Chapter 99

The Nonexistent Existence

Galeus’s arena, situated in the outskirts of the capital city, Domphera, near Opel, was a peculiar sight to behold. The day’s activities typically commenced in the late afternoon, a time when most people were just stirring from their slumber after indulging in nocturnal affairs. One could often find a couple reluctantly disentangling themselves from their lovers and beginning to rouse from their languid state.

In one of the humble abodes adjacent to the arena, a middle-aged man emerged from his bed, wrapped in a towel that strategically shielded his modesty. Emitting an aura tinged with the remnants of last night’s escapades, Galeus made his way towards the cluttered shed beside his bedroom. Upon swinging open the door, he was greeted by a burst of blinding light, prompting him to grimace in disdain before addressing his companion within.

“Did you sleep well, my dear crow?” Galeus quipped, his tone laced with arrogance.

The small shed was a chaotic jumble of assorted items, resembling more of a rubbish heap than a storage space. Among the mishmash of cheap trinkets, polished pebbles, yellow-stained vases, rusty locks, and scattered coins, sat the object of Galeus’s attention—a young dragon he had acquired long ago. Despite its designation as a “crow,” it bore little resemblance to the avian species, sporting instead a formidable physique with leathery wings reminiscent of a bat and a reptilian countenance.

“Hmm, our esteemed money-maker,” Galeus muttered, his hand roughly tousling the dragon’s head.

Once a struggling establishment barely scraping by, Galeus’s arena had undergone a remarkable transformation over the past nine years. No longer frequented solely by flies, it now attracted throngs of eager spectators, all drawn by the star attraction—the dragon.

Matches took place in the arena with relentless regularity, each night concluding with the somber procession of at least one lifeless body being carried out. The audience, comprised of two distinct groups, flooded into the arena eagerly awaiting the spectacle. Half were individuals ensnared in the clutches of debt, sold into servitude as a last resort, while the other half consisted of roving swordsmen seeking fortune through combat. Whispers of the electrifying clashes spread far and wide, enticing even nobles from distant realms to venture to Domphera.

Upon arrival, spectators clamored through the arena’s gates, eager to part with their coin for entry—a tacit acknowledgment of the brutality they were about to witness. Half of these fees were earmarked for the eventual victor, while the remainder fueled the fervor of betting pools, where attendees wagered on the outcomes of the day’s matches, with winnings divvied among those who backed the triumphant combatant.

Yet, beneath the veneer of chance and excitement lay a carefully orchestrated charade, masterminded by none other than Galeus himself. Before each bout, he would clandestinely convey to his fighters the predetermined outcome, wielding a cord adorned with a simple bronze ornament as a tangible incentive.

“Today’s challenger hails from the wandering swordsmen of Argan. He’s tasted victory for three consecutive days, but today, his luck runs dry,” Galeus declared, brandishing the cord before the dragon’s gaze. “Should you heed my instructions, this trinket shall be yours.”

With a glimmer of intrigue in its eyes, the young dragon underwent a remarkable transformation, shedding its draconic form to reveal that of a boy with jet-black hair and peculiar remnants of its former state—scales adorning its cheek and a talon-like appendage where its hand once was. Galeus, stroking his chin in contemplation, issued a final directive.

“Today, a convincing defeat is in order. Yesterday’s resounding victory has skewed the odds too heavily in your favor. Let them witness your downfall, albeit a staged one.”

Galeus’s fist collided with the boy’s attempt to seize the necklace, sending him reeling backward in surprise. Unperturbed, Galeus followed up with a swift kick, targeting the vulnerable areas where flesh met bone, deliberately avoiding the armored scales that would shatter bones upon impact.

“Learn from this. Take the blows evenly, right here,” Galeus instructed, though knowing the crow comprehended only the simplest of commands, devoid of human speech or literacy.

The crow, more akin to a trained animal than a person, served as Galeus’s prized possession—a tool for profit, conditioned to associate shiny objects with reward. Galeus continued his assault, punctuating each strike with a gesture towards the coveted necklace.

“We’ll entertain esteemed guests today and tomorrow. Succeed, and you’ll earn gold coins. No collection of trinkets can match a single gold coin,” Galeus enticed, addressing the boy, now slumped amidst the odds and ends, blood trickling from his bruised scalp, yet showing no signs of pain.

To the boy, this world held only one immutable truth: obedience to human commands, whether to kill or feign death, yielded shiny rewards. And so, he diligently gathered items, fashioning a small, squalid nest amidst the debris.

His eyes, reminiscent of the ocean’s depths, fixated on the jewelry in Galeus’s grasp, a silent plea echoing within his mind.

