Chapter 489: The Ignatius Tradition: Father Sees Son Still Alive...

Chapter 489 Garoth’s Tradition: A Father Sees His Son Not Yet Dead...... (Major chapter—please vote) 40

Aola Kingdom, High Mountain Dragon Court

Deborah flew through the thick clouds with four hatchlings, her wings cutting through the thin air as she landed steadily on a broad plaza paved with magical metal.

Several Rampage Bear guards already stood posted here.

They were massive, like moving hills, their heavy armor glinting with a cold, hard sheen.

Each Rampage Bear fixed its gaze straight ahead, exuding an aura befitting dragon-blooded protectors.

These guards had generally undergone more than one dragon-forging ritual; the musculature beneath their armor held explosive power that exceeded ordinary creatures.

After the four hatchlings touched down, they all began to look around at once.

Seven years of growth under careful nurturing in the Vophal Dragon Domain had stripped away their hatchling’s immaturity.

Their scales had grown thick and tough, their bodies noticeably larger—especially the two red-scaled hatchlings, each already over ten meters long, looking more like young dragons than seven-year-old cubs.

The other two, a silver dragon and an iron dragon, were a bit smaller but still far larger than dragons of the same age should be.

“This is Father’s kingdom?”

The red hatchling who landed first took two deliberate steps on the metal platform with dark-red claws, each step ringing with solid sound.

He lifted his head, deep red eyes sweeping the surroundings.

They passed over the silent, statue-like Rampage Bear guards, skimmed over the layered metallic buildings in the distance, and finally settled on the most magnificent palace, perched highest of all.

“Not bad.”

He appraised it. “This scale barely suits a future ruler of the world.”

He turned to his newly landed siblings and raised a foreclaw in a gesture. “Listen, when you meet Father later, show some respect. After all, he’s still the boss here. We’re new arrivals; we should observe proper etiquette.”

Hearing this, Deborah hovered a moment before landing.

The brass-silver dragon folded her wings with graceful economy and shot her eldest son a look, the corner of her mouth curling into an amused half-smile.

Garkro Ignas—this was the red hatchling’s name.

As the first of the four to hatch, he was the eldest and most traditionally red-dragon in temperament.

Confident, proud, with domination carved into his bones.

Beside Garkro, the iron hatchling folded her wings elegantly.

Her obsidian scales carried gold streaks like streaks of lightning.

“My dear brother,” she said with a bright, bell-like laugh, “you’re right. We should show Father enough respect, at least until he passes the throne to you.”

Her gaze swept the platform in quick, efficient glances, taking in their surroundings entirely.

Ophelia Ignas, the second to hatch and an iron dragon.

She excelled at approaching other dragons in a harmless manner but enjoyed stoking trouble behind the scenes, especially teasing her brother into doing stupid things destined to cause problems.

Meanwhile, the silver-iron dragon circled the air eight times before landing, two faint streaks of light flickering at the leading edge of her wings.

Your flight pattern is heavy and graceful, gliding through air, landing without a sound. She yawned long, her sword-like wings lazily folding to her sides.

“A bit sleepy…”

she whispered in a languid, just-awoken tone. “After flying so long, I should sleep properly.”

She showed little interest in the grand architecture and jagged peaks, even though it was her first time in Father’s kingdom.

Isanora Ignas, the third to hatch.

She had the fastest speed among the siblings but preferred idleness; her body was smallest, but her wingspan most striking, with a special wing structure.

The last red hatchling to land said nothing.

He stood at the edge of the platform, looking down upon the sprawling Citadel of Crimson Flame. The lotus-shaped patterns on his scales shimmered faintly in the sunlight as his chest rose and fell.

He stared at the city’s winding streets with a gradually deepening breath, eyes glittering with a kind of excitement.

Larria Ignas, the last-hatched red dragon.

He carried red dragon blood but was not hot-tempered; he leaned toward the iron dragon’s rational thinking.

Usually taciturn, he became talkative when dragons’ nations were mentioned, and he was an extreme dragon-supremacist.

To him, all non-dragon beings—half-breeds, drakes, and the like—should bow to true dragons; it was natural law.

“Children, come with me.”

Deborah’s voice carried a hint of fatigue.

Anyone who had traveled long distances with four energetic, wildly different offspring would find it hard to be cheerful.

The brass-silver dragon turned and stepped toward the main hall.

The four siblings peered around as they followed their mother into the dragon court.

Passing a towering archway, the interior opened into a vast chamber.

The hall was forged from magical metal, its walls inlaid with glowing crystals that lit every corner.

