The crowd's murmurs faded into a distant hum. Nathan’s heart hammered against his ribs, weighted by the gamble he was about to take. A high-pitched whine filled his ears as he sought a quiet corner, eyes avoiding the desperate faces around him. The Verdant Spire disciples formed a protective cordon, while Zeryn stood guard, deflecting the probing gazes of the mob.

  Across the cavern, Aotian outlined their grim menu of options. One: stay and fight. Two: surrender with Prince Daniel. Three: wait for Nathan. The survivors teetered on the brink of chaos, but the Tier 3 cultivators swiftly clamped down. The memory of the headless agitator served as a potent warning against defiance.

  Nathan sat cross-legged and closed his eyes. The physical world fell away, shrinking until only the Passive System remained.

  He had long analyzed the flaws of [Battle Trance]. The target-reset mechanic was a severe liability. Using Zeryn as a pincer had been a desperate patch, granting just enough burst speed to calculate his next move. And the Lightning Aspect was a fickle crutch—it drained too fast and recharged too slow.

  His true objective was the skill he had secured with [Skill Locker] the day the Obsidian Fang Sect vanished.

  [Healing Factor]

  Description: Increases your overall regenerative abilities.

  Hidden Effect: ???

  [Healing Factor]. A Very Rare passive. It held the same rank as the skill that now hovered before him, a grayed-out line struck through with a cross: [Titan’s Descendant].

  Based on his roll history, he was due. A rough calculation placed the odds of hitting a Very Rare skill at 1 in 4.5. The math was on his side.

  The battle at Maelivar had boosted his credit count to over four thousand—enough for eight rolls. His fate, and Frank's survival, hung on these eight chances.

  He didn't hesitate. He purchased the rolls and spun the wheel.

  Starting New Roll… You have received [Death Leech].

  --

  [Death Leech]

  Description: Absorb residual energy from fallen enemies to replenish your own.

  --

  Nathan frowned. Useful, but it carried a malevolent aura. A primal instinct warned him that this skill was slippery—a path to unwelcome associations. But he had no time for moral debates.

  Second Roll. You have received [Seismic Sense].

  --

  [Seismic Sense]

  Description: Feel vibrations through the ground, granting a rough image of the surrounding area and movement within it.

  --

  Unlike the silent [Death Leech], [Seismic Sense] kicked in with a vengeance. A sensory tsunami washed over him. Every footstep struck his mind like a hammer. A 3D wireframe of the cavern constructed itself in his consciousness. He felt the frantic scurrying of insects trapped beneath the shifting rock, sensing their panic as the earth crushed them.

  The sensory overload floored him. He gasped, palms pressing against the cool stone. Even the plink of his own sweat hitting the floor throbbed in his skull like a drumbeat.

  Nathan squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for another sensory assault. His eyelids trembled, then settled.

  Third Roll. You have received [Energy Storage].

  --

  [Energy Storage]

  Description: Store a portion of excess energy. Stored energy depletes over time.

  --

  Thankfully, this skill didn't trigger a sensory rollercoaster. Nathan quickly assessed it as useful but not a game-changer.

  Fourth Roll. You have received [Kinetic Trace].

  --

  [Kinetic Trace]

  Description: Track the kinetic energy and muscle shifts of opponents.

  --

  Nathan kept his eyes squeezed shut, refusing to be blindsided by another sensory assault. His eyelids trembled for a few seconds before settling.

  Two thousand credits evaporated. He cursed. His odds of hitting [Healing Factor] hovered at 20%.

  With a mental nudge, he confirmed the command.

  Congratulations!

  You have received a Very Rare Skill – [Healing Factor].

  A cry escaped him, cut short as euphoria curdled into agony. A full-body seizure took hold. Sickening cracks echoed off the cave walls as his bones realigned. Every eye turned to see him writhing, limbs twisting into unnatural shapes like a marionette with tangled strings.

  The shing of drawn steel cut the air. Whispers of "demonic arts" hissed through the crowd. Nathan tried to speak, but the pain stole his voice. He could only watch through tear-blurred eyes as Zeryn glared at the aggressors, his intent sharp enough to make their blades waver.

  Nathan's arms snapped left, then right. Legs contorted at impossible angles before resetting with wet thuds. But the true horror was internal: organs shifted as if rearranged by a giant, invisible hand. Veins pulsed like worms beneath his skin, bulging and receding. Thick, foul-smelling black ichor trickled from his lips.

  "Demon Energy!" a voice shrieked.

  "Stand down!" Zeryn roared, his blade bare. "That is the purging of impurities, you fools. Speak another word of slander, and I will take your tongue."

