Primordial Awakening: Rise of the Legendary Dragon God-Chapter 113 - The real story.

For a while, Eiravel didn’t speak.

For the first time since Kael had met her—since the moment she had descended like an ancient myth given bark and breath—the World Tree stood utterly silent.

Her hand hovered in the air where Kael’s sigil had been, fingers faintly trembling.

’This... makes no sense.’

Dragons were constants.

Eiravel had watched them rise, watched them fall, and memorized their patterns, just as one memorizes the seasons. She knew what they could do and what they couldn’t.

And Kael was breaking all of it.

’No loss of talent.’

That alone was absurd.

Every dragon paid a price when they named someone—half their potential, severed and bound by fate itself.

It was not a curse. It was the law. As fundamental as roots drinking water or stars burning themselves hollow.

Yet Kael’s gauge had been full.

Not diminished.

Not restrained.

’How is he untouched?’

And then there was his sigil.

Black dragons existed. Rare, but not unheard of.

Shadow dragons often bore that hue—subtle, predatory, silent things that slipped between layers of darkness. Space dragons, too, carried colors close to black, though theirs leaned toward deep greys, like dying stars.

She had seen one space dragon, who was one of the strongest beings she had ever seen, and he had told her that space dragons could be of any color, and from what she knew, Kael was proficient with space elements.

He was even proficient in the shadow element.

So, she had gone as far as to assume that he might be one of the rarest dragons... a hybrid of the two.

It would have been extraordinary.

But this?

An infinity sigil.

It wasn’t the sign of any element she knew.

She had no concept of how to anchor it.

Dragons were said to wield all magic, yes—but even they had leanings. A direction. A truth written into their existence.

Kael had none.

Or worse—

’He has something else entirely.’

Her thoughts tangled, ancient knowledge folding in on itself, rejecting every conclusion she tried to force upon it.

And that was when—

"...So?" Kael asked mildly. "Does that clear things up? Or do you still have doubts?"

His voice pulled her back.

Eiravel looked at him—really looked this time. Not as a remnant of a lost age. Not as a dragon.

But as a question, the world itself hadn’t answered yet.

"...I," she began, then stopped.

She hesitated.

That alone sent ripples through the room.

"...No," she said finally, slower than usual. "I have no further doubts."

Faelor blinked.

Sylvaen stiffened.

They exchanged a glance—confused, unsettled.

To them, their mother had always been certainty incarnate. Gentle, yes—but unshakable. A being who knew the answers before questions were even asked.

Yet today—

They had seen her frown.

Mutter to herself.

Fail to explain something.

’She doesn’t know what he is,’ Faelor realized, an unfamiliar weight settling in his chest.

’Even Mother... doesn’t know some things,’ Sylvaen echoed silently, equal parts awe and unease threading through her.

It was like discovering the sky could crack.

Kael, oblivious—or perhaps simply unconcerned—turned back around and snapped his fingers again. Shadow flowed up his torso, reforming into fabric as if nothing had happened.

Of course, that made some people disappointed, but now wasn’t the time to focus on that, so Kael straightened.

"Alright then," he said easily. "Since that’s settled—can we continue?"

Eiravel blinked. "Continue...?"

"You were telling us about how the dragons died," Kael said. "That’s still pretty important."

The reminder landed softly—but firmly.

Eiravel coughed into her hand, straightening, and ancient composure slowly knit itself back together. "Yes. Of course."

She paused, gathering her thoughts.

"More than ten thousand years ago," she began, "the world was... very different."

Her voice shifted—less conversational, more reverent.

"Ten thousand years is long enough to matter to even me, a being whose lifespan is never recorded. But for humans, it is long enough for truth to erode into legend and legend into convenience. More than ten generations pass, and suddenly, history becomes whatever is easiest to believe."

Lyra swallowed.

"Among demihumans," Eiravel continued, "it was even simpler. Most did not care enough to ask. And those who did... were ignored."

Her gaze darkened slightly.

"The Mystic Domain remembers. The Demon Domain does as well—though there, truth is whatever the high authorities decree. And so it remains... neatly buried."

She let the words settle before continuing.

"You ask how the dragons died. But before that, you must understand why the question itself is flawed."

She spread her hand.

"Even if beings existed who rivaled dragons in strength, that did not mean they could kill them. Especially not the ten strongest."

