The Dragon Heir Chapter 93: Reality

It wasn’t supposed to play out like this. And by this, I ant my current predicant. I had a lead—a solid one—on the breadcrumbs of my past. A princess from a sect in Vraal’Kor. Easy pickings, right? Well, so much for “simple.” Turns out she wasn’t just so pampered noble lounging on satin pillows. No, she belonged to the highest rung of the ruling ladder—one of the five families that ran this land. And not just any family, oh no, but the most powerful one of them all. Their palace? Perched like a crown jewel in the topmost district of Varkaigrad. A district so elite that peasants wouldn’t dare to glance up at it, let alone dream of setting foot inside.

Even Gwen, resourceful and powerful as she was, couldn’t magic up a direct connection to that echelon. But she did toss a lifeline: a well-known alchemist whose na carried the kind of weight that made rchants bow and nobles smile just a little wider. Of course, there was another reason for seeking them out—my transformation. That lovely little “gift” ca wrapped in its own set of quirks. Or, more accurately, limitations. And... well, alchemy had a knack for turning problems into possibilities. That’s how I found myself here, playing the part of an eager young Drakkari from the Bloodtide Sect, ard with Gwen-forged papers that scread legitimacy—at least on the surface. I wasn’t exactly a pro at faking identities, so her handiwork was my golden ticket.

But sitting tight? Not my style. Every night, I slipped out, prowling the streets, listening, learning, following every whisper until one stench hit like a brick to the face.

Rot. The kind that lingered, gnawed, and clawed its way into your nostrils. The sa vile essence I’d encountered in that dungeon when the Elven heir hit lowgold. This ti, it was oozing off a gang—locals, no less. They were shifting unnaturally. Beast forms before hitting red core.

And here I was now. No ti to chew on the cud of past regrets, my eyes fixed on the chaos unfolding below.

The tide of battle turned the mont Iron strode onto the scene. Unlike his gang of rry shapeshifters, he skipped the dramatic morphing and went straight to business. His hand expanded in an instant, conjuring a rune-etched tal sword that plunged unceremoniously through the nearest Voruun’s skull. The poor sod didn’t even have ti for a final thought before his head erupted in a grisly confetti of blood and gore—Iron, ever the generous sort, added a gratuitous blast for good asure.

The effect was imdiate. The Voruuns stiffened, their bravado faltering, though the biggest brutes among them lumbered forward to keep up appearances. Not that I planned to let them enjoy the lilight for long. I had a plan—a thoroughly underhanded one at that—but I wasn’t about to jump headfirst into a scrap with Iron. The man wasn’t the sort you took on without proper preparation, and I hadn’t quite mustered the courage (or stupidity) to fully face him head-on. Instead, I relied on my secret weapon, hidden snugly beneath my cloak: an army of tiny dark mana golems.

These little horrors weren’t much to look at, just vague blobs of shadow with delicate wings that seed more decorative than functional. But what they lacked in finesse, they made up for in efficiency. Summoning them was a doddle; whipping up a couple of dozen barely cost a sliver of mana. Hundreds? A trivial matter. Thousands? Well, that called for a quick mana potion to stave off the inevitable migraine. As I popped one open, the faint buzz of information from my golems humd in the back of my mind. Thankfully, I didn’t have to micromanage them—just issue clear orders and let them do the rest. Trying to process the flood of sensory input from thousands of tiny spies? No, thank you. I wasn’t mad. Not yet, anyway.

With the command “fill,” the golems sprang into action, swarming into the hidden tubes within my cloak. Each tiny body absorbed a very special, utterly vile concoction I’d cooked up in my spare ti. Lethal? Oh, no. That would be too easy. These were designed to make their victims wish they were dead—a delightful blend of agony and incapacitation. Iron needed to stay alive, after all, though his comfort was decidedly optional.

Ti was short. This delightful little brawl had no doubt drawn the attention of the Enforcers, and those killjoys would be here soon enough. Best not let things escalate any further. I shut my eyes and focused, Air Sense painting a vivid picture of the battlefield. My cloak disgorged its dark tide, a swarm of malevolent little bodies spilling into the fray. Ignoring the cacophony of new sensations, I issued one simple command: ATTACK.

The swarm surged forward, blackening the snow-dusted gloom like a plague. I hadn’t bothered with nuanced commands—no sparing green-skinned Voruuns or prioritizing specific targets. Why complicate matters? They were all up to no good, and rcy wasn’t exactly on today’s nu. Predictably, the first reaction from everyone was to lob fireballs, lightning bolts, and whatever other magic they had handy, trying desperately to halt the tide.

