2025-11-26 04:42:42CHAPTER 3 — THE AWAKENING IN THE GARAGE
The cold night pressed against the steel walls of the transport vehicle as the convoy rolled away from the palace gates. Evans sat between two soldiers, his wrists were locked in metal cuffs that rubbed against the skin. Snow tapped the roof of the vehicles in steady, soft rhythm. “Where are you taking me?” he asked, with a voice that was flat. The soldier on his right didn’t look at him. “We are taking you to the holding prison. Your exile begins at sunrise.” Evans stared at him. “Funny. I was supposed to be taken home first. Pack my things. Say goodbye to people that matter to me. But here we are, driving into the dark.” There was no response. “Ronan sent you, didn’t he?” Evans added. The soldier across from him finally spoke, his jaw was tight. “Save your breath. It won’t matter after tonight.” Evans let out a short, humorless laugh. He saw through their thoughts already. “You guys are not even pretending anymore.” The first soldier flicked his gaze toward him. “Don’t talk.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a warning. By the way, something was wrong. The route. The silence. The tension in the air. Everything told Evans that whatever this was, it wasn’t official procedure. The convoy slowed as they approached a deserted checkpoint. The lamps flickered, then went out completely. Evans straightened. “Why are we stopping?” Neither soldier answered. The truck jolted as an explosion hit the lead vehicle. Metal screamed somewhere ahead. “What was that?” Evans snapped. The back doors burst open before anyone could respond. Masked men stormed inside. One grabbed Evans’s collar and yanked him forward. “Get your hands off—” Evans shouted, but a rifle butt slammed into his temple. As he blacked out, he heard one palace soldier mutter, “Make it look real.” A masked man replied, “Lord Ronan his brother paid us well. We’ll handle the rest.” ********* A few hours later, Evans woke to a throbbing pain behind his eyes. A dim bulb flickered above him. The air smelled of rust and oil. He was strapped to a metal chair, ropes cutting into his wrists and ankles. Four men surrounded him. Not Drakarion soldiers, but mercenaries with worn boots and impatient faces. One tapped Evans cheek. “Welcome back, noble boy.” Evans swallowed. “Where are the soldiers?” “Gone,” the man said. “They got their money.” Another leaned in close. “You expected loyalty?” The slap came fast. Evans’s head snapped to the side, a metallic taste filling his mouth. He breathed out slowly. “If you’re smart, then don’t do that again.” They laughed like it was a joke. “You still think threats work?” one said, flicking Evans’s forehead. Evans met his stare, anger simmering under his skin. “You don’t know what you’re provoking.” The leader stepped forward, boots stopping inches from Evans’s knees. “Your dear brother Ronan sends his regards.” Evans didn’t react outwardly, but the words hit deep. So Ronan truly wanted him erased, even before exile began. “What did he pay you for?” Evans asked. “My body?” “No. Something, actually he payed us to take out something more useful within you.” "Yes, your Celestro dragon force." Another mercenary muttered. Evans was stunned. Not only did Ronan frame him for treason, but he also paid people to extract his Celestro dragon force? They cut the ropes just to drag him across the floor. Evans struggled, but with his bruises and exhaustion, and the intoxicating aura from their runes, they overpowered him easily. A metal slab sat in the center of the garage, etched with more glowing runes. They pinned him to it and strapped him down. A humming machine was pushed beside him, covered with symbols he recognized instantly. Evans’s heart tightened. “You guy's are making a very big mistake here.” The leader grinned. “Nothing here is a mistake. We will extract every last drop. Lord Ronan wants you drained.” “That process is unstable,” Evans snapped. “It could kill me.” “Then die,” the man said simply. “Not our concern.” The machine switched on. Harsh light washed over Evans. His chest burned as energy ripped loose from inside him, pulled like threads being torn out by force. Evans gasped, teeth clenched, sweat running down his temples. Every second felt like fire inside his ribs. His body twisted against the restraints. “He’s crashing!” one mercenary called. “Good,” another replied, adjusting the device. “Almost done.” Evans’s vision blurred. His heartbeat slowed. He felt something leave him—something he had lived with since childhood. A final flicker of blue light rose from his chest and dissolved into the machine. The glow faded. The humming died. Evans went still. The leader nudged him with a boot. “Looks empty to me.” One of the men laughed. “Ronan exaggerated. He went out like a scared kid.” “Poor noble guy,” another mocked. “So much for dragon blood.” They kept mocking him, trading jokes and wiping sweat from their brows. Evans didn’t move. His chest barely rose. Then the air shifted. A faint warmth rolled across the garage. One man frowned. “You feel that?” Another pointed at Evans. “What… what is that?” A soft glow formed beneath Evans’s skin, right over his chest. It pulsed once. Then again, stronger. The leader stepped back. “Hold on. Something’s wrong.” Evans’s fingers twitched. “We drained him dry,” one mercenary whispered. “This shouldn’t happen.” The glow expanded, heating the air around the slab. The ropes around Evans’s wrists started to smoke. A crackling sound spread through the room. Evans’s eyes snapped open— it was no longer blue. They blazed gold. The mercenaries staggered back, shielding their faces. Scales formed along Evans’s cheek and jaw, shining like forged metal under the flickering lights. One man yelled, “What kind of Dragon Force is that?!” The leader’s face drained of color. “No… this isn’t Celestro. This is—” He didn’t finish. Evans lifted his arm, and golden energy burst outward in a wave. One mercenary was thrown across the room, smashing into a stack of crates that shattered on impact. Flames erupted along the oil-stained floor, racing up old barrels and metal beams. Heat rippled through the garage, forcing the men to stumble back. “What is he?!” a mercenary shouted. “It’s not Celestro,” another said, voice shaking. “It’s something else—something ancient.” The leader stepped back until he hit the wall, eyes wide with horror. “No. No… it’s impossible. That’s a Primordius Dragon.” The flames climbed higher, lighting the garage with gold and orange. Evans pushed himself upright, golden aura swirling around him like living fire. The same men who mocked him moments ago stood frozen, trapped between terror and disbelief, as the ancient power of the Primordius Dragon, the greatest dragon grade in the whole Realm continued rising through Evans Draker. Evans turned his glowing eyes toward them, the fire reflecting in his gaze.
