I was a coward.

  Even after carving my way through the fog, it still found a way to trap me. Granbell—the leader of the Greenscales tribe, the warrior who stood above most demons, the champion of the Ark—was once nothing more than a coward.

  High in the ashy, snow-laden peaks of the Ark, I grew up among the dragonkin, nestled within a small, fiercely independent tribe. The Ark was a land few dared to cross, and none dared to disturb us.

  We dragonkin were warriors from the moment we took our first breath.

  A warrior protects their tribe, their family, and their pride. These rules were etched into our minds long before we could grasp the weight of their meaning. Every hatchling, from their earliest days, was taught to live by this code. Our language was born of roaring defiance; our lives were devoted to the art of war.

  We learned to sharpen swords before we could form full sentences, to wield weapons long before we could wield words. Spears, maces, and even the weighty battle-axes favored by some were more familiar to us than toys or games. There was no childhood in the Ark—only preparation.

  I was no different.

  Our tribe lived beneath the shadow of the Ark’s highest peak. Snowstorms would rage around us, coating the world in a suffocating silence. The air was thin, the cold biting, but we thrived. Our scaled bodies were strong, resistant to both the chill and the hunger that came with winter.

  Even in this harshness, life was vibrant. The older dragonkin shared tales of battles, victories, and the ancient glories of our kind. Stories that made our blood burn with pride and our hearts yearn for the battlefield.

  But I… I didn’t feel it.

  I laughed when others laughed and shouted when others shouted. I practiced until my arms ached, sparred until my breath came in ragged gasps. I knew how to play my part. But in the quiet of the night, when no one was watching, I couldn’t ignore the truth.

  I was terrified.

  By the age of ten, every dragonkin faced the Trial. It was a rite of passage—brutal, unyielding, and unforgiving. To fail was to be culled or exiled, cast into the wilds of the Ark, never to return.

  It was not merely a test of strength or skill. The Trial demanded resolve. It stripped away everything you thought you had left—fear, doubt, weakness—and laid bare the soul. A warrior didn’t need hesitation to kill, fear of death, or doubt his superiors. Many failed, many died during the trial; others, deemed too broken to continue, were sent away. The Ark, demonkind had no room for cowards, and neither did our tribe.

  I remember the day of my Trial as though it happened moments ago. The snowstorm had subsided, leaving the world eerily quiet. The wind whispered through the jagged peaks like a warning, and the air was colder than I had ever felt. The elders stood in a circle, their expressions as unyielding as the mountains themselves. My father, a figure of legendary strength among the Greenscales, watched from the edge, his gaze piercing, his silence deafening.

  They handed me a spear—a weapon longer and heavier than anything I had trained with—and sent me into the wilderness alone. My task: to bring back proof of a kill. Not prey. A predator. Something that could kill me.

  The Ark was filled with demonic creatures, animals of overwhelming sizes, and all other kind of dangers. I walked away from home, at the base of the peak where a small forest had sprouted for generations. The snow crunched underfoot as I moved through the tree’s shadows, every sound amplified in this quiet environment. My breath fogged in the frigid air, the cold, at the time, threatening to shatter my resolve.

  Hours passed. Or was it days? I couldn’t tell. Hunger clawed at my stomach, and my body so exhausted I felt like collapsing and dying in the snow, forever. Every shadow seemed to hide a pair of eyes, every sound a predator waiting to strike me at my weakest.

  And then, I saw it.

  Another of my kind. A dragonkin from a rival tribe—the Whitescales—emerged from the gloom, his spear in hand, his eyes burning with the same fear and determination that mirrored my own. He was my age, his body lean but taut with the strength of survival.

  Our eyes locked.

  I didn’t want to kill him. Everything in me recoiled at the thought. But I had to. At that time, we were at war with other tribes, and the Trial was to kill anything that could kill me.

  All my life, I had feared the fight—the clash of swords, the weight of a blade, the feeling of my fists connecting with flesh. As long as it was a game, I could manage. But this… this wasn’t a game.

  I gripped the spear tighter, my palms slick with sweat despite the cold. My breathing quickened, every fiber of my being screaming at me to stop, to drop the weapon, to run.

  But I didn’t.

  Because this was the Ark. Because in this land, hesitation was death.

  The Whitescale moved first, a blur of motion against the snow. His spear came at me in an arc, fast and unforgiving. I stumbled back, the tip grazing my side as I barely avoided the strike. My heart thundered in my chest as I steadied myself, the weight of the weapon unfamiliar in my hands.