I want it. I want it.

“Smart one,” Galeus remarked with satisfaction. “Then, I’ll count on you again today, my darling.”

That evening, the boy, a hybrid of human and dragon, executed his role flawlessly according to his master’s instructions. Despite appearing scattered and defeated, he exuded perfection in his orchestrated downfall. Rising from the chaos of gold coins swirling around him like confetti, he returned to his nest, the coins bestowed upon him by Galeus clutched tightly in his mouth.

His left arm, disguised to resemble a human limb, hung broken and limp, while his right arm, encased in scales, remained unscathed. Propping himself up with his uninjured limb, the boy made his way down a dim corridor, oblivious to the outside world.

“Hey, loser of the day, where are you?” called out a voice, but the crow paid no heed, focused solely on reaching his nest to adorn it with his newfound riches.

“Galeus’s crow,” the voice persisted, invoking an involuntary reaction within the boy. Turning around, he spotted a young man leaning against the wall, sharing his same black hair and almost grayish-blue eyes, exuding an air of calmness.

“I recognized you instantly. A dragon that comprehends human speech,” the young man remarked, approaching with deliberate steps. Adorned in a cloak adorned with gleaming gold buttons and intricate embroidery, he outshone the crude trinkets offered by Galeus.

Before the boy’s avid gaze, the young man presented a long gold chain, bearing a pendant that emitted a soft, melodic chime as it opened to reveal a small portrait.

“Have you seen this woman?” the young man inquired, and a surge of recognition flooded the boy’s azure eyes. Even a fledgling recognizes its mother, and the woman depicted in the portrait was undoubtedly the crow’s mother.

“It seems so. She bore you, though your appearances differ greatly,” the young man said as the crow leaned in to scrutinize the portrait more closely. The young man gently closed the pendant, then extended his hand with a compassionate smile, cupping the boy’s chin.

“Now, my dear, who is the father who gifted you with such remarkable lineage?”

***

Beyond the borders of Rotiara, the land stretched into a desolate expanse, its chill reminiscent of late autumn, even in the midst of fall.

In the dimly lit barracks, Rezette found himself restless amidst a prolonged night. The flickering candle danced erratically in the mountain breeze, casting erratic shadows upon the sturdy fabric walls.

His mind wandered to a familiar yet unsettling dream—a memory of a past he wished to forget, buried deep within the recesses of his consciousness.

With a reflexive motion, Rezette reached out, expecting to find the comforting presence of another beside him, only to be met with empty space. It dawned on him belatedly that he was far from familiar territory.

Leading an expedition deep into the heart of Van Yela, nestled amidst the Grenthern Mountains, Rezette’s mission was clear: to eradicate the monsters that lurked in the spawning grounds before the onset of winter.

Just two days had passed since their departure from Rotiara, leaving behind Elise in the safety of the castle. Only a single day had elapsed since the first signs of his inner turmoil had begun to surface.

Sitting upright, Rezette removed the tight strap encircling his neck and shed his shirt, revealing sinewy muscles pulsating with latent energy. Running a hand through his hair, his veins throbbed with intensity, his blue eyes clouded with a mixture of sensitivity and unrest.

The affliction that tormented the dragon transcended mere madness; it defied classification. Sensory overload marked its onset, with heightened sensitivity plaguing every facet of perception. Vision, hearing, and even smell, while somewhat tolerable, paled in comparison to the overwhelming onslaught of touch and taste.

Every sensation became amplified to an unbearable degree—the touch of fabric against skin, the slightest brush of fingertips against objects, even the weight of vibrations and the caress of gentle breezes induced waves of discomfort. Mere sight of living beings or remnants of life invoked waves of nausea, while the taste of blood could send the afflicted into convulsions.

Emotions, too, spiraled out of control. During the throes of psychosis, Rezette found himself powerless to curb the impulsive urges and erratic thoughts that flooded his mind. Whether it was the urge to inflict harm, inexplicable bursts of rage, or haunting memories from bygone days, restraint proved futile.

As he briefly closed his eyes, hoping to dismiss the onslaught as a fleeting dream, fragmented memories of the day’s events threatened to overwhelm him—a common occurrence during his episodes. However, this time, a sense of annoyance mingled with drowsiness, signaling a departure from the usual pattern.

“…Dammit,” Rezette muttered, his body tensing involuntarily, the seams of his clothing straining against the force threatening to burst forth.

In a moment of clarity, he doused his face with cold water, a grim acknowledgment of the inevitable. A peculiar intuition had accompanied him from the outset of the journey.