The dome was high enough for great dragons to fly within; the floor was polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the crystal light above.

Then they saw their father.

Garoth Ignas stood in the center of the hall.

He was not seated upon the throne on the highest step, yet he drew more attention than any throne could.

Simply standing there, he became the room’s focal point—every beam of light, every gust of air, and every gaze seemed to flow naturally toward him.

The four hatchlings stopped in unison.

They raised their heads and looked up at that imposing figure.

The Red Iron Giant exceeded Deborah’s descriptions.

Dark red and deep black scales intertwined like forged metal, radiating a cold, hard sheen; even with wings folded, they were broader and more immense than those of similarly sized dragons, the wing membranes seeming to contain solidified energy; dorsal spines stood like a forest of blades, each projecting sharpness.

Even standing still, the bulges of muscle beneath his scales set contours like poured steel.

Powerful, fierce, domineering.

Even bold Garkro felt an instinctive shiver.

It was the awe lower-ranked dragons could not suppress in the presence of a legendary giant.

This oppression had no form yet weighed heavily on every hatchling’s heart—but knowing this giant was their father eased it considerably.

Flanking the Red Emperor stood two other adult giants.

On the left was the iron dragon Sorog, his deep-black scales steady as a mountain, his eyes calmly assessing the hatchlings with a light of scrutiny; on the right was the red dragon Samantha, her scales a burning bright red, tilting her head with interest and a smile playing on her lips.

“Ruler of the Aola Kingdom, my respected father.”

The last-hatched red hatchling was the first to speak.

Larria stepped forward, excitement barely concealed in his voice, the lotus patterns on his scales brightening with his movement.

“I am Larria Ignas. I am glad to finally arrive in your kingdom.”

He spoke, eyes quickly sweeping every detail of the hall. “Everything here is more impressive than Mother described—the architecture, the discipline of the guards, the dragonly aura in the air.”

He lifted his head and looked Garoth directly in the eyes.

“It’s incredible that you, in the body of a red iron dragon, built such a kingdom in an age when dragon glory has waned.”

“Father, I truly admire you.”

He paused, then continued, “I hope to hear from you personally about how you rose from obscurity to build the kingdom as it stands. I believe it would be something all dragons should learn from.”

What a bootlicker!

Usually taciturn, and now all talk!

Garkro turned to his sibling and couldn’t hide his contempt in his deep-red eyes.

He flicked his tail, scraping the ground with a grating sound.

Garoth’s dragon pupils shifted to Larria, lingering a moment on those lotus markings.

He understood well that those markings were not mere decoration.

Then he moved his gaze away and looked down at the relatively small hatchlings.

“Larria,”

the Red Emperor’s voice rolled like distant thunder through the hall.

“You’re curious about my founding of the kingdom?”

“Yes,” Larria replied quickly, “I’ve heard the kingdom’s outline from Mother, but I think that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Now that I’m here, I’m convinced. Your kingdom’s structure is very sound: dragons at the core, other races with distinct duties. This perfectly embodies dragon-supremacy.”

He tapped a foreclaw on the ground and continued, “But I think this system can be further optimized.”

“The Aola Kingdom should establish a clear pyramid system.”

“Pure-blood dragons at the top with supreme authority; dragon-blooded forged by dragon rituals as middle managers; below them are drakes and other dragon-blooded beings; the lowest tier is non-dragon races.”

“This ensures stable rule and prevents dilution of power by mixed races…”

Hearing this, Sorog glanced slightly to the side.

This offspring of his brother seemed to have his own ideas about governance.

Regardless of whether these ideas were right, a dragon thinking this way at such an age already surpassed most of their kind.

“Larria.”

Deborah interrupted the young dragon’s speech, tapping the hatchling’s back lightly with her wing.

“Let the siblings introduce themselves first,” she said. “Father needs to know each of you.”

Larria realized his misstep and immediately fell silent, stepping back half a pace and lowering his head in apology.

Aside from his extreme political stance, his other traits were good—Deborah’s ideal child.

“I am Ophelia Ignas.”

The iron hatchling stepped forward obediently.

Her dark eyes blinked, lingering on Garoth for a moment before she gave an innocent, charming smile.

“Father,” she said in a clear, sweet voice, “Mother always tells us your stories—especially the part where you pulled a magical satellite down from space. That was amazing! I get so fired up every time I hear it!”

She pressed herself against Garoth’s massive foreclaw without fear.

The action was bold but natural, as if she had grown used to such closeness.

“Father, I’m so happy.”