  “Don’t make me do this,” I whispered, though I knew he couldn’t hear—or wouldn’t listen. He wasn’t hesitating.

  Unlike everyone else, I always hesitated. What was the point of war in the first place? To me, there was none. I was content with my life, happy to play with everyone, hunt with my father, and live day by day.

  With a shout that tore from somewhere deep inside me, I lunged forward. Our spears clashed, the sound ringing into my bones. He was stronger than me, faster, more sure of himself. After all, I never tried to become strong myself.

  We danced a deadly dance, the snow beneath us stained red where his spear finally found my shoulder. The pain was sharp, a burning line that cut through the cold. I gritted my teeth, refusing to fall, refusing to fail.

  And then, in a moment of desperation, I saw an opening. My spear found its mark, piercing through his side.

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  He fell to the snow, the light in his eyes fading as his blood pooled beneath him.

  I stood over his body, the cold biting at my exposed skin, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My hands trembled, the spear slick with blood.

  I wanted to scream, to cry, to vomit. But I didn’t.

  Because I couldn’t.

  The Ark had no room for cowards. And now, neither did I.

  This is why I couldn’t stand seeing that child in the fog. The human child I once tried to raise after becoming a warrior. He was lost, abandoned by his family, wandering the edges of the Ark like a wisp of smoke waiting to disappear. I took him in, despite everything I had been taught.

  When I was a child, I feared the stories about humans. My father told me to never trust them—that they were monsters, barbaric and shameless. He said pride was not in their language, that they lived without honor, without truth. To him, they were no different than the succubi or that goblin Kiku, deceitful and full of lies.

  But when I looked at the boy, I didn’t see a monster. I saw a child.

  Small, fragile, and shivering with cold, he reminded me of myself on the day of my Trial—lost, terrified, and searching for something to hold on to.

  Perhaps that was why I took him in. Perhaps it was guilt for the life I had taken, or perhaps it was the faint hope that I could still be something other than what the tribe demanded of me. Whatever the reason, I raised him. I taught him to hunt, to climb, to survive in the unforgiving peaks of the Ark. I gave him food when he was hungry and shelter when the storms grew fierce.

  I had proven my father wrong, and for a time, the tribe accepted the child as one of them. But he was still human. And that meant he was weak.

  When he came of age, the decree was unavoidable. He had to go through the Trial as well.

  I remember the look in his eyes when they told him—wide, uncertain, and searching for reassurance. He was a boy no longer, but in that moment, I saw the same frightened child I had found in the snow all those years ago. He looked to me, his voice trembling. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice steady even as my heart twisted inside me. I knew what awaited him. He had grown stronger under my care, but the Ark had no mercy, no leniency. The Trial did not bend for love or sentiment.

  I gave him the same spear they had once handed me. Its weight was familiar now, but as I placed it in his hands, it felt heavier than ever.

  He nodded, silent but determined, and turned toward the wilderness. The snow began to fall as he disappeared into the trees, his figure swallowed by the same fog where I had once fought my own battle.

  I waited.

  Hours passed. Then a day. Then two.

  When he finally returned, he carried no trophy, no apex predator slain. His spear was broken, his clothes tattered, and his face streaked with blood and tears. Behind him, dragging at his heels, was a dying wolf—a creature smaller than what the Trial demanded but no less ferocious. He had killed it with his bare hands.

  In the eyes of the tribe, it was not enough.

  The elders deemed him unworthy, even as I pleaded with them, saying that he still had killed someone stronger than him.

  But their decision was final. To fail the Trial was to be cast out, no matter the circumstances.

  I watched as they led him to the edge of the tribe’s territory, his shoulders slumped, his eyes hollow. He didn’t look at me, not even when I called his name.

  That was the last time I saw him.

  And now, in the fog, I see the same hollow eyes, the same broken spirit. The child I tried to save, the boy I thought could prove my father wrong, is gone.

  I wonder... Is he still alive? Did he survive out there in the cruel, unforgiving wilderness? Or did the cold and the predators claim him like so many before?

  But one truth remains clear to me, a truth I didn’t understand until that moment: the difference between a true warrior and a coward.

  My son—this child—was a true warrior. He had conquered his fears, fought against a wild beast twice his size, and returned alive. He had proven his strength, his will, his resolve.

  The elders, on the other hand, were cowards.

