The First Legendary Dragon Tamer

The chamber's stillness deepened after Headmaster Dagon Heartfield's thunderous declaration.

The Instructors, each seasoned in their own right, shifted subtly in their seats, awaiting the flow of the meeting. The obsidian table between them gleamed faintly beneath the firelight, its polished surface reflecting their expressions like rippling water.

Dagon's gaze swept over them all—stern, heavy, unyielding. The silence stretched before he finally spoke again.

"First, we shall assign the courses for this new term."

A low murmur of anticipation moved through the room. For every intake of students, the allocation of instructors and subjects was a matter of grave importance. The foundation of Dragon Hunters was built here—in lectures, in practice grounds, and in the battles that pushed students to the edge of survival.

Dagon gestured, and a faint shimmer of runes appeared across the table, forming an ethereal projection of the Academy's curriculum.

"The fundamentals remain unchanged," Dagon began. "Students will be divided across our core subjects. We begin with Breath Control."

The shimmering runes pulsed, forming the outline of a dragon's maw expelling fire.

Before anyone else could speak, Frost Winister leaned forward.

His silver-gray eyes glinted, and his voice rang smooth and decisive.

"I'll take it."

Several heads turned in his direction, though no one appeared surprised.

Frost's mastery of manipulating D-H and refining Essence to generate the most effective Breath was unrivaled. To him, teaching students how to control the volatile power of [Breaths] was as natural as breathing.

"So be it. Frost Winister will oversee Breath Control." Dagon gave a small nod.

The runes shifted again, forming the silhouette of a Dragon skeleton.

"Next—Dragon Anatomy."

Freya, a woman with streaked auburn hair and a jagged scar across her cheek, raised her hand.

"I'll handle that. It's about time these greenlings learned the truth of where a Dragon's power lies—not in those silly myths, but in bone, sinew, and heart."

"Approved," Dagon said curtly.

The list grew longer.

Battle Strategy fell to Instructor Reaves, a one-eyed veteran who had orchestrated countless successful hunts. Gear Making went to a burly dwarf-like man named Torvak, whose hammer was said to have forged armor that withstood a Rank 5 Dragon's Breath.

History and Theory of Subjugation were claimed by softer-spoken scholars, their knowledge no less dangerous than blades.

When the topic shifted to Practical Combat Class, several Instructors exchanged grim looks.

"This year's batch seems spirited," Reaves growled, rubbing his chin. "We'll need to break them in quick."

"They'll fight each other," Dagon said firmly. "Paired duels. No exceptions. The weak will fall, the strong will rise. That is the law of our Academy."

"And what of Dragon Subjugation Exercises?" one of the female instructors asked.

"As always," Dagon replied, "once every week, students will be placed into teams. They will face Dragons of varying breeds and levels. How they fare will determine both their ranking and their survival chances in the outside world. These sessions will not change."

A ripple of agreement spread around the table.

Finally, the runes pulsed again, forming an image of a hunting horn.

"And at the end of this semester," his voice grew heavier, "we conclude with the Hunting Festival."

The mere mention of the words caused the chamber to grow colder.

It was an event where reputations were made and crushed in equal measure.

The strongest survived, and the weakest were often carried out on stretchers—or not at all.

"With subjects resolved," Dagon said, folding his hands behind his back, "we now discuss sponsorship. You may each choose one student to foster this term. Guide them in secret, observe them, and shape them as you see fit. The students will not know of your hand, but the Academy thrives on this hidden support."

At once, murmurs filled the room.

Sponsorships were rare honors, coveted by students who never even knew they had them. To be guided by an Instructor—even in the shadows—was a privilege that could determine life or death.

Frost Winister, of course, spoke first.

"I'll sponsor Draco."

His tone was calm, matter-of-fact, but the way every head turned toward him betrayed the weight of his words. Draco—already infamous for his inability to slay a harmless Dragon following his duel with Jet Ashborne—wasn't the expected choice.