Ophelia looked up at Garoth with sparkling eyes. “You’re stronger and more majestic than I imagined. Being your offspring is my greatest honor.”

Her tail swayed lightly in worshipful tones.

“Isanora Ignas.”

The small silver dragon stated her name flatly, without embellishment.

Then she asked, “Father, is there a place to sleep? Preferably near the dining hall—I don’t want to fly too far for meals; it wastes energy.”

The corner of Garoth’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.

“Yes.”

he answered simply.

“Wonderful.”

Isanora nodded in satisfaction and curled up beside a thick pillar at the hall’s edge, closing her eyes. “I’ll rest now. Call me when it’s time to eat. If I don’t wake, call louder.”

She slipped almost instantly into a half-sleep, her breathing long and steady.

Finally, Garoth’s gaze settled on Garkro.

This hatchling was larger than the others by a substantial margin, musculature more defined and blazing with a boiling, aggressive aura.

He stood there, chest rising and falling, his deep-red scales radiating heat with every breath.

For a moment, Garoth seemed to see in him a shadow of Gorthax.

“Garkro, my dear eldest son, why so quiet?”

The small iron hatchling nestled against Garoth’s foreclaw tilted her head, innocent as ever. “I remember you saying you would declare yourself to Father, to show him how powerful you are. Now’s the time!”

Garkro inhaled deeply.

He puffed out his chest, strode forward with heavy, forceful steps that sounded the ground, and stopped a few meters from Garoth. He raised his head, his deep-red eyes unabashedly meeting the legendary giant’s gaze.

“Garkro Ignas.”

He announced his full name in a booming voice. “Your mightiest offspring, you should be proud to have a descendant like me.”

After that declamatory opening, his tone shifted. “Mother says you pulled the magical satellite from space—true?”

Garoth nodded slightly.

“It is true.”

he replied.

“Impressive!”

The red hatchling wagged his tail excitedly, scraping sparks from the ground.

Then he shifted again: “But I think you were not thorough enough.”

“If it were me, I would have smashed that thing into Theo’s capital—palace and king ground to ash—eradicating future threats.”

He raised a foreclaw in a clenched gesture.

“Father, you’re not decisive or ruthless enough. You are too merciful to enemies.”

The small iron hatchling tapped Garoth’s claw lightly.

She added in a low voice, “Brother used to say in the Vophal Dragon Domain that when he inherits your kingdom, he will burn all enemy lands to ashes—that’s how dragons should rule.”

Garoth’s brow arched ever so slightly.

Deborah covered her face with a claw and let out a silent sigh.

She had known this scene was inevitable.

Sorog’s expression held a trace of amusement as his gaze flicked between Garkro and Garoth.

Samantha broke into a broad grin, revealing sharp teeth.

“Ha! Ambitious indeed.”

red dragon Samantha said with genuine appreciation. “Garkro, good child, I admire such spirit. If you truly manage to defeat your father, I’ll reward you with several gems from my private hoard. Even if you lose, show enough courage and I’ll still give you a gem as a greeting present.”

Garkro nodded solemnly. “Prepare ten gems for me. I will come collect them.”

He paused, then added, “You are my… aunt, right? Mother told me about you. Good—your discernment is excellent, befitting a clever and powerful red dragon.”

Samantha laughed louder, wings trembling with mirth.

Facing the Red hatchling, Garoth fell silent for a few seconds.

Does this little thing know what it speaks?

He did not get angry.

Instead, a curious emotion rose within him.

He examined his eldest like one inspecting an interesting new thing.

“Oh? Surpass me?”

the Red Emperor repeated, his tone rising slightly.

“Of course!”

Garkro’s tail flicked up—an expression of red-dragon excitement.

“This is not only possible but inevitable. Mother says you were level seven at my age, and my life level—”

He paused to draw every eye.

“—has already reached level eight.”

he announced with proud bluntness. “I am stronger than you were at the same age.”

Ophelia weighed in at the right moment: “Brother fought undefeated among his peers in the Vophal Domain; even young gold dragons couldn’t match him.”

Those words poured fuel on the fire.

Garkro snorted twin sparks from his nostrils that burned briefly in the air and died out.

He lifted his head, neck spines fully erect, amplifying his fierce look.

“That’s right! Father, if we were the same age, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

he said bluntly. “This is not arrogance but a fact.”

“Stronger power, faster growth, superior combat talent.”

“I have every condition to surpass you.”

He stamped a forepaw hard on the ground with a muffled thud. “If you don’t believe me, use Transformation to suppress your life level to equal mine and spar with me—I guarantee to surprise you and prove my words true.”

