Across the stream, the towering cluster of trees shook as a terrifying roar echoed from behind the woods. Then a massive creature shot into the sky, its wide wingspan temporarily blotting out the sun. Wide-eyed, Draàl flinched as the dragon—covered in red, metallic scales—unleashed another deafening roar as it hovered above the gathering. It had barely landed when three individuals jumped off its back, sprinting at the alarmed men. The first person wore a dark blue tunic, cinched at the waist with a loose belt. Her long, dark dreadlocks swung behind her as she ran, and when she moved her hands, water from the stream obeyed her gestures and lashed out at the men like giant tendrils. The second person—a rather young man, most likely in his twenties—charged with two daggers in his grip. Wearing a dark-green leather costume, he confused the men he attacked with words he uttered, disorienting their minds as he beat them with impressive combat skills. But it was the thir

“Huh,” Draàl uttered as he thoroughly inspected the empty room, which stretched farther than Valeria’s ballroom. Metal sheets lined every inch of the surrounding four towering walls, save for a rectangular section, high above the ground on the north wall, that had reflective glass instead. Despite its underground location, the room seemed well ventilated; cool, in fact. “Impressive, is it not?” Zha’irah asked lightly. “Not exactly the word I was going for, but that’s not far from the truth, either.” Draál stood still, peering at the large vents that lined both sides of the ceiling, over forty feet high. “How did you know about this place?” “Valeria’s Rune System, as effective as it is, is not made for warfare,” she explained. “So it is not unusual for her to have an arena where she trains and hones her combat skills.” “Yes, but…” Draàl looked up again. “We’re in an oversized bunker that’s hidden several meters underneath her mansion. Yet, somehow, you happen

“Ugh,” Draàl groaned, wiping his lower lip with the back of his hand. “This makes no sense.” “I beg to differ, Lord Draàl,” Zha’irah opposed as she retracted the missile launchers into her shoulders. “It makes perfect sense to me.” Draàl gave the android a grim stare. “We’ve trained for three days, Zha’irah, and each day we’ve been at our necks for several hours. And every single time it looks like I’ve got the upper hand, you pull out a trump card from nowhere that knocks me out.” “Just like I did now, on the fourth day,” she gloated. Then, on a more serious note, she added, “Perhaps the fault is not from me—perhaps it is from you.” Draàl rose to his feet, sweeping aside his hair, which had spilled freely over his face and shoulders after the leather band finally broke from the last attack. “Feel free to tell me how any of this is my fault.” “You keep fighting like you know me, like you are aware of everything I can and cannot do. Yet, you fall when I su