Welcome to Dragon City

The rift sealed shut behind me with a sound like stone shattering underwater. 

And then—Dragon City. 

Floating islands suspended in a blood-red sky, glowing with an eerie crimson haze as if the air itself had been enchanted. Towers of jagged black crystal pierced through stray clouds, their surfaces laced with glowing mana veins that pulsed like beating hearts. Lava rivers snaked lazily through midair platforms, defying every law of physics I had ever heard of—and I'm not even sure physics lives here in the first place. Dragons—some monstrous and winged, others in humanoid form—soared, prowled, and stalked through it all like rulers surveying their kingdom. 

It was beautiful. Terrifying. A boss arena with better lighting. 

"This place makes Asgard look like a budget tourist resort," I muttered, eyes impossibly wide as I tried to take it all in without tripping on my own feet. 

Tharagon didn't look back. Figures. He was still walking at his usual pace, the kind of stride that made it look like the air moved around him instead of through him. "Keep your hood up. Speak to no one," he called over his shoulder. "You are not yet safe." 

"Define yet," I countered, my hand instinctively tugging the hood down over my face. 

He didn't answer. Because why would he? Nothing like leaving me to marinate in my own questions while we strolled through a city that looked like it ate adventurers for breakfast. 

I drifted through the winding streets of Dragon City like a glitch in a cutscene, half expecting my boots to lag halfway through a cobblestone texture. Floating market stalls shimmered midair, each glowing faintly as if held in place by invisible runes. Vendors hawked enchanted weapons, spell-ink that danced across parchment on its own, cursed coffee brewed for insomniac mages, and soul-bound scrolls that whispered faintly when touched. 

Training yards thundered with elemental duels. I caught a glimpse of one teenage girl flinging a lightning spear through a golem's skull like she was just warming up for gym class. Another student levitated, spinning twin axes wreathed in flames as his opponent frantically summoned frost walls to block. 

Nobody spared me much attention—probably thanks to the rune pendant Tharagon shoved into my face earlier. It was doing its job, muffling my presence, wrapping me in what I assume was a giant *"Don't Even Look At Me"* aura. 

But a few stares lingered. The kind of stares that made your spine itch, like invisible claws brushing against your neck. 

And just as I crossed a floating obsidian bridge suspended impossibly high above a seething river of lava— 

**[ Skill: Insight (Lv.1) ]** 

**[ Error: Signal Unstable. ]** 

**[ Adaptive Core Detected. Initiating Forced Evolution. ]** 

**[ Insight has evolved → Adaptive Insight (Lv.1) ]** 

**[ Passive Ability Unlocked: Echo Sense ]** 

The world glitched for a heartbeat. 

Suddenly, I saw more. 

My vision blurred, sharpened, then… shifted. In every person and object around me, faint echoes shimmered—revealing truths hidden beneath the surface. 

A vendor's claws, veiled beneath their humanoid form, dripping with low-grade venom. A mage in the crowd suppressing his own heartbeat to fine-tune his mana flow. A guard concealing runic marks beneath his armor to hide wounds he didn't want anyone to know about. 

And one boy. 

White hair. Bronze-toned skin. Red-lined robes that screamed *expensive*. 

He was staring directly at me. 

Our eyes met—and for a moment, I swore he could see me as clearly as I was seeing him. 

Then he turned. Vanished into the crowd like mist dispersing in the wind. 

That night, I found Tharagon standing on a cliffside balcony made of jagged obsidian glass. He wasn't admiring the view, though. He was staring into the horizon like he was trying to set it on fire with his eyes. 

"You've been seen," he said. His voice was calm. A little too calm. 

"Noticed that, yeah," I said, leaning awkwardly against the balcony's edge. Didn't help much. Still felt like a bug standing next to a walking raid boss. 

"You will begin at Drakensoul Academy tomorrow." 

I blinked. "Just like that? What's my cover story—flameblood orphan from District Who-Cares?" 

"There is no cover." He turned to glance at me, his golden eyes gleaming softly in the moonlight. "You are a Special Admission." 

"Normal thing?" I asked skeptically. 

"It has never happened before." 

Oh, great. I'm not even starting at dragon school as a regular mystery—I'm a *walking historical anomaly*. 

"You are under the protection of the Shadowflame Clan," Tharagon added like that was supposed to make me feel better. 

I raised an eyebrow. "Shadowflame, huh? Wait, do you guys have **Arise**, or is that skill taken?" 

His head turned slowly, and boy, did he *look*. It was the kind of hard stare that made me wonder if he was deciding between laughing or incinerating me on the spot. 