This red hatchling challenged the Red Emperor to his face.

Deborah could not restrain herself: “Garkro, you—”

“It’s fine.”

Garoth raised a foreclaw, stopping the brass-silver dragon’s rebuke.

The Red Emperor lowered his lids and watched the young red. The deep-black eyes reflected Garkro’s proud, upright frame.

His look toward his son was complex.

Three parts amusement, three parts nostalgia, four parts eagerness.

“I have fought countless battles to grow strong.”

Garoth spoke slowly. “Those fights were never fair. True combat knows only victory or defeat, no rules. I grew stronger to crush enemies, not to play equality games.”

He paused to let the hatchling absorb that.

“However,” Garoth continued, “you are my first descendant. As a father, I will give you a chance.”

“You want to challenge me? Fine.”

He stretched his wings slowly and powerfully, fully unfurling his wing membranes until they nearly blotted out the hatchlings’ view.

“Follow me.”

With that, the Red Iron Dragon turned and beat his wings.

He did not fly at full power but glided out of the palace at a steady speed to give the hatchlings time to catch up.

Others immediately moved.

Deborah sighed and followed.

Sorog and Samantha exchanged looks before taking flight too. Isanora, napping earlier, found it interesting and opened her eyes, yawned, stretched her wings, and followed.

Between the mountains lay a specially cleared, wide field.

This was Garoth’s regular training ground, scarred with wounds across the terrain and the surrounding rocks.

The Red Emperor landed at one end of the clearing.

He turned and watched the dragons who landed after him.

Deborah, Sorog, and Samantha took positions at the field’s edge as a natural observation area.

Iseramas, the amethyst dragon, did not appear openly but had quietly followed and observed from the shadows, curious about the Red Emperor’s offspring.

The four hatchlings landed at the opposite end of the clearing, about a hundred meters away from their father.

“The rules are simple.”

Garoth’s voice echoed between the mountains.

“I will use Transformation to control my life level to a degree similar to yours.”

“You may use any means to attack me—physical strikes, dragon breath, spell-like abilities, any tactic you can think of. I will not counterattack, only defend and dodge.”

“If you can leave a scratch on me—just a light scrape on my scales—you win.”

As he finished speaking, he began to activate Transformation.

The giant dragon’s body shrank swiftly, bones clicking softly but densely as musculature redistributed under the scales.

Within seconds Garoth’s size became roughly equal to the red hatchling’s; his aura was suppressed to an extremely low level—about level eight, matching Garkro’s claim.

Yet some things could not be fully hidden.

The depth in those eyes, the experience inherent in his movements, and even the exaggerated body proportions remaining despite the shrinkage all signaled this was not truly an equal-level hatchling.

“A scratch?”

Garkro felt his pride stung; his scales bristled and rubbed against each other with a dry whisper.

“Father, are you sure? I’m not an ordinary hatchling.”

“In the Vophal Domain I once defeated a seventeen-year-old young gold dragon in direct combat!”

“Then make it two scratches.”

Garoth sat back casually, wings folded, relaxed as if basking. “Begin. Show me your strength.”

“Roar—!”

Garkro launched without hesitation.

His dark-red form shot out like a cannonball, hind legs driving the ground and leaving shallow dents.

Red light gathered on his foreclaws—the kind of spell-like ability he had awakened young: Scorching Claw.

Air twisted around his claws as the temperature spiked.

Thirty meters, twenty, ten...

Garkro’s speed climbed; only his father filled his vision.

He instinctively controlled distance, angle, and velocity to strike the chest. Even if he could not inflict damage, he wanted to leave a mark.

Just as his claws neared Garoth’s chest, the Red Iron Dragon shifted slightly.

The movement was tiny and perfectly timed.

Garkro struck air.

The Scorching Claw tore through empty space.

Because he had overcommitted and suddenly lost his target, his body rolled across the ground several times before grinding to a halt and kicking up dust.

“Good speed.”

Garoth commented calmly. “But a straight-line charge is obvious. Any experienced opponent can anticipate the trajectory.”

Garkro rose, brushing dust from his head, grimacing.

Failing the first strike did not dampen his spirit; it fueled it.

An orange-red glow lit his throat.

Dragon breath!

A blazing, extinguishing flame roared out in a fan, sweeping across the clearing.

Garkro twisted his neck so the breath swept every direction his father might dodge.

But the flames only struck the ground.

Garoth flapped his wings and rose vertically just before the breath reached, then hovered safely above the flame’s zone.

