- New chapter, and where the canon story would begin. Thanks for reading. Authors out -
Years passed like hammer strikes against iron, each day ringing into the next, shaping me, tempering me, burning away the boy who had once woken up in a stranger's body. From the moment we returned from Libya, the shape of my life hardened into two perfect, merciless halves. By daylight I was Issei Hyoudou, dutiful son and unremarkable student. By dawn and by night I was something else entirely — vessel of a Heavenly Dragon, wielder of a lance that reeked of blood and sanctity, apprentice to a voice older than empires.
At school, I learned to smile politely, to raise my hand at the right time, to answer tests with neat handwriting. At home, I helped my mother cook, carried groceries for my father, scrubbed the bathtub. Normality as camouflage. But every hour I stole for myself was spent drilling footwork until my knees ached, striking invisible enemies until my arms shook, whispering to the dragon inside me while testing the fire that burned in my veins.
No one knew. No one could know.
[Power unrestrained is a beacon, boy. Do you wish to draw angels and devils alike upon your home?] Ddraig had growled at me the night after we returned from Libya. That was lesson one. Suppression.
So I learned to clamp down on my aura until even an exorcist would have walked past me blind. The first months were agony — my skin itched like ants crawling under it, my lungs felt caged — but gradually, I learned to smother the pressure, to let the dragon sleep beneath the surface of my flesh.
In public, I was the picture of restraint. Polite, calm, never raising my voice, never letting fire slip through my skin. I cultivated inexpressiveness like armor: a smile here, a nod there, just enough to be liked but never enough to stand out. I became the boy who was always present, always decent, but never extraordinary.
Except, of course, for the things I couldn't fully hide.
Training carved me into something sharper than human. At fourteen, my reflection had already shifted — taller, leaner, shoulders square. By sixteen, my physique was unmistakably athletic, not the bulk of a gym rat but the wiry hardness of someone who lived by discipline. The P.E. teacher asked if I played sports. The track coach tried to recruit me. I smiled, declined, went back to my quiet routine.
It drew eyes anyway. Girls whispered behind my back, curious but unsure. Boys sometimes envied, sometimes respected. "Hyoudou's like a monk," one of them muttered once. "A jacked monk."
I never indulged it. Popularity was a distraction. My goal wasn't attention. My goal was strength.
Ashdod was my crucible. Its weight, its balance, its flame — they became extensions of me. In the hidden hours, Ddraig opened vaults of memory: forgotten martial arts, stances perfected by warriors across centuries. Spear thrusts of Spartan phalanxes. Halberd sweeps of medieval knights. Shaolin staff drills. Naginata katas of onna-bugeisha. The brutal precision of Roman pila.
[Remember this grip. In Sparta, men formed walls of bronze with their bodies. They did not swing — they thrust.]
[Breathe like the monks of Wudang. Your lungs are bellows. Feed the fire, don't choke it.]
[Balance like the onna-bugeisha — weight low, hips square. A spear is a blade on a leash. Master the leash.]
I absorbed them, blended them, broke them apart. What emerged was mine: a fluid, relentless style built on reach, precision, and devastating bursts of sacred flame. Each motion measured, honed to end battles in a single strike.
And when I ignited Ashdod's power, its twin natures sang together — the sanctity of heaven and the fury of dragonkind. A weapon meant to end me, now mastered by me.
The first time I summoned the Sacred Flame deliberately, I nearly burned myself alive. It wasn't just heat — it was holiness, purer than sunlight, fused with the draconic core of Karyan. It felt like being pierced from the inside by a thousand needles of light. My scream echoed off the walls of my practice space; the smell of scorched wood lingered for days.
But I learned. I learned to shape it, to compress it into my strikes, to wreath Ashdod's edge until every thrust seared with the Sacred Flames of Karyan. It became my secret weapon. Hidden. Never used unless there was no choice.
Because Ddraig was right: if anyone saw those flames, the entire supernatural world would take notice.
The breakthrough came when I was fifteen. My heart nearly gave out from the strain of twenty consecutive boosts. My vision darkened, my lungs refused to draw air. I thought I was dying — again — crumpled on the floor of the abandoned dojo I'd rented under a fake name.
And then something answered.
Not Ddraig. Not Ashdod. But Karyan.
The memory of the fallen dragon's last roar fused with my soul, a firestorm bursting in my chest. For an instant, my heart stopped — only to restart stronger, heavier, not quite human anymore.
[So, you've accepted him.] Ddraig's voice was grim, almost reverent. [His heart beats with yours now. That makes you something… different.]
I pushed myself up, panting, vision swimming, and saw crimson scales crawling across my arms like armor. Wings flickered behind me, not solid yet but shimmering with heat. My hands glowed with clawed gauntlets of red and gold.
Balance Breaker.
From that day, I carried not just Ddraig, but the legacy of Karyan himself. A dragon's heart, caged in human flesh, who was always evolving.
Without calling on the Balance Breaker, without even drawing Ashdod, I could already match a High Mid-Class devil by sixteen. With elemental mastery alone — fire and earth intertwined — I could reduce streets to rubble. With the Boosted Gear active, I could handle twenty consecutive amplifications before my body screamed to pieces. At that peak, my aura surged into the realm of Low Ultimate-Class.
A terrifying truth for someone who still sat quietly in the back row of a high school classroom.
And yet, in Kuoh Academy, I was nothing more than Hyoudou Issei. A second-year student with good grades, never late for class, never starting fights. The teachers respected my diligence. My classmates admired my physique, my calm. I was moderately popular, but not adored. Trusted, but not worshipped. Always just enough to blend, never enough to shine too brightly.
Because shining meant exposure. And exposure meant danger.
So I walked the line. A dragon wrapped in human skin. A killer's weapon hidden in my closet. Sacred fire chained to my veins. Waiting.
Sometimes, late at night, lying on my futon with the window open, I'd stare at the ceiling and whisper, "This is insane. I'm a kid hiding a holy dragon-slaying spear under my bed while studying for math tests."
And Ddraig would rumble back, half amused, half serious:
[Better than failing both math and destiny.]
I'd snort into the dark, bite back a laugh. "You're such a motivational speaker."
[I have had centuries of practice. Most of my pupils died.]
"Wow. Comforting."
But even in the gallows humor, there was a strange kind of warmth. Somewhere along the way, the dragon in my soul had become more than a taskmaster. He was a teacher. A guardian. The only one who really knew what I was.
Seventeen now. The second year of high school. The age where the canon begins. The point where devils and fallen angels would finally turn their eyes toward me.
For years, I had hidden, building myself in silence. For years, the hammer had struck, shaping me into something sharp and unyielding. For years, I had been forging myself in secret — a silent forge no one could see.
And though the world still slept on me, though to them I was still just Hyoudou Issei, I knew the silence would not last.
Because I was no longer just a host.I was Issei Hyoudou:Bearer of the Red Dragon Emperor.Wielder of Ashdod, the Dragon-Slayer Lance.The boy with a dragon's heart.
And the world was about to notice.