Proud Dragon

The battered serpent-like dragon coiled weakly through the air, trying to keep its broken wings aloft.

Its body, once fluid and graceful, now jerked and spasmed with each movement.

The raptors had moved too fast, too decisively.

Their strikes were perfectly timed—an avalanche of fangs and claws designed to break, not just wound.

Jurra didn't move.

His arms crossed, his eyes locked onto the serpentine dragon as it tried once more to spit a blast of flame—only to be interrupted by a blur of green that slammed into its chest and sent it spiraling downward.

"Keep beating it." His voice was cold. Almost emotionless.

He didn't enjoy it, but hesitation was dangerous in this world—especially when you didn't know the rules.

The raptors obeyed, each of them flanking the dragon and launching a synchronized barrage.

Blue struck from the side, its claws raking across the dragon's face, tearing away chunks of luminous scale.

Gray clamped down on one of the dragon's wings, twisting it with a brutal crunch. Green slashed at its underbelly, leaving a trail of glowing ichor.

The Eastern Dragon shrieked, voice hoarse but still filled with haughty rage.

"You… ground dragon! You think you've won? You think this is victory? This… this is COWARDICE!"

Its tail whipped outward violently, but another raptor intercepted it mid-motion, locking jaws around it and dragging it down.

"You send your beasts to do your work because you are nothing without them! Because you are afraid to face a real dragon yourself! You hide behind your creations like a scared, crawling hatchling pretending to roar!"

Jurra's expression didn't change.

"You're not worth my claws."

The dragon thrashed in reply.

"COWARD! You are weak, and that is why you use numbers! You are a shame to dragonkind! A mockery! A disgrace! You walk on your belly and call yourself an Overlord? You are a worm, playing emperor!"

More blood dripped from its wounds, spattering the scorched earth below.

"Why else would you hunt me, if not for my blood!? My lineage! You want to drain my essence, like those filthy bandits! You want to bottle it, sell it, consume it—"

Jurra raised a hand, silencing him.

"I don't care about your blood. Not your lineage. Not your pride."

He took a step forward, and the Sentinels shifted back, creating a circle around the dragon.

"I only want answers. What is this world? What is this… energy?"

He reached into the air, channeling a fraction of the force he'd felt—the strange, flowing essence that wasn't quite mana, but danced like it. Almost spiritual. Almost alive.

"This… isn't magic. It's something else. And you've been breathing it your whole life."

But the dragon spat.

"To hell with your questions. To hell with your ignorance. You think I care what your soft, unformed brain can't understand? I have lived in this forest longer than you have been alive! I sleep and the trees bow! I wake and the beasts hide! I do not answer to ground-dragons, to spiritless fools who send pets to fight in their name!"

Jurra's brow twitched.

"Then you're useless."

He turned slightly.

"Beat it again."

The raptors didn't hesitate.

They descended like meteor strikes.

Blue ripped into its snout, shattering one of the horns.

Gray drove its claw into a wing joint, pinning it to the ground.

Green jabbed its tail, laced in venomous aura, into the dragon's exposed side.

The others followed. Orange, Red, Violet, and Black, tearing into flesh, twisting bones, cracking ribs.

The ground shook.

The trees around them snapped from the force.

The air rang with the howls of agony and frustration.

Still, Jurra stood still—watching.

"Enough."

The beating ceased. Blood soaked the earth. Steam hissed from the dragon's wounds.

Jurra stepped close, his voice like iron.

"Tell me what I need to know. Or die."

The dragon trembled, breath ragged.

"…I don't know what you're talking about…" it growled, voice hoarse. "I live in a cave… I sleep… I don't—know. I don't care. Why would I? I don't leave…"

Jurra stared.

There was… truth in its voice. No deception. Just bitter pride and a life of isolation.

It didn't know.

Not because it lied—but because it genuinely didn't know what world it lived in. It ruled its cave. That was all.

For a second, Jurra hesitated.

But then, reality set in.

He'd already revealed himself.

Anyone watching this part of the forest through a system, a player's scan, or an ambient detection grid could've seen the raptors shift, heard the battle, marked his Overlord presence.

He had exposed himself.

And this dragon couldn't offer anything in return despite exposing himself.

He turned.

"Kill it."

