"Even though I'm also curious, don't you think you're invading her privacy a little, my disciple?"
Exactly after the question asked by the president, a presence emerged and, in the blink of an eye, a tall elf with silvery-gray hair was sitting in the chair that had previously been occupied by Chronara. Deep blue eyes blinked amusedly, observing the scene with genuine interest, a carefree smile on his lips as if he had just woken from a pleasant nap.
He was a person Dex could never forget. Aldebran Veythar, the man who held the position of Director of this institution and, more importantly, the strongest man in the world.
"Master," she drawled with calculated boredom, "you could at least warn me before teleporting me. That was my chair."
Aldebran looked at her with a smile that didn't match at all with the title of the world's strongest man—he seemed more like a mischievous youth who had just played a prank on a friend. Then he laughed. Not the polite laugh of a respectable director, but a genuine and contagious laugh that echoed through the silent auditorium.
"Your chair, you say? My dear lazy disciple, this chair belongs to the President of the Disciplinary Council. And I, as Director of this magnificent institution, have the right to sit in any chair that pleases me."
Chronara didn't deny it, only turned her face slightly in silent admission.
Aldebran then rose from the chair with a fluid movement that defied the ceremony's delay.
The entire auditorium collectively held its breath.
He walked with slow steps until he was just two meters from Dex and the trio of three women. His hands remained in the pockets of his black pants, a relaxed posture that absolutely contrasted with the serious conversation he had had with Dex earlier.
His blue eyes fixed directly on Dex's eyes.
"So," Aldebran said, voice maintaining a light tone but carrying the weight of responsibility imposed on him, "what the hell are you?"
But he didn't wait for an answer. It wasn't a question, it was a statement of fact, which he couldn't ignore: Dex Thunderbird is an anomaly.
He turned abruptly, his translucent spatial cape made of living constellations floating around him, and walked to the edge of the black marble stage. He stopped there, with his back to them, and looked up.
And for the first time since they entered, Dex, Erica, Echidna—and the entire audience—truly observed the hall where they were.
The ceiling was magnificent.
Multicolored stained glass formed a gigantic mosaic covering the entire extension of the auditorium. These weren't ordinary stained-glass windows—they were dragons. Dozens of them, perhaps hundreds, each of a different color, woven in glass as if they were alive.
A red dragon with brilliant crimson scales, wings spread as if dominating a firestorm.
A blue dragon winding through a crystalline ocean, its body long and sinuous.
A golden dragon crowned with majestic horns, sapphire eyes that seemed to judge everyone below.
A pure white dragon with angelic wings that contrasted with sharp black claws.
A green dragon emerging from a dense forest, merging with the foliage.
And in the center of them all, larger than the others, a black dragon with violet eyes that seemed to see through time itself—surrounded by constellations identical to those on Aldebran's cape.
Sunlight from outside passed through the stained glass, projecting draconic rainbows over the marble floor. The dragons seemed to fly over the blue sky painted between them, creating an illusion of movement when the light changed.
It was like being inside a cathedral dedicated not to gods, but to the dragons themselves.
The walls around the auditorium told an equally impressive story.
Carved directly into the pale stone, high-elven writings wound in spirals and impossible geometric patterns.
But what truly captured attention were the ancient cloths hanging between the marble columns.
Gigantic tapestries, each at least ten meters tall, woven with threads that seemed to contain condensed mana. The colors were vibrant despite their obvious age—deep reds, celestial blues, imperial golds, abyssal blacks.
And all depicted the same thing: The Ancient War.
On the first cloth, armies marched—elves in silver armor, dwarves with bright axes, humans with flaming swords, beastmen with exposed claws, vampires with blood wings.
On the second, gigantic dragons dominated battlefields, launching flames that consumed entire continents.
On the third... Dex stopped breathing.
A monstrous woman.
Black hair like an infinite abyss fell to the ground, each strand seeming alive, writhing like tentacles. The skin was pale as death, but the eyes—the eyes—shone with a deep red that made Dex's pupils seem like candles next to hell.
Gigantic demonic wings spread behind her, so vast they covered half the painted sky. Curved horns emerged from her forehead, more majestic and terrifying than any crown.
At the base of the tapestry, embroidered in ancient golden thread, was written in a language Dex didn't recognize but instinctively understood:
"The Great Demon Calamity - Devourer of Ages!"
'Echidna,' Dex thought telepathically, 'who is she?'
Silence.
Echidna didn't respond immediately.
And when she finally spoke, her mental voice was laden with emotion he had never heard in her before: fear, hatred, and something deeper... pain.
'Zephyra's mother,' she whispered mentally. 'The Usurper. The one who enslaved me. And finally, the assassin of the true Demon King.'
Aldebran raised his right hand, and spatial magic pulsed from it. The stained glass above shone intensely, as if coming to life. The glass dragons seemed to move slowly through the painted blue sky.
