"Dragons… what are we?"
That was the first question that came to Zhurong's mind. The sixteen-year-old dragon-girl stood alone in the family library, rummaging through old scrolls and ancient books of the past.
For as long as she could remember, she had lived in torment, always standing in the shadow of the boy named Dante Ruthwilfer.
No matter how hard she tried, she could never see herself standing on equal footing with him in her own mind.
Then there was Lytharis—the elven girl, and the close friend of both Zhurong and Dante. She had lost her life in a tragedy during the Demon Clan's invasion of the Academy a year ago.
Now, at sixteen, Zhurong had cut off almost all connections to the outside world. She buried herself in the harshest training and relentless studies, pushing her body and mind beyond their limits.
She had neither time nor patience for trivial matters such as princess lessons or noble etiquette. Her only goal was to grow stronger—strong enough to protect those she held dear.
Zhurong gathered her things and left the family library. She made her way back to her room, pausing only to instruct her servants to prepare a hot bath.
Afterward, she removed her clothes and stepped into the steaming tub, letting the heat soak into her weary body. The rising steam filled the room as she leaned back in silence.
Her fingers reached for the pendant resting against her chest, lifting it slightly. It was a gift Dante had given her long ago.
"I wonder what you're doing, Dante," she murmured softly.
She sank deeper into the water until bubbles surfaced around her, then eventually retired to her bed, wrapped in the familiar comfort of her room.
Sleep did not bring peace.
Once again, she dreamed of the horror.
The same nightmare returned—the moment where Lytharis tore open her own chest and handed her infinite mana core to Dante, whose body lay lifeless before her.
"GGAAHH!!"
Zhurong jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat. Her breathing was ragged, her body trembling as she clutched the blanket tightly around herself.
"Again… and again… and again!!"
She staggered out of bed and paced the room in restless confusion.
"What's going on…? The same dream every time."
The next day, Zhurong made her way to the training hall. She stood before a sandbag, clenched her fists, and began to strike it.
Each blow grew heavier than the last as memories of the nightmare flooded her mind—the dream, the deaths, the helplessness.
Then came a single, powerful strike.
The punching bag exploded, sent flying across the hall.
Zhurong stood there, huffing and puffing, sweat dripping down her body. Without hesitation, she took another sandbag and resumed her training.
"Funny how a princess acts like a tomboy."
She turned sharply. Standing there was Cifer Silvermane—her supposed betrothed. A twenty-two-year-old dragon currently in human form.
"Get out…" she murmured, her voice filled with annoyance and disgust.
"Oh, come on," Cifer said as he walked closer.
"You're my chosen wife. Once you reach your coming-of-age ceremony, I'll sweep you away and spoil you rotten. My only request—"
He leaned in close and whispered into her ear.
"—is that you stay pretty in bed."
Outside the hall, two dragons had been walking and chatting as usual.
BOOM!!
They gasped as an explosion shook the training hall.
When the smoke cleared, Cifer was revealed, scorched and covered in blackened dirt.
Zhurong emerged from the hall, her voice ringing out with authority—loud enough for the entire castle to hear. She spoke as the Princess of the Bahemoth Family.
"I only have one man! I am only willing to give my first to him! My body will only ever be touched by his hands—and his hands alone! And that man is Dante Ruthwilfer! UNDERSTAND?!"
Her words echoed throughout the castle as she transformed into her dragon form.
"KKRRAAAHHH!!"
She burst from the castle and soared toward the highest peak of the icy mountains, landing at the very edge of the summit.
There, she returned to her human form and sat quietly, gazing down at the Dragon Kingdom—the land her great-grandfather had built for his people.
"Did something happen, daughter?"
Zhurong turned around to see her father, Giang Bahemoth. The King sat beside her—not as a ruler upon a throne, but as a father seeking to understand the troubles weighing on his daughter.
"Why did you accept this bothersome arrangement, Father?" Zhurong said. "You know the traditions, and yet…"
"Politics is a frightening world, Zhurong," Giang replied calmly.
She turned fully toward him. "What do you mean… frightening?"
Giang let out a quiet chuckle, explaining that life itself was much like a chessboard. "We are the pieces," he said. "And fate and destiny are the ones moving us across the board, daughter."
