The Dragon Heir (A Monster Evolution/Progression LitRPG)

It was a full-on parade of elves. An entire entourage. I counted them twice just to be sure. There were almost a dozen.

My body was wrapped in the shimmer of my distortion technique, layered over my skill for minimizing my presence. For good measure, I kept a generous distance. I glided between the foliage, my shifting ocular lenses feeding me every last scrap of detail.

Once again, that quiet weight of comparison pressed in, my strength pressing against theirs. All of them were weaker… except one.

Tall. Dressed sharper than his peers, dripping with the sort of self-importance you can smell from a hundred paces. Fingers jingling with gemmed rings, staff of polished wood embedded with more glittering stones. And not the "pick from a jeweler's window" variety… these were different. I could see it. That rainbow hue clung to him, bleeding from his skin, his staff, his baubles.

I hadn't seen that glow in a long time. Only in a dungeon, and once on the moon. But never… never on a person. Well… not quite a person. An elf.

Which meant only one thing.
HE WAS A THIEF!
A PLUNDERER!
AN INTRUDER!!

The thought hit so suddenly it almost dragged me under, but the reason was obvious. That foul stench of rot I'd been catching hints of for so long was practically radiating from him.

A mission window blinked into my vision. A quick skim, then I accepted without hesitation. A kill order, with the System itself spitting venom at the target. I'd seen this kind of reaction before, hell, I'd felt it back when that arrogant elven brat hit Gold Core in the dungeon. My instincts nearly staged a coup just for an attempt to wipe him out.

Could I take this one? Nah… Not a chance. He was Low Gold, sure, but not the same as the last elf. That one had been freshly ascended and still died early… courtesy of Gwen, who was Gold Core herself. This one, though, had the scent of experience.

I adjusted my hold on the owlcat, frowning. What were the odds? First I save this guy, then he returns requesting for "help," and now I just happen to stumble on an elven procession in the middle of Varkaigrad's woods? Honestly, I should stop pretending I'm surprised at these things.

Still, it was too good a chance to ignore. A Low Gold wouldn't be wandering out here on a sightseeing tour. They were up to something, and I wanted to know what.

But charging in headfirst? No. Prideful I might be, suicidal I wasn't. Against a Low Gold, that's a straight ticket to my own obituary.

I stared at the scene below, trying to decipher why fate had shoved me here of all places. What would Lotte say right now? Probably something like-

[A golden thread and a black one intertwined. Be careful with whatever you're trying to do, Jade.]

OH THALADOR'S CROOKED NOSE!
YOU'RE READING MY MIND, AREN'T YOU, LOTTE?!

[And no, I'm not reading your mind. Just… be excruciatingly careful. That's all.]

My suspicions about Lotte deepened, but… eh. What could I do if she was rifling through my thoughts? Honestly, it might even play to my advantage. Still, confirmation would be nice. And next time, maybe skip mentally calling her a "fatcat lazy dragon." Wise move.

My eyes narrowed on the elven entourage just as the front runners started butchering beasts that crawled out of the foliage. It was like they were a walking beacon, drawing monsters straight to them, and then cutting them down without a shred of self-preservation.

If the system was issuing missions to those beasts, that would make sense, but this wasn't normal monster hostility. They weren't attacking out of instinct; they were waiting… mesmerized in a way, almost eager to be slaughtered. Something about the elves was pulling them in.

And once those creatures fell, they didn't stay down. They rose again almost immediately… as undead.

Over the low gold elf, a ball of blood was coalescing. It was vicious, slightly glowing, and deliberate. That had to be tied to his abilities. Maybe he was dominating the weaker monsters, harvesting their blood to fuel some kind of technique? The mana patterns in the area certainly pointed that way.

Maybe that's what the owlcat had seen before running back to me for help. It seemed intelligent enough and oddly, it wasn't affected by the elf's domination at all.

