THE ALMIGHTY WAR DRAGON

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

Evans had never imagined that the first morning after awakening the Primordius Dragon Force would begin in a quiet hotel bathroom, staring into a cracked mirror, struggling with a mustache.

The disguise felt ridiculous. The thick brown thing sat awkwardly over his upper lip, too large for his face, too heavy for someone who once carried a noble Drakarion crest as heir to the Drakarion throne.

He pressed the edges firmly, testing the adhesive, then leaned back to examine himself.

The wig—short, dark, nothing like his usual sharp royal cut—completed the stranger looking back at him.

He exhaled slowly. “So this is my life now,” he murmured. “An exile dressing up like a fugitive.”

His reflection did not answer, but the faint scales along his jaw glimmered beneath the artificial hotel lights, reminding him he was no longer the man he used to be.

He tugged on the collar of the rough street clothes Patrick Johnson had bought him.

The fabric felt cheap, unfamiliar, almost insulting compared to the noble fabrics he once wore. But comfort was not an option anymore. Survival required wearing whatever kept him hidden.

He stepped out into the cramped hotel room and reached for the remote. The TV flickered to life, filling the silence with a reporter’s sharp voice.

And then Evans froze.

Grand Lord Adrian—his father—stood behind a podium draped with the emblem of Drakarion. His white suit glimmered under studio lights as he addressed a swarm of microphones.

“I myself together with the Drakarion council has successfully prosecuted my son Evans Drakar,” Grand Lord Adrian declared with stone-hard confidence. “He has been stripped of his title and banished for crimes against our realm and our alliances. The throne will not tolerate treason.”

Evans tightened his grip on the remote until the plastic creaked.

His father’s voice carried on, booming through the tiny room. “We will reclaim the gold mines lost to the Aureldrake soldiers. Drakarion will rise stronger. My son's treachrous actions will not stain our future.”

Evans felt heat flare under his skin. He remembered the heat core project that took a lot out of him. “Now I am the traitor. When I tried to save this city,” he whispered out of anger.

The broadcast cut to another scene—this time it showed Ronan, his older brother.

Ronan looked polished, groomed, every strand of hair in place. But Evans noticed the tremble in his hand as he adjusted his suit. The flicker of panic was in his eyes.

“He knows,” Evans muttered. “He knows the men he sent after me are dead.”

And if Ronan suspected Evans was still alive… the entire Drakarion would soon know too.

A sharp knock broke through the noise. Evans turned off the TV and crossed the room in two long strides. He opened the door to find Patrick Johnson standing there, dressed in a crisp gray suit, leaning lightly on his polished cane.

“Good morning, Lord Evans,” Patrick said with a warm smile. “I guess you are ready.”

Evans only nodded. Words felt unnecessary. He followed Patrick out of the room, down the narrow hotel hallway, and into the morning air.

Patrick opened the door of his sleek luxury car. “After you.”

Evans slid in, adjusting his disguise once more. Patrick climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

As they rolled out onto the street, Evans watched the city blur past—the tall towers, the bustling markets, the banners carrying the Drakarion crest. He had once belonged to this world. Now he was only a ghost passing through it.

After several minutes of silence, Evans finally asked, “Why am I moving with you to this… business meeting?”

Patrick kept his eyes on the road. “Well, I don’t wish to discuss that now. We’ll talk when we reach our destination.”

Evans shifted his stare to him. Something about the way Patrick dodged the question scraped against his nerves.

He tried to read Patrick’s thoughts again. Tried to pierce into the old man’s mind the same way he had done hours earlier. But this time… the vision he saw was blurred. Faint. Like trying to look through fogged glass.

Evans frowned. “Strange,” he said quietly.

Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

“I can barely sense your thoughts,” Evans said. “Even with my Primordius dragon force… I should be able to see them clearly.”

Patrick chuckled faintly. “Perhaps your power is still settling.”

But Evans wasn’t convinced. Even with his Celestro force he could see through clear thought patterns—bright, sharp, readable. Patrick’s mind was masked, obscured, intentionally clouded. Why?

Evans leaned back, keeping his expression neutral. He wasn’t afraid of Patrick. The old man couldn’t harm him. No one could—not anymore.

With the Primordius Dragon Force within him, he was the most dangerous man in the realm.

Still… suspicion rooted itself deeper.

The car turned toward the lower districts.

The shining towers of Drakarion gave way to rusted bridges, broken neon lights, and abandoned factories. Evans glanced out the window, taking in the shadows that stretched across the streets like scars.

“I never knew business meetings took place in Drakarion’s lower districts,” he said.

Patrick’s hand tightened around the steering wheel. “Some meetings require… privacy.”

Evans noticed the tension in his shoulders. The slight hitch in his breath. The subtle flicker of unease.

“You’re hiding something,” Evans said.

Patrick didn’t answer.

The road narrowed. Ahead, a set of cracked concrete steps led underground, half-hidden behind a collapsed metro sign.

Evans inhaled sharply.

He could feel something below—faint dragon auras buried deep under the city. Oraco. Branth. Others weaker but numerous. Possibly gathering of dangerous men in a place no law dared enter.

Patrick finally spoke. “Evans… there are things I must explain once we get inside. But you must trust that I brought you here for a good reason.”

“That depends,” Evans said quietly, “on whether you’ve been honest with me.”

Patrick flinched.

Evans caught a strange scent—something chemical, artificial—coming from Patrick’s clothes. His eyes narrowed. “You used something to suppress your aura.”

Patrick stayed silent, lips pressed tightly.

Evans reached a decision.

He whispered a Primordius chant beneath his breath. His eyes shifted, turning gold with black iris. His aura rose like heat shimmering off desert sand.

Before Patrick could react, Evans reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.

The effect was instantaneous.

Patrick gasped, jerking so violently he halted the vehicle, and slammed into the car door.

A sharp cry escaped him as a wave of suppressed energy tore through his body. His cane rattled on the floor. He clutched the seat, struggling to breathe.

“Stop—Evans—stop—!” he choked.

Evans held him firmly, expression unreadable. “Show me what you’re hiding.”

Patrick’s eyes flashed—

A deep, unmistakable blue.

The color of a Celestro.

Evans’s brows lifted. Not in shock—rather in confirmation.

“So,” Evans said, his voice was cold and calm, “you possess the Celestro Dragon Force.”

Patrick’s breath trembled. His mask was shattered. His secret was exposed.