His movements were concise and efficient with no waste.

The red hatchling arched his neck and kept belching flames, trying to corner his father, but Garoth simply moved lightly through the air, narrowly escaping the flames’ edges as if playing a game.

“Damn it!”

Garkro’s throat began to ache.

He stopped breathing fire and panted, chest heaving.

Without hesitation he lunged at the hovering father again.

This time he was smarter—no straight rush. He feinted on the ground to create false patterns, claw swipes, tail sweeps, ramming, even trying to slash with wing edges, peppered with sporadic spell-like strikes.

Garkro unleashed everything he had learned in seven years; the assault came like a storm.

Yet every attack failed.

Garoth employed no flashy techniques.

He merely sidestepped, lifted a foreleg, tilted his head, made small adjustments, and neutralized every onslaught—sometimes without moving at all, simply angling his body so blows slid off his scales.

The key was his displayed speed wasn’t especially fast; his explosive power not particularly strong.

He simply used abundant combat experience, predicting the young red’s intent and making the smallest final adjustments at the last moment.

After a while, Garkro panted to a halt.

Dust clung to him; several scales were hot from friction, and his throat burned from overusing his breath.

Garoth, even suppressed in level and reduced in size, stood clean and unmarked, breathing peacefully as before.

Among the watchers:

“Father is... toying with Garkro.”

Ophelia sighed, barely hiding a gloating kind of glee. “Poor brother—he thought he was challenging Father, but he’s been putting on a comedy show.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted to see?”

Isanora tilted her head, half-asleep eyes half-open. “You were bullying him earlier.”

“Hey, look but don’t tell.”

Ophelia snorted, black eyes flicking at the silver dragon. “Or else I’ll make sure you don’t sleep peacefully again. Do you know how many ways I can wake you up?”

“All right, all right, I’m terrified.”

Isanora shook her head, deciding not to argue with her troublesome sister. She curled further and buried her head under a wing, revealing only one eye to watch.

Elsewhere, Larria watched the fight intently, silent—recording his father’s techniques to commit them to memory.

In the clearing’s center, Garkro’s chest heaved violently.

Sweat seeped from scale gaps and vaporized at the heat; he stared at his father, deep-red eyes burning with unwilling fire.

“That’s it?”

he burst out suddenly, voice ragged from breath. “Father, is that all you do—dodge? Dare you stand still and take a real hit? If you won’t accept a direct clash, what is the point of this duel?”

In a flash of inspiration, he used provocation.

Simple, but often effective against proud dragons.

Garoth narrowed his eyes.

He descended slowly and stood on the ground again, wings folded, forepaws steady before him.

“All right.”

he said. “Use your strongest attack. I will stand here and not dodge.”

Garkro drew a deep breath, forcing down the elation swelling inside him.

He stepped back a few paces and gathered himself.

His deep-red scales darkened to near black, dorsal spines bristled and glowed red, the air warped from intense heat, and dust lifted in a silent whirl centered on him.

Three seconds, five, ten...

Garkro opened his mouth to the limit; his jaw clicked softly.

A pinpoint of deep-red light flared deep within his throat and rapidly swelled.

This was not ordinary dragon breath but a highly concentrated essence of breath, condensed to form a more lethal form—something many red dragons used as a finishing blow.

Mastering compressed breath as a hatchling revealed Garkro’s notable talent.

Whoosh!

A fist-sized, deep-red fireball shot from his mouth.

Its speed was not great—almost slow—but the air warped in layers around it from the extreme heat.

White-hot core, layers of deep red surrounding it, a thin energy trail trailing behind.

This was not a typical fireball; it was a compressed essence of breath that hit harder than a continuous stream—many red dragons used it decisively.

The ball flew straight at Garoth.

The Red Iron Dragon did not dodge.

He raised an outstretched wing, fully unfurled the wing membrane, and tilted it just so to create a slanted surface facing the incoming breath.

At impact, there was no explosion.

The fireball struck the wing’s face and slid, redirected like water hitting a reef, arcing upward. Its trajectory was wholly deflected.

Swoosh!

The breath ball skated over Garoth’s head, climbed, and detonated about fifty meters up.

Boom!

A spectacular burst of sparks like fireworks exploded, the shockwave sending dust from nearby peaks, the firelight illuminating the clearing and reflecting in every dragon’s eyes.

Garkro stared blankly.

His strongest, ten-second-prepared compressed breath so casually pushed aside by a wing’s slope?

He hadn’t even seen how much force his father used.

