again.
"What strange eyes," she murmured.
Minjae's tiny fists twitched in the blanket.
"So fragile," he thought. "So slow, this heartbeat... but it is mine now."
No wings to spread.
No flames to command.
Only the quiet pulse of life, raw and unyielding.
But the mind remained. Sharp. Curious. Awake.
A whisper stirred in his thoughts—his own, yet different.
"Start again. Learn. Watch. Survive."
His father leaned in. "He's going to be strong, I can feel it. Just look at him."
The mother laughed gently. "Strong, yes. But gentle too. He's so quiet."
Quiet.
Yes, that was right.
No fire, no roar.
Just ashes. Quiet ashes.
But from embers, something new may rise.
The world had changed.
And so had he.