Not that I could do anything for its family now. They'd already been turned into undead and bled dry by the elves. Another vein of rage pulsed hot under my scales. Elves really were the antithesis of everything good in the world, especially seeing fluffy owlcats perverted into undead, filthy parodies. Ugh.

I watched the lead elves gleefully slaughter them as they advanced, and my hatred simmered harder. But focus, Jade. No reckless lunges. First step: gather as much information as I could by sight.

I also caught sight of storage rings on several of them. No cargo in plain view, but that didn't mean they were empty. Unfortunately, my air sense couldn't pierce sealed pockets of spatial storage, so I couldn't guess what they were carrying. Maybe my next upgrade would fix that.

The low gold elf himself stood out for more than just his gear. His skin was almost porcelain, his eyes a deep crimson. So pale he looked bloodless, yet perfectly healthy. It was strange because the last low gold I'd encountered had the exact same pallid look. At the time, I didn't think much of it, he'd just gone through a ritual, so looking different made slight sense.

But now, seeing another with the same features and the same rotten stench… it was too much to be coincidence. They had to have ascended through the same method.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Hmm… I had a decision to make. Run away and waste this chance? Or engage and somehow survive against a gold core long enough to learn something, even if I didn't know what that "something" might be. But Lotte called it a golden thread, so it had to be valuable. A golden opportunity, literally.

I turned inward, checking my mana and stamina reserves, both were full. Good. With a deliberate focus, I reached for my Quantum Nexus and expelled three clones from myself.

This time they weren't indulging in dumb dragon antics. Their eyes narrowed on the elven entourage, tentacles twitching, teeth bared in an alarmingly suggestive lick.

Charming. Not.

Still, none of them were charging ahead, so clearly my intelligence was high enough for them to behave with a shred of reason. I could only control one at a time, but… one thing I'd never tried was simply giving them orders.

I scooped up the owlcat and shoved it into the arms of one clone. It didn't eye the floof like a snack, instead holding it gently, so at least they shared my affection for fluff.

"Stay out of the fight, but stay within a hundred meters of me," I ordered.

The clone gave a neat little salute, then flapped its wings and vanished. Shadow dimension, most likely. Good. Less chance of drawing attention that way.

The other two I told to follow and assist me. How they'd interpret "assist" was entirely up to them, but at least I'd confirmed I could command them.

Five minutes. That was all I had… to gather intel, and possibly survive a brush with a low gold.

A bark of near-laughter clawed at my throat. Absurd.

Almost escaped.

Because for the first time in… a while… my blood roared with pure, undiluted exhilaration. Fear… fear felt like a dusty relic left on a shelf. Outdated.

***

Marceau Boisclaire stifled a yawn behind a lace-cuffed hand, observing the vermin fling themselves at his magnificence. They fell almost instantly, bodies bowing to his domination. Honestly, the sheer volume of pests infesting this pathetic woodland hovel… some grotesquely outsized him, true, but vermin remained vermin. Size just meant more to bleed.

He wasn't even surprised. What else could he expect from beastkin whose ancestors probably bred with such filth to become what they are today? Naturally, they'd let such abominations fester at their own doorstep. Disgusting lack of standards.

If this were Lithrindel, the infestation would have been purged before it had a chance to grow into such a bloated, self-sustaining ecosystem. This cesspit was practically halfway to a dungeon already. He supposed, in a rather indolent way, he was performing a civic service for these backwater mongrels.

His gaze lingered on the great swirling sphere of blood above his head. Life came in all flavors, and blood was its richest vessel. Even vermin carried their own nuances, he was certain some of these creatures hid exquisite notes beneath the filth. The thought made his refined palate tingle.

And by the Moon, he couldn't help himself. Ever since the Goddess had graced him, his body had all but rejected ordinary cuisine. Like every other Blessed One touched by Her essence, he'd developed a taste… no, almost an addiction for the blood of living things. He'd been warned that his cravings might spiral out of control without regular indulgence, but he hardly needed the reminder. Blood was simply too delicious. Every form of life offered a different bouquet, and it had become his personal mission to taste them all.

