The wind tore across the northern plains like a blade, cutting through armor, snow, and frozen earth alike. He soared above the battlefield, golden eyes scanning every movement, every ripple of mana, every breath of the soldiers below. Frostvale was quiet now, but the calm was deceptive. The northern kingdoms had regrouped, their forces stronger, better prepared, and hungrier than before. Word had spread of the dragon-human who had decimated their previous army, and now their elite—the vanguard of the north—had been summoned.
From above, he could see the ranks: hunters, mages, and soldiers moving in perfect synchrony. Hundreds, maybe thousands, but he could sense their intentions as clearly as he sensed the wind. Each soldier, each hunter, each mage radiated fear and determination, their aura amplified by experience and training. This was no ordinary force. These were veterans, the best the northern kingdoms had to offer, and they had been brought here for a single purpose: to test him—and, if possible, to end him.
He landed lightly on a ridge overlooking the northern army. Snow crunched beneath his talons, but the sound barely carried over the distant wind. He folded his wings back, golden aura radiating outward, casting long shadows over the ice and stone of the valley. Every step, every breath, every blink radiated authority. Even the wind seemed to hesitate around him.
The northern commander stepped forward, flanked by two of the kingdom's most powerful mages. He was tall, heavily armored, with silver runes etched across his chestplate, and a spear crackling with ice and lightning magic in his hand. His aura radiated calculated control, the kind of control built from decades of experience.
"Dragon-human," he called, his voice carrying across the battlefield, amplified magically to echo off the surrounding mountains. "You have defied our armies, shattered our plans, and humiliated the northern kingdoms. Today, the Vanguard comes for you. Submit, or be destroyed!"
Golden eyes swept over him, cold, sharp, unyielding. "I submit to no one," he said calmly, letting the words cut across the valley. "I answer to no kingdom, no hunter, no system. My path is my own, and anyone who steps in it will regret it."
The commander's lips pressed into a thin line, and with a single gesture, the northern vanguard surged forward. Hundreds of soldiers moved with precision, hunters flanking on either side, and mages sending torrents of ice and fire, spells converging to form a deadly lattice aimed at him. The formation was impeccable, a perfect combination of offense, defense, and strategy.
He did not move. Not yet. Instead, he let the first wave approach, observing, calculating, sensing every nuance of their movement. Then, in a single instant, he reacted.
Dragon energy pulsed along his body, golden light flaring from every scale, claw, and wing. He shifted with impossible speed, weaving through spears, daggers, and arrows, deflecting and countering with precise strikes. A sweep of his tail sent hunters flying into the snow, while a flick of his claw shattered mages' staves midair. Bolts of magic dissolved against his aura, melted or absorbed, redirected into the snow around him without causing harm to him.
The northern vanguard adapted, moving faster, adjusting angles, and striking in tighter formations. But every move he anticipated. Golden eyes narrowed. "Persistent," he murmured. "Finally… a challenge worthy of attention."
He released a controlled surge of energy, enough to send the vanguard staggering, but not killing. Snow and ice erupted around them, visibility dropping, frost forming on armor and weapons alike. Even the lead commander struggled to maintain control, signaling his forces frantically as they tried to regroup.
The dragon-human leapt into the air, wings flaring, golden light cascading over the battlefield like sunlight breaking through winter clouds. Every beat of his wings sent snow and ice swirling, obscuring vision and destabilizing the northern ranks.
"You cannot stop me," he said, voice calm, yet carrying with it the weight of a storm. "Kingdoms, hunters, mages, systems… none of you can dictate my path. Step into my way, and you will regret it."
The northern vanguard faltered, some lowering weapons, others frozen in awe and fear. He did not attack further—his presence alone was enough to show the futility of their mission.
Far above, the Great White Dragon watched silently, a single eye observing, approving, and calculating. It had guided him, tested him, and now it saw him dominate an entire elite army without so much as breaking a sweat.
The soldiers and hunters were forced to retreat, their formation shattered, morale broken, yet alive. They knew they could not challenge him in their current state. They would regroup, report, and prepare again—but even then, the truth was clear: they were facing someone beyond their comprehension, a being who had mastered both dragon and human form, and whose power answered to no one.
He soared higher, wings cutting through the wind, golden aura blazing against the gray northern sky. The northern plains shrank beneath him, armies moving like ants far below, insignificant against the storm that was his presence.
The world had begun to notice him. Kingdoms, hunters, and the system itself would all feel the weight of his existence soon enough.
And he was ready.