The Last Dragon Emperor

Chapter 3 – The Forgotten Legend (Part A)

The heated argument had already begun long before the formal lesson even commenced. Voices clashed sharply throughout the vaulted lecture hall as students debated one of history's oldest questions with the passionate certainty only adolescents could muster.

"Dragons never actually existed in any verifiable capacity," one apprentice declared forcefully.

"But they're depicted in every single history book throughout the kingdom," another student protested.

"Exactly," a third apprentice scoffed, his tone dripping with condescension. "Right alongside mythical sea monsters and moon spirits—all equally imaginary."

Laughter rippled enthusiastically through the expansive lecture hall, but the merriment was abruptly interrupted when a tightly rolled parchment struck the side of Greg's head just as he was settling into his seat. The scroll bounced unceremoniously onto his wooden desk, drawing immediate snickers from nearby students.

Across the classroom, Cedric leaned back in his chair with an infuriating, triumphant grin plastered across his aristocratic features. "You dropped something there, orphan," he called out loudly enough for half the room to hear. "Wouldn't want to lose that as well."

A few of the nearby students snickered at the cruel reference to his stolen belongings, but Greg simply picked up the parchment without uttering a single word of protest and placed it neatly on the corner of his desk.

He had learned through painful experience during his years at the academy that answering every insult and taunt only gave his tormentors exactly what they wanted—a reaction, a moment of satisfaction, another reason to continue their persecution.

The physical architecture of the classroom itself served as a stark, undeniable reflection of the academy's deeply ingrained priorities and values.

The knight apprentices were relegated to plain oak benches positioned at the very rear of the hall, where narrow, poorly placed windows admitted precious little natural light even during the brightest afternoons.

In sharp contrast, the mage apprentices occupied seats of honor closer to the front, their polished chairs elaborately carved with glowing runes that maintained a comfortable temperature regardless of the season.

keeping them cool during sweltering summers and pleasantly warm during bitter winters. Each of their mahogany desks bore the intricate family crests of their noble houses inlaid with gleaming silver.

The seating arrangement was subtle enough to be dismissed as mere tradition, yet glaringly obvious enough to be unmistakably called what it truly was: discrimination.

Greg settled himself into the cramped bench in the back row, trying to find a position that wouldn't leave his back aching by the end of the lecture.

The dragon-shaped pendant rested beneath his shirt against his chest, and he found himself touching it unconsciously throughout the morning, deriving a profound sense of reassurance from its familiar weight after his harrowing retrieval expedition to Blackstone Well the previous evening.

However, he still could not adequately explain what he had heard echoing through that subterranean abyss. That deafening roar had sounded impossibly, terrifyingly real in a way that no rational mind should have accepted.

Yet every sensible explanation his logical mind could construct insisted it absolutely could not have been anything living or tangible.

A heavy, ornate staff struck the stone floor with an authoritative crack that reverberated through the entire chamber, immediately commanding the absolute attention of every student present.

Chief Mage Septimus Varis entered the hall without haste, his flowing crimson robes billowing behind him like liquid fire itself.

Though well into his sixties, his posture remained perfectly straight and unbowed by age, and his striking silver hair framed a handsome face that seemed entirely untouched by warmth or compassion.

A massive sapphire crystal set into the ornate head of his staff glowed faintly with barely contained magical power, while intricate, arcane tattoos etched themselves across the backs of his powerful hands.

Behind the chief mage floated dozens of enchanted books, each turning its own pages without any visible assistance, responding to his silent commands. Knowledge bowed before him. Power followed his every step. Respect was commanded through fear.

Varis positioned himself before the great black slate wall that dominated the front of the lecture hall. With a mere flick of two fingers, he caused white letters to burn themselves across the slate's dark surface, leaving glowing imprints: HISTORY OF ARCANE CIVILIZATION.

Without even turning around to face his assembled students, he spoke in a voice that carried effortlessly through the cavernous chamber. "Tell me, if you would," Varis commanded. "What is the greatest danger that faces all historians?"

Eager hands shot into the air from nearly every corner of the classroom. Varis, however, ignored the majority of them with obvious indifference and pointed directly toward a noble girl seated prominently in the front row. "You. Lady Celestine."

The girl rose from her seat with practiced elegance. "The existence of false records, Master Varis," she answered confidently.

"An acceptable answer," the chief mage acknowledged with a single, measured nod. "You," he gestured toward another student who immediately stood.

"The complete lack of surviving evidence," the second student offered.

"Also acceptable," Varis confirmed before beginning to pace slowly across the front of the classroom. "And you?" This time, he pointed toward Roland Ashcombe, who smirked confidently before answering.

"Superstition, Master Varis," Roland declared. "People's unwillingness to accept reality when it contradicts their cherished beliefs."

A visibly satisfied smile crossed Varis's severe face. "Excellent. You have all identified genuine obstacles to historical truth, yet you have all missed the most fundamental danger." He turned back toward the slate and swept his hand across it. New words engraved themselves beneath the lesson title: MYTH.

"The greatest enemy of history itself is myth," he stated flatly. "The weak-minded invent elaborate legends and fantastical stories to explain what they cannot begin to understand or what frightens them.

Every single generation produces an abundance of fools who are pathetically eager to believe implausible stories rather than accept the simple truths before them."

With another deliberate wave of his staff, a stunning three-dimensional image materialized above the classroom, visible to every student present.

A magnificent dragon appeared, rendered in shimmering blue arcane light. Its magnificent wings stretched far wider than the lecture hall itself could accommodate.

Golden scales glimmered and reflected imaginary sunlight from every angle. The creature's maw hung open in what appeared to be a silent, terrible roar.

Several first-year students stared upward in undisguised awe, their young faces reflecting the magical light. Then, without warning, Varis snapped his fingers sharply, and the illusion instantly shattered into glittering dust that dispersed harmlessly through the air.

"Dragons," Varis pronounced, his tone dripping with unconcealed disdain. "The single greatest fabrication ever recorded throughout human history."