The thick, humid air of the underground chamber carried the acrid smell of sweat, worn leather, and rusted metal. Torches fixed to the rough stone walls cast moving shadows that danced like specters across the weathered faces of the former prisoners. Sitting on an abandoned metal crate, a remnant from a time when these tunnels served as warehouses, Mordred silently observed the group of hunters he had recently torn from the draconic dungeons.
These men and women had once been formidable fighters, human predators capable of tracking and bringing down creatures that others wouldn’t even dare face in dreams. But captivity had broken them, branded them with the red-hot iron of humiliation and suffering. Their bodies bore the scars of refined tortures, their gazes betrayed a smoldering rage that simmered beneath the surface, and their movements, even in training, retained that desperate brutality of those who had learned that violence was the only language their jailers understood.
Marcus, a man in his forties with a shaved head and a torso covered in claw-shaped burns, struck the training dummy with a savagery that far exceeded what was necessary. Each punch resonated like a sledgehammer blow, and Mordred could see in his eyes that particular gleam of those who had crossed certain moral lines to survive. Beside him, Elena, a woman with short-cut black hair and the gaze of a wolf, wielded her daggers with murderous precision, systematically targeting vital points even on a simple straw dummy.
All retained that primitive aggressiveness, that violence just beneath the surface that had kept them alive in the dungeons. Some had nervous tics - Gareth constantly cracked his knuckles with sharp sounds that testified to bones broken then healed; Vera muttered threats in the ancient tongue while training, as if mentally rehearsing the tortures she would inflict on her former torturers.
For nearly a month now, Mordred had subjected them to intensive and merciless training. From dawn, they ran through the underground tunnels until exhausted, their breath forming vapor clouds in the cold air. Then came close combat exercises - brutal hand-to-hand fighting where the blows were real, where blood flowed regularly, where only the rule of "no death" prevented fatal injuries. The afternoon was devoted to handling draconic weapons recovered during raids: those blades forged from an unknown metal that cut flesh like butter, those bows whose arrows could pierce plate armor.
But despite all these efforts, despite the sweat, blood, and endless hours of training, their progress remained cruelly slow. Oh, they were gradually recovering their physical form, their reflexes were sharpening again, but it was insufficient. Dramatically insufficient.
Mordred clenched his fists, feeling his nails dig into his palms until they drew blood. Frustration rose in him like a black tide, a cold anger that knotted his stomach. He watched Marcus who had just smashed the dummy’s chest with a particularly violent punch, sending straw flying in all directions. The man was panting, covered in sweat, his muscles bulging under his scarred skin. Strong, certainly. Fast, undeniably. But sufficient to face a dragon? Mordred bitterly doubted it.
His gaze slowly swept over the group, lingering on each face, gauging each movement. Elena had just succeeded in a series of complex movements with her daggers, her blades tracing deadly arcs in the air. Impressive for a human. Derisory against an adult dragon. Gareth lifted an iron weight that would have broken an ordinary man’s spine. Remarkable. Insufficient.
How could he hope to wage this war with soldiers so limited by their mere humanity? How could he stand against draconic armies with fighters who, despite their courage and determination, remained fundamentally vulnerable? An adult dragon could reduce a dozen of these hunters to ashes with a single breath. A draconic general could crush them with his bare hands alone.
Time was pressing, and each passing day strengthened the enemy’s grip on this dying world. The reports he received from his spies were increasingly alarming: new draconic colonies established, human populations enslaved, resistances crushed one after another. He could no longer afford to wait for his recruits to reach their natural potential. He needed a radical solution.
Closing his eyes, Mordred let the humid coolness of the stone slightly calm the agitation that boiled in his soul. Memories of his own transformation resurfaced, sharp and painful as blades. The laboratories of the other world, those sterile rooms where draconic scientists had dissected, studied, modified him. The indescribable pain when they had injected that first serum into his veins, that burning sensation that had radiated through every cell of his body. The convulsions, the screams, the absolute certainty that he would die in atrocious suffering.
Then had come the rebirth. That power that had exploded within him, that superhuman strength, that draconic magic that now pulsed with every beat of his heart. He had become something new, something superior. A perfect hybrid between humanity and draconicity, retaining the intelligence and determination of the former while acquiring the raw power of the latter.
The idea imposed itself upon him with the force of a revelation, rising from the dark depths of his tormented mind. His blood, impregnated with draconic essence, carrier of that transformation he had himself undergone. If he injected a controlled quantity to his recruits, the effects would be immediate and spectacular. They would become half-dragons, endowed with tenfold strength and agility, increased resistance, rudimentary but powerful magic.
But he also knew the risks. Oh, how he knew them. The pain he had endured, that agony that had made him wish for death on multiple occasions. And he had benefited from all the draconic medical equipment, stabilizing serums, sophisticated survival machines. Here, in this underground room, his recruits would have only their will to keep them alive during the transformation.
How many would survive? The question haunted him. One in two? One in three? Perhaps even fewer. Bodies weakened by captivity might not withstand the shock of transformation. They could literally explode from within, consumed by magic too powerful for their diminished organisms.
His gaze turned to the group that continued training, ignoring the terrible dilemma playing out in their savior’s mind. He observed them one by one, these men and women who had trusted him, who had agreed to follow him into this impossible war. Marcus, who had lost his family in the first draconic attacks and lived only for vengeance. Elena, whose scars testified to tortures she had endured rather than reveal the location of a civilian refuge. Gareth, former royal guard, who had volunteered for a suicide mission to allow the capital’s evacuation.
All heroes in their own way. All potentially doomed if he made this decision.
The images of two faces then surged in his troubled mind, as clear as if they stood before him.
Akane. His warrior, his love, his north star in the night of this war. She had sacrificed her life to allow him to reach the draconic laboratory, interposing herself between him and a pack of dragons when she knew perfectly well she had no chance of survival. Her last words still echoed in his memory:
- "Do what must be done, Mordred. No matter the price." She had understood, even then, that war would require terrible sacrifices. But would she have approved of what he was about to do? This decision to gamble with the lives of his own allies?
Then came the face of Lena, his beloved sister, whom he hadn’t seen since the beginning of this draconic apocalypse. Was she still alive? Had she found safe refuge? The idea that she might have been captured, tortured, killed, pierced his heart like a white-hot blade. Everything he did was for her, for all the innocents who counted on him to free them from this tyranny. But would she justify the means by the end? Would she accept that he become a monster to defeat monsters?
- "Lena... Akane..." he murmured softly, his voice breaking slightly under the weight of emotion. "Forgive me for what I am about to do. I have no choice left. No more time."