A Dragon in Their Midst

Green Valley, the Great Cathedral. Mantou, Singo, Tiansheng Zhankuang, and Xiaye Qiuyu had gathered together for the first time in ages, clearly planning something. Mantou toyed with the emerald dragon scale in his hand and asked offhandedly, "Can we really slip into Forest Hawk City without a hitch? Don't go getting us killed." Singo shot him a glance, pointing to the scales on his own arm. "We've drunk dragon blood. You could say we're practically Old Tiamat's blue-blooded elite. "The cultists in the Cult of the Dragon definitely have lower draconic bloodline purity than we do. By their customs, they might even have to get down on their knees when they see us." Hearing this, Mantou's mouth twitched slightly. "That sounds nice, but the risk is way too high. What if there's some secret pass phrase we don't know? Wouldn't that be a total party wipe?" "That's why we need natives to guide us." Singo gestured toward Tiansheng Zhankuang and continued, "Zhankuang's pretty experienced in this area. He infiltrated the Bronze Citadel under Zariel's rule back then and laid the groundwork for our victory in the Hell war." Tiansheng Zhankuang rubbed his shiny bald head, looking a bit sheepish. "I just got lucky, nothing worth bragging about." Beside them, Xiaye Qiuyu quipped, "Right, you only assassinated an infernal general, threw the entire Bronze Citadel into utter chaos, and smuggled in the former Lord of the Nine, Bel... That's all." Mantou looked at Singo, who wore a look of absolute confidence, and asked, "So where do we start?" Singo pulled a map from his robes that he had prepared long ago, marked with several prominent routes. "See this? These are all supply routes used by the Cult of the Dragon's convoys. Those cultists haul living captives and plundered gold and treasures from all over straight to the dragon hatcheries." He pressed his finger against a red path, speaking with absolute certainty. "And this is our chance to infiltrate Forest Hawk City—or even trash their hatchery." Xiaye Qiuyu asked, "So we just tail the cult's transport convoy and sneak in behind them?" Tiansheng Zhankuang wiped his bloodstained battleaxe with a cloth, his tone breezy. "Better to just kill all the cultists. Saves us the trouble of anything going sideways." Singo flashed an odd grin and shook his head. "No. We're going to march right in through the front door—and make them welcome us of their own accord." Mantou caught the sinister smile on Singo's face and understood at once. This guy had definitely cooked up some devious scheme. "Fine, we'll do it your way." Mantou sighed, offering a silent prayer for the cultists who had no idea what was coming. Only then did Singo explain, "From what I know, status within the Cult of the Dragon is determined entirely by the purity of dragon blood, forming a rigid caste system. Externally, it shows in how draconic their features are, and at the very top sit true dragons. "In their system, if a true dragon kills a low-ranking cultist, the dragon only owes a single silver coin—and even that silver is usually stiffed. And you..." "Me?" Mantou pointed to his own nose. Singo stared at the bewildered Mantou, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Mantou, you can transform into a wyrmling! In the Cult of the Dragon, you're a born Brahmin!" "That... actually makes sense." Mantou froze for a second before a grin broke across his face. He had never experienced what it felt like to be part of the privileged elite. Singo nodded. "Then it's settled. Mantou, remember your role: you're the scion of an ancient red dragon from the far north, dispatched here on the Dragon Queen's divine decree for a crucial mission. And the rest of us are your loyal retainers..." "Man... who knew there'd be a perk like this?" Mantou rubbed his hands in excitement, already imagining the reverent, terrified stares people would give him once he entered Forest Hawk City. *** At the edge of the Ash Fen. The place was a mire wrapped in thick mist, the humid air thick with the stench of decay and rot. Everywhere the eye could see was a sea of sickly green and brown. Moss and mushrooms sprouted across the ground, duckweed coated the murky water, and bubbles occasionally broke the surface. A wooden boardwalk snaked through the swamp like a weary serpent. Dilapidated and neglected, its planks were rotted and covered in green slime; every step brought a loud creak and a slight sinking sensation. At the end of the path, veiled in fog, a procession slowly emerged. All of them wore robes and bore five-headed dragon emblems upon their chests. Their identities were unmistakable—cultists of the Cult of the Dragon. The cultists held rusted iron chains, and bound to the other end were dozens of ragged civilians. Pale-faced and breathing heavily, their clothes drenched by the clammy dampness and clinging to their skin, the captives were visibly gripped by terror. *Crack!