"Noted," I said quickly, throwing up my hands like a neutral NPC who swore the tutorial wasn't rigged. "Zero copyright infringement intended." 

He handed me a cloak and a badge etched in glowing violet runes. 

"You will wear this always. It keeps your presence veiled. Should anyone ask—say nothing. Let them wonder." 

"Cool cool cool," I muttered while shrugging into the cloak. "Just survive dragon school while radiating unspeakable mystery. Totally doable." 

Next morning: Chaos in style. 

Hundreds of students packed into a floating obsidian arena shaped like an enormous bowl. Glyphs hovered midair, forming shimmering patterns as the crowd buzzed with nervous energy. Above us hung banners of fire, lightning, frost, and shadow—twisting and shifting like living flames. 

Twelve robed Elders stood tall on the central platform. One stepped forward. Elder Vaerion. 

Scarred. Regal. Radiating nightmare vibes so dense, it felt like the air thickened just being in his presence. 

"Welcome to Drakensoul," he said, voice calm and crushing. "Here, lineage means nothing. Power is everything. Bloodlines will not save you." 

His gaze swept over the students. "Among you, we welcome scions of Stormwings. Frostbrand initiates. Pyrestone duelists. And this year… a Special Admission." 

The name alone was enough to shred the atmosphere. A psychic ripple passed through the crowd. Whispers buzzed like daggers, sharp and relentless. 

I stayed hooded. Cloaked. A secret wrapped in a question mark. 

"Some of you will rise," Vaerion continued. "Most of you will break." 

No cheers. Just pressure. Mana thick enough to flatten a small country hung in the air, and you could practically taste the tension. 

He raised his hand and called them forth:

Kael Dravion, heir of the Pyrestone Flight. 

Smirking, arrogant, flame-fisted. Twin chainblades hung by his sides, mana dripping from them like magma. He glanced at another student and sneered, "Try not to combust near me, peasant," with the confidence of someone who fully expected the world to kneel. 

Seris Vellune, prodigy of the Frostbrand Lineage. 

Graceful, glacial, and dead-eyed. Frost trailed her every step, and her expression wasn't just unreadable—it was calculating. You could almost *see* her analyzing every weakness within 30 feet. 

Rhydan Vex, storm-forged from the Stormfang Dominion. 

Lean, scarred, and practically sparking. He looked like someone had stuffed a thunderstorm into human skin. His sharp glare at Kael wasn't subtle: *One of us isn't making it to graduation.* 

And finally…

Lira Noctharis, daughter of Shadowflame. 

She didn't walk—she glided. Her black cloak flowed like liquid night, and her faintly glowing violet eyes were more unnerving than magnetic. 

She radiated power like power owed her rent. 

And then Elder Vaerion looked at me. 

"And finally, our Special Admission." 

The silence was surgical. Not a whisper—more like everyone suddenly had knives for thoughts. 

I just stood there. Hooded. Cloaked. Hoping my generic fantasy boots didn't squeak. 

I spared a glance at Lira. She was already radiating Final Boss vibes next to me. My stomach dropped. *So this is what it feels like to be a side character in a busted hoodie standing next to a literal 999+ aura protagonist.* 

As the crowd dispersed, someone brushed past me. 

White hair. Red robes. Bronze skin. 

"You don't smell like a dragon," he said softly. "But you don't smell like a mistake either." 

 He paused. 

"They used to whisper about the Sleeping Hybrid, you know." 

And then he was gone. 

Because of course he was. 

I stood alone beneath the blood-red sky.

A Special Admission. A mystery even to myself.

And somewhere inside me, something was stirring.

Not ancient. Not noble.

Just… hungry.

Great. Add that to my list of problems—right under "Don't die at dragon school."

Chapter 5 Teaser :

"It's Jihoon's first day at Drakensoul Academy—and between deadly orientation rituals, dragon-born egos, and a cafeteria that might eat you back, survival is not guaranteed."

📝 Author's Note :

Hey again, legends 🐉✨

So… Jihoon's officially a student now.

But let's be honest—this isn't your average academy arc.

What do you think his first class will involve?

A) Dueling 101: How Not to Get Roasted

B) Mana Theory with Elders who can smell fear

C) Dodgeball… but the balls explode

D) Accidentally unlocking forbidden knowledge before breakfast

Drop your guesses—and chaos theories—below 🔥⬇️

And tell me: If you had a trait like Jihoon's "Adaptive Insight," what would you want it to evolve into?

Your comments legit fuel this story more than mana ever could.

See you in Chapter 5, fellow survivors of Dragon School 💀📚

—Your chaos-certified author, signing off for now 🖤