A young woman approached Draco, Kael, Kira and John, her presence commanding yet serene. Clad in a flowing white dress, her skin pale and eyes glowing a deep, unmistakable red, she was unmistakably a dragoness in humanoid form. Her gaze swept over them with silent authority. “You may now pass,” she said softly but firmly signaling in the direction of the door through which the dragon-witch had gone through before.

  They moved forward into the corridor beyond—a space even more ornate than the marble and gold balcony. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings of dragons entwined with ancient symbols and runes, inlaid with glimmering gold and precious stones that caught the soft light from enchanted sconces. The floor gleamed with polished onyx set in elaborate mosaic patterns, and towering pillars lined the corridor, their surfaces wrapped in twisting golden vines and sapphire blossoms.

  At the corridor’s end, they reached a grand circular chamber that took John’s breath away. The room was immense, cavernous—the ground floor sprawling with vast heaps of gold coins spilling from massive chests, golden goblets and ornate swords laying glittering in the scattered light, and cushions of precious stones—emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, rubies—glowing with ancient magic. Gigantic, ornate vaults carved from dark stone and interlaced with gold dotted the pavilion’s edges.

  Above, on individual balconies carved deeply into the chamber’s vast walls, seven dragons in full draconic form watched silently like judges overseeing the gathering below. Six of them rivaled the dragon-witch herself in size and majesty—the largest dragons John had ever seen until now—but at the chamber’s very center stood the seventh: a colossal pure white dragon, its scales shining with a radiant light that seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of the mountain itself. It was a sight both awe-inspiring and humbling, a presence that filled the chamber with ancient power and undeniable authority.

  The dragon-witch was among the majestic dragons perched on the balconies, her presence unmistakable. She spoke first, her voice carrying a calm authority that commanded the attention of the group below. “These are the boys restrained by divine collars.”

  A heavy silence followed. Then, from another balcony, a red dragon’s voice broke the stillness with a sharp edge. “He is not one of our own. He may be a guest, but we should not waste resources trying to free him. Only Kael deserves our care.”

  A yellow dragoness, elegant but resigned, added softly, “There is little we can do anyway—neither for Kael nor for the human child.”

  The colossal white dragon, larger even than the dragon-witch and the others, stood motionless, eyes closed in deep concentration and silence. Then, a violet dragoness’s voice pierced through the quiet, firm but urgent: “All of you, be silent. Our king is receiving a vision.”

  John’s gaze lifted to the white dragon, whose eyes remained shut, the air around him thick with ancient power and profound stillness, as if the entire chamber was holding its breath.

  After a tense moment of silence, the white dragon abruptly opened his enormous eyes, their radiant glow settling on John with a surprising intensity. His voice echoed deep and resonant throughout the chamber as he addressed the boy directly. “Boy, you are special, more so than you can imagine.”

  John’s mind immediately raced, recalling his dual classes—both beyond mythic—the secret XP potion trick he had used, his insane stats, and even his sealed Azure Astral Fangborn. But before he could speak, as if reading his thoughts, the white dragon interrupted his thoughts with a slow, deliberate tone, “No, none of that.”

  John was taken aback, feeling a chill of uncertainty wash over him.

  Then the dragon spoke again, a note of purpose underlying his words: “Both Kael and John should help master Orwen in his forge.” The proclamation hung in the air, a clear directive that hinted at new roles waiting for them in this ancient and powerful realm.

  The white dragon’s words hung with undeniable finality, no one daring to challenge him, and shortly after, a few dragons in humanoid form stepped forward to escort John and Kael away from the grand chamber. The two were separated from the others and led to a smaller platform, less elaborate yet sturdily crafted from the same gleaming marble and gold that marked the larger platform where they had landed earlier.

  From there, a smaller dragon awaited, its scales glinting softly in the dimming light. As directed, they mounted swiftly, the dragon taking wing once more. As they descended deeper into the crevasse, the sunlight waned, and the grandeur of the city above slowly faded. Fewer dragons soared beside them, and the vast caves and balconies disappeared behind thickening shadows.

  Finally, at the very bottom—where the mountain’s ancient bones laid untouched—they landed on cold, rough stone. The dragon gave no word nor look as John and Kael dismounted before lifting off alone into the darkness above.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  John, perplexed by their lonely arrival, turned to Kael who had taken a small orb from his pocket to illuminate the place. The sealed dragon’s red eyes, glowing softly in the darkness of the depths of the mountain, met John’s with quiet honesty. “Don’t look at me,” he said simply. “I’ve never ventured this deep into the crevasse. And I don’t know who this Orwen is.”

  Their uncertain journey into the unknown had only just begun.

  Before John and Kael could collect their thoughts, a rough and gruff voice echoed through the stone before them, carrying a mix of irritation and defiance. “Who the hell does this white lizard think he is? Just because he’s the king of dragons, he thinks he can order me around…”

  The solid stone suddenly shifted and parted, revealing a dwarf standing firmly in the opening. He was slightly shorter than John but stocky with incredibly broad shoulders that spoke of great strength. His red eyes—an unheard of and startling sight for a dwarf—glowed with fierce intensity. Clad in gear that melded blacksmith's cloth and half armor, he looked every bit the warrior and craftsman.

