Chapter 227: Dragon Spear and the Pact

Dragons were the highest tier of Fantasy Species, while Dragon-Eagles, despite bearing the character for “dragon” in their name, were merely magical beasts of the same level as Salvador. Of course, Salvador’s enormous size was something the Dragon-Eagle could never match.

Still, the Dragon-Eagle carried traces of the dragon. Beyond its draconic form, it also wielded the power of Breath.

Its Breath corroded life and induced hallucinations, and the fog lingering within the Misty Forest was precisely born of its Breath’s power.

Yet this Breath too stemmed from the magical beast’s Mystery. A Dragon-Eagle of this level was incapable of influencing Corleon.

He raised his hand slightly, hurling the Dragon Spear high. The spear paused in midair for but a breath, then shot forth violently at the Dragon-Eagle. It pierced through the wound left by its torn horn, skewering its head and nailing the beast to the ground.

The four-meter Dragon Spear sank wholly into its skull, leaving only the tail of the spear jutting outward.

Corleon’s figure vanished, leaving only a single sentence behind.

“You should fulfill the pact you made with humanity.”

The Dragon-Eagle’s struggling form froze, then thrashed with even greater fury. Its wings unfurled, tattered and battered as they were, and it let out ear-splitting screeches. Beating its wings, it summoned a howling gale, yet the Dragon Spear pinning its head to the ground did not tremble in the slightest.

Its body floated into the air, the torn flesh where Corleon had struck healing visibly, yet with its head nailed down and its neck stretched comically long, the sight was grotesque.

At last, it ceased resisting, lowering its form to the ground as memories of a long-ago pact surfaced.

Magical beasts were mighty, but humans were more terrifying still. Even Salvador had needed to carve Lake Salvador three thousand meters deep to hide from mankind’s predation. The Dragon-Eagle, unlike Salvador, could not hide underwater, and its Breath—though potent—was still rooted in Mystery. Against a human Earl wielding a Holy Relic, its Breath held no sway.

Thus, when an Earl holding a Holy Relic had appeared before it, the Dragon-Eagle had been forced into a pact.

The Earl demanded it become the guardian of his bloodline, protecting them, serving as their companion, much like the bond of a knight and his steed.

The Dragon-Eagle, in return, demanded the Earl’s noblest child’s bloodline. It further required that this stripped child uphold three vows until adulthood: never to spill innocent blood, to win the love of the people, and to become a knight who raised his sword for the weak.

The Dragon-Eagle never believed humans could meet such terms—it only sought to mock the Earl.

After all, how could nobles refrain from killing innocents? Nobles inspired fear, and knights proved loyalty by slaughtering the weak. And a child stripped of noble blood—could he even grow strong enough to become a knight?

The Earl’s Holy Relic could slay it, true, but the Earl himself was only somewhat stronger than ordinary knights. If pressed, it could flee.

But then it would need to find yet another hiding place beyond the forest—another refuge from mankind’s cruelty.

Not wishing to risk discovery again, the Dragon-Eagle had named conditions it believed impossible.

The Earl agreed. The next time the Dragon-Eagle was awakened, the Earl entered, carrying an infant in his arms.

The child’s bloodline outshone even the Earl’s own. The Dragon-Eagle consumed it, mocking the Earl in secret.

“To waste such noble bloodline—what a fool.”

And it rejoiced inwardly.

With such a powerful bloodline removed, one less great noble stood nearby, granting it peace for many years to come.

It sank back into slumber, content—

Until one day, a “stone” struck its proudest horn.

That horn, long and unyielding, it had always deemed beautiful—more so than even the legendary dragons’ horns.

Yet a “human” had torn it away, crushed its form without care, and nailed it to the earth with its own horn, uttering only a single command about fulfilling the pact.

What pact?

The Dragon-Eagle could think only of its deal with that human Earl. Yet how could those conditions ever be fulfilled?

But unable to break free from the Dragon Spear no matter how it struggled, the Dragon-Eagle gave up.

From within itself, it found the noble bloodline and traced its bearer.

It did not believe the child could still live.

It knew human nobles bore few children, and one stripped of noble blood was deemed useless. Among wicked nobles, mired in filthy schemes, how could such a child survive?

Yet, since that terrifying being had spoken, the Dragon-Eagle could only attempt to trace the bloodline.

To its astonishment, it found the bloodline alive—nearby.

A dread premonition struck.

