The moment the elves' feet touched the battlefield—

They froze.

Not in caution.

In recognition.

Their gazes, which had skimmed the ruined land with cold detachment, snapped as one toward the massive form lying amid the shattered earth.

Kael.

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

These elves came here as soon as their spy in Astraea had informed them that the humans were moving to subjugate a dragon, but they weren't so sure about the credibility.

Now, however, looking at Kael's massive body lying limp on the ground, they knew without a second's delay that he was a dragon. A true dragon.

Their shock, however, only lasted a second before every single elf moved.

They crossed the battlefield in blurs of light and wind, robes streaming behind them like banners of moonfire.

Vilonder, still crawling, barely registered their passing—only the sudden pressure that crushed him flat against the ground as they surged past.

They reached Kael and stopped as one.

Knees hit the earth.

Heads bowed.

Hands crossed over their chests.

"O Great One," one of them whispered, voice trembling despite its strength.

"Child of the Eternal Sky."

"Scion of Flame and Sovereignty."

Another spoke, reverent and awed. "Dragon… you have returned."

They waited.

Seconds passed.

No reply came.

Slowly—hesitantly—the eldest among them lifted his head.

His breath caught.

Kael's eyes were closed. His massive body was torn, cracked, and bleeding gold that evaporated into black mist.

His scales were fractured, wings mangled, and horns darkened and fractured. Power still radiated from him—but it was unstable, flickering like a dying star.

"…He is unconscious," the elf said softly.

Panic rippled through them.

They moved instantly.

Runes flared.

Ancient chants filled the air.

Verdant mana—pure, deep, and impossibly old—poured from their hands, wrapping Kael in layers of healing light. Flesh knitted. Cracks sealed. Wings reformed.

For a breath, it worked.

The elves sighed in relief, smiles marring their faces.

But the next second, as if Kael's body rejected it, the healing unraveled.

Cracks reappeared. Golden blood seeped anew. His form reverted as if time itself refused to move forward.

The elves panicked, their mana flaring to life again as they tried the same thing again.

The result, however, remained the same.

Again.

And again.

The elves faltered.

"This—This is impossible," one whispered. "Our magic heals world-wounds."

"He is breaking himself," another said, horror creeping into her voice. "Whatever he drew upon… it is beyond balance."

Elves, known for their ability to heal anything, could only fail to cure one type of wound, and that was one that a dragon inflicted.

So, they knew that the wounds on Kael's body were a result of his own mana.

But why?

Why would he do that?

Their eyes turned, slowly, to the battlefield.

To the crawling human.

It was Vilonder, and he was crawling toward a huge piece of cracked earth that lay some distance away.

He wanted to hide behind it, just so he could avoid being detected by the elves, or at least hope that they would think that he was also a pebble.

His pride was already in tatters for him to care about anything other than surviving.

But as he was limping away, he felt the elves' gazes on him, and then, a shadow fell over him.

He turned—

—But before he could even do that, a boot slammed into his ribs.

Vilonder flew, tumbling helplessly before crashing back into the center of the ruined land, coughing blood.

Before he could rise, invisible pressure pinned him down.

It was the pressure of someone as powerful as him, but he couldn't resist it, as his body was broken beyond saving right now.

He needed healing if he wanted to put up a fight.

Now, as he looked up to the source of the pressure, he saw an elf standing over him, eyes glowing like cold stars.

"Speak," the elf said flatly. "Garbage."

Vilonder's pride screamed, but he crushed it himself.

He knew what the elves wanted to know. So, he replied without a second's delay.

"I-I don't know!" He shouted hoarsely. "I swear! He did this himself! He pushed his power beyond reason—beyond survival!"

Silence.

Then another elf spoke, voice like sharpened frost.

"And why would a dragon do that?"

Vilonder swallowed, knowing that lying would make the situation worse.

Of course, he knew that saying the truth was not much better, but he didn't really have an option, so he replied, "B-Because… because he was forced. He was cornered. I—I threatened those he cared about."

The air grew colder.

"So," the elf said quietly, "it was your hand that pushed him to break himself."

Vilonder shook violently. "I didn't know it would go this far!"

"That," the elf replied, "is irrelevant."

They turned away from him as if he no longer existed.

"We cannot heal him here," the eldest said, grief heavy in his voice. "But there is still hope."