A hush fell.

"The Ten Gods of the World," she said. "The pillars of existence. To slay even one would require a miracle."

As she said that, she recalled how those ten dragons used to go around, fearless of anything.

’Look at what happened because of that...’ she sighed inwardly.

Alenia, on the other hand, frowned at Eiravel’s words. "Then... how?"

Eiravel smiled faintly, snapping back to the present. "To understand that, you must first understand the world."

Her gaze lifted, as if piercing the canopy, the sky, and the stars beyond.

"There are many worlds," she said. "Scattered across the vastness of space, and all of them are categorized by tiers."

She looked back at them.

"This world is Tier Ten."

The room froze.

"The lowest," she added calmly.

Lyra’s breath hitched.

Alenia’s eyes widened.

Evethra’s wings twitched.

Kael, however, merely narrowed his eyes.

Because of the dreams from the first ten days of his life in this world, he was sure there were worlds out there, so it wasn’t much shocking for him.

What did come as a surprise was the fact that this world was the lowest tier.

For a while, there was silence again, then—

"You’re saying..." Lyra began slowly.

"That the strongest beings of this world," Eiravel finished, "might not equal a normal citizen of a Tier One world."

Silence crashed down like a wave.

Only Faelor and Sylvaen remained composed—because they already knew. As beings who stood near the summit of the Mystic Domain, they had been entrusted with that truth long ago.

Alenia was the first to recover.

"Then why?" She asked sharply. "Why haven’t higher-tier worlds enslaved the weaker ones? That’s what power does."

Lyra tilted her head. "Maybe... maybe they’re not bad people?"

As soon as Lyra said that, Eiravel laughed.

Not cruelly. Not kindly.

Just honestly.

"No one is truly bad," she said. "Even a mad murderer believes his actions are justified. It’s only perspective that defines evil."

Then, before anyone came to a wrong conclusion, she shook her head lightly. "And no—those above are not so magnanimous that they would simply allow others to exist out of kindness."

Evethra frowned. "Then what stops them?"

"The rules of the universe," Eiravel replied without blinking.

She let the word hang.

"There are laws older than worlds. Higher-tier worlds are forbidden from attacking lower-tier ones. They cannot interfere. Cannot conquer."

Evethra’s frown deepened. "But... the worlds of similar power can fight each other, right?"

Eiravel’s eyes gleamed as she smiled, expecting someone to raise that question.

"Yes," she said softly. "And that... is where the real story begins."

"The real story?" Kael echoed.

Eiravel inclined her head slightly. "What do you think the world wants from one another?"

Kael didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted, thoughtful—not confused, just... weighing. Then he said, simply, "Resources."

For the first time in a while, Eiravel smiled without restraint. "Correct."

She stepped away from the center of the room, bark-soft footsteps echoing faintly. "Mana veins. Conceptual ores. Living land. Time-dense zones. Worlds are not equal in what they produce—and scarcity exists even among the stars."

Her fingers traced an invisible pattern in the air. "To prevent endless wars—wars that could annihilate worlds that fight—the universe imposed a system."

"A system?" Lyra asked quietly.

"A competition," Eiravel replied.

The word landed heavier than expected.

"Every hundred years, worlds of similar tier are matched. Champions are sent. Battles are fought under strict rules. And half of the world’s resource output for the next century is at stake."

Evethra’s wings stiffened. "Half...?"

"When a participant wins," Eiravel continued, "they claim the loser’s share. Not by invasion. Not by slaughter. By victory."

Alenia’s eyes sharpened. "Is that where the dragons died?"

Eiravel shook her head. "No. Not like that."

She looked almost... nostalgic.

"Our world was not the strongest," she said, "but neither was it weak. We did not always place first—but we always returned with profit."

Her gaze lifted, distant. "Because among the Ten Gods... there were three."

The room leaned in.

"Three dragons," Eiravel said softly, "who stood so far above the rest that even other gods measured themselves against them. With those three leading our champions, defeat never became disaster."

Faelor’s jaw tightened. Sylvaen’s fingers curled.

"So what changed?" Kael asked.

Eiravel closed her eyes.

"They made a mistake," she said at last. "They grew greedy."

Her eyes opened, ancient and grave.

"And they chose to enter the promotion competition."