Draconic Awakening

A few days had passed since Ragnar had scaled the walls of the Mesa and met the small party. He had mostly spent his time on the bewitched obsidian Mesa healing himself and practicing his sword movements. Yeah, his battle style was good—perfect, maybe—but training his body was one of his main themes during his time on the Mesa.

The time he spent in the horrifying maze made him realize how weak Ragnar's body was. It was slow, feeble to some extent, and if not for the Arcane he had gotten through his time in the maze, death would have been assured for him.

Luckily, now he had the time and space to train himself, putting his body through various exercises to hone it.

His shadows also helped in his journey—not in the best of ways, but by entertaining him with their thoughts toward the oblivious party.

And when it was nighttime, he would begin training with his sword, doing this routine for the many days he had spent on the Obsidian Mesa, until he had fully recovered from his injuries...

Well, he did not. Actually, Ragnar was not the only one who had gotten injured during the battle at the bottom of the Mesa against the horde. Cleaver had also gotten a large injury from the battle; without a shield to take the brunt of the horde, he had accumulated a number of fatal wounds.

And unlike Ragnar, who could self-heal in a matter of hours or days, Cleaver was far slower than he was, and this led to a small delay in the group's plans.

During the time he spent with the party, he learnt absolutely nothing about them. The way they talked, the way they behaved—everything was a secret, and they kept it very well to themselves.

Although he wasn't very concerned—why would he be?—he hated shoving his foot into other people's matters. That would get him killed. And no matter how much he hated it, he wasn't yet strong enough to win a battle against the party.

Come to think of it, it had been a while since he looked at his stats.

Summoning his stats from the system, Ragnar stared at the few notifications that popped up before his gaze.

{Name: Ragnar Rok}

{Arcana: Dragon born}

{Arcana rank: ???}

{Title: Faceless Son of Darkness}

{Ability: Dragon sight, Dragon flames, pride}

{Weaknesses: blindness, burnout, gold}

{Draconic imp: 2/20}

{Arcane core: 56/500}

{Ember marks: 5}

Ragnar's hand latched onto his chin and he fell into thought. Looking at the number of Arcane he had gotten from the battle at the bottom of the Obsidian Mesa, he was a little bit mesmerized.

Before the battle, he had almost twenty in his core, and now he had gotten almost double that in return. Did that mean Ragnar had gotten stronger by twice his usual strength? That, he did not know.

'Still, I healed from so many wounds in such a short amount of time. That should count for me growing stronger,' Ragnar thought, furrowing his eyes.

Another thing that had increased over his travel through the maze was his cultivation points. The Draconic imp had progressed by just a single point...

And that had only occurred when he exercised using more dragon fire. Did that mean he would continue to get more points the more he used the fire? That he was unsure of, but if so, that was a sickening trap by the system.

'The use of flames during a battle can cripple me. Even in the battle at the bottom of the Obsidian Mesa, I would have defeated more Wendigos if I was at full strength.' But still, if he hadn't used the flames, he would have been killed in no time also.

So everything worked out perfectly for him—mostly.

And then Ragnar's gaze landed on his weaknesses, and he scowled at the term gold.

Ragnar believed gold to be a trinket, a piece of metal that was insignificant—meant to make powerful and stupid men into idiots at the will of the smart—and now he was placed on a leash by the idiocy of the system... a leash any man could take and pull on, as long as they paid good gold.

He turned to his shadows. "Remind me to stay away from merchants," he spoke almost in a joking manner, but the three shadows knew he was dead serious while saying this.

While Ragnar was still deep in his thoughts, a shadow approached him and then halted. This was not his own, and when he looked up, he saw the stunning, alluring, most elusive damned girl before him.

It was Arya, with a blank expression staring down at him—the look nobles always gave to those they were better than.

'That disgusting look!' he frowned.

"Can I have a minute?" She was cold and commanding to some extent.

And in a way, Ragnar could not refuse her. He only nodded and rose to his feet. "What do you want to—"

"Let's walk," she spoke again, yet commanding, turning her back to Ragnar and walking the other way—away from her two supposed protectors—only to be followed by a man that looked no different than a damned beast.

Ragnar could feel the tension in the gazes of the two, and he frowned at it, following Arya from behind as she had asked.

The two of them walked for a while, and when they had gotten a good distance from the other two, she spoke.

"Can I trust you?" She was deliberate and so straightforward, surprisingly gullible.

Ragnar let out a sigh. "That is up to you. I only make relationships that give me benefits. If yours proves to be more of a hassle than one that gives me what I want, I won't hesitate to betray you."

Arya giggled at his statement, clearly amused. "The game—I've played it for very long. And yes, if you prove no longer useful, the alliance is over. That is the only type of relationship that exists in the hierarchy of positions and life."

Ragnar could not help it, but he was impressed. She matched his energy, surprisingly. How was that even possible?

"I preferably know what my enemy wants from me. That way, I can know when they would strike at me," she halted her steps and finally turned to Ragnar. "What do you want from me?"

Ragnar paused for a while, and a grin appeared on his face. "Hahahaha! Princess, you haven't been the first to ask me that question. Actually, it brings back memories. I want to step right on you—"

"You want the throne?" She asked, a bit puzzled.

Ragnar shook his head with a frown. "The ideology of men placing power in a chair made of fur is truly callous. I am not one to go for such trivialities. A throne is created by man to control men; same with a crown. A sword is created by men to kill other men or instill fear. A man that creates will always be the one on top."

Arya seemed more puzzled the more Ragnar spat out his ideology. "You want to be the creator?"

Ragnar shook his head. "My goals cannot be comprehended by someone that still thinks by the system, not out of the system."

It was at this point Arya figured the man she was talking to was insane—or better put, he was not like everyone else.

"I see." Arya let out a sigh. "One of the bodyguards I bought with gold has been bought with more gold. I don't know which of them it is, but I know he will likely try to kill me—and all of us—during this battle."

Ragnar bit his lips and tilted his head, waiting for her to speak her next words.

"I want you to kill him before he does that—whoever the person is—and I will repay you. You might not need gold or anything, but a favour from someone in a high position when we return from the realm would surely be useful," the princess finished with an eyebrow raised at Ragnar.

Throughout the conversation, Ragnar had felt his heart leap whenever he heard mention of gold. Still, after hearing all she had to say, he couldn't help but let his curiosity rule over him.

Just who was the assassin—hotheaded Cleaver or Klein?

***Author's note***