He paused, letting his words linger in the cold mountain air.
"Even kings," he continued, "are not always the ones in control."
Meanwhile, in the Demon Realm, Ingrid Von Balmung had ordered a meeting with her fellow Commandments.
In their secret stronghold lay a fortress unlike any other—an endless labyrinth of corridors and infinite chambers. The one overseeing this domain was Gilial, the Commandment of Stillness.
"Lady Ingrid, it has been so long," Gilial greeted.
"Where are the others, Gilial?" Ingrid asked, her voice sharp.
"Some have awakened from slumber, a few remain dormant," Gilial replied, strumming his chelow-like guitar with slow, deliberate movements.
"You and your pathetic rhymes of annoyance,"
Ingrid said sharply,
"just make sure nothing disturbs us and remain vigilant." She settled into her throne—a metallic chair forged for a leader, cold and imposing.
Soon, three more arrived, taking their positions on either side of Ingrid, who remained in the center. Each introduced themselves as they took their places.
"Huno, Commandment of the Sanctity."
"Ception, Commandment of the Fidelity."
"Akka, Commandment of the Honor."
"Is that all?" Ingrid asked. The three nodded silently, shadows cloaking them, their eyes glowing menacingly beneath the darkness.
"Then let us begin the meeting. I, Ingrid Von Balmung, Commandment of the Exclusivity, leader of the Ten Commandments," she announced, her voice resonating through the chamber.
The Commandments all pledged their allegiance, their voices uniting in a solemn vow, and the meeting commenced.
As the Commandments settled into their places, the vast chamber grew quiet. The endless corridors beyond the hall seemed to still, as if even the fortress itself was listening.
Akka was the first to break the silence.
"Mistress Ingrid, there is something I wish to report."
Ingrid Von Balmung shifted slightly upon her throne. She placed one elbow against the armrest, her posture relaxed yet commanding, while her other arm rested loosely at her side. Slowly, deliberately, she tapped a finger against the side of her head, the faint metallic echo carrying through the hall.
"Speak, Akka," Ingrid said. "After all, you were the one who requested this meeting. It had better be worth my time—and all of our time."
Her voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge beneath it, like a blade hidden behind silk.
Akka belonged to the red orc race.
The orc races were long regarded as barbarians steeped in witchcraft. Among them, honor was not spoken—it was earned through victory. Defeat, on the other hand, was the ultimate disgrace, one that could never be washed away.
Akka's hand hovered near the blade fastened at her waist, her fingers brushing against the hilt out of habit rather than threat. Her yellow pupils glowed faintly in the dim chamber, reflecting the cold light that filtered through the shadows.
She stood tall—far taller than most present—and wore a black half-kimono dress that left nothing concealed. Her muscular form and powerful legs were fully visible, her presence alone radiating strength and discipline forged through countless battles.
"Mistress Ingrid," Akka said evenly, "I have located the Dwarven Kingdom as we speak."
The chamber fell into absolute silence.
Even Gilial's gentle strumming ceased.
Ingrid raised a single brow, her tapping finger coming to a stop.
"Take note of this, Akka," Ingrid said, her voice turning cold. "Ever since the Demon Clan seal was undone, we—the Demon Marshals who have awakened—have exhausted every means to locate those short ones."
"At ease, Mistress," Akka replied, lowering her head.
It was not fear that guided the gesture.
It was respect—and caution.
Akka knew well who sat before her. Ingrid Von Balmung was once the Sovereign of the Dragon race, a being who had betrayed her own kin and survived. In her prime, her power had surpassed even godhood itself. That truth alone demanded restraint.
Ingrid's gaze swept across the assembled Commandments, her presence pressing down on the chamber like an unseen weight.
"All of you should understand this," she said. "We are not yet at our fullest. We lost much of our power during our sealing a hundred years ago. Abilities, authority, dominion—stripped away."
Her fingers curled slightly against the armrest.
"It will take years to reclaim what was lost. Until then, every move we make must be precise."
The silence that followed was heavy, unquestioning.
The meeting had truly begun.
---
Chapter 1 — End.