"Hope this Dragon-Slaying Sword really can slay a dragon…" Roland sighed as he looked at the approaching earthdrake outside the cave, feeling the ground shaking under his feet.
The earthdrake—though technically a subspecies—was about as close to a true dragon as you could get without wings. Bloodline just a step below wyverns, it inherited the dragons' terrifying melee power and scorching breath, more than enough to wipe out a small army.
Roland wasn't about to sit around waiting to get roasted. He yanked his warhorse out of the cave, tossed the saddle on in a rush. As for barding… well, he could only pray he'd live long enough to regret skipping it.
At least there was one good thing—the trained Shire warhorses didn't spook at the oppressive aura of a drake. That meant no risk of his mount panicking mid-fight, which, frankly, was the only reason Roland even dared to think about taking this thing head-on.
"Hyah!" He squeezed the horse's sides and leveled his sword forward.
The drake roared and lunged, its jaws gaping wide.
"Holy—!" Roland jerked the reins hard, yanking the horse aside just in time to avoid being swallowed whole.
"You fucking overgrown lizard! Take this!" He twisted in the saddle, swinging backhand.
A metallic shhk! and a spray of boiling-hot dragon blood splashed from his blade's tip.
"Hell yeah! It actually pierced the scales!" Roland's eyes lit up.
Another slash, and he carved a gash across its leg.
The wounded drake bellowed, thrashing violently. Its thick steel-like tail lashed sideways, but the nimble Shire horse danced out of reach.
With a sudden whoomph!—a pillar of fire roared past Roland's side.
"Damn! That was close!" Even through his mithril plate, the heat was enough to make his skin prickle, sweat falling down his forhead.
The drake's tail whipped around again—this time Roland's instincts kicked in, and he raised the Dragon-Slaying Sword to block. A shocking force rattled down his arms… and then thunk! The tail hit the ground—cleanly severed.
"Well I'll be damned… this is a really good sword!" he muttered, genuinely impressed.
Enraged beyond reason, the earthdrake began sweeping the area with its breath, setting the surrounding dead trees ablaze. The clearing lit up, and Roland finally saw his foe in full: at least fifteen meters long, head the size of a barn door, jaws crammed with dagger-length teeth, thick limbs rippling with muscle, and every inch of it armored in diamond-hard scales.
"That's… big." Roland could only marvel at the Creator's sense of scale.
Then—WHAM! His moment of awe ended abruptly as the drake's half-tail smacked him clean off his horse. Roland hit the ground, rolled instinctively, narrowly dodging the snapping jaws and stomping claws. After a few desperate tumbles weather it was due to pure luck or just a coincidence , he found himself directly beneath the drake's belly.
Bingo.
With a grin, he thrust his sword upward and slid himself backward along the ground. Hot, gushing dragon blood drenched him instantly, the earthdrake started shaking from side to side as if it is about to fall.
"Oh crap, that's bad…" Roland's smile died as he remembered—this thing weighed several tons. If it collapsed now… yeah, he'd be nothing but a pancake.
He scrambled out fast, and once clear, he finally got a look at his handiwork—a neat, three-meter gash along the belly. No surviving that.
Moving away from the beast's death throes, Roland spotted his horse calmly waiting nearby, completely unfazed. That… made him unreasonably happy.
"Quest complete: Drake Hunter. You have proven your courage and strength. Reward: Wyvern Rider ×1. Summon anytime." The Lord of the Rings system's voice chimed in.
"A Wyvern Rider?" Roland's pupils contracted. That was basically the second-strongest aerial unit out there—only Dragon Riders ranked higher. The real question: what kind of wyvern? Wyverns came in all flavors. Like Smaug from The Hobbit—a giant fire-breathing monster even bigger than most true dragons. Actual dragons were more compact, but if the two fought? Smaug would get obliterated.
"Summon!" Roland said, feeling like he was opening a loot box.
"My lord! Caslo at your service!" A young blond knight materialized before him—so handsome even Roland, who grew up in the age of social media, had to admit it.
"How old are you?" Roland asked, eyeing the fresh face.
"I am eighteen, my lord!" Caslo replied respectfully.
…Wow. Older than me. Roland had been sixteen before crossing over—so yeah, apparently he was the kid here.
"Alright then, what's your level? And more importantly—where's your wyvern?" Roland pressed.
"My lord, I hold the rank of Great Knight. As for my wyvern, he rests within the Dragon Flute," Caslo explained.
Eighteen years old and already a Great Knight. This kid could easily become a Knight Commander someday—or even reach that rare peak, Hero. Just as a mage's ultimate form was a Sage, the pinnacle of knighthood was the Hero.
"Summon him. I wanna see." Roland ordered.
"Yes, my lord." Caslo pulled a flute from his collar and played a clear note. Moments later, a sleek, fifteen-meter-long azure wyvern burst through the clouds.
"Mhm… a wind-element four-legged wyvern. Not bad. At least it's not a two-legged bottom-feeder," Roland nodded.
Four-legged wyverns looked almost like true dragons, with decent bloodlines, basic draconic magic, and respectable melee. Their breath and raw strength were slightly weaker than true dragons, but the easiest way to tell them apart was the head—wyverns had simple bone crests instead of the ornate horns dragons wore. To the average villager, though, the difference didn't matter—both could wreck your entire town.
"Alright, put him away." Roland's tone was casual, but he was already thinking ahead.
In a patched-together Middle-earth like this, showing off a Wyvern Rider too soon was asking for trouble. The moment he had a fixed territory and power base, fine—but for now? Any major faction spotting a wyvern meant they'd try to kill Caslo and steal the Dragon Flute.
Wyverns themselves weren't rare—but Wyvern Riders and Dragon Riders? Practically extinct. Humans could steal plenty of dragon eggs, but without the Dragon Flute, raising a bonded mount was next to impossible. The flute wasn't just a summoning tool—it was a spatial anchor, letting the rider call their dragon from anywhere. And the method of making them? Lost to history.
"You're walking for now…" Roland muttered, a little jealous. Caslo was the real deal—a full suit of mithril-dragon plate, a mithril-dragon shield, a longsword of pure mithril, a dragonbone longbow, a starsteel warhammer, and even a dragonlance. Roland, by comparison, had a basic plate set, one sword, and a shield.
'He will walk, fuck him,' Roland thought, no mortal feelings like jealousy could ever get hold of him.
…
After salvaging every useful bit from the drake's corpse and stashing it in the Lord of the Rings system's surprisingly infinite inventory, Roland led his horse back into the cave and lay down to sleep. The drake's lingering aura would keep all other monsters far, far away tonight.