Ten long years had passed since the dawn of the Valcren Era an age that turned the world upon its head. Nations fell, empires broke, and the ancient balance of power crumbled into dust. At the heart of this upheaval stood a single man
Nova Valcren, the reincarnation of the Dragon King.
He was the flame that reshaped destiny itself.
When his presence graced the battlefield, even the sky trembled, the air thickened, and men lost the will to raise their swords. Kings who once called themselves divine kneeled before him, for his name alone carried the weight of storms and stars.
It was said that when Nova Valcren breathed, mountains sighed—and when he roared, the heavens burned.
In the present, far below the earth, inside a cavern laced with ancient sigils glowing faint gold, stood Asher Valcren. His smirk reflected the blue-white glow of runes carved across the walls.
"Hard to believe," Asher said, voice dripping with intrigue, "that the founding patriarch of all Valcrens was once a slave."
Across from him, seated upon a throne of obsidian and bones, Nova smiled—a smile both amused and nostalgic. His eyes glowed faintly like molten gold, and the air around him shimmered with heat and authority.
"Well," Nova said, resting his clawed hand on his chin, "it was entertaining for me too. Who would've thought he'd turn my grave into a sanctuary for his bloodline?"
Asher chuckled. "Quite the irony."
Nova's golden gaze softened. "Indeed. And now, his descendant stands before me—bearing my essence once again."
Asher straightened, eyes sharp. "So, did you ever meet my brothers or my father?"
"No," Nova replied, his voice echoing like distant thunder. "Only one with the mark of the first dragon's blood may enter this place. That means you alone."
"So you wish for me to train like my ancestor did?"
Nova's lips curved. "If you wish to wield power worthy of your name, yes."
Asher crossed his arms. "What's there to train? I've already mastered all ten forms of the Draconic Sword and magic up to the Fifth Tier."
Nova chuckled—a deep, resonant laugh that reverberated through the cavern walls. "Oh, child... there are twenty forms to the Draconic Sword. And as for your magic—it's but a shadow of what dragons wield."
The words struck Asher like lightning. His pupils dilated; his blood burned. He thought he had reached perfection—but now he realized he had only climbed halfway up the mountain.
"Why did the founder stop at ten, then?" Asher asked, his voice low.
Nova rose from his throne, each step shaking dust from the ceiling. His massive form towered over Asher. "Because he lacked what you possess—instinct. Power. And the soul of a true dragon."
Asher's smirk returned, sharper this time. "Then let's begin."
---
Nova folded his arms. "Show me what you've mastered first."
With a single step forward, Asher drew his blade. The air bent. Mana surged around him like a storm. One after another, he unleashed every form he knew—the Crimson Wing, the Serpent Tail, the Dragon's Heart. Each strike was perfect: speed, precision, grace, destruction.
Magic followed—flames spiraled, lightning crackled, ice bloomed in midair.
When the last echo faded, Nova spoke.
"Destroy it."
Asher blinked. "What?"
"Erase it all. Every motion, every instinct."
"Why? Did I not perform them perfectly?"
Nova sighed, heat radiating faintly from his body. "Perfectly, yes. But not truthfully. The sword you wield is a pale imitation. A version changed to fit mortals. The one I created was forged for magic swordsmen—beings like you who command both steel and sorcery."
Asher frowned. "And the difference?"
"The sword you use is balanced—for offense and defense. The true Dragonic Sword I forged was not meant for balance. It was made for one purpose." Nova's smile was a razor's edge.
"When that sword is unsheathed... the world should tremble. It means death and destruction. Nothing else."
Asher was silent. Then, without hesitation, he nodded—and began again.
He broke down every stance he knew, erased every habit, every motion—starting from the first breath, the first swing, as Nova watched.
And to Nova's growing shock, the boy learned each motion on the first try.
Every correction, every shift—instantaneously understood.
He was not just learning—he was evolving.
Nova's molten eyes narrowed. "You adjust fast."
Asher didn't look up. "So, tell me... why did the sword change this much over time?"