The motion had been nonchalant, as if flicking away a falling leaf.

“Nice compression.”

Garoth assessed calmly. “If that hit a same-level opponent squarely, it would indeed be decisive and could even inflict higher-level damage.”

He folded his wing and stood upright again.

“Problem is, the preparation took too long.”

Garoth continued, “In actual combat, no enemy stands still while you spend ten seconds charging breath, and the path was too linear—easy to anticipate and counter.”

He stepped toward the stunned son, his strides steady.

Even in reduced form Garoth’s shadow fell across Garkro.

“Garkro, you have potential,” Garoth said, looking down at the hotheaded young red. “But you must understand: there will always be beings stronger than you. Confidence drives you forward, but arrogance blinds you. It prevents you from seeing the true gap.”

Garkro did not hear much of his father’s words.

He watched the drifting embers vanish, blood rushing to his head, veins bulging beneath scales, his ears ringing.

Humiliation!

Unprecedented humiliation!

In the Vophal Domain he had been peerless, even able to challenge young gold dragons, yet today—after his father suppressed his level to equal—he couldn’t even touch a scale? Not a single scratch?

Every gaze around him pricked at his pride.

“I’m not defeated yet!”

When Garoth drew within five meters, Garkro roared, a raw, emotional bellow.

With his hind legs he exploded forward with unparalleled speed.

This time he used no claws, teeth, or breath—he slammed forward with the hardest parts of his body: shoulders and skull like a battering ram.

A reckless, furious charge with no finesse—pure rage.

The scales on Garoth’s brow raised slightly.

At the instant Garkro was about to connect, Garoth’s tail moved.

The tip lashed in a short arc, striking the joint of Garkro’s forepaw just as it hit the ground.

“Ngah!”

Garkro’s attack posture distorted instantly.

Pain and imbalance in his forepaw made him lose control; his body pitched sideways.

He tried to regain balance but was too late.

A foreclaw dark with red and black scales came down.

The claw was not enormous—under Transformation it matched Garkro’s paw size—but its timing, angle, and speed were flawless, clamping onto the young dragon’s neck like iron tongs.

Crack!

A sound of bone and compression echoed.

Garkro’s paws left the ground as the Red Iron Dragon lifted him by a single foreclaw.

His body dangled in midair, flailing uselessly, claws scrabbling at his father’s arm, tail whipping the air.

He tried once more to gather flame, but his neck was held and breathing became difficult; all strength drained, the glowing ember he summoned sputtering out.

His proud might seemed ridiculous beneath his father’s grasp.

The claw didn’t use full force; he could sense his father holding steadily, knuckles not even fully clenched.

Yet that ease made Garkro more desperate.

“Failure is not the terrifying thing,” Garoth said calmly, voice close.

Those deep-black eyes peered down at his son; the earlier amused interest had vanished, replaced by cool scrutiny. “What’s terrible is the inability to accept failure—hysteria and the loss of reason. That’s worse than failing.”

“Let... let go!”

Garkro struggled desperately, a hiss squeezed through his teeth.

The neck’s pressure distorted his voice with pain.

Garoth did not release him.

He did not respond—only watched silently, a silence more terrifying than reprimand.

“You still don’t submit.”

Garoth finally spoke.

“N—No!”

Garkro rasped through clenched teeth, eyes blazing with stubborn fire. “You… you only have more years lived than me… I… will grow up…”

“You won’t live to see that day. Since you won’t yield, then die.”

Garoth’s words cut off his fantasy.

Immediately the claw holding the neck began steadily to increase pressure.

Slow, steady, irresistible—each second bringing more force, like a closing hydraulic clamp.

Crack… crack…

The sound of cracking bones rang clear.

Garkro’s eyes widened; bloodshot eyeballs nearly bulged. Pain washed from his neck through his body; suffocation made his vision go dark at the edges.

But more terrifying than bodily pain was the feeling of life draining away.

He could feel his life force slipping like sand through an hourglass—irretrievable.

His heart pounded, trying to pump blood but the carotid was compressed; oxygen failed his brain; thoughts dulled.

Death.

For the first time the word descended with crushing reality.

His frantic struggles turned to limp spasms; his claws left only shallow marks on his father’s arm; his tail stiffened, trembling slightly at the tip.

Before death, he felt fear.

A bone-deep, freezing terror.

He began to beg, but after a few words only wheezes escaped.

Garkro turned his gaze toward his mother, desperate for her to stop the execution, but vision darkened; Garoth’s stern face blurred, Deborah’s figure faded; the world slipped away.