* The leader of the cultists at the front lashed his whip across the back of a woman who was falling behind, barking furiously, "Move faster! Drag your feet again and I'll toss you to the crocs!" The woman shook violently, sobbing in desperation. "My lord, my lord, I'm sorry! Please don't leave me behind!" The cult leader sneered coldly. "You'd better be sharper next time. The noble dragons have no need for clumsy slaves like you." "Y-yes, my lord." The woman lowered her head, replying in sheer terror. Only then did the leader turn away, ignoring her. Another cultist sidled up beside him, speaking in a low whisper meant for their ears alone. "Lord Duka, are all these short-lived wretches going to be fed to the breeding pool?" The cultist named Duka turned his head impatiently, his reptilian vertical slits gleaming with cold menace. "Ryder, is that any of your business?" Cold sweat drenched Ryder. He hurried to paste on a fawning smile. "Of course not, my lord! Forgive my insolence. I forgot my place." With that, he cast a divine magic spell to seal in sound, wrapping the two of them in a faint veil of black mist. Duka glared at him before grumbling, "You guessed right, though. Every last one is fodder for the breeding pool. "That damned human duke won a victory up north and infuriated the Lord of the Rotting Bog. A grand army's being mobilized for a punitive campaign, which means the demand for dragon beasts has spiked—and the quota for the consumables needed to breed them has landed squarely on our heads. "Damn it all, our town didn't have many people to begin with, and with folks hiding in every hole, we're even having to use women to make up the numbers! If we take any more, there won't be anyone left to serve us! "And in two days, we have to deliver tribute worth at least five thousand gold coins. We couldn't scrape that together even if we ripped up every floorboard in those paupers' houses!" At that, Duka grew even more incensed. He stomped viciously on the planks beneath his feet. With a sharp crack, the wood snapped, nearly plunging his foot into the muck. Livid and with nowhere to vent his fury, Duka slapped Ryder across the face, leaving a vivid red print on his right cheek. "Damn it! Can't you watch where you're going?!" Clutching his stinging cheek, Ryder kept his groveling smile intact, acting as if nothing had happened. "My deepest apologies, my lord. We're almost through this stretch of marsh. You'll be able to rest up over there." No matter how much resentment churned in his heart, Ryder dared not let a trace of it show. Duka was, after all, a dragon scion a full rank above him. Such was the bloodline hierarchy of the Cult of the Dragon—steep, rigid, and absolute. With Duka's purity of dragon blood, nobody would bat an eye even if he beat Ryder to death on the spot. Yet if Ryder showed even a shred of defiance, it was a capital offense that would see him hurled into the hatcheries to serve as consumable stock. Fortunately, that slap drained most of Duka's rage. He merely waved a hand in irritation. "Get lost, get lost." The edge of the swamp was not far ahead, where they could take a brief breather to rest and recover their strength before pushing on. As for the civilians behind them? In the eyes of the cultists, they were not people at all, but sacrifices and consumables meant to be dumped into the breeding pools. Three days ago, Duka had conducted a sweeping roundup in town under the pretext of "seeking servants for the noble dragons," all to herd this flock of civilians to Forest Hawk City. Because of the dense mist clinging to the marsh, the cultists could not see far ahead, but they soon spotted several blurry figures looming through the fog. Tall and short, they stood squarely in the path, blocking their way. Ryder whispered a warning, "My lord, they say rebels have been active around here lately. We should be careful..." "Shut your trap!" Duka's expression grew stern. He drew a dragon-claw scepter from the sleeve of his robe, leveled it at the shadowy figures, and barked, "Who goes there? We are a convoy bound for Forest Hawk City, carrying out the will of the Lord of the Rotting Bog!" The other cultists chimed in loudly, "Get out of the way if you know what's good for you, or don't blame us for showing no mercy!" Yet the answer they received was a piercing, shrill roar. The mist ahead slowly parted, revealing the true form of the figure shrouded within. Brilliant scarlet scales, golden slit pupils, razor-sharp claws, and a long, sinuous tail... Sensing the blast of sulfur and the faint aura of dragon fear rolling toward them, Duka's pupils shrank to pinpricks. Cold sweat poured down his forehead as dread seized his heart. That was a dragon! And not just any dragon—a red dragon, the most exalted and mighty among chromatic dragons! Though it was only the size of a horse and clearly still an immature wyrmling, it was still far beyond what lowblood dragon scions like them could afford to cross. Worse, he had been the one to issue the challenge. If this red dragon slaughtered him here, the Cult of the Dragon wouldn't dare utter a peep in protest. Duka glanced past the red dragon and saw several draconic humanoids standing behind it: a female sorcerer with dragon horns curling from her brow, a berserker covered head-to-toe in scales, and a knight holding the reins of a wyvern. Every single one of them displayed a higher degree of draconic traits than he did! To have such formidable dragon scions