  The commotion died as Nathan retched violently, expelling the last of the toxin. Then, the agony ceased.

  He opened his eyes. A profound sense of renewal washed over him; every cell felt reborn. The lingering entropy damage had vanished, replaced by a vibrant thrum of vitality. He welcomed the sensation like an old friend. He had missed the resilience of [Titan’s Descendant], and this was a worthy echo.

  He sensed the key difference immediately: unlike [Titan’s Descendant], [Healing Factor] did not scale with his Physical Cultivation. It required manual upgrades via the System. It was an independent engine.

  A tingle started at the base of his neck, spiraling into a searing heat that flooded his throat. His chest became a furnace. Instinct took the wheel. He threw his head back and roared.

  The sound that erupted was primal—a deep, resonant bellow that hit the crowd like a physical wall, shoving them back. The vibration triggered his [Seismic Sense], painting a ripple of force in his mind's eye.

  It was a command.

  Shock rippled through the onlookers; mouths hung open, eyes bulged. A tremor of awe followed—knees bent involuntarily, bodies reacting to a predator higher on the food chain.

  Prince Daniel’s eyes narrowed, a cocktail of fear and reverence swirling in his gaze.

  "Draconic Bloodline!" Daniel exclaimed. "How did you...? The dragon blood from the Shifting Trials—you said it was spent! Where did you acquire more?"

  The question hung heavy in the air, pressing down on everyone. The prospect of obtaining dragon blood was a universal ambition. A few licked their lips, exchanging greedy, speculative glances.

  Nathan stood, disoriented. Yet an unfamiliar swelling filled his chest—a defiant pride that viewed the inquiries of lesser beings with disdain.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  "I answer to no one, human!" His voice thrummed with resonant power, laced with simmering heat. "You are in no position to question me."

  Mana flared as cultivators instinctively braced for a fight. Nathan's rational mind knew this wasn't greed; it was the prey's primal fear of the predator, an instinct that demanded a response.

  The bestowal process faded. The overwhelming presence receded, and the crushing pressure in the cavern dissipated, allowing them all—Nathan included—to breathe again.

  Daniel stepped forward, palms raised to pacify the crowd. "Do you wish to invoke the wrath of the Dragnoid Clans? Sheathe your weapons!"

  The cultivators blinked, exchanging confused glances as the haze of instinct lifted. Just as Nathan suspected, they didn't know why they had reacted. It was suicide; most wouldn't stand a chance against him and Zeryn combined.

  Having quelled the mob, the Prince clasped his hands and bowed to Nathan. "It is an honor to stand in the presence of a descendant of the Sacred Lands. Forgive my earlier impertinence."

  Daniel’s words struck the crowd like thunder, stealing their breath. Nathan’s included.

  He shot a desperate glance at Zeryn. Catching the signal, the sword prodigy waved a dismissive hand at the onlookers.

  They backed away, gazes lingering not with judgment, but with reverence. Daniel offered a small, knowing smile before retreating to his council.

  Zeryn grabbed Nathan's arm, establishing a secure PsiLink.

  "Again, Nate. What the fuck was that? It's the Outer Sect Tournament all over again."

  "Can't say on PsiLink."

  Zeryn nodded. "Fine. But this changes everything. Dragon Breath? And what the hell was that exorcism ritual?"

  "Long story. Can't explain now. Short version: I just boosted our survival odds."

  Zeryn sighed. "That bastard Daniel just put a target on your back. Post-war, the Divine Tower and the Dragnoid Clans will be hunting you."

  "Are dragons really that big a deal?"

  Zeryn glared, resisting the urge to smack him. "In the West? No. But in the Monster Republic and the East, they are gods. It's not necessarily bad, though. If the Dragnoid Clans find a wandering descendant, they’ll offer protection. They are infamously possessive."

  "So Daniel outed me to draw enemy fire?"

  "That's one way to look at it."

  "Royalty. A nest of vipers."

  "Touché."

  Shooting Daniel a glare, Nathan refocused on the interface.

  Rare and above skills grant one bonus roll.

  Starting Skill Roll…

  Congratulations! You have received a Rare Skill – [Dragon Heart]

  --

  [Dragon Heart]

  Description: Bestows draconic resilience, an affinity for primal flame, and the overwhelming presence of a true dragon.

  --

  Bonus rolls will not grant extra rolls, even if the skill received is Rare or above.