So golems fell, their connections snapping like threads. But there were more—so many more. They poured into every available orifice: nostrils, mouths, ears, even eyes. And then, one by one—BOOM! Each tiny vessel exploded, releasing its payload of tornt onto the hapless targets.

The screams began almost imdiately. Music to my ears. The concoction was a work of art—temporarily rewiring bodily functions wherever it landed. Swelling tissues, paralytic shocks, the works. And the pain! Oh, it was exquisite. Purely in the academic sense, of course. I’d tested it on myself once, out of sheer intellectual curiosity (and definitely not sadism, heavens no). My macro-trophic sac was always a bit sluggish in my drakarri form, thus giving just enough ti to experience its “charms” before neutralizing it. Painful? Very. Effective? Absolutely.

Unless these poor sods had so sort of miracle cure tucked away, they were as good as subdued. The poison was doing its job admirably. But at the centre of the chaos, there stood Iron, defiant as ever. Flas licked hungrily around him, his entire form hardening like molten tal cooling into an indomitable shell. With grandiose flourishes, he unleashed torrents of fire, scorching and reducing my swarm to ash. I had to stifle a chuckle. Was that his masterstroke? A paltry attempt to counter a spell I’d barely mastered myself? Honestly, he was wasting more of his own gang than my summons. I held most of the swarm back, cloaked in shadow, scattered among his allies. Let him torch his own drakarri n—two birds, one inferno.

Just as he turned his back, I gave the command for my hidden swarm to engage. The venom was specifically engineered to slip through tal, naturally. A few of them detonated directly on him, and while he didn’t keel over imdiately, the results were encouraging. Iron was my main quarry, but a new complication arose: the leader of the Voruuns.

He was healing. Slowly, yes, but healing nonetheless. I watched as swelling lumps on his body deflated and his skin began to knit itself back together. Intriguing. Shrugging, I sent a few more golems his way. Why not test his limits? His agonized screams as each explosion peppered him made for a delightful sideshow.

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From my perch, the carnage was a spectacle. Gang mbers flailed and shrieked as the venom invaded every available orifice, a symphony of suffering. Healing potions were gulped in desperation, but unless they had the antidote—and let’s be honest, they didn’t—screaming was the only real outco. Still, my eyes never left Iron.

He, too, was healing. Slowly, sure, but healing nonetheless. The realization hit belatedly: not everyone was as lucky (or cursed) as I to develop toxic neutralization early on, but for n like these? It was within the realm of possibility. Even so, their recovery wasn’t exactly rapid. Judging by their unholy howls, they were still in exquisite agony.

I sent another wave of summons their way. The gang mbers? They were irrelevant. Most couldn’t even down a healing potion fast enough before collapsing. Iron, on the other hand, was nearly fully encased in his tal form. Oddly, he hadn’t shifted into his beast form. Curious. Oh well—carry on, my little terrors! I knocked back another high-grade mana potion (the perks of apprenticing under a Master Alchemist) and felt my reserves surge back above 100. Ti for round two.

Summoning another swarm, I let the fresh batch fill themselves with the remnants of my venom stores. I was nearly tapped out, but the endga was in sight. My attention returned to the gang leaders, a sly grin tugging at my lips. I focused my efforts on their... let’s call them sensitive regions. Wriggling slightly with glee, I debated ramping up the assault. Were these really the fearso overlords of the undercity? Pathetic. Utterly pathetic.

And then, Iron exploded.

No, not figuratively. He literally detonated.

The inhuman scream that erupted from him was enough to make even the Voruun leader flinch. A blinding wave of fire burst from his body, incinerating his clothes, several unfortunate gang mbers, and most of the debris in the imdiate vicinity. Even the Voruun leader was flung back like a ragdoll, and whatever remained of my swarm near Iron was reduced to crisped fragnts or rendered useless by the searing heat.

Confird—he was a dual-affinity warrior. tal and Fire. A lethal combination, and he was wielding it with terrifying efficiency. From my rooftop vantage, I watched as he turned himself into a drakarri bomb again. The second explosion wasn’t just destructive—it was catastrophic. The searing wave evaporated everything within its radius, sending his own screaming gang mbers scattering for what little cover remained.

When the smoke cleared, he erged, clawed hands blazing like torches. His body, previously hardened into gleaming tal, now sported proper scales—thick, reflective plates that glimred ominously in the light of his flas. He looked like sothing dragged from the depths of a nightmare, and the acrid stench of rot rolling off him only added to the grotesque spectacle. My instincts scread danger. There was sothing profoundly wrong with this man, though I couldn't yet place what.