"This ceiling," he said with genuine reverence, "is not mere decoration. It is historical record. Memory preserved in glass and mana."
Dramatic pause.
"More than eight hundred years ago, before the War that almost destroyed this world, this era was known as the Age of Dragons."
Murmurs filled the auditorium.
"Dragons weren't rare like today. They weren't legends whispered in taverns or creatures found only in remote mountains. They dominated the skies."
Aldebran pointed to the red dragon in the stained glass.
"Volkris, the Ancestral Dragon of Fire, whose body forged the hammer that one of your colleagues just awakened."
Then to the blue dragon.
"Leviathor, Dragon of the Deep Oceans, whose scales are said to be indestructible."
To the golden dragon.
"Aurelian, Dragon-King of the Golden Mountains, who could level cities with a single roar."
And finally, to the angelic white dragon.
"Celestara, Dragon of Divine Light, who they say taught the first elves to use sacred magic."
Absolute silence.
"These stained-glass windows," Aldebran continued, "represent the sky before the war. A time when dragons flew freely, and the five races—humans, elves, dwarves, beastmen, and vampires—coexisted with them, not as masters or slaves, but as... uncertain allies."
He lowered his hand, and the stained glass returned to normal.
"It was an era of precarious balance. Dragons possessed absolute power, but rarely interfered in the affairs of 'inferior' races. And the races, in turn, respected dragons as forces of nature."
His expression darkened.
"But then... she appeared."
Aldebran turned and walked slowly along the edge of the stage, passing before the ancient tapestries hanging on the walls.
"These tapestries," he said, lightly touching one of them, "were woven by survivors. Each thread carries memory of pain. Each color, spilled blood."
He stopped before the first tapestry—marching armies.
"The war began suddenly. Without warning. Without formal declaration. Just... carnage."
He pointed to the embroidered figures.
"Elves, dwarves, humans, beastmen, vampires—all united for the first time in history. Not through diplomacy or treaties. But through absolute necessity of survival."
He moved to the second tapestry—dragons dominating battlefields.
"And here," he said with a laden voice, "you see the true desperate alliance."
The students leaned forward, attentive.
"The dragons, who before remained neutral, joined the five races. Not out of loyalty. Not out of friendship. But because the enemy was an existential threat to all."
He pointed to the giant black dragon painted on the tapestries, launching flames that consumed enemy hordes.
"Nyx'theron, the Dragon of Eternal Darkness, led the draconic offensive. They say his black flames burned souls, not just bodies."
He paused.
"But even with dragons on our side... the war was bloody. It lasted decades. Entire continents were destroyed. Cities reduced to ashes. Entire families extinct."
His voice lowered to an almost whispered tone that, paradoxically, echoed louder.
"And at the center of it all... her."
Aldebran stopped before the third tapestry—the monstrous woman with black hair.
All eyes fixed on her.
"This," he said simply, pointing, "is what the records call The Great Demon Calamity. The Devourer of Ages."
He let that weigh in the air.
"During the war, we believed we were facing the Demon Queen. After all, what other being could possess such destructive power?"
He pointed to the demonic wings on the tapestry.
"She flew over battlefields like an angel of death. Wherever she landed, everything died."
"But after the war, when we finally managed to seal the demonic threat through unimaginable sacrifice... we discovered a terrifying truth."
Dramatic pause.
"In the demonic realm, according to recovered records, there are no queens. Only kings."
Shocked murmurs exploded through the auditorium.
"This creature," Aldebran said slowly, "was not the ruler."
He took a deep breath.
"If this creature—whom we believed to be the supreme leader—was just... a piece... imagine the true power that resides in the demonic realm."
"But that doesn't diminish her deeds. It doesn't erase the absolute terror."
He turned completely to the tapestry.
"This demoness, alone, is credited with killing and devouring approximately ninety percent of all dragons that existed."
"Ninety percent," Aldebran repeated, letting each word weigh. "Of all draconic races. Of the Fire dragons. Of the Oceans. Of the Mountains. Of Light. Of Darkness."
He pointed again to the stained glass.
"Those dragons you see above? They no longer exist. They were devoured."
Deathly silence.
"Only ten percent of dragons survived. And of those, most were so wounded, so traumatized, that they fled to hidden dimensions and never returned."
He turned again to the entire auditorium.
"The Age of Dragons ended on that battlefield. The Great Calamity ensured that."
Pause.
"And this academy," he said, his voice gaining strength again, "was founded five hundred years ago on the ashes of that war. Built here, on this elven island saturated with sacred mana, precisely because this was one of the few places where demonic energy could not easily penetrate."
He pointed to the tapestries, then to the stained glass.
"We remember. We never forget. And we prepare so that, if someday that threat returns..."
"...We will be ready."