- So, new chapter, more lore for you guys. Until next week, Authors Out. -
The days in Libya blurred together in heat and dust. It was like living inside a furnace that never turned off. Every time I stepped outside the hotel, the air hit me like an open oven door, dry and merciless, scraping my throat raw and clinging to my skin like sandpaper. My mom called it "adventure weather." My dad said it "built character." I called it "nature's attempt to cook me alive."
To my parents, this was the trip of a lifetime. They soaked it all in with bright-eyed wonder, dragging me through souks so thick with spice and incense that every breath felt like shoving my face into a jar of paprika. They pointed out mosaics older than some countries, marveled at calligraphy etched in gold across ancient mosque walls, and walked the endless shoreline of the Mediterranean like newlyweds rediscovering the world.
I smiled when they smiled. I nodded when they explained things they didn't really understand. But inside? Every moment was shadowed by the steady thrum under my skin—the heartbeat of something waiting. The call of Ashdod.
I'd tried ignoring it. I'd tried burying it under laughter and sightseeing. But it was like a drumbeat in the marrow of my bones, louder every day, heavier every night. It wasn't going away.
By the penultimate night of our stay, the weight was unbearable. We sat at the hotel restaurant, plates of grilled fish and flatbread spread across the table. My parents laughed softly over tea, trading jokes and stories in that familiar rhythm I'd come to treasure. I forced myself to smile with them, but my mind was somewhere else entirely. My pulse was synced with something miles away, something buried, something that wanted me.
Then Ddraig's growl thundered through me, louder than it had been in days.
[It's time, boy. You've delayed long enough. The lance waits, and it will not be denied.]
I flinched, fork clattering against the plate. My parents glanced at me, curious, and I scrambled for a lie. "I'm, uh… tired. The heat, maybe. I'll head up to the room early."
My mom leaned over, pressing a kiss to my forehead. My dad patted my shoulder, smiling warmly. "Get some rest, champ."
If only they knew.
I slipped away before the weight in my chest could crush me at the table. Once I was in the elevator, heart hammering, I pressed the button for the ground floor instead of my room. By the time the doors slid open, I was already tightening my sneakers, hoodie zipped up, ready to disappear into the desert night.
The ruins of Silene rose beneath the moonlight like broken teeth, jagged stone biting up from the sand. From a distance, they could've passed for just another pile of ancient rubble. But up close, I could feel it—the air itself vibrating, the ground humming under my feet.
Once, this had been a city. Now, it was just whispers buried in history, half-eaten by sand, ignored by tourists who preferred beaches and souvenir stalls. But to me, this was the center of the universe. Every step closer made the drumbeat in my veins stronger, louder, heavier.
I searched the rubble, tracing the call like a bloodhound, palms pressed to cracked stone, breath short and uneven. My fingers brushed against a collapsed archway I had already passed days before. Beneath it, now, half-swallowed by the desert, was a narrow passage. The air rising from it was colder than the night around me.
My pulse spiked.
"The passage have opened up," I whispered, throat tight.
[Then descend, partner.] Ddraig's voice rumbled like distant thunder. [To claim what was meant for you.]
The words sent a shiver through me. Not meant for me, not really—but fate didn't care.
The passage sloped downward, jagged stone scraping my shoulders as I squeezed through. Sand spilled down behind me, the world above fading until I was swallowed by darkness. My only guide was the faint glow ahead, pulsing like a heartbeat, calling me deeper.
When the tunnel widened, I stumbled into a chamber that shouldn't have existed. It was vast, circular, carved by hands that had long since turned to dust. And in the center, planted upright in cracked stone, was the source of it all.
The Lance of Ashdod.
It glowed faintly, red shaft gleaming even in the dark, its golden spearhead edged with a ethereal flame that seemed alive, flickering without burning away. The aura rolling off it was suffocating—holy, dense, and tainted with something draconic, something that screamed of scales and fire. It pressed against me like a weight, daring me to step closer.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. I could only move forward, one step at a time, drawn like a moth to the flame. My lungs burned, my skin prickled, my soul felt like it was being flayed open. And still I walked.
