The One Who Did Not Break

Okay.

Note to self: never trust a smiling dragon in a cloak.

Tharagon walked ahead of me—if "walk" was the right word. He glided more than anything, his steps silent, his long violet-black hair flowing like a waterfall made of midnight. His robe shimmered with faint runes that pulsed with mana. Regal, controlled, dangerous.

The chamber he led me into was carved from obsidian and etched with glowing script. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, where floating glyphs drifted in lazy spirals like glowing jellyfish. It was grand, terrifying, and extremely unnecessary.

At the far end stood the Dragon Council.

Twelve thrones. Twelve dragons.

Each in humanoid form. Each leaking enough pressure to crush a tank.

Tharagon stopped at the center of the chamber and gestured to me.

"I present the anomaly."

That's me. Hello. Human jelly.

The moment he said it, voices erupted like a thunderstorm.

"A human?!" snarled a red-scaled dragon with burning gold eyes. His voice rumbled like a volcano in a bad mood.

"Tharagon, is this a joke? This is a sacred chamber!"

That was Councilor Ignavor of the Pyrestone Flight.

"He has no aura. No wings. No bloodline."

That came from a sleeker, silver-skinned woman with gleaming claws—Councilor Velessara of the Frostbrand Lineage.

One of them scoffed audibly and muttered, "He reeks of death and smoke. Perhaps the mortal realms are breeding clowns now."

Ouch.

Tharagon, naturally, looked entertained.

"I did not bring him for amusement," he said, smiling faintly. "I brought him because he returned."

The council stilled. Magic tightened in the room like a coiling serpent.

Councilor Velessara narrowed her glowing ice-blue eyes. "He died?"

"Killed by Ignar," Tharagon replied casually. "And revived by something not draconic."

Murmurs. Rumbling. A few dragons flared aura-light like warning flares.

"He should be erased," Ignavor said, already curling a fireball into one hand.

But he didn't throw it.

Because the voice from the center throne spoke.

And everything stopped.

"Enough."

One word. And it hit harder than any spell.

The Head of the Council rose.

Elder Vortharion the Eternal.

He didn't look ancient—but the moment you saw him, you knew. He was age given form. Gold-edged scales shimmered under his robe like polished obsidian. Horns arched like a crown. His wings weren't visible—but the room felt wider when he moved.

His eyes glowed like two solar eclipses—and they landed directly on me.

"Hm. So this is the variable."

I couldn't move.

The pressure hit like an avalanche. My lungs forgot how to work. Every cell in my body screamed to kneel.

Why does every ancient being talk like they're three chapters ahead of the rest of us?

Is this what it feels like to be inside a Hunter x Hunter speech bubble?

But I didn't.

I shook. I paled. I probably looked like a wet rag in a microwave.

But I stayed standing.

Vortharion watched me. And for a long moment, no one breathed.

"You did not break," he finally said.

Then, to the council:

"He will stay."

The pressure vanished instantly.

Several dragons hissed or flared in protest—but none dared challenge him.

Vortharion's word was law.

Tharagon gave me a side glance, something half between smug approval and intellectual curiosity. "Fascinating."

And I?

I swallowed a dry breath and tried to remember how legs worked.

So this was it.

Dragon Hogwarts.

No wand.

No house points.

Just don't get eaten.

Next Time — Chapter 4: Welcome to the Realm of Dragons

Jihoon takes his first steps into the dragon world... and someone's already betting he won't survive orientation.

Author's Note:

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter—drop a like, leave a comment, or hit me with your theories 👀

Your reactions seriously keep me going. Would love to hear what you think about the dragons, Tharagon, or Jihoon's whole "variable" status.

See you in Chapter 4, fellow chaos enthusiasts 🐉✨