Fear—never before felt—clutched his heart.

So this is what death is…

Cold, dark, powerless, irreversible…

“No… I don’t… want to die…”

The last faint thought flickered, then even the ability to think faded.

“Wait, Father.”

Two voices sounded at once.

Isanora had stood, wings spread; her usually lazy eyes were fully open.

“Garkro was wrong, but his crime does not deserve death. He’s just arrogant. Please spare him this time.”

On the other side, Larria stepped forward too.

He did not plead like his sister but argued differently: “Father, our brother was indeed arrogant and ignorant, but the courage to challenge the strong is itself worth preserving. If you extinguish it now, it is a loss for the kingdom’s future.”

Garkro could no longer hear those words.

His consciousness drifted in darkness, left with only the vaguest contact.

Crunch!

A clean sound of the vertebrae breaking cut through.

Garoth released his hold.

Garkro’s limp body slumped to the ground like a mound of rotten clay, his skull twisted at an unnatural angle, deep-red eyes emptied of life, hollow and dim.

There was no movement, no sign of breath, not even the rise and fall of his chest.

An absolute silence fell.

Ophelia’s smile had vanished; her dark eyes wide, she trembled.

She had not expected such an outcome.

Father’s motion had been lightning-fast, and his brother’s collapse so heavy.

The crack seemed still to echo, tightening muscles beneath her scales; she forgot to breathe until her chest cramped and she gulped air.

Isanora’s narrow silver eyes filled with shock; she raised a forepaw and froze mid-way.

Larria stepped back half a pace, the lotus patterns on his scales flickering.

Samantha raised an eyebrow; Sorog watched Garoth thoughtfully.

Deborah merely shook her head slightly, saying nothing.

Garoth lowered his gaze to the fallen red hatchling, emotionless.

His shadow stretched across the ground and covered Garkro’s half-body.

Then an anomaly occurred.

Light shone from the gap between scales on the left chest of the motionless body.

The light was not harsh but extraordinarily clear, shining through deep-red scales like a hidden heart beating within. The glow spread quickly from the left chest along bloodlines to the neck, limbs, and tail tip, enveloping his whole body in a halo.

Light spread fast and covered him.

At the twisted neck, flesh and bone made cracking and regrowing sounds, rapidly realigning and reconnecting.

—!

The fallen red hatchling drew a great gasp; his chest heaved as if a drowning being had finally surfaced.

His eyes snapped open—still deep-red vertical pupils—but the earlier arrogance had been replaced by a trembling fear; the pupils trembled.

He was alive.

Staggering, Garkro braced with forelimbs and tried to stand, his legs wobbling; his foreclaws left messy gouges on the ground.

He steadied himself and absentmindedly touched the intact neck, bewildered as if he could not yet comprehend what had happened.

Then he looked at his father.

This time, the young red’s gaze carried clear awe.

Garoth looked down as if he had expected all this.

In fact, he had long seen that his eldest bore a Dragon Pearl in his chest.

“Dragon Pearl,” Garoth said. “One of my gifts—an inheritance of blood. It can grant you a single rebirth when you near death.”

He paused and stepped forward.

The shadow again covered Garkro, and the hatchling instinctively shrank his neck.

“But remember this: I can kill you once, and I can kill you a hundred times, a thousand times.”

“You live and can reach a higher life level at your age solely because you inherited my blood and enjoy my protection.”

Garoth continued, “Without these things, what are you? A common red hatchling. With your arrogance and ignorance you’d likely have died in the wilderness or become another predator’s meal.”

Garkro stood stunned.

His father had indeed killed him once.

Without hesitation, cleanly, not even giving him time to respond.

That he lived was not because of his strength or willpower but because he had the luck of inheriting this grace.

If not for the Dragon Pearl?

The thought chilled his bones.

The helpless flow of life, the plunge into blackness—those feelings flooded back into his senses.

He bowed his head, unable to look his father in the eye.

“Raise your head and look at me.”

The authoritative voice came from before him.

Garkro jolted and timidly lifted his head, meeting those deep-black eyes.

“Garkro, if you lack reverence for the strong and for life, then die now. I can kill you again, spare you from dying ignobly at the hands of other stronger ones.”

Garoth asked, “Now answer me: do you want to live or die?”

The hatchling opened his mouth; his throat was dry.

All those earlier bold words could not be spoken.

His tongue felt stuck and his teeth trembled; finally he lowered the head he had always held high.

“Live... I want to live, Father.”

The voice was weak and trembled with the aftershock of life regained.