  John's gaze quickly dropped to the dwarf’s neck, noting with surprise a collar similar to those worn by Kael and himself. The presence of such a mark on the dwarf deepened the mystery of the bonds and burdens they all shared in this strange, forbidding place.

  Kael took a cautious step back as he eyed the imposing dwarf. “A hybrid,” he muttered, as if the word alone held weight.

  John’s surprise deepened, and before he could ask, the dwarf spoke in a tone that mingled exasperation and a hint of hidden pride. “Yes, yes, I’m half dragon, half dwarf. My lizard of a father somehow managed to seduce my mother—she was a pretty and strong dwarf herself, and somehow she took a liking to him. Not sure why,” he said with a wry grin. “Dragons in their true form? Gross lizards, really. And in their dwarfish guise, they look more like those pointy-eared elves—malnourished, thin, lanky beanpoles. Not like us, the handsome, muscular race.”

  John thought wryly that his own tastes in women tended more toward elves and humans, but for this particular dwarf, the preference clearly swung in an entirely different direction, more in line with his own stature.

  The dwarf’s eyes darkened with a weary intensity as he spoke again. “I’ve lived for centuries with this damned collar,” he said bitterly, tapping the collar at his neck. “I cannot remove it, and I cannot remove yours either. I’ve tried everything.”

  Then, with a change in tone that carried a reluctant welcome, he gestured toward a massive door carved into the stone behind him. “Anyway, come in. I am Orwen.”

  John and Kael exchanged a glance before following the dwarf through the opening in the rock he had come out of, stepping into whatever lay beyond with a mixture of caution and curiosity.

  As John stepped inside Orwen’s forge, he immediately sensed he had entered a place unlike any he had ever known. Though he had worked with fire and hammer at the white weretigresse’s encampment’s forge with Talissa, this place was an entirely different realm of craft and innovation.

  Without pausing to look at them to see if they were listening or had questions or remarks, Orwen launched into a monologue that filled the vast chamber. “Since I lost my access to the system,” he said, voice low and relentless, “I had to innovate. Otherwise, how would I be strong enough to strike anything harder than steel?”

  John’s eyes were drawn to enormous hammers, swung by unseen forces, rhythmically pounding metal on anvils with perfect precision and unending energy. Above, mechanical arms made of a strange combination of enchanted metal and articulated joints hung from robust rails fixed to the ceiling, each carefully maneuvering pieces of armor around the forge. They slid motions with the grace of artisans but strength that rivaled the greatest smiths with high tier and high rank, strength based classes.

  There were smelters burning fiercely on their own, flames whispering in hues of blue and gold as molten metal was poured and molded. Magical light sources lit the workspace with a clean, shimmering glow that revealed glowing runes etched into every surface. The forge was filled with a symphony of arcane technology and traditional craft—an extraordinary fusion of magic and mechanization that felt almost surreal in its ingenuity.

  John was captivated, realizing that Orwen’s forge was a testament to survival and genius in a world where power and progress intertwined in ever-surprising ways. This draconic dwarf had become exceptional even after having lost access to the system.

  John and Kael followed Orwen further into the forge, leaving the wondrous arcane machinery behind and stepping into a part of the workshop that was far more traditional. The walls were lined with sturdy stone and wood, the air thick with the familiar, primal scent of hot metal and coal. The tools on display promising to intone the rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil echoed with a rawness that spoke unmistakably of dwarven craft—simple, effective, and unadorned by enchantment or complex machinery.

  Orwen’s eyes, sharp and earnest, fixed on both of them. “Take a hammer each,” he commanded, nodding toward the anvils waiting like silent sentinels. “You need to build some muscle strength first. The system won’t be helping you because of those damned collars.”

  John and Kael exchanged a glance but obeyed, lifting hefty hammers that felt strange and weighty in their hands. It was clear that despite all their fantastical abilities and powers they once wielded, Orwen demanded raw physical endurance and unyielding effort before anything magical could aid their cause. This was the foundation; the hard, grinding baseline to strength and skill in this forge—and John understood that learning would begin with sweat and toil.

  John and Kael struck the anvil relentlessly for hours. John poured every ounce of his strength into each blow, feeling the raw power surge through his muscles. His right arm throbbed, every muscle protesting as if it would burst from the strain, but he pushed on without relent.

  Kael’s strikes, however, grew steadily weaker. His arms trembled with exhaustion, and soon the hammer slipped from his grasp, clattering heavily onto the forge floor. Defeated for the moment, Kael sank down beside the anvil and remained in a sitting position, breathing hard and visibly spent.

  John, though wearied, continued to hammer with grim determination. He was accustomed to hard labor, having endured the days before the system—a now-sealed source of his powers—old days which had granted him endurance at the edge of unawakened limits. This was real, raw effort, and he embraced it fully, knowing it was a necessary foundation for what lay ahead, whatever that would be.