Translator: AnubisTL
Under the continuous radiance of sunlight that seemed to melt gold, the young gold dragon Alberto's massive body trembled slightly. His consciousness, like a pearl sinking into the deep sea, slowly floated back toward the luminous surface.
He woke slowly, feeling every single scale on his body immersed in a long-forgotten sense of peace and comfort.
The mental strings that had been taut for five years finally slackened, settling into a state of languid tranquility.
The world before him—from the swaying wild grass to the jagged mountain rocks—seemed to be covered in a soft, warm filter, making everything appear less sharp and piercing.
He clearly recalled the final scene before his slumber.
—That foolhardy challenge.
The result, naturally, was a crushing defeat without suspense.
He had been knocked unconscious by the red-iron dragon's final, terrifying dragon breath. In his most pathetic posture, he had fallen to his knees before that figure covered in black-red scales, which resembled burning metal.
The outcome had been utterly humiliating.
Yet, fate's arrangements were always unexpected.
It was precisely this crushing defeat and the resulting coma that, by a strange twist of fate, had granted him over a month of undisturbed rest, as deep as death itself.
This prolonged slumber was an unimaginable luxury for him.
For five whole years, he had been whipped day and night by an invisible lash, bound by invisible shackles.
His longest rest had never exceeded a single, miserable day.
Every brief moment of respite was shattered by his oath, which roused him and drove him back into endless, grueling training.
Now, compared to the suffocating agony of those five years—where every second was a desperate struggle—this complete physical and mental relaxation caused a strange, indescribable ache to well up deep within the proud Gold Dragon's nostrils.
Huh? No, that's not right!
This ache wasn't just emotional; it was a real, physical sensation.
His nose wasn't just aching—it was also plagued by an unbearable itch, as if countless tiny, fuzzy tentacles were tickling the inside.
The sensation was no illusion, and it intensified rapidly as his consciousness fully returned.
"A—CHOO!!!"
Alberto couldn't hold it in any longer and flung open his massive dragon's maw.
A deafening sneeze erupted, carrying a torrent of scorching breath.
A several-meter-long blast of gold-red flames, like a furious fire dragon, surged from his nostrils. It instantly incinerated the cluster of Tickle Flowers that some wretched creature had dared to stuff deep into his nose while he slept.
Wisps of acrid smoke drifted lazily from his nostrils.
The gold dragon raised a massive forepaw, rubbing his still-irritated nose with a hint of annoyance.
But when his gaze inadvertently swept over his once-brilliant forelimb, his molten-gold slit pupils snapped wide!
There, on the surface of his forelimb—where the dragon scales should have shone with the magnificent luster of molten gold—were countless crude, childishly ugly scribbles. They were painted in a riot of garish, eye-searing colors: a jarring neon green, a tacky bubblegum pink, and a blindingly bright purple.
There were lines that looked like wriggling worms.
There were shapes that resembled squashed mushrooms.
He even spotted a few crooked, barely recognizable sketches—something that might have been a turtle or a pig.
Turning his head, he saw that the graffiti covered not just his forelimb, but his entire body.
A terrible premonition seized him. He heaved his massive frame upright and strode with heavy, hurried steps to the edge of a nearby lake, its surface as clear as a mirror.
He lowered his head, and his colossal golden visage was reflected in the shimmering water.
Just as he had feared!
What met his gaze was his own massive, majestic golden dragon head.
Yet, that majesty was now utterly defiled. His cheeks, forehead, and even the skin around his eyelids were covered in a riot of colorful, comical graffiti, as if a band of drunken dwarf artists had used his face as a canvas.
"Who?! Who dares defile my majestic dragon form with this blasphemous filth?!"
The gold dragon whipped his neck around, his eyes sweeping the surroundings.
"Aha! I did it!"
A voice rang out, as clear as a silver bell yet thick with the glee of a successful prank.
From the dense thicket of flowers by the lake, Fairy Dragon Vera emerged like a streak of iridescent light. Her petite, shimmering form swayed with a flick of her slender tail as she darted into the air.
She performed a triumphant somersault mid-flight, her face split in a mischievous grin as she proudly confessed her crime. Then, without missing a beat, she pulled an exaggeratedly goofy face at Alberto's multicolored visage.
Alberto stared at the mischievous little creature, feeling surprisingly little surprise.
Among the inhabitants of Dragon Valley, only the fairy dragons were this fond of such pranks.
Still, after being teased like this, Alberto had to save face.
His eyes glinted. He decided to give this arrogant little fairy dragon a scare—to teach her that gold dragons were not to be trifled with.
In an instant, his dragon's face, which had looked comical due to the graffiti, hardened. He deliberately suppressed all gentleness, revealing the fierce visage of an apex predator.
"Help! Help!" Vera shrieked, her voice cutting through the air as she tore a desperate cry from her tiny throat without a moment's hesitation.
Her delicate, butterfly-like wings beat furiously. Her small body shot backward like a colorful pebble fired from a slingshot, instantly putting a vast distance between them.
Yet, seconds later, the expected pursuit never came.
Vera halted her retreat, hovering in confusion. She cautiously turned her head, tilting it in bewilderment at the sight before her.
The massive gold dragon was simply stretching his limbs in the open, completely ignoring her.
He first extended his long neck and powerful legs, then began to beat his broad, golden wings in a steady, rhythmic thrum. He wasn't channeling the divine Oath Energy within him, nor was he using any magic energy to aid his flight. He was relying purely on the raw strength of his wings, flapping them with brute force.
Each downward stroke of his wings slammed heavily into the ground, kicking up a storm of sand and stone as dust billowed out.
His massive body could only manage to lift a few meters off the ground through this sheer physical force, before crashing back down with a dull thud that made the earth tremble slightly.
"That strange gold dragon... Garos must have knocked his brain loose," Vera muttered under her breath, her large eyes blinking. She silently flapped her wings and drifted another few dozen meters away, terrified that the dragon's sheer stupidity might be contagious.
Meanwhile, Alberto could clearly feel the fairy dragon's gaze—a mixture of pity and bewilderment. A wave of helplessness and bitterness washed over him.
But how could he explain?
Just moments ago, when he had tried to scare Vera to regain some face, a bone-deep chill had suddenly coiled around his heart.
It wasn't a physical or psychological ailment.
It was the Vow he had sworn himself—a command as unyielding as steel—issuing a severe warning and a ruthless reminder.
For five long years, he had become as familiar with this sensation as he was with breathing. Every moment of slack, every single thought that strayed from the path of strength, would provoke this soul-lashing chill.
Like right now.
Just because he was thinking about scaring the fairy dragon instead of engaging in a real combat encounter that would truly hone his fighting skills, the very nature of this thought was judged by the Oath as meaningless, time-wasting leisure.
And so.
The invisible, icy Whip of the Oath immediately lashed out, ready to savagely strike his soul for daring to slacken.
Alberto! Your time should only be used for training! For growing stronger! Not for getting distracted by such childish and pointless matters!
Fortunately.
Perhaps because he had just experienced an unprecedented, month-long deep slumber.
The Strings of the Spirit, which had been taut for five years and were on the verge of snapping, had finally received a precious chance to relax and repair.
At this moment, Alberto's spirit and qi were in an unprecedentedly vigorous state. Though he still revered the Oath, his heart felt little weariness or strong resistance.
Besides.
The Oath had indeed made him more powerful and increasingly disciplined.
He chose to silently accept it.
Ignoring Vera's gaze, he cleared his mind of all distractions and focused his entire being on tempering the power of his wings.
(End of the Chapter)
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