But not here. Not now. Ugh. He had a façade to maintain.

He had to act like Marceau Boisclaire, the man he'd been before Her blessing. Sometimes, it was such a tedious performance. He knew he was no longer that man; he was something better, something remade. The blessing had torn his soul and core apart and rebuilt it with Her divinity. There was no better way to describe it. The process had been the most excruciating agony he'd ever endured… yet the power that followed… ahhh. Was clinging to one's "self" really so important when you could step closer to the Divine?

But the Elders insisted they all maintain their old masks, so he dabbed metaphorical tears of profound boredom and engaged his brethren with perfunctory charm. Yes. Perfectly banal. Like this.

He glanced ahead and felt them nearing the target location. As much as he loathed breathing the same air as those filthy beastkin, he couldn't deny the lure of their forests.

The ley lines of mana here were absurdly strong, almost offensively so. And that was precisely why he was here. Their bases within the city had been mostly destroyed. It was time to escalate, but subtly. A hidden dimensional pocket and a teleportation gate could coexist, but it would take an obscene amount of mana. And where better to find it than atop a ley line?

Operating outside Varkaigrad's walls was inconvenient, yes. But if something needed to be done, it would be done.

Varkaigrad must fall for the Queen's ascension. And gods, how pitifully easy it had been to steer its two main factions into tearing each other apart, one within the walls, one outside them. All it took was stoking their species-pride and dangling the promise of supremacy, and they gladly plotted each other's demise.

The Iron Pact and the Vor'akhs… what a pair of witless curs. Dancing to the tune of their betters without ever realizing whose hand held the bow.

No matter his disdain for beastkin, he had to admit, it had been deliciously entertaining. Watching two maggot-ridden dogs gnaw each other's throats over the illusion of a "bone of power." Never mind the stench, this was theater at its finest.

If only some of the vermin weren't annoyingly… clever. One in particular. Ah, yes. That one was the pungent reason he currently polluted his boots in this fetid wood.

That wretched, maggot-infested bitch had recently annihilated an entire team of red cores. Jade… that was the name, a filthy one at that. The divinators had traced her meddling to every major mishap in recent months, though her wards were too potent to breach further.

Intriguingly, the Flameclaws, the most prominent clan inside Varkaigrad, had started hunting her as well. His lips curled into a grin. Good. Let the beasts savage each other. More kindling for the final, glorious conflagration. Less work for them.

His thoughts shattered when a new presence stepped into his life-sense. His domination magic lashed out instinctively, yet this one's will was steel and just as unyielding. And with it came two more… husks. No life-signs, yet their blood was warm and flesh intact. Curiouser and curiouser.

Then it emerged from the treeline.

Golden-scaled, towering at least eleven feet tall. Before he could caution the others, his idiot brethren mistook it for another broken beast and lunged. Their swords scraped uselessly against its scales. The creature's maw split into a grin far too wide, far too knowing. A blur of fanged gold, followed by a crunch-swallow and his brethren were headless sacks collapsing. It licked gore from its fangs, that same predatory grin fixing on him.

"How… disgusting," it made a face, voice a growling feminine rasp that scraped his spine. "Why d'you elves all taste like rotten fish stuffed with literal shit? Did your mothers squeeze you outta their asses?"

Marceau froze but it wasn't from fear.

He knew the scent of rare blood. The purer the beastkin bloodline, the more potent the taste. He had scented the Flameclaw matriarch before, once thought to be the purest draconic strain alive, until her daughter. And yet… this one's essence made them both seem like gutter-water.

He wanted her. Every cell in his body screamed to taste her, to drink that molten-gold lifeblood.

Discipline. He reined the monstrous thirst in, a vise on his own divinity. She was still beastkin. Still filth crawling in borrowed majesty. Filth that dared open her whore's mouth to spew sewage upon him and his fallen kin.

She would learn her place. Suffering would be her tutor.

His eyes narrowed, taking her in. A low red core. Oh… how fortunate.

And then the red system screen flared across his vision.