CHAPTER 110: RESPECT YOUR ELDERS

"What brings you here...?"

The dragon’s voice rumbled through the chamber like a whisper caught in thunder, resonating deep within their bones as its ancient form stirred.

Its serpentine body began to rise, impossibly smooth despite its size—each scale shimmering faintly with an iridescent sheen that reflected the cave’s luminescent glow. As it lifted from the stone floor, its body coiled in an elegant spiral, forming a symbol of eternity—its head nestled at the center, glowing eyes locked onto the newcomers.

The Archmage laughed—soft, shaky, uncharacteristically nervous. He had braced himself for many possibilities—a mythical creature, perhaps, or a powerful magical artifact buried in legend.

But a dragon? That was... wholly unprecedented.

"So it is real..." he muttered, almost in disbelief. "The myth of a dragon residing in the Yurien River..."

He chuckled again, more to himself this time, as if to release the tension building in his chest. Then he bowed—formal and low—hands clasped before him in a gesture of deep reverence.

After a moment, he turned, giving a pointed glance toward the trio behind him—silently urging them to follow his lead.

The dragon, however, noticed the movement—and laughed. Its voice was velvet and thunder, carried with ease through the still air.

"No need for that. Especially not from such royal guests."

"Royal?" Cynthia blinked, straightening slightly in surprise.

The dragon’s gaze shifted, and with a smooth, fluid motion, it floated a few meters closer—its massive form effortlessly gliding through the glowing mist.

"Of course, I meant you, young lady." Its massive head loomed mere feet from Cynthia, though there was no malice in its gaze—only recognition.

"Descendant of that stubborn elf. It’s comforting to see his bloodline still breathes."

Cynthia’s lips parted in stunned silence.

Marcus, standing beside her, raised a hand, his curiosity rising like a tide.

"Uh—yes?" The dragon responded, after its massive gaze flicked toward him.

"What are you even doing here?" His voice was plain, honest—more baffled than accusatory. Deep down, he knew if anything went wrong, Victoria would be their last failsafe.

The dragon blinked, then rumbled out a chuckle that vibrated the water underfoot.

"Nothing of importance... I merely found this place... comfortable."

"...Seriously?" Marcus tilted his head, incredulous.

"I assure you, that is all." The dragon reaffirmed with noble calm.

Marcus glanced at Victoria, his expression somewhere between exasperated and amused. His raised brow and subtle grimace screamed: Is this really it?

Victoria smirked, folding her arms. "What were you expecting? A prophecy?"

The Archmage raised his hand again, speaking idly to the dragon—distracting it, giving the younger three a moment of quiet.

Marcus took the chance. "Wait—what did you even need him for, anyway? Cynthia and I just came along for the ride." His tone lightened, more curious now.

"But I’m guessing you have a real reason."

Victoria placed her hands on her hips, her stance confident, almost theatrical. "I was hoping to form a spirit contract. Tap into its power. Share its will."

Marcus blinked once, deadpan. "Talking like a true Mary Sue."

Cynthia burst into laughter. "A spirit contract? With a dragon? That’s insane."

She shook her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Sure, you’re powerful—but making a contract with a dragon? That’s near impossible."

But Victoria only waved her hand, her smirk unfading. Her voice dropped into a dramatic lilt, almost aristocratic in tone.

"And that’s where you’re wrong, dear Cynthia."

She stepped forward slightly, her silhouette outlined by the glowing water behind her.

"Tell me... What do you think powerful, ancient creatures—those who have existed for millennia—truly desire?"

Cynthia paused, frowning slightly. She sensed the question wasn’t as surface-level as it sounded. Her eyes narrowed in thought.

"...Food?" she offered, chuckling uncertainly.

Victoria blinked.

"...Correct?" she muttered, mildly surprised.

"Wait—really?" Cynthia stared, half-laughing.

Marcus couldn’t hold it in. "Okay, enough trivia night. Let’s focus." He gestured subtly toward the dragon and Archmage, who were—

Laughing.

Not softly. Loudly.

"—and he actually carved the wrong rune sequence into his arm!" the Archmage was roaring with laughter, stroking his beard.

The dragon responded in kind, its deep chuckle shaking droplets from the stone ceiling. "How amusing. Idiocy appears to be eternal."

"They look like they’re enjoying themselves." Cynthia murmured.

"A little too much," Victoria said with a tilted smile.

"Let the old geezers have their fun." Marcus stretched, cracking his neck with a sigh.

But the moment shattered.

A card sliced through the air with a sharp whistle, embedding itself into the stone floor just past where they had entered. Its back bore the unmistakable image of a Queen chess piece, sketched in vivid black ink.

Marcus recognized it immediately—the Queen meant trouble.

Last time, it had exploded.

Victoria reacted first, hands flashing into position—ready to counter.

But Marcus raised an arm in front of her. He wasn’t going to stay passive anymore.

’Lightning rune.’

’Necrotic rune.’

The dual spells surged into his palm—crackling arcs of violet electricity laced with a dark, decaying aura. He flicked his wand with practiced precision. A searing bolt of necrotic lightning shot through the air, hitting the card dead-on. It withered on contact, dissipating in a crackle of sparks before it could trigger.

"Looks like we’ve got uninvited guests." Marcus smirked.

The Archmage stopped mid-laugh, his eyes narrowing with familiar sharpness. The dragon ceased its chuckling as well, its massive head rising, nostrils flaring slightly.

"Really...?" The Archmage sighed, clearly annoyed to have his storytelling interrupted.

The dragon’s voice returned, colder now.

"How dare mere mortals interrupt a dragon’s peace?"

Then—

Footsteps. Echoing, slow, deliberate. Each step a note of malice.

A laugh followed. Light, theatrical, deranged.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

A figure emerged from the shadows of the passageway—tall and unnervingly graceful. He wore a crisp black suit, perfectly tailored, and a white porcelain clown mask with a permanent, painted grin. The air behind him shimmered faintly with illusory magic.

The same figure Marcus, Victoria, and Cynthia had seen that night. Indicating how this one shouldn’t be here.

"Mind if I party with you all...?"

He asked, tilting his head—like a puppet dangling from its own strings.

Whatever peace they’d found here—it was already gone.