When I stood before it, the aura nearly crushed me to my knees. My fingers trembled as I reached out.
[Do not touch it lightly.] Ddraig's growl was sharp. [If you grasp it, it will test you. If you falter, it will kill you.]
"I know," I whispered. My voice shook, but my hand didn't stop. "But I have to."
My fingertips brushed the shaft.
And the world shattered.
Flames roared. A sky split by wings black as obsidian. The earth itself trembled as a dragon, vast and terrible, loomed over a desert city. His scales shimmered like molten glass, his eyes burning with hatred. His roar cracked the heavens.
"Your god chained my master. Then let his mortals suffer for it!"
Cities burned. Rivers boiled away. Screams rose from the people below as Karyan—dragon general under Ddraig's rule—unleashed his fury.
Then came the knight.
Steel gleamed in the sun. His shield bore a crimson cross. His sword shone with light so pure it made the dragon recoil. And his spear stroke hope to the hearts of the people. Saint George.
Their battle shook the desert. Ashdod flared with sacred brilliance, thrust again and again into Karyan's flesh. Each strike seared scales, split hide, drew blood that hissed as it hit the sand. The dragon roared, but still he fought, wings blotting out the sky.
It wasn't Ashdod that killed him. Not truly. The final blow came from another weapon—the shining sword, Ascalon—driven deep into Karyan's heart. The dragon screamed one last time before collapsing, his body shaking the world as it died.
Saint George stood over him, chest heaving, armor scorched. He pulled Ashdod from the wound, its silver dulled, its tip glowing faintly with crimson flame. He stared at it, his hand trembling.
"Corrupted," he muttered, voice rough. "Tainted by the beast's blood."
And he buried it. He kept only Ascalon, believing Ashdod was unholy.
The vision cracked apart like shattered glass, hurling me back into the chamber.
Power exploded through me. Ashdod's aura flared, no longer a whisper but a scream. Holy radiance clashed with draconic fire, twisting together, fusing, becoming something new.
I screamed as the energy tore through me. The Boosted Gear blazed to life, the green jewel on my arm burning brighter than ever before. The flames crawling up my arms weren't ordinary—they were sharper, purer, sacred fire fused with Karyan's draconic wrath.
[Impossible…] Ddraig's roar shook my skull. [The lance… it merges with you? With me?]
The fire seared me from the inside out. I collapsed to my knees, clutching the glowing shaft now burning in my hands. My body trembled, but I didn't let go. I couldn't.
"It's not corrupted," I gasped through gritted teeth, eyes wide. "It's… complete."
The chamber quaked. Stone split. The flames didn't consume me—they wrapped around me, threading themselves into my soul, binding the lance to the Boosted Gear.
And in that fire, I understood.
I was now something twisted by fate.Bearer of the Red Dragon Emperor.Wielder of Ashdod, the Dragon-Slayer.
A man fated to kill the very being sealed within him.
The chamber was silent except for my ragged breaths and the faint crackle of fire still coiling around my arms. My palms throbbed against the lance's shaft, but I didn't let go. Every nerve screamed at me to drop it, to let the cursed thing fall back into the earth where it belonged, but my grip only tightened.
Because this wasn't just some relic anymore. It wasn't just the spear that once pierced dragonhide. It was part of me now.
My chest heaved, every inhale scraping my throat raw, but I forced the words out anyway. "It's mine."
The flames licked higher, crawling up my shoulders, spilling across my back in wings of fire that weren't really wings. They shimmered, flickered, alive for only seconds before vanishing. My heart stuttered. My skin smoked. But I was still standing.
Then came the silence. Heavy. Crushing.
And finally, Ddraig spoke.
[So, this is your path.] His voice wasn't mocking, wasn't angry. It was… resigned. [You carry the flames of my fallen kin. You wield the weapon forged to destroy my kind. Know this, boy: you have become my partner and my enemy both.]