"Because your ancestor was kind," Nova said quietly. "Even when he was betrayed, he could not bring himself to hate. He was merciful, and mercy dulls the blade. Unlike me, he lacked the will to kill without sorrow."
"You seem to have liked him," Asher said, sheathing his blade.
Nova smiled faintly. "He was like a son to me. My first disciple."
---
Days bled into months, months into years. The constellations shifted; the stars changed direction.
Asher grew from a boy into a man of sixteen—tall, lean, eyes sharp as tempered blades. He had mastered all twenty forms, all tiers of draconic magic, and could fight Nova as an equal.
Their final duel raged for months. Mountains fell, seas roared, and the sky itself cracked. When it ended, Asher stood wounded but smiling—his blade stained with the first drop of dragon blood.
Nova laughed, the sound echoing through eternity. "Three years to master everything... and three more to finally wound me. You've done well."
Asher smirked. "If you weren't so damn hard to cut, I'd have gone home years ago."
"Now, it's time for you to leave," Nova said, his voice soft with respect. "But remember—the mark on your palm... it is no toy. Use it only in crisis."
"I know," Asher said, glancing at the dragon sigil glowing faintly on his skin.
"Go then. Seraphina must be waiting," Nova teased, his ancient eyes gleaming.
"Old man," Asher laughed, "try not to snore too loudly."
Their bond—one forged in battle, loneliness, and shared pride—needed no words.
With a step into the runic circle, Asher vanished in a burst of crimson light.
---
He reappeared in the garden of the Valcren Mansion. The morning sun shimmered on the silver leaves, and birds circled above fountains carved from white stone.
Asher took a deep breath of the air—familiar yet distant.
Then—
"Who are you, intruder?!" a sharp voice cried.
Turning, Asher saw a little boy holding a wooden sword and a small girl beside him, clutching a bow almost her size.
"Answer me! Who are you?" the boy demanded, puffing his chest.
Asher smiled faintly. "I could ask you the same, kid. I own this house."
"Liar! The Valcren own this house—and you're not one of them!"
Before Asher could speak, a maid came running from the corridor, eyes wide with terror. She froze mid-step, then fell to her knees.
"I greet the Young Dragon of the Valcren household!" she cried.
The boy frowned. "Why are you greeting him? He's an intruder!"
"He's not," the maid said breathlessly. "He is the third young master of Valcren—your uncle, His Grace Asher von Valcren."
Both children stared at Asher, stunned. The stories they'd heard—of the prodigy who broke the founder's record and vanished into legend—were real.
"Who are they?" Asher asked, turning to the maid.
"They are the children of Young Master Michael."
Asher chuckled. "Big brother got married, huh? They do look like him."
The children immediately bowed. "We greet our uncle!"
"Yeah, yeah, enough of that," Asher said warmly, lifting them both. "How old are you?"
"I'm four!" the boy declared. "She's three!"
"And your names?"
"I'm Ilhan Valcren."
"And I'm Aliza Valcren!"
He smiled. "Good names."
As they walked toward the mansion, nobles standing in the courtyard turned, their murmurs silenced when they saw the faint glow of the dragon symbol on Ashers clothes
"Tell Father I want to see him," Asher ordered the guards.
The guard saluted. "At once, young lord."
"Grandfather is always busy," Aliza pouted. "He doesn't play with us."
"Oh? Then maybe I'll have to make him," Asher grinned.
Moments later, the doors opened. The guards bowed low. "The Patriarch will see you now."
Inside, Samael Valcren, the current patriarch, stood near the window, sunlight bathing his silver hair. His presence radiated calm authority.
"I greet the Dragon of Valcren," Asher said, bowing.
Samael turned. His eyes—same golden hue as his son's—softened.
"You've grown well, my son," he said warmly. "And I see you've met the little ones."
"Yeah," Asher replied with a rare smile. "It's been… enlightening."
Father and son stared at each other—two dragons in human form, power humming faintly between them like an unseen storm about to break.