The Sentinels obeyed.

Blue went for the throat.

Gray crushed the chest.

Green leapt, slamming its jaws into the skull.

Orange and the others ensured no remains would regenerate.

There was no scream. Only a breath—a final hiss of defiance that faded into silence.

Jurra didn't look away. He watched it die.

This world… wasn't like the games he'd known.

The rules were twisted.

No system message had told him its level.

No prompt offered diplomacy or rewards.

But this creature—this Eastern Dragon—was different.

Unlike the Western dragons from the games he played, the kind with massive wingspans, horned heads, quadruped bodies with spiked tails and brute strength…

This one was long, serpentine. Slender, like a snake with a lion's head. It flew with small wings that should be impossible, swimming through the air with innate grace. Its presence felt divine, spiritual, ancient.

Cultivation. That was the word. It fit.

Eastern dragons weren't creatures of mana. They were creatures of Qi.

And this world… maybe it wasn't a magic realm at all.

Maybe it was a cultivation world.

That was just his first guess but he's not that sure yet.

Jurra clenched his fists. His sentinels—the Warlock Raptors—still glowed faintly with residual energy.

"Roam."

The Sentinels scattered, melting into the trees like phantoms.

Jurra was alone.

The wind howled. The sky darkened. Blood soaked the roots of ancient trees.

And then—just as he turned to leave—

DING!

A notification blinked in his vision.

[Milestone Unlocked]

Kill 1,000 dragons to unlock Level 40 cap ability for all subordinates and yourself.

Jurra blinked.

"Kill a thousand dragons…" he muttered to himself, repeating the message that flashed across his vision.

That wasn't just a challenge.

That was a mission.

But… he couldn't move forward blindly.

His smile faded into a straight line as he turned away from the carcass.

Should I even do it?

Every part of him—his gamer instinct, his blood-hardened survival drive, even the logical core of his mind—told him this was no ordinary game world.

Not anymore.

Not since he found himself here.

Not since the system had started whispering unknown new rules.

This wasn't some scripted endgame raid.

This wasn't a dungeon run.

This world breathed.

It responded.

"Do I just start hunting dragons now?" he whispered, barely audible as his boots pressed into the mud.

Sure, the XP would be insane.

The benefits were obvious.

Level 40 was no small leap, not just for himself, but for every raptor, every warlock beast under his command. He could become unstoppable in a few months—weeks even.

But…

The risk.

He'd already exposed himself.

That fight with the serpentine dragon had shaken the trees and echoed through the land.

Any half-decent scanner from another player—or worse, a native cultivator—could have tracked that shockwave.

There were other players in this world.

And why is he cautious?

The War of Warlocks game sent him here after he beats the Overlord players in his country and there are countless countries across the whole planet.

They are top players too!

And Jurra had no idea what level they were at. What factions they'd joined. What disguises they wore.

Hell, for all he knew, they could be forming guilds already, mapping territories, claiming to be releasing warlock beasts.

He was still alone.

Still blind.

Still guessing.

"Dammit," he muttered, pressing a palm against a gnarled tree, his raptor-formed Warlocks silently surrounding him like a pack of shadows.

He closed his eyes.

"Charging into this… hunting dragons across a world I barely understand, with players I haven't met, factions I haven't studied, and a system that's mutating… it's suicide."

He turned sharply, facing the direction of his Dominion—his Jurassic fortress hidden deep in a mist-choked canyon.

The air was denser there.

Wild mana—no, the still unknown energy—flowed like rivers in the sky.

The ground was warm, pulsing with ancient life. That was his land. His territory. His kingdom.

He needed to protect it by hiding it first.

"No. I won't start hunting yet."

His voice firmed, resolve tightening.

"It's better to clean up the surrounding area first. Fortify the borders. Hide the Dominion. Make sure no one—nothing—sees what I'm building."

He motioned with two fingers, and his Sentinels snapped to attention.

"We start shadow runs. Patrol rings. Trap zones. Illusion markers. Move."

The raptors vanished, melting into foliage and mist. Jurra's gaze lingered, still locked in deep thought.

"Let them think the serpent died in a random battle. Let them believe I was just a rogue tamer."

His grin returned, just a sliver.

"Let us focus on hiding first."