  The description stunned him. The lie he'd spun during the Shifting Trials had become reality. He noted the System's hierarchy immediately: [Titan’s Descendant] was Very Rare, while [Dragon Heart] was merely Rare. The System clearly valued the Titan bloodline more, yet judging by the crowd’s trembling knees, the world revered the Dragon far more.

  Why? he wondered. Did the Titans leave a darker legacy? The visions...

  Nathan snapped back to the present, his attention returning to more pressing matters. His body was fully restored, but others were not. Most importantly, Zeryn. With his new skills, he could risk it.

  But first, he needed to inform the Verdant Spire Sect disciples of his plan. He needed a small, loyal group to support him.

  He erected a soundproof barrier. "Aotian's third option is me. We are escaping to the Verdant Spire."

  Heads snapped up. "The choice is yours," Nathan continued. "I trust you can decide your own fates. I have done my duty as a Senior Brother. We are going home."

  Frank stepped forward, clasping his hands. "Senior Brother, I am with you. Lead the way home."

  Nathan clapped the young man on the shoulder, catching Frank's infectious smile. He swallowed the hard truth: without Frank, he would have abandoned the rest of them without a backward glance. Not that he held any resentment toward Zeryn's protector. They owed each other nothing, so he had no right to demand anything. In the eyes of high-tier cultivators, someone like Nathan was less than a grain of sand. Even Zeryn wasn't fully protected, so what right did they have to ask for more?

  A few hesitant glances darted toward the other groups huddled in the cave.

  Elen bit his nails, stepping forward hesitantly. "Is this the right call? Isn't there strength in numbers?"

  "We entered Maelivar with six hundred and left with thirty," Frank grimaced.

  "But we have more Tier 3s here than under Lachlan," Elen countered.

  His response made everyone lower their heads, avoiding Nathan's gaze.

  Nathan shot a look at Elen, but Zeryn beat him to it. "If you have nothing useful to say, shut your mouth, Elen!"

  Elen flinched, turning his face away and hunching his shoulders.

  Nathan reached out to stop Zeryn. The final battle had clearly taken its toll on his friend. Zeryn's jaw was tight as he waved a hand and let out a sharp breath. Nathan understood his frustration. He had a way out of here but had chosen to stay and help. If his own sect members weren't going to be supportive, the least they could do was not add fuel to the fire.

  "I'm just telling the truth," Elen mumbled.

  "You aren't wrong," Nathan said cold. "So decide. Now. Follow me, or take your chances with the Prince. You have ten seconds."

  Only two more disciples stepped up.

  Elen? Nathan realized that despite the cowardly questions, his junior brother had been standing next to Frank the entire time.

  The remaining disciples lacked the bond forged in blood; their trust was finite. Nathan had neither the time nor the inclination to beg.

  He dispelled the barrier. His squad of five moved toward the center.

  The crowd parted. A glowglobe cast half of Nathan's face in shadow, highlighting the heavy set of his jaw.

  "Mr. Nathan," Aotian addressed him formally. "State your plan one last time."

  "There is a third option," Nathan said, his voice level. "Escape. Not a retreat—since the military hasn't issued the order—but a tactical withdrawal. Staying here is suicide. We lost this war. Face it."

  Aotian’s face darkened, but he offered no argument. He merely clasped his hands and stepped aside.

  Prince Daniel smiled softly. "Why so tense, Mr. Nathan? Surrender remains a viable option. No bloodshed. The Convention of War guarantees your safety."

  Nathan’s lip twitched. The Convention. Where was that law when the Nyralith clan was slaughtered?

  "Ask yourselves," Aotian addressed the crowd. "What awaits you in enemy hands? Life, perhaps. But at what cost? Torture? Humiliation? Slavery?"

  "Spare us the melodrama," Daniel snapped. "Is any option risk-free? At least with me, you have a guarantor. You have no value as corpses. But as hostages? You are worth mana stones and artifacts. That is the better deal."

  Aotian nodded slowly. "Or you can stay, and die with dignity."

  Arguments erupted. Shouting matches broke out as the crowd fractured. Aotian’s loyalists and Daniel’s defectors formed the largest blocks, squeezing Nathan’s small group between them.

  "Who's with you?" the Stormcrown Tier 3 asked.

  "Myself, Zeryn, and four Tier 2s," Nathan answered.

  He omitted one detail: Argentius. Upon activating the Dragon Bloodline, his tiger companion had contacted him, voice dripping with irritation and hatred. Nathan kept the beast hidden; he wanted recruits driven by will, not by reliance on a monster.

  Hell waited outside. He couldn't babysit the unwilling.

  "A suicide squad," someone muttered.