as retainers, this young red dragon's status had to be extraordinary! In that case, assuming this wasn't some illusion or polymorph spell... Without a second's hesitation, Duka dropped to his knees with a thud. Looking up at the red dragon, he wailed for mercy, "Noble and mighty Red Dragon! We were blind fools! We had no idea we were crossing your magnificent presence!" Before his voice had even faded, the cultists behind him dropped to their knees in unison. Even the captives knelt trembling in the mud, their hearts hammering in dread. After all, it was common knowledge that red dragons were the most vicious and deranged of the chromatic dragons. A single misstep could see you turned into a snack, leaving not even a scrap behind. "Vile mongrel! Realizing it now, are you?" The red dragon sneered and strode forward unhurriedly. It brought a claw down atop Duka's head, slamming his face hard into the dirt. "Who gave you permission to look up at me, mongrel?" The razor-sharp claw pierced Duka's scalp, sending rivulets of blood trickling down his face. A sharp throb pulsed through his skull, yet Duka felt it was only natural. He felt no shame whatsoever—in fact, a smile crept onto his face. This familiar contempt, this arrogant tone, this treatment of him as absolute filth... This red dragon before him was definitely genuine! The young red dragon—or rather, Mantou—was inwardly taken aback. Disgusted, he drew back his claws and took a few steps back, thinking to himself: *Is this guy some kind of sick masochist?* Duka lay flat against the ground, his forehead pressed to the mud, speaking in an intensely obsequious tone. "Lord Red Dragon, we are eager to obey your every command. Might you grace us with your name?" *Did getting stepped on actually make his day?* Hearing Duka's tone made Mantou's skin crawl. He snapped furiously, "A lowly human like you dares ask for my name? Goudan, beat him!" Behind him, Singo's mouth twitched, but he forced down the urge to beat Mantou instead. Lunging forward to Duka, he put his full strength into a kick straight to the cultist's gut. *Oof!—* Duka went flying backward, vomiting a mouthful of blood. He tumbled across the ground several times, nearly plowing into the huddled crowd of civilians. "Good work, Goudan." Mantou nodded in satisfaction. He swept an imposing gaze over the surrounding crowd and declared, "See that? That is the fate of anyone who defies me!" Beside him, Xiaye Qiuyu stepped forward, her voice cool and crisp. "Our master is the scion of a great ancient red dragon of the north, here by decree of Her Majesty the Dragon Queen. From this day forward, all of you answer to his commands. Is that understood?" "Y-yes, my lord!" Staring at Duka coughing up blood, the crowd frantically nodded in agreement. Lying in the dirt, Duka felt a chill settle into his bones, as though he had fallen into a frozen lake. Did this red dragon want him dead? No, he had to survive! He had clawed his way up to becoming a dragon scion, living like a king in that town—how could he throw his life away here? He had to get on this red dragon's good side! With panic coursing through him, Duka scrambled up on all fours. He grabbed the nearest woman by the wrist and yanked her forward. "W-what are you doing?!" The woman struggled desperately. Yet as a dragon scion, Duka was far stronger than she was. He dragged her forward by sheer force and hurled her onto the ground before the red dragon, shouting: "My lord, it was her! It was this wretched human female who pointed you out earlier and made us mistake you for enemies!" Duka twisted his face into a savage sneer. "How about this: as punishment, let her be your meal! It would be an honor for a lowly wretch like her!" "No, my lord!" "It wasn't me! I didn't do it!" The woman knelt in the dirt, tears and snot streaming down her face as she sobbed out her innocence, but nobody spoke up for her. In the minds of the cultists, she was already as good as dead. The corners of Duka's mouth curled into a cruel smirk. He was already picturing the scene of the woman being torn to shreds by sharp fangs, the red dragon feasting upon her bloody remains. Once this brainless red dragon had eaten its fill, it would surely put the earlier unpleasantness behind it. And then... Suddenly, a scorching wave of heat blasted against his face. Duka looked up in shock, only for blazing firelight to fill his vision. "Wait, my lord, aren't you—" *Boom!* A deafening explosion rang out as a massive fireball slammed directly into his head, engulfing his skull and leaving behind nothing but a charred, headless corpse. Just like that, Duka was dead! The cultists froze in utter shock, a shudder running through their bones as they instinctively looked toward the source of the fireball. Not far away, the dragon-horned female sorcerer looked back with an expression devoid of warmth, wisps of black smoke trailing from her outstretched palm. "I said..." Mantou, in the form of the red dragon, swept a ferocious glare across the shivering cultists, his tone icy. "I don't like other people making decisions for me. Is that understood?" Staring at the charred, headless corpse, the cultists swallowed hard and nodded frantically.