Wind stirred across the clearing, lifting dust; a few dead leaves spun between the hatchlings.

Garoth nodded slightly and withdrew his oppressive aura.

He turned and scanned the other offspring, seeing the unrest still reflected in their eyes.

“Remember this feeling.”

he said. “Then, carry it forward as you grow stronger. I do not need descendants who only talk big. I need dragons who can survive and sustain this realm.”

Garkro slowly rose and shook his tail, loosening his stiff limbs.

He drew deep breaths to calm his racing heart.

“I understand your meaning, Father. Thank you for your instruction.”

he said, suddenly much more obedient; even the tail’s motion was measured.

“Hey, a gem—catch this; it’s a reward for your ambition.”

Samantha cheerily broke the tense mood.

She flicked a forepaw and a pigeon-egg-sized deep-red gem arced through the air.

The red hatchling caught it, bit to test its hardness, and treasured it by tucking it beneath the scales at his neck.

Receiving the gem, his earlier dark mood vanished; his eyes brightened and his expression visibly improved.

After all, dragons’ love for treasure can wash away most gloom.

Garoth watched all of this unfold without interruption.

He asked slowly, “What did you learn?”

Garkro thought for a few seconds and answered: “Before I truly become stronger than you, I will not rashly challenge you, nor oppose your will.”

Hearing this, Garoth’s claws twitched slightly.

This boy still hadn’t fully understood.

But overdoing it isn’t necessary; the seed had been sown—time would root it.

Garoth then walked toward the iron hatchling.

Ophelia instinctively shrank back but forced herself to stand, eyes shifting.

He asked, “Ophelia, why didn’t you stop me earlier? At least plead for your kin.”

The small iron dragon stammered: “I... I didn’t think it would turn out like this... I froze.”

“Then,” Garoth continued, his gaze landing on her like a tangible weight, “if your brother had died today, would you feel joy or pain?”

Ophelia could not meet her father’s eyes and looked down at her feet, voice barely audible.

“Pain… pain.”

“I didn’t want my brother harmed. I only wanted to tease him—I never meant this to happen.”

She spoke truthfully.

The fun of mischief lies in controlling the situation and watching the other’s reaction, not in causing real tragedy. She did not want such a disaster befall a blood relative. The fear she felt just then had been real.

If Garkro had truly died, she would have been an accomplice and would regret it forever.

Garoth said solemnly, “You may possess cleverness, but wisdom is often undone by pride.”

He lifted a foreclaw and tapped Ophelia’s forehead gently.

“You cannot foresee every change—this is beyond even the gods.”

“You can use your wit to toy with kin—but only if you control the limits, because you cannot bear the consequence of mistakes. Today your brother had a Dragon Pearl. Next time? If it’s someone else, or you, will there be a second chance?”

Ophelia fell silent for a moment, lowering her small head further.

“I... I understand.”

she whispered.

Finally Garoth looked around at each hatchling.

They were different in form, but each mirrored his shadow in their eyes.

“Aola Kingdom belongs to me and it will belong to you.”

“But whatever is in your inheritance—be it treachery, selfishness, lone-wolf behavior—remember: bloodline comes first here.”

He spoke slowly, his voice spreading through the mountains.

“Respect your parents, your elders, and your siblings.”

“You may compete and strive, but the bottom line is each other’s lives and dignity.”

Fight for yourselves and for them. If you cannot trust your blood, who else can you trust? Who can you expect to stand behind you in crises?

The evil-dragon heritage contained arrogance, betrayal, and distrust—survival lessons from harsh ancestors that had become shackles on the clan.

Garoth sought to teach his descendants to defy their nature: to learn reverence and the power of unity.

He did not want to be stabbed in the back by his offspring nor watch them slaughter each other and destroy what he had built.

Educating descendants was not a one-day task, particularly for evil-dragon bloodlines—proud, self-centered, gifted offspring who tended to grow arrogant.

But Garoth had patience.

His life was long, and education was like polishing jade—cannot be rushed or done roughly.

The mountain wind grew stronger, stirring the valley grass and ruffling the hatchlings’ scales.

They listened quietly—some thoughtful, some eyes flickering, some still trembling.

Garkro occasionally touched his neck as if confirming the healing.

He knew he was different now, and had never imagined he could be resurrected—this lineage gift from his father was astonishingly powerful.

Ophelia by his side hesitated, then gently nudged his hind leg with her tail tip.

Garkro glanced at her, made no sound, and did not shrink away.

Garoth watched them, sensing that the time before his long rest would grow full and interesting.

ps: Double please monthly vote