  "But they have him," Sevro interrupted, pointing at Nathan. "If anyone can breach the perimeter, it's him. If Zeryn weren't injured, the two of them alone would suffice."

  Nathan met the Gravity Cultivator's gaze. The man in purple offered a subtle nod. A silent message passed between them—respect, acknowledged and returned.

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Disciples approached the Unwinged Dragon survivors, seeking verification. Aotian's soldiers held nothing back, confirming Nathan’s feats. The impossible escape to Verdant Spire suddenly seemed plausible.

  "And you, Sevro?" Daniel asked, voice laced with challenge. "Will you flee with him?"

  "Your Highness," Sevro replied, disdain coloring his tone. "Spare me the goading. There is no shame in survival. But to answer your question: No. I stay. Aotian needs support to hold the line."

  The answer silenced the room. Yet, Sevro's choice ratcheted up the tension. A Gravity Aspect was a game-changer. With him, Nathan’s escape would be smoother. Without him, the last stand gained a pillar of strength. Hope flickered—reinforcements? A new border? A ceasefire?

  The scales tipped back to deadlock. Words had lost their currency. Bitterness rose in Nathan's throat like bile. Sevro’s endorsement wasn't enough; they needed a guarantee, and Nathan couldn't give one.

  He frowned. What did I expect?

  The thought snapped him back to reality. He wasn't Lachlan. He couldn't succumb to a hero complex, believing he could conjure miracles from thin air. Look where that path had led the Major.

  Besides, was the Verdant Spire even safe? He could barely manage his own survival; worrying about the choices of others was a luxury he couldn't afford.

  He scanned the leaders. Subtlety betrayed them—a faint smirk, an evasive glance. Daniel and Aotian maintained composed exteriors, but the air between them hummed with calculation.

  They're stalling.

  He glanced at Zeryn, who offered a minute shake of his head. Give it up, the gesture said. Don't try to save everyone.

  Delay meant death. If the enemy advanced too deep, escape would vanish. Aotian and Daniel were playing a tug-of-war with Nathan and Zeryn as the rope. A Valtaris scion and a Draconic descendant? They were the ultimate bargaining chips.

  Nathan’s fist slammed into the stone table. Crack. It shattered. The explosion of dust silenced the room.

  "You should all be actors." Nathan’s bitter laugh curdled into a growl. "Three minutes. Decide. Then I leave. Your lives are your own."

  He spun on his heel and marched back to his corner.

  "I'm sorry," Zeryn murmured, leaning against the wall.

  "Part of me is furious," Nathan admitted. "Part is grateful. But next time? Tell me. I’m slow on the uptake with politics. I need the intel."

  "I know. I hate being handled. I shouldn't have handled you."

  "It's done. Let's plan."

  In the end, a trickle of survivors joined them. Nathan announced the plan once, loud and clear. No repetitions.

  He mandated an arrowhead formation—familiar ground for the Verdant Spire disciples. He distributed rations and set a strict rotation for rear guard duty.

  It wasn't a perfect plan. But it was a plan.

  Crucially, a few Water and Earth Aspect cultivators joined the fold. In the desert, they were worth their weight in mana stones.

  Three minutes elapsed.

  The final count was nineteen. Most were Stormcrown. Ironically, his own Verdant Spire juniors chose to stay behind.

  Nathan signaled the move.

  Aotian intercepted him, offering a handful of small square tiles. "Take these. I've been in your debt since that night at the encampment. I am sorry for the delay, Nathan. Truly. Safe journey."

  Nathan paused. A complex mix of frustration and respect churned in his gut.

  "Why are you so stubborn?" Nathan asked softly. "Why stay?"

  Aotian smiled. "Duty. Lachlan drilled it into us. We aren't just staying for the country; we're staying for you. We hold the line so you can run. Someone has to be the shield."

  Nathan nodded, extending his hand. "You did good, Aotian. Lachlan would be proud."

  Aotian gripped his hand, eyes crinkling with a weary smile.

  Sevro stepped up next, shaking hands with both Zeryn and Nathan. "Raincheck on the rematch. Don't die before I collect."

  "I will depart shortly as well," Daniel chimed in, smiling cunningly. "I shall create a... diversion."

  Daniel remained an enigma—a Prince burdening a suicide mission, yet incapable of dropping the mask of an arrogant ass.

  "Fuck you," Nathan said casually.

  He turned away, the laughter of the doomed echoing in his ears.

  He tossed the tiles. They expanded and interlocked, forming a hovering platform—safe now, far from Maelivar's buried charges.

  His team boarded.

  The desert waited.