What frustrated most was the slow pace of his transformation. Why wasn’t he fully shifting like his underlings? What was he waiting for? The answer tugged at the edge of my thoughts, though I hated to admit it. He wasn’t an idiot—quite the opposite. By shifting bit by bit, he was healing even while in his partially transford state. Fighting my swarm wasn’t a mindless flailing of brute strength; he was adapting, calculating. He knew he'd be injured and was timing his shifts to compensate, allowing him to take the brunt of the assault while remaining on the offensive.

A deep, guttural roar tore through the street, breaking my train of thought. The shockwave it generated nearly knocked off my perch. The ground beneath him fractured like shattered glass, and even the surrounding buildings groaned and cracked under the force. That roar wasn’t just a sound; it was a declaration. A threat.

This guy was more than dangerous—I needed to cripple him and get out before this turned into a suicide mission. If he wanted to be half-dead by the end of this, fine by , but I wasn’t about to stick around to see how far he could go.

He didn’t make it easy, though. The street was now thick with noxious fus, the byproduct of all those venom-loaded swarmlings he’d incinerated. Yet, sohow, the poison vapour didn’t seem to faze him. Flas surged from his body in wild arcs as he raged, scorching the street and vaporizing anything that dared approach. He wasn’t just attacking—he was hunting, trying to flush out the source of his misery. And if he kept it up, this entire district would be ash before long.

Fucking enforcers. They’d show up soon enough, drawn by the destruction, and while I hated the idea of them ruining my plan, I also didn’t want innocent lives caught in the crossfire. Iron was dangerous enough that even they wouldn’t escape unscathed.

Guiding my swarm, I focused on precise, targeted strikes. Sensitive areas were the priority, and I wasn’t above going for the eyes. He burned or swatted away many of my summons, but so managed to slip through. One detonated against his eyeball with a satisfying pop. His scream of rage cracked the ground anew, and I allowed myself a smirk. What better way to cripple him than to blind him?

But of course, Iron wasn’t done.

Molten tal shifted over his face, forming a slitted helt. Impressive, but ultimately useless. My swarmlings were small enough to bypass the gaps, and another managed to detonate on his remaining eye. His roar this ti was less of a sound and more of an earthquake, sending shockwaves rippling outward.

When he finally erged from the wreckage, his face had changed. Draconic. Horned. Serpentine. His slitted eyes glead, fully healed, as if mocking my efforts.

And still, he refused to complete his transformation.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath. This wasn’t going to plan. At all.

As much as I hated to admit it, my plan was officially a bust. Whittling him down to the point of incapacitation—much less dragging him off to interrogate—was no longer on the table. My original goal, figuring out how the hell he was forcing his gang mbers to prematurely shift into their beast forms and what connection he had to that intruder, felt like a pipe dream now. The stench of rot radiating off him was overwhelming, nauseating, and utterly unnatural.

Instead of breaking him down, all I’d done was piss him off. And now, Iron was feral, a whirlwind of destruction, blasting anything and everything in his rage. He wasn’t just dangerous anymore; he was apocalyptic. To make things worse, my venom stockpile was depleted, and my swarm had nothing left to feed on. My strategy, once promising, had burned itself out—literally.

When he crouched low, I dared to hope. Was it finally catching up to him? Had the poison I’d managed to land worked its way through? But no, instead of collapsing, his body erupted in yet another explosion of heat and light. When the flas settled, I saw what he’d beco—two massive tallic wings jutted from his back, their edges razor-sharp, and a segnted tail lashed behind him like a living blade. He was still wreathed in fire. An infernal avatar. Of rage and of destruction.

I swore under my breath, my gaze darting around for options. I really didn’t want to shift, not here, not now. Lotte’s anti-divination charm was my only safeguard, and while I trusted her work implicitly, she’d warned about its limitations. “There are always loopholes,” she’d said. “Divinators just need one thread to follow.” If I transford, I’d leave a thread so glaringly obvious it might as well be a rope. I trusted Lotte, and I’d assured her I could handle this little Iron problem myself. Clearly, I’d gotten in over my head. Reality has a funny way of humbling you like that.

I was just about to turn tail and run, cutting my losses and vowing to consult with Lotte first, when the temperature around spiked. Not gradually—violently. The air beca suffocating, like standing in the heart of a furnace. My heart hamred in my chest as my eyes scanned the street below, searching desperately for him.

Nothing.

“Found you,” ca a guttural voice.

Close. Way too close.

My blood ran cold.