The words dug into me like claws. Partner and enemy. My throat tightened. I wanted to argue, to deny it, but the lance in my hand pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat, its sacred fire humming against my skin. There was no denying it.
I laughed, sharp and bitter, forcing the sound past my clenched teeth. "Figures. Even when I finally get something powerful, it's literally designed to kill the guy in my head."
[Not just me.] Ddraig's growl deepened. [Ashdod is a dragon-slayer. If you cannot master it, if you let it control you, then it will kill you as surely as it would me.]
"Great," I muttered, gripping the shaft tighter. "So I'm basically babysitting a murder stick that wants to kill my soul roommate."
[You are more fool than babysitter. But perhaps fools burn brightest.]
I groaned. "That's not comforting."
[It wasn't meant to be.]
Then it happened again. The fire came back.
And it didn't fade right away. It seared through me, raw and unstable, my body convulsing as I fought to control it. I stumbled back, slamming against the chamber wall, teeth grinding as sparks burst from my fingertips.
"Ddraig—" I hissed, every muscle screaming. "How do I—stop this—"
[You don't stop it. You command it.]
"I'm nine!" My voice cracked, half-scream, half-sob. "I'm not some grizzled warrior—I can barely do 50 push ups!"
[And yet, here you are. Standing in a saint's tomb, holding a dragon-slayer's lance. Fate cares little for your age, boy.]
The flames surged, blasting outward in a shockwave that rattled the chamber. The stone floor cracked under my feet. My hoodie smoldered, edges curling black.
I screamed again, forcing my arms together, gripping the lance with both hands. The fire resisted, snapping back like a wild beast, but I refused to let go. My lungs burned, my vision blurred, but I pushed.
"I'm not—dying—here!"
The fire shrieked in my ears, tearing through me. My body shook violently, but I planted my feet like roots, forcing the energy inward, locking it down. Slowly, painfully, the flames coiled tighter, sinking back into the lance. My gauntlet's jewel pulsed once, blinding green, then dimmed.
Silence fell.
I collapsed to my knees, gasping, sweat pouring down my face. The lance glowed faintly in my grip, no longer raging but humming. Like it had acknowledged me.
Or tolerated me.
For now.
I knelt there for what felt like hours, listening to my heartbeat crash in my ears, waiting for my body to stop trembling. Eventually, Ddraig broke the silence again.
[You survived.]
"Barely," I croaked, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve.
[Barely is more than most. You did not burn. You did not kneel. Ashdod has tasted you, and it did not spit you out.]
I snorted weakly. "Thanks. Real Hallmark-card level encouragement."
[You mock, but I see your fire. Even if it is not all your own.]
That shut me up. Because part of me knew he was right. The flames weren't just mine—they belonged to something older, holier, heavier. They belonged to a weapon designed to kill dragons. And somehow, they were inside me now.
I stared down at the lance, still glowing faintly, its crimson edge pulsing like a heartbeat. My reflection shimmered in its silver shaft—a boy's face, too young, too fragile, but with eyes far too old staring back.
I whispered, "If this thing tries to kill you…"
[Then it will fail. But only if you make it so.]
I nodded slowly, forcing myself back to my feet. My legs ached. My body screamed. But I was standing, lance in hand, and the chamber hadn't swallowed me whole. That counted for something.
The climb out of the ruins was brutal. Every step up the jagged passage felt like hauling another body with me, my own strength shredded from the ordeal. The lance, wrapped now in strips of cloth I'd scavenged from my backpack, pulsed faintly against my back, a constant reminder of what I'd just bound myself to.
By the time I crawled out into the desert air, the horizon was bleeding with dawn. The first rays of sunlight painted the dunes in fire, and for a second I wondered if anyone else had ever walked out of Silene alive after touching Ashdod.
Probably not.
The desert wind bit at my skin, sharp and dry, but I barely felt it. The fire in my veins kept me warm. Too warm. My fingers twitched with residual sparks as I trudged north, back toward the city.
Every step echoed the same thought: I wasn't the same anymore.