All eyes lifted skyward.

"Our Mother," he whispered. "The World Tree."

Under her blessing, even shattered divinity could mend.

Above all, their mother had longed to see a dragon, and she had been warning them about coming danger, one they couldn't overcome without the help of a dragon, so they might be able to solve two problems at once.

After sharing a gaze, they gathered around Kael once more, lifting his colossal form with reverent care, weaving mana into a cradle of light and leaves.

As they did, every elf bowed again.

"Sleep, Great One," they murmured. "We will carry you home."

Vilonder lay there, broken and trembling, watching them ascend as the portal they had come through grew large enough for them to carry Kael through it.

But just as the Human Supreme thought that he would live to see another day, the youngest of the elves, who had stayed behind, spoke.

"Now, shall we give you the death you deserve?"

Vilonder only realized that the elf was still here when he heard his voice, and the next second, his suffering began.

The elf did not draw a blade.

He didn't need one.

Vilonder felt the pain begin before he understood what was happening.

His mana—what little he had left—was peeled away.

Not torn.

Not shattered.

Peeled, layer by layer, like skin being slowly removed from bone.

He screamed.

The elf stood over him, expression serene, almost bored, as glowing sigils crawled through the air around Vilonder's body. Each symbol sank into flesh, igniting nerves that Vilonder hadn't even known existed.

"You humans," the elf said calmly, voice soft as falling ash, "always assume death is the worst thing we can give you."

Vilonder convulsed as his bones twisted inward, joints folding the wrong way.

His ribs cracked and reknit again and again, reshaped into angles never meant to exist. His organs were shifted, compressed, stretched—kept alive with deliberate precision.

The elf wanted him conscious.

"You threatened a dragon," the elf continued. "Not just any dragon, but one our Mother had been waiting for."

Vilonder's vision blurred with tears and blood. "P-Please—"

The elf's fingers snapped.

Vilonder's tongue dissolved.

His scream turned into a wet gargle.

Seconds felt like centuries. Pain stacked atop pain until the concept of before ceased to exist. Finally, mercifully, the elf pressed a hand to Vilonder's forehead.

"And now," he said, almost kindly, "you may die."

Mana surged.

Vilonder's body collapsed inward, crushed into itself—

—And went still.

The elf straightened, exhaling softly, and turned away.

Then—

He paused.

"…Hm?"

Behind him, flesh stirred.

Bones realigned.

Blood flowed backward.

Vilonder's body reformed.

Whole. Unbroken. Restored to the exact state he had been in before the elves arrived.

The elf slowly turned.

Vilonder sucked in a desperate breath, eyes wide, shaking violently. He didn't understand. He didn't want to understand.

The elf frowned.

Then his eyes narrowed.

He felt it.

A residue.

Ancient. Vast. Familiar.

"…Dragon mana," the elf muttered.

His gaze shifted toward the distant portal where Kael had vanished. Understanding dawned, sharp and unwelcome.

"Is this… the Great One's will?" He murmured. "Does he wish this human to live?"

The elf clenched his jaw.

He knew he could kill Vilonder again. And again. Eventually, whatever miracle sustained him would fail.

But—

Defying a dragon's will?

Especially that dragon?

The elf spat on Vilonder's chest.

"Filth," he said coldly. "Live, then. And rot with the weight of it."

He turned and stepped away, and along with the elf, the portal to the mystic domain vanished.

Vilonder lay there, sobbing, broken beyond words, whispering hoarsely through ruined lungs.

"Please… someone… anyone… take me back… Astraea… I'll give you everything…"

The sky rippled again.

Mana twisted.

Another portal opened.

Silent. Controlled. Precise.

From it stepped a tall figure cloaked in feathers of twilight gray, golden eyes sharp and unreadable.

The Owl Supreme.

Vilonder didn't see him.

He just kept begging.

"Please… bring me to Astraea… I'll give you everything… everything…"

The Owl Supreme watched him for a long moment.

Then he sighed.

"…Perhaps," he said quietly, "this suffering is necessary for the better of us all."

Mana wrapped around Vilonder like iron bands, lifting him from the ground.

Vilonder wept in relief.

The Owl Supreme turned and stepped into the portal that led to Astraea, dragging Vilonder with him.

The gateway sealed behind them.

And the battlefield fell silent once more.

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