The First Legendary Dragon Tamer

"DRACO! DRACO! DRACO!"

The roar of the coliseum was still thunder in Draco's ears when the instructor lowered his hand, officially closing the bout.

The dust hadn't even fully settled before the announcer's voice boomed again, amplified by resonant essence.

"Behold—the final trial of the Ceremonial Royale!"

The gates at the far end of the arena began to rumble. The chains groaned as massive iron doors shuddered and slid apart.

From the darkness behind them came the sound of claws scraping against stone.

The crowd erupted into a frenzy.

'Oh no… I forgot about this last part!' Draco turned his head toward the opening. A sick feeling already churned in his gut.

From the shadows, handlers emerged, dragging a creature bound in thick chains of gleaming silver—A Dragon.

It was young—barely the size of a carriage—its scales a glistening jade green, eyes wide and frightened as it resisted, snapping its head in confusion.

The handlers struck it with reinforced prods, driving it forward until it stumbled into the center of the arena. The chains rattled with every desperate movement, spikes digging into its flesh to keep it subdued.

The coliseum's floor darkened where drops of the Dragon's blood fell.

Draco's jaw tightened.

'This isn't good. What am I going to do about this situation?'

Before Luke logged in, he had no memories of the System, so he had just treated this as one of the events that he needed to undertake. However, with all his memories returned—especially as the Dragon Tamer—Draco instantly felt nervous.

The announcer raised his arms, his voice exalting the moment.

"This beast has been raised from birth for this ceremony! For generations, the Academy has upheld tradition—only the one who fells a Dragon before all witnesses shall stand as the true star of the Academy's initiation!"

The crowd screamed, a savage chorus of voices chanting in unison.

"Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!"

Draco felt the System stir. A notification shimmered before his eyes, cruel and absolute.

[Bonus Quest Updated!]

< Slay the Dragon of the Ceremonial Royale and win prestige, favor, and recognition within the Academy.>

His stomach sank immediately.

'Looks like I'll have to fail this Bonus Quest…'

Of course, since this was a Dragon Hunter Academy, such a ceremony was to be expected. It made perfect sense—at least for everyone else.

But not for him.

This Dragon was 'innocent.'

Its only crime was being born in a cage, bred for slaughter to amuse humans. The System recognized that. Which meant he couldn't touch it.

'Damn these restrictions…'

Jet, still kneeling with blood on his lips from their fight, wiped his mouth and looked up at the Dragon with hungry eyes.

He grinned, though his face twisted with frustration when he glanced at Draco.

"Go on, champion," Jet mocked, voice hoarse but dripping with venom. "You won the Royale. Time to prove you're worthy."

Draco didn't reply. His fists clenched, his mind racing.

The crowd was rabid. The Academy staff were watching.

The Headmaster sat in his gilded seat like a judge over all. And beyond them—guests from prominent families filled the high balconies, cloaked in wealth and power.

Their eyes glimmered like hawks, evaluating every move.

And somewhere in that crowd was the representative of Draco's own family. Not his father—of course not his father—but one of his father's chosen dogs.

Watching. Judging. Reporting back.

All of them were waiting for him to spill blood.

Draco's heart pounded. 'If I refuse, they'll ask questions. If I hesitate, they'll brand me weak. But I can't… I can't kill it.'

The <Pacifist> Restriction was so strong it started to affect his physical reaction. Then, there was also <Friend before Foe>. Forget about killing, he probably couldn't even launch a single reasonable attack on this Dragon.

'Damnit!'

The Dragon thrashed, letting out a shrill cry that pierced the arena. It sounded almost… pleading.

The crowd roared louder. "Kill it! Kill it!"

Draco closed his eyes. He didn't have a choice. Not one that made sense.

But he could… pretend.

He raised his fist, his face set with grim determination. To the audience, it looked as though he were preparing himself for the killing blow. But inside, he focused his strength inward.

His internal energy surged, twisting unnaturally through his body.

And then, without warning—

BAM!

Draco staggered back violently, coughing blood. His chest convulsed, his knees buckling. He forced the Essence in his body to backlash against his own organs, rupturing himself from within.

'Arghhh! It hurtssss!'

Pain lanced through him, sharp and blinding, but he grit his teeth to keep it silent.

The crowd gasped.

"What's happening?" voices cried out.

Draco's body trembled. His hand pressed to his chest, blood leaking between his fingers. With one final grimace, he collapsed to the sand, face-first, motionless.

Gasps rippled through the arena.

"He… he fainted?"

"What's wrong with him?"

"Did he overexert himself in the fight?"

The announcer faltered, stunned by the unexpected turn.

All eyes darted from Draco's fallen form to Jet, who had pulled himself to his feet, eyes wide at first—then narrowing.

Jet's chest heaved, and slowly, a grin spread across his bruised, bloodied face.

"I see…" he muttered, eyes gleaming with malice. "He couldn't do it."

The instructor glanced toward the Headmaster for guidance. The old man gave a single nod, his expression unreadable.

"Since the victor is unable to fulfill the ceremony," the announcer declared, "the right passes to the runner-up!"

The crowd exploded again, now chanting a different name.

"Jet! Jet! Jet!"

Jet stalked toward the Dragon, every step deliberate. His fists were still trembling from their fight, but his spirit surged. The handlers yanked the Dragon's chains taut, keeping its neck exposed.

The young beast let out a terrified whimper.

Draco, still half-conscious on the ground, forced his blurry vision upward. His body screamed with agony, but he could see Jet standing over the Dragon, see the look of savage satisfaction in his eyes.

Jet raised his fist, summoned every ounce of strength left in his battered body—and drove it down into the Dragon's skull.

CRACK!

The sound reverberated across the arena. The Dragon gave one last desperate cry before falling limp, its green scales losing their luster as life drained away.

Blood seeped across the sand.

The crowd roared with wild ecstasy.

Jet stood over the carcass, chest heaving, eyes gleaming with victory. He raised his arms high, basking in the adoration.

"Winner of the Ceremonial Royale—Jet Ashborne!"

The announcer's words ignited the coliseum into a frenzy.

Yet even as Jet grinned, even as the crowd screamed his name, his eyes slid back to Draco's unconscious form. His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding.

"No," Jet whispered to himself. "This doesn't count. I was only given this because he fell. I still lost. He's still… above me."

He clenched his fists, blood dripping from his knuckles. The hatred in his gaze burned hotter than ever.

From the high balcony, the representative of Jet's family leaned forward, his fine robes glittering in the lamplight. His expression was grim, lips pressed into a thin line of disappointment.

He shook his head slowly, as though Jet's display had been unworthy.

Jet saw it. His chest constricted. His triumph soured instantly, replaced by a familiar, bitter taste.

He had killed the Dragon. He had won the ceremony. The entire coliseum was screaming his name.

And yet…

He still wasn't enough.

'Once again, it seems I have let down Father…'