The First Legendary Dragon Tamer

The next morning, the Academy awoke to its usual rhythm.

Students filed into lectures, the clang of sparring weapons echoed through the yards, and the low grumble of the dissatisfied students who felt they weren't meeting up to expectations.

But Draco… he wore a smile.

It wasn't visible to the rest of the students. On the surface, he looked as calm and unshaken as always—aloof even, with that quiet, unbothered confidence that made others glance at him with a mix of envy and unease.

Yet within, satisfaction burned like a well-kept flame.

The Crimson Basilisk's [Breath]—a Rank 2 power that most students wouldn't dare touch without weeks of study and preparation—was already his.

And it was fully mastered.

The night before, he had taken the D-H and returned to his room to start working on the Breath without wasting time at all.

Any normal student would have struggled to properly conjure up its energy and faced backlash—or worse—perhaps, even lost control in the attempt and harming themselves and those around them severely.

But Draco was not normal.

The Breath had come to him as easily as if he had always possessed it. The moment he poured in essence into the Crimson Basilisk's D-H, it had bent—no, yielded—to his will.

The swirling power coiled like an obedient serpent, its hiss softened into a whisper under his command.

He had smiled then, the same way he smiled now.

"Rank 2…" Draco muttered under his breath as he walked along the Academy's outer wall, his cloak rustling with the breeze.

"Too easy."

After all, he had already tasted the might of Rank 3 Breaths—treasures claimed through the dragons he had subdued beyond anyone's knowledge.

Compared to that, Rank 2 was a mere stepping stone. A toy.

Still, he had to be careful.

Frost Winister was watching. If Draco revealed too much too quickly, the man's sharp eyes would piece together threads that must never be tied.

The System, his Class as a Dragon Tamer, the dragons he commanded—it all had to remain veiled.

So, he would play the part.

Struggle a little. Pretend the Basilisk's fire burned him more than it really did. Let Frost believe he was climbing, slowly but surely, rather than already standing on a peak far higher than his peers could see.

"Let him think I'm working hard," Draco whispered, his smirk fading into calm resolve. "The more he underestimates the truth, the safer I'll be."

******

That night, the training grounds fell silent under a pale moon. The wind carried the scent of iron and dust, and the field's torches flickered in a rhythm that matched the anticipation in Draco's chest.

Jet was already waiting for him.

The other boy stood at the center of the field, his stance wide, his eyes sharp. Shadows clung to him, but his expression burned with determination that hadn't been there before.

"You came," Draco said evenly, stepping onto the field.

Jet's lips twitched into a grim line. "I said I would."

There was no need for more words. Their training bouts had become ritual, but tonight, the air was different… heavier.

The first clash came suddenly.

Jet charged, his movements sharper than before, his strikes heavier. His blade whistled through the air, infused with a force Draco immediately noticed.

'He's changed…'

Jet's strikes were no longer the simple patterns of a diligent student. They carried weight—unnatural weight—as though someone had pressed new techniques into his bones, forced raw power into his muscles.

His every swing bit the air with ferocity.

Draco met the blows calmly, parrying with precision, his movements fluid where Jet's were fierce. Sparks danced with each clash, torchlight catching in the steel.

Jet's breathing was harsher, but his eyes gleamed. He pressed harder, faster, his rhythm fueled by something new.

"You've improved," Draco said, voice even, as his blade slid past Jet's strike, knocking it aside with a ringing clash.

Jet gritted his teeth. "And you're still holding back."

Draco's smile flickered, faint but undeniable. He didn't answer.

Jet roared and pressed on, his strikes unrelenting. For a few moments, the night filled with the sound of steel and breath, the clash of will against will. But inevitably, Jet faltered. His body could not yet sustain the ferocity he demanded of it.

And Draco—calm, efficient, unshaken—stepped into the gap. With a swift motion, he disarmed Jet, his blade resting just inches from his rival's throat.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Jet panted, sweat running down his brow. His fists clenched. Yet there was no shame in his eyes—only fire.

Lowering his blade, Draco took a step back.

"You've grown stronger. But it's not enough."

Jet's chest heaved as he straightened, his storm-grey eyes burning like coals.

"I know." His voice was low but steady. "That's why I can't keep training with you."

Draco blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness. "…What?"

Jet tightened his fists. "I've got a Sponsor. I know you do too. Don't bother denying it."

For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the rustling of the night breeze. Draco's expression remained unreadable.

Jet pressed on. "If we keep training together, I'll only stay in your shadow. And I can't afford that. Not anymore."

His words struck with the force of conviction, a declaration etched into the night itself.

"I'll work harder. I'll grow stronger. And when I'm ready…" His eyes locked onto Draco's, unwavering. "…I'll challenge you again. Not as a student sparring with his peer. But as a rival."

Draco studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he extended his hand.

Jet hesitated, then grasped it firmly. Their handshake was brief, but it carried weight—an unspoken agreement, a promise carved in steel.

"Don't disappoint me," Draco said quietly.

"I won't," Jet replied.

But just as their hands parted, the world itself shifted.

VWUUUUSHHH!

A sudden brightness tore across the night sky, flooding the training field with light so intense that both boys shielded their eyes. The torches flickered out against the brilliance, swallowed whole.

When their vision cleared, they saw it.

A massive figure stood in the field, its scales glistening like forged bronze under moonlight. Its wings unfurled with a sound like thunder rolling across mountains. Its eyes burned, molten gold, locking onto the two boys as if it had been summoned by their vow.

The earth trembled beneath its weight. The air thickened with power so dense it felt suffocating.

Draco's breath caught, his senses screaming at him, his body instinctively recognizing the aura before his mind even formed the words.

"Rank…" Jet whispered, his voice breaking into awe and fear.

Draco's eyes widened. "…Three."

"ROOAAARRRR!!!" The Rank 3 Dragon's roar split the night, shaking the Academy walls.