Dagon's gaze lingered on Frost for a heartbeat.

Then, with surprising ease, he nodded. "Very well. Draco is yours."

A stir of whispers rose around the table. Some smiled knowingly; others frowned, skeptical.

Then Dagon's own voice cut through the murmurs.

"I will take Jet Ashborne."

The room froze.

For a moment, silence hung as heavy as steel.

The Headmaster… sponsoring a student? It was unheard of. Dagon had always remained neutral, watching from afar, guiding the Academy as a whole rather than meddling with individuals.

"Incredible…" someone muttered under their breath.

Dagon's expression didn't change, his scarred hands steady against the table.

"You may ask why," he rumbled, "so I will tell you. When Jet killed the Dragon during the ceremony, I saw the look in his eyes. It was not arrogance. It was not triumph. It was hatred. A hatred pure and sharp enough to cut through steel. That hatred is the very fire we need in a Dragon Hunter. For that, I will foster him."

The others fell quiet.

None dared argue openly with the Headmaster, though many exchanged uncertain glances.

One by one, the rest of the Instructors made their choices. Some picked promising talents from noble families. Others chose the rougher diamonds—orphans, commoners, those with sheer grit rather than polish.

Some didn't pick at all.

When the final choice was made, Dagon nodded. "So be it. Each of you knows your role. Guide them well, though they shall never know who stands behind them."

The meeting was concluded.

Chairs scraped against stone as the Instructors rose, filing out of the chamber with murmured conversations trailing after them.

"Frost," Dagon's deep voice cut through the air, "stay."

The other Instructors glanced back briefly but left without question, until only the two men remained.

"Holding me back, Headmaster? How flattering." Frost tilted his head.

Dagon's expression was stony. "Lucy reached out again."

The smile on Frost's lips faltered for the briefest second, but he quickly masked it.

"Did she, now?"

Lucy, also known as the Savage Queen, was the head of the Royal Sentinels.

She was one of the only two Dragon Masters in the entire Southern Territory. The mere fact that she was involved in this conversation made it one of great importance.

And yet, Frost Winister maintained a casual expression when her name was mentioned.

"I've been recommending you to the Royal Sentinels," Dagon said firmly. "You're more than qualified. With your potential, you could rise to Dragon Master within a decade."

Frost chuckled, though the sound lacked its usual warmth.

"The Royal Sentinels… always circling like vultures when they catch the scent of fresh blood."

"This isn't a jest." Dagon leaned forward, his scarred hands gripping the edge of the table. "This is your chance. Do not waste it."

For a long moment, Frost said nothing.

Then he sighed, brushing a strand of silver hair from his face.

"Give me time."

Dagon's eyes narrowed. "Time? To what end?"

"I still want to remain here. As an Instructor." Frost's smirk returned, softer this time. "There are things in this Academy that interest me far more than a gilded title among the Sentinels."

"What possible reason could you have to turn this down?" Dagon's jaw tightened.

Frost's gaze flickered inwardly, an image rising unbidden: a boy lying in a cot, dark eyes watching him warily, a defiant smirk hiding sharp secrets.

—Draco.

There was something about him. Something that pulled Frost like a moth to flame.

He wanted to see what that boy would become.

Of course, he said none of this aloud. Instead, he simply shrugged, lounging back in his chair.

"Let's just say…" Frost drawled, "by the Hunting Festival, I'll show you. Until then, sit tight, Headmaster."

Dagon's fists tightened, veins standing out against his scarred skin. Rage flickered in his eyes, but he swallowed it down with a slow exhale.

"…You try my patience, Frost."

"Wouldn't be the first time." Frost's smirk widened as he rose, cloak swaying around him. He gave a lazy bow, then strode toward the doors without looking back.

The chamber was silent once more.

Dagon sat heavily in his chair, staring at the obsidian table. His scarred hand tapped once, twice, against the surface. He didn't understand Frost's hesitation. And it infuriated him.

But still…

'No need to rush. There is still time.'