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WARNING REACHES THE GATE
Serren opened his mouth and coughed first. Blood touched his lip.His chest tightened again as the cough passed, but the fear did not. It stayed lodged inside him, heavier than the pain, heavier than the exhaustion, like something that refused to let him rest.The guard’s tone hardened. “Identify yourself!”“Serren Vale,” he gasped. “Aureldrake BioCore… senior researcher.”Another guard came closer from the side. “State your division.”The words felt distant even as he spoke them, like he was repeating a life that no longer belonged to him. Titles, ranks, clearance levels—none of it seemed to matter anymore after what he had seen.“Pathogen synthesis and serum stabilization.”The first guard looked him over. Burned sleeves. Dust-covered face. Bloodshot eyes. There was something else there too. Something harder to name. Not just injury. Not just exhaustion. It was the look of a man who had crossed through something and come back wrong.He did not lower his weapon. “Why are you arrivin
THE MESSENGER OF FEAR
The man on the floor opened his eyes to fear.Not the clean kind. Not the kind that comes before pain and passes once the pain arrives. This fear stayed. It clung to him like heat after fire. Even before he fully remembered where he was, he remembered the eyes. The scales. The pressure in the room that had made trained scientists kneel like frightened children.He pushed himself up with shaking arms and nearly slipped in spilled coolant beside line four.Around him, the production floor was still moving. Crates were being sealed. Officers were shouting routes. Researchers who had not collapsed were still dragging themselves through the last stages of distribution prep. Nobody noticed him immediately. Or if they did, they were too tired to care.His name was Serren Vale, he was the senior process researcher, Aureldrake-class technical clearance.And he knew one thing with absolute certainty.He had to get out of Rovek.It was no longer about loyalty or rank.Whatever he had witnessed
THE COST OF FIVE MILLION LIVES
The officer said nothing more. By the twentieth hour, bodies were beginning to fold. It showed in their movements, slower reactions, sloppier hands. But still, they did not stop. It was no longer a question of endurance. It was a question of how much a human body could give before it stopped responding. A scientist slumped onto a stool and had to be dragged upright by two others. Another fell asleep for three full seconds standing against a wall and woke only when a tray crashed beside him. The air smelled of chemicals, hot machinery, sweat, and sterile alcohol. A place built for control had become a furnace of forced redemption. Control had not disappeared, it had changed form. Now it came from above, silent and absolute. Then came another shout. “Three million more doses complete!” A weak cheer rose from somewhere on the floor and died almost instantly under fatigue. No one had the strength to celebrate properly. Even hope felt exhausting like something their bodies no l
PRODUCTION UNDER FEAR
The laboratory woke like a machine dragged out of sleep by fear.Alarms had been silenced, but urgency still lived in every corner of the facility. White lights blazed over stainless steel tables, sealed mixing chambers, injector lines, and conveyor belts were now running at a speed they had never been built to sustain for long. Researchers moved from station to station with stiff shoulders and pale faces. No one complained loudly anymore. Not after what they had seen in the boardroom.No one needed to remind them.Fear had replaced supervision.And it was far more effective.Evans stood on the upper observation platform with two Rovek officers behind him, looking down through reinforced glass at the production floor below.Doctor Vessa stood a short distance away, tablet in hand, her voice was unsteady despite all her effort to control it. “Line one is active. Line two is active. The secondary cold chambers are being repurposed for overflow storage.”Evans did not look at her. He di
THE DRAGON IN THE ROOM
At first it was subtle. A rise in temperature no one could explain. It was not gradual enough to ignore.It felt deliberate.Like the room itself had chosen a new center.The glass nearest the table gave a faint tick. One of the overhead lights flickered once, then steadied. Mara looked toward the ceiling. One scientist tugged at his collar.The air no longer moved naturally.It pressed against skin instead of flowing past it.Dorn noticed first that Evans had gone too still.Not calm. Still.The kind of stillness that belonged to something deciding whether restraint still had value.And in that stillness, something unseen seemed to gather behind him.Not visible.But undeniably present.“My lord,” Dorn said carefully, “there is no need for this to become—”He stopped.Heat rolled off Evans in a slow, invisible wave.Not like fire.It was not wild.But it was Controlled.It was Directed.Doctor Vessa took half a step back. “What is happening?”No one answered her.The polished edge
THIS IS NOT A DISCUSSION
Their thoughts were loud to him now.Not in words alone, but in intention.This was fear pretending to be logic, this was defiance hiding behind science.And beneath it all, the same realization started forming—they were no longer in control of anything.And they could feel it.Not as an idea. Not as a threat. But as something closing in around them with no clear escape.The refusal came apart all at once.It was no longer coordinated resistance. It was panic trying to sound intelligent.“Production requires weeks,” one of the younger scientists snapped. “Not days. Weeks.”Another pointed toward the wall display with shaking fingers. “You cannot force biology to obey politics.”Doctor Vessa recovered enough of her voice to step back into authority. “The stabilization process alone has fixed limits,” she said. “Even if every line runs without pause, the serum cannot be expanded at that scale in forty-eight hours.”She spoke like a professional.But beneath her control, her pulse had a
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