Sothoryos Continent, Pterodactyl Point
CRACK—CRACKLE!
With the thunderous sound of spatial barriers shattering, Jon materialized in the heart of a primordial swamp forest, fueled by the power of the Dimensional Dragon.
The air in Sothoryos was a physical weight. Situated near the Basilisk Isles, the continent was a "Green Hell" of eternal heat and relentless monsoons. The vegetation was so dense it seemed to breathe, hiding a lethal array of mosquitoes and parasites that had claimed the lives of thousands of explorers.
Jon's first sensation was the "burn"—the heat was so intense it felt like standing in the path of a forge's breath. The humidity, combined with the stagnant swamp water, turned the air into a thick, scalding steam. A normal man would have collapsed from heatstroke within minutes; Jon, however, simply adjusted his breathing.
WHOOSH—SPLASH!
Without warning, a massive wall of white mist rolled in from the horizon, followed instantly by a torrential downpour. Jon was drenched in seconds as the "monsoon" turned the swamp into a surging lagoon. In this environment, the mud became a liquid trap, ready to swallow any creature that lost its footing.
Oddly, the rain brought silence. The buzzing of the plague-insects vanished, suppressed by the sheer force of the storm and Jon's own radiating aura. But as the waters rose, the true predators of the swamp began to stir.
The Sky-Hunters and the Stone-Gaze
Hiss—!
Jon stood atop the crown of a stunted, ancient tree. In his mind's eye, a mass of biological signatures flared to the southwest. A herd of Swamp Tapirs—squat, powerful creatures adapted to the mire—were charging toward him in a frantic, blind panic.
HISS-SKREEE—!
Behind them, a dark cloud descended. These were Swamp Long-winged Dragons, the most populous and aggressive of their kind in Sothoryos. They resembled the pterodactyls of Blue Star's prehistoric records but were far larger, their bodies armored in thick, leathery hide and powered by massive pectoral muscles.
They weren't the "Prime Dragons" Jon sought, but he wasn't going home empty-handed.
Jon gripped a Magestone. The space around him warped and twisted as three half-human, half-serpentine figures materialized. These were Stone-Gaze Demons (Medusae), rare spell-casting units capable of evolving into Gorgons. Their snake-hair hissed with a hypnotic rhythm, and their venomous gaze turned flesh into cold, heavy stone.
To aid their hunt, Jon had equipped them with "Lightning" magic purchased from the System Mall.
BOOM—KRA-KOOM!
Three bolts of silver lightning snaked through the marsh, tearing through the tapir herd and striking the water with a deafening roar. The supernatural display forced the Long-winged Dragons to veer off, their predatory rhythm shattered by the sudden crackle of ozone.
The Harvest of Wings
In the chaos, a massive specimen—nearly twice the size of its kin—snapped its jaws shut around a tapir's skull. Crr-ack. The tapir went limp as the dragon shook its head with violent, lizard-like force, swallowing the carcass in bloody chunks.
They feed like True Dragons, Jon noted, recalling the forbidden texts of Barth the Septon. He had recovered the only surviving copy of Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History from the House of the Book of Gold in Tyrosh.
"Go," Jon commanded. "Petrify the strongest. I want them intact."
The Stone-Gaze Demons glided across the swamp like vipers. They targeted the Alpha first. The dragon let out a defiant skree, flapping its leathery wings to ward them off, but the demons were unfazed.
The dragon lunged, jaws agape.
CRACKLE—ZAP!
It was met not with flesh, but with a surge of high-voltage lightning. The Alpha convulsed and was sent tumbling into the mire. As it tried to right itself, the Stone-Gaze Demons closed in, their venomous fangs sinking into its flank.
The dragon's frantic movements slowed. A strange, heavy numbness spread through its limbs. Within seconds, its hide took on the grey, matte finish of granite. Its wings became rigid; its eyes froze. It was alive, but it was now a statue.
The demons moved with clinical precision through the remaining swarm. One by one, the most prime specimens were paralyzed and petrified. Terrified by the sight of their brothers being turned to stone, the surviving Long-winged Dragons fled toward the southwest in a frantic blur of wings.
Jon looked over the marsh. Fifteen stone-winged statues dotted the lagoon.
"A good start," Jon whispered. "Now, let the Three-headed Hellhounds find the nests. I want the eggs before the tide turns."