The sun struggled to pierce the thick northern clouds, casting the Frostvale Plains in a pale, ghostly light. Snow swirled endlessly, whipped into violent storms by the relentless wind. From above, he observed the landscape, wings slicing through the frozen air effortlessly, golden aura blazing faintly even in the dim light. The northern kingdoms had not given up. Not after the Siege of the Ice Citadel, not after the Heart of Frostvale.
From the ridge where he hovered, he could see them: the Frozen Vanguard, the elite of the elite. Hundreds of hunters, soldiers, and mages, each hand-picked for their strength, intelligence, and experience. They moved in tight formations, perfectly synchronized, with magical wards bristling like armor. Ice golems, summoned by the kingdom's greatest mages, patrolled the valleys, while elemental constructs hovered in the air, ready to pounce. Every step, every flurry of snow, every subtle movement radiated discipline and preparation.
Golden eyes narrowed. "Persistent," he murmured, voice barely audible over the wind. "Finally… a challenge worthy of my attention."
He landed lightly on a ridge, claws sinking slightly into the hardened ice, wings folding back. The air itself seemed to hum with his presence. Snow swirled violently around him, stirred by the golden aura radiating from his body. Hunters froze mid-step, mages gripped their staffs tighter, and soldiers raised shields instinctively, sensing the storm of energy that hung over him.
From the center of the Vanguard stepped the lead commander, a tall, imposing man clad in black-and-silver armor etched with glowing runes. In his hands was a massive spear, crackling with frost and lightning magic. Around him floated elite mages, staffs pulsing, each prepared to unleash devastating spells in unison.
"Dragon-human!" the commander shouted, voice amplified magically across the plains. "You have defied the northern kingdoms and brought ruin to Frostvale! Step down and submit, or be destroyed by the Frozen Vanguard!"
Golden eyes scanned him coldly. "I submit to no one," he said, voice calm yet carrying the weight of inevitability. "I serve no kingdom. I answer to no throne. My path is mine alone. Anyone who stands against it will regret it."
The commander gestured sharply, and the Vanguard surged forward as one. Hunters darted from hidden valleys, daggers and ropes aimed to restrain. Soldiers charged with spears bristling with runes of attack and defense. Mages unleashed torrents of ice and fire, forming walls, barriers, and traps in rapid succession. Even the terrain itself seemed weaponized, with wards shaping snow drifts into obstacles meant to slow him down.
He did not move immediately. He watched, reading every pulse of mana, every subtle shift in their stance, every intention behind their coordinated advance. Then, in a heartbeat, he struck.
Dragon energy surged along his body, golden light flaring outward. He shifted seamlessly between human and dragon form, wings spreading wide, tail coiling, claws extending. Hunters lunged—gone before they could strike, sent tumbling into the snow by a flick of his claw. Mages fired spells in intricate arcs, only to have their staffs shatter midair, bolts of magic harmlessly absorbed into his aura. Elemental constructs lunged, only to be swept aside with controlled bursts of energy, leaving them alive but incapacitated.
The Vanguard adapted quickly, striking from multiple angles, flanking him from cliffs, and using every environmental advantage. But every attack was anticipated. Every trap neutralized. Golden eyes glimmered. "Persistent indeed," he murmured. "This is more like it."
He surged into the air, wings flaring, golden aura blazing like the sun against the stormy clouds. Each beat sent wind and snow cascading across the battlefield, destabilizing magical barriers, knocking hunters off balance, and disorienting the soldiers. Every step, every motion, every pulse of his presence radiated superiority, showing the Vanguard that they were facing not just a dragon-human, but a storm incarnate.
"You cannot stop me," he said, voice calm yet echoing across the plains. "Kingdoms, hunters, mages, even the system itself… none can dictate my path. Step into it, and you will regret it."
The Frozen Vanguard faltered. Soldiers and hunters froze in awe, mages struggled to maintain wards, and even the lead commander's pulse faltered slightly. He did not press the attack further. The purpose of this confrontation was not mere slaughter—it was demonstration. Control. Mastery. Every move, every strike, every burst of golden energy was precise, measured, and deliberate.
Far above, beyond the clouds, the Great White Dragon observed silently, its eye reflecting his golden aura. Calm, approving, and calculating. It had guided him, tested him, and now watched as he dominated the northern kingdoms' finest forces with effortless precision.
The battlefield lay in chaos: snow churned into spiraling storms, magical barriers flickered, hunters staggered, and soldiers fell back. The Frostvale plains had never seen such a display of power, nor would they ever forget it. Kingdoms would rise again, armies would march, mages would attempt greater spells—but he had grown stronger with each challenge, faster, sharper, and untouchable.
He rose higher, golden aura blazing, wings slicing the clouds, turning the northern sky into a canvas of light and storm. The Frozen Vanguard had tested him, pushed him, but ultimately, they were shown the truth: no force, no kingdom, no army could match his mastery.
And he was only beginning.