By the time I slipped back into the hotel room, my parents were still asleep, tangled in white sheets, soft snores filling the air. The sight made my chest ache. They had no idea. To them, I was just their son—quiet, serious, maybe a little odd, but nothing more.
They didn't know I'd just walked into a saint's tomb, claimed a dragon-slayer's lance, and come back carrying sacred fire in my bones.
I dropped the lance carefully beside my bed, still wrapped tight, and crawled under the covers. My body screamed for rest, but my mind refused to quiet. The flames still flickered in my chest, restless, hungry.
Ddraig was silent for a long while. Then, as my eyelids finally drooped, his voice rumbled one last time.
[You have taken a weapon meant to end me. And yet, you survived. Know this, boy: you are walking a path where every step could be your last. But for the first time… you are no longer just crawling.]
I smiled faintly, exhaustion dragging me under.
Nine years old outside. Twenty-nine inside. A dragon in my soul. And now, a lance forged to kill dragons strapped to my soul.
Fucked-up destiny or not, I was done crawling.
Morning slid in slow and heavy, painting the hotel curtains gold. I should've been dead to the world, drooling into the pillow after what happened in Silene, but my body refused to rest. My muscles twitched with leftover sparks. My veins burned like they'd been filled with molten iron instead of blood. Sleep wasn't coming. Not after binding myself to Ashdod.
I slipped out of bed before my parents stirred, padded barefoot across the carpet, and quietly lifted the bundle of cloth hiding the lance. Even wrapped tight, its presence filled the room like a second sun. My reflection shivered in the crimson shaft, pale and sharp-eyed. My fingers brushed the cloth and the flames inside me stirred, eager, restless.
I whispered, "What the hell am I supposed to do with you?"
Ddraig finally broke the silence.
[You wield it. Or it wields you. Those are the only paths.]
I scowled. "That's not helpful. I can't exactly go waving a dragon-slaying lance around the hotel pool. 'Don't mind me, just killing my imaginary friend.'"
[You jest because you are terrified. Sensible. Ashdod's flame is not a toy. If you lose control, you will roast your parents alive before you ever set foot in Japan again.]
I froze, throat tightening. Images hit me—my mom's smile, my dad's laugh—and then their bodies charred black, flames crawling over the walls of our hotel room. I swallowed hard, bile rising. "Then I'd better fucking learn control."
[Then we train.]
The opportunity came that afternoon, at the penultimate day. My parents decided to explore the market again, bargaining with merchants for scarves and trinkets. I faked a stomachache, promised to rest, and bolted the second the door shut.
Tripoli stretched hot and loud outside, but I didn't head for the souks. I slipped into the backstreets, winding between crumbling walls until I found a patch of abandoned ground on the edge of the city. Broken crates. Sand piled high against a wall. No eyes on me.
Perfect.
I unwrapped Ashdod slowly. The lance gleamed in the sun, its crimson edge catching the light like fire. My hands trembled as I gripped it.
Immediately, the flames stirred. My gauntlet jewel blazed, green light bursting as fire crawled up my arms. Heat roared out of me, searing the sand into glass at my feet.
I bit back a scream, teeth grinding. "Shit—too much—"
[Focus.]
"I'm trying!" I staggered, swinging the lance clumsily. Each arc left trails of fire in the air, burning symbols into the sunlight. My lungs burned. My shoulders ached. The power wasn't flowing through me—it was tearing me apart.
[Anchor yourself.] Ddraig's voice snapped like a whip. [You are not a vessel. You are the wielder. Command it.]
"How?!"
[Fire is hunger. Earth is weight. Use both. Let the earth root you, let the fire flow. Do it—or die.]
I sucked in a breath, forced my legs apart, heels digging into the sand. I pictured roots coiling down from my feet into the ground. The lance vibrated in my hands, heat threatening to peel my skin, but I held firm.
"Mine," I growled. "You hear me? You're mine."
