THE ALMIGHTY WAR DRAGON

INTO THE DRAGON UNDERGROUND

Patrick was still panting like he had been punched in the lungs. His hands trembled on the steering wheel, his eyes turned wide with a panic he failed to hide.

“What… what was that for?” he managed, his breath was uneven.

Evans studied him before tapping his shoulder lightly, almost friendly. “Don’t worry. It’s okay.”

Patrick didn’t look convinced. Sweat slid down his temple. Evans leaned back, the gold in his eyes fading, but not completely.

“I’ll be honest,” Evans said. “You hid it well. A businessman with the Celestro Dragon Force?”

Patrick swallowed hard. “What did you do to me?”

“An old trick my grandmother taught me. Breaks aura masking. Brings the truth out for a second.” Evans’s voice stayed calm. “Now tell me the real reason you’re dragging me to this ‘business meeting’ before I pull out the truth from your head myself.”

Patrick started the engine. Outside, the shining towers of central Drakarion faded into older, rougher buildings. Smokestacks replaced clean streets.

“I didn’t bring you for business,” he finally said.

“I figured.”

“I came for two things. To buy a valuable relic. And to collect a large sum of money someone owes me.”

Evans’s brows drew together. “Who?”

“Silas Blackridge.”

Evans turned sharply. “The gang lord of the industrial west?”

Patrick nodded. “Yes.”

Evans stared at him like he wasn’t sure if Patrick was brave or insane. “Why would you lend money to Silas Blackridge? He’s one of the most notorious men in Drakarion.”

Patrick gave a weak smile. “Because I knew I’d collect it anyway.” His gaze flicked to Evans. “I mean, I have you.”

He meant the Primordius Dragon in Evans.

Evans didn’t answer. He understood. Patrick didn’t trust the world—he trusted Evans’s power.

They drove deeper into the industrial west district. Broken factories, tall chimneys, and abandoned cranes lined the road. The streets felt heavier, like danger lived in the shadows.

“So I’m your insurance,” Evans said.

“You’re more than that,” Patrick replied. “But yes. Your presence makes this visit… safer.”

Evans kept quiet. He was being used, but he also needed the relic Patrick promised—a relic that could help stabilize the Primordius force burning inside him.

After several minutes, Patrick pulled into a fenced yard filled with rusted containers and old freight carts. Ahead stood an abandoned freight station, its roof was half collapsed.

Patrick shut off the engine. “We’re here.”

Evans stepped out. The air smelled like old metal and oil. “You do business in places like this?”

Patrick retrieved his cane. “Power, money, secrets… they all sink here eventually. Come.”

Inside the freight station, broken crates and old rails covered the floor. Patrick led him to a blank metal wall, tapped his cane against a hidden panel, and a narrow elevator opened with a rusty groan.

Evans frowned. “You built this?”

“I helped reopened it. This metro line shut down forty years ago.”

They stepped inside. The elevator rattled as it descended. The deeper they went, the colder it became. Evans felt faint dragon auras twisting under the earth—quiet but unmistakable.

“You feel that?” he asked softly.

Patrick nodded. “You’ll feel more soon.”

When the doors opened, a long tunnel stretched before them, lit by dim blue lamps. The old metro platform had been transformed into a bustling black-market exchange. The air smelled of oil, metal, alcohol, and burnt wires.

Evans scanned everything. Relic dealers traded behind bulletproof glass. Runners sold vehicle parts and illegal dragon ware. Armed guards from rogue clans watched from the shadows.

Every eye followed them.

Near a pillar, Evans spotted four Oraco users wearing thick black suppression collars and heavy restraints. Their auras were faint, but still present. He sensed others too—Branth dragon force, Oraco strength, and something serpent-like hiding in plain sight.

“This isn’t a market,” Evans murmured. “It’s a war zone pretending to sell things.”

“Stay calm,” Patrick whispered. “They’re more afraid of each other than they are of us.”

Evans wasn’t convinced. “Why is this relic so important?”

Patrick kept walking. “Because it stabilizes dragon energy. Someone like you needs that. You don’t want to lose control.”

Evans thought of the burning garage, the melted machine, the dead mercenaries. He nodded once. “Yes. I want that.”

Patrick didn’t add the rest—the relic could also restrain someone like Evans if necessary.

It could even make him to control Evans if he wanted to.

They moved deeper. Evans felt two strong auras watching from above—one Oraco, one Branth. A pressure hung in the air, like a suppression field meant to keep everyone on edge.

Someone down here wanted trouble.

Patrick led him to a bar at the far end of the tunnel. The moment they stepped inside, a strong mix of alcohol, smoke, and sweat filled Evans’s nose.

Low music thumped. People whispered deals or glared at newcomers.

“We wait here,” Patrick said, sitting at a side table.

Evans lowered himself into the seat. They placed their order and within a few minutes, a server dropped off two cloudy drinks.

Evans sniffed once and pushed his glass aside. “These are the men you trust to repay you?”

Patrick sighed. “Trust is not the word.”

The bar quieted as three men walked in.

The first was huge, with a square jaw and arms like stone. Oraco dragon force radiated from him like heat. Boris Ironjaw.

The second moved with controlled, cold grace. Branth energy flowed under his skin. This was Silas Branthorn.

The third was thin, wearing a dark coat and a sharp smile. No dragon aura—but Evans sensed the danger anyway. Maelik Crowe.

The three of them approached their table without hesitation. Boris grabbed Patrick’s drink and drained it. Silas snatched Evans’s glass, tossed it back, and both men belched loudly in their faces.

Maelik slid into a chair. The relic Patrick wanted hung from his neck like a trophy.

He pointed at Evans. “Who’s this?”

“My acquaintance,” Patrick said evenly. “He’s with me.”

Maelik’s gaze slowly scanned Evans from head to toe—the cheap clothes, the quiet expression, the stillness. “Is that so?”

Evans held his stare and stayed silent.

Patrick placed a metal case on the table and opened it. Money and credit chips gleamed under the bar lights.

“Three million,” Patrick said. “As agreed.”

Maelik didn’t look at the money. He adjusted the relic lazily, letting Patrick see who truly controlled the room. Only then did he glance at the open case.

“Price changed,” Maelik said. “It’s fifteen million now.”

Evans’s head turned sharply. Patrick’s expression tightened. “No,” he said. “That was not the deal.”

Maelik leaned forward. “Deals are for equals. You are not equal. You are a sick old man hoping money will fix your problems.”

Boris reached out and flicked Evans’s shirt like testing cheap fabric. “Nice outfit.”

Silas tapped Evans’s chest lightly. “No aura. No presence. Nothing at all.”

He smirked. “Mr Patrick, you brought a servant boy to play bodyguard?”

Laughter rippled across the nearby tables.

Boris grinned wide. “This one looks like he can’t even lift a gun.”

Maelik’s voice turned mocking. “Next time, Mr. Patrick… bring real protection. Not a street rat in borrowed clothes.”

The two men with the dragon force laughed at Evans because they perceived him to be weak.

Evans kept his head slightly bowed, but his jaw tightened. Deep inside him, the Primordius Dragon stirred, pushing against his restraint.