  Hiding behind their rigid laws, clinging to their traditions as if they were shields, they feared change more than they feared death. They couldn’t see what I saw—that strength wasn’t just in the size of the beast slain, but in the fire that burned within the one who stood against it.

  They were afraid to admit they might have been wrong, that perhaps there was more to being a warrior than blind adherence to ancient rules.

  And because of their cowardice, they cast him out.

  I should have left with him. I should have thrown down my spear, defied the elders, and walked away. But I didn’t. I stayed. I let them lead him away while I stood silent, my feet rooted in the snow, my heart tearing itself apart.

  Years passed, and I changed—or at least, I tried to.

  I passed my final test, earning the title of a true warrior. The elders presented me with the materials for my blade: rare metals, forged in the heart of the south. It was tradition for every warrior to craft their own weapon, a reflection of their soul and strength. My journey took me to Mount Etna, a volcanic peak in the southern lands of Tamia.

  The climb was long, the air thick with the scent of sulfur and ash. The molten heart of the mountain roared beneath the surface. But for all its fury, the task felt hollow.

  I worked tirelessly to shape my blade, pouring sweat and spirit into every strike of the hammer. The weapon I forged was flawless, a masterpiece of craftsmanship and lethality. Yet when I held it in my hands, it felt like a stranger’s. A tool of death for a dragonkin still haunted by life.

  The journey to Tamia became more than a task—it became my escape. I told myself I needed to hone my skills, to wander the world and sharpen my abilities. But deep down, I knew the truth. I was running. Running from the tribe, from my father, from their laws.

  And most of all, running from my shame.

  I threw myself into mercenary work, taking jobs that tested my strength, to finally prove myself as a true warrior. I fought bandits, wild beasts, and stood against some demons who sought to prove themselves. I gained a reputation, even back there in the Ark.

  In the meantime, I looked for the boy. I asked questions in some tows. Have you seen a boy, I would ask, describing him as best as I could. But they never had. It was foolish, I knew. Too much time had passed. Even if he had survived, he would be grown now, changed, unrecognizable.

  For a time, I felt unburdened by the Ark’s traditions, yet, I was still attached to them. My pride as a warrior, my faith in courage and strength, all stemmed from there.

  Yet, unlike my tribe, I do not despise the weak. I protect them.

  To me, there was no dishonor in shielding those who couldn’t fight for themselves. No shame in lending strength to those who lacked it. It was a lesson the elders would never understand, one I had to learn on my own. Strength, I realized, wasn’t about standing above others. It was about lifting them up.

  No, what I despised was cowards—the true cowards.

  Not those who lacked strength, nor those who faltered in the face of overwhelming odds. But those who fled when they had the power to change something. Those who turned their backs on others, who lived only for themselves, who feared the upheaval of their safe, stagnant worlds. Betrayers, deceivers, evil.

  Cowards who chose comfort over courage.

  They were the ones I could never forgive. And perhaps, deep down, I despised them because I saw a piece of myself in them—a boy who stayed silent when he should have spoken, who stood still when he should have moved.

  The fog lifted itself, leaving the way for me. I picked up my sword and entered the cavern, my mind still full of my memories…

  “Oh? You made it too?” Saki asked, her hands behind her. The succubus was sitting there, on a rock, inside the cave.

  “I see you were the first to make it,” I nodded with a smile. I looked around, my nostrils flaring to catch the scent. It was quiet, yet, there was a faint trace of human smell I didn’t like. “Looks like Araka is already there.”

  “Hm? You can already tell?” she asked with wide eyes. “I’m surprised, Granbell. You are quite the hunter, aren’t you?”

  “Of course. Hunting is my specialty,” I smiled at her while lighting up a torch from my belt with some fire magic. “Luka isn’t here?”

  “Looks like he is still inside the Valley,” she sighed, her shoulders sagging but she still stood up. “Let’s go, he will catch up with us later.”

  “Are you sure? Didn’t you tell me he was going to be fine? How long have you been waiting?”

  Saki shrugged. “Long enough,” she said, her eyes turning serious. “But there’s no time to waste. Araka is already close to the amulet, Granbell. If we don’t move quickly, Tamia will burn—scorched earth.”

  I nodded, the decision made in a heartbeat. “I see.” I glanced one more time in the direction of the Valley, a silent prayer for Luka’s safety lingering in my thoughts. “Then let’s move. And hope Luka can join us later.”

  I turned my back on the Valley, not looking back as we moved deeper into the cavern.

  I wonder… What kind of vision did they have?