It searched its will for the pact and discovered that the contract bore the form of a Dragon Spear. It sensed that the “human” had added new terms deeply unfavorable to itself.

But that was not what shocked it most—what left it shaken was that the pact had been completed long ago.

…

Late at night, within Fog Fortress, the flames still burned.

The warriors lay asleep where they had fallen, save for four Temple Warriors assigned by Marl to keep watch.

All at once, fog crept forth, quiet and insidious.

Marl’s eyes flew open. His hand clutched the cross at his chest.

He saw the mist crawling forward with a will of its own.

Yet the Temple Warriors appeared oblivious, scanning the darkness with vigilance, unaware of Marl’s awakening.

Marl hesitated, glancing at the cross. In the end, he took no action, only slipping a thick ring onto his finger.

The fog slithered across the ground, finding Richard, snoring deeply, and crawled silently over his form. Finally, it slipped into his nostrils.

Richard rose to his feet still snoring, eyes shut, and began walking toward the Misty Forest, guided by the fog.

Marl looked once more at the cross, then at the Temple Warriors.

He chose not to wield a Holy Relic, only watching as Richard departed.

“Priest Marl, you are awake?” whispered one of the Temple Warriors, approaching.

Marl motioned for him to look at Richard.

The warrior froze, face hardening, breath drawing to shout—

Marl stopped him, speaking softly: “Do not mind him. Rest. I shall take the next watch.”

The Temple Warrior hesitated, then nodded, telling the others before lying down.

Marl sat upon a great stone, staring after Richard’s path.

The night passed without further incident.

When Morning Star rose, Richard had not returned.

But Marl had no time to dwell.

Messengers from Mist Fortress had arrived.

It was a knight, unarmored, running on foot for speed. He bore an invitation from the Earl, summoning them to Mist Fortress.

Only last night they had refused, yet now came a renewed call. Such fickleness enraged the Temple Warriors, who encircled the knight with hands upon their weapons.

But Marl, seeing the pain and despair in the knight’s eyes, agreed.

“Where is Knight Richard?” one of the Temple Warriors asked.

Though called a disgrace by the Earl’s knights, Richard had earned their goodwill.

Marl only shook his head. “He has matters of his own. Do not wait for him.”

…

When Marl arrived at Mist Fortress, it lacked the uncanny aura of the day before.

But within, he found the ground littered with dark red dust—and Earl Raul, with a gaping, hideous hole in his brow.

The Earl’s voice rasped, frail as an aged man’s: “I am sorry. I failed to restrain that Mystery. It seized me and my knights. Only for moments could I cling to clarity.”

Marl’s heart grew heavy. He gazed at the Earl, a man in his twenties, and said, “You need not apologize. At least you held back the Fishmen here.”

Earl Raul forced a smile, but it turned into coughing. The wound on his brow trembled, spilling red and white alike.

Clenching his hands, he stilled the cough and said, “I know they all wish me dead. And indeed, their wish shall soon come true. You can see it—I will not live long.”

Marl fell silent.

Raul continued: “I do not mind their pursuit of profit. I even agree with their choice. Let me die here, and they may beg survival from Lord Pegiraov.”

“For they bear the legacy of House Adrian.”

“But Richard came. He should not have. He should have lived on, carrying Adrian’s bloodline.”

“I want to see him.”

The Earl lifted his head with difficulty, gazing at Marl.

Marl shook his head. “Last night, Knight Richard entered the Misty Forest. The fog drew him within. Even beneath the Lord’s Holy Relic, it moved, and so I did not stop it.”

Raul blinked, then laughed hoarsely. “Good… good! If he went in, that is enough!”

He laughed harder, chunks of white matter slipping from his wound.

Still grinning, Raul said, “Then I must endure until he returns.”

As though pausing for breath—or perhaps slowed by brain injury—Raul was silent a moment before resuming. “The Mystery is gone. I do not know if it left or was dispelled. Though my mind is clear again, I can no longer hold this place.”

“My thoughts mingled with it, sometimes glimpsing its will. The Fishmen’s lesser assaults were part of its pact with another being. But now it is gone, and perhaps the Fishmen will strike with all their might.”

“I cannot say when they will come. But I cannot resist. Most of my warriors are dust beneath my feet. Only a handful remain.”

“And they are spent, their will extinguished. Their lives, like mine, near their end.”

“So now I ask you, guard this pass. Hold it until Richard stands before me.”

Earl Raul pleaded.

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