The flames screamed back—but slowly, agonizingly, they bent. The fire condensed, coiling tighter, shrinking from wild inferno to a steady blaze crawling along the lance's edge. My breathing steadied. My grip stopped shaking.
I swung again. This time, the arc didn't explode—it carved, slicing the air with precision. The sand wall in front of me split clean in half, collapsing in a hiss.
I lowered the lance, chest heaving, a grin splitting my face. "Holy shit. I did it."
[Barely.]
I snorted, sweat dripping off my nose. "You could at least let me have the win."
[Celebrate when you can do it twice without bleeding from your ears.]
Fair enough.
The training became ritual. Every stolen hour this day, away from my parents, I slipped into the ruins or the empty lots at the city's edge. I burned, bled, and pushed until my body screamed. My palms blistered from gripping the lance. My shoulders bruised from the recoil of swings. But slowly, painfully, I learned.
The fire obeyed me. Not perfectly—sometimes it still flared wild, lashing out in bursts that scorched the ground—but more often, it listened. It became an extension of me.
And with each step forward, Ddraig grew quieter. Not silent, but… contemplative.
In the afternoon, after I managed to shape the flames into a controlled wave that sliced through a pile of crates, I heard him rumble softly.
[Ashdod's flame… it has accepted you more than I expected.]
"Sound jealous," I teased, wiping soot off my face.
[Not jealous. Wary. You carry both my power and the saint's. One wrong step, and the balance tips. And then you will not be partner or wielder—you will be consumed.]
I froze, lance heavy in my grip. "Consumed by what?"
[By the memory of Karyan's rage. By the will of a weapon forged to kill dragons. By both, twisting into something neither man nor beast.]
The words chilled me more than the desert night. I glanced at the flames curling gently from the lance's edge. They looked beautiful—almost holy—but in their glow, I saw the shadow of something monstrous.
I swallowed hard. "Then I guess I'll just have to never slip."
[Hmph.]
The last hours in Libya came too fast. My parents packed their bags, chatting excitedly about returning home with stories to tell. I sat on the balcony, Ashdod wrapped tight at my feet, staring out at the horizon.
The desert stretched silent under the moonlight, hiding the ruins of Silene far beyond sight. I could still feel the pulse, faint now, but steady, like a scar that never fully healed.
"Ddraig," I whispered, fingers brushing the lance's cloth-wrapped shaft. "Do you hate me for this? For carrying the thing that was meant to kill you?"
A long silence followed. Then, finally:
[I do not hate you.]
My chest tightened.
[I have hated many hosts. I have pitied more. You… you amuse me. And now, you challenge me. That is enough.]
I laughed softly, shaking my head. "Highest praise I've ever gotten."
[Do not let it go to your head. You are still weak. But… less weak than before.]
I smiled, faint and tired. "Thanks, partner."
The lance pulsed faintly, almost like it heard me.
By dawn, we were boarding the plane back to Japan. My parents were blissfully unaware, chatting about souvenirs and the photos on Dad's camera. I kept Ashdod strapped tight in a wrapped bundle disguised as "wooden art" bought from a street vendor. Security didn't even blink, for whatever motive that I didn't understand.
As the plane lifted off, I pressed my forehead to the window. Libya shrank below, the desert stretching out like an endless scar. My chest throbbed with the faint echo of Ashdod, still tethered to Silene, but now tethered to me too.
I wasn't leaving empty-handed.
The boy who'd come to Libya was gone.
The son returning to Kuoh carried a dragon in his soul, a lance on his hands, and flames with potential to burn gods and devils alike.
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Curiosity: The name Karyan came from the Lybian city of Cyrene (Kyrene in Greek) and the statue of Emperor Justinian I and the fight against Aryanism that gave origin to the Legend of Saint George and the Dragon, being Justinian I = Saint George and the Dragon = Paganism/Aryanism (this is based in some research I made, but it's plausible, because the legend of St. George and the Dragon was written in 1290 a.C. by Jacobus de Voragine). Others researchers believe that the legend attributed to Saint George was first related to Saint Theodore Tiro too.