A true dragon's bodily gifts really are unmatched.
Gauss's iron fists, wrapped in draconic force, pounded the drake's tough skull like a blacksmith hammering iron. And yet, despite its pitiful condition, the body beneath him could still surge with frightening strength. It went from furious roaring and thrashing to ragged, pained howls—broken whimpers squeezed from its throat.
The pride in its golden slit eyes had been snuffed out; only a numb, near-submissive look remained.
Gauss kept both bloodlines burning; even with a "buffet" at hand to feed him, the overdraw showed—his face had gone a little pale.
At last—after who knew how many punches—Gauss stopped.
He braced one knee against the thick neck and drew breath, looking down at the great beast, completely stripped of resistance and barely alive. A flicker of conflict crossed his eyes.
Sensing the blows had ceased, the drake pried its lids up on the last of its strength and looked at him. A humble plea flickered there.
"Rr—"
The weak whine slipped from its throat. It knew its life hung on the man's whim. Instinct to live turned the savage dragon-beast as meek as a cat.
Gauss held its gaze. He was truly torn.
When he'd first learned a drake lurked here, he'd only planned to kill it—tick a new entry in his Index. Not because he lacked ambition or the dream of a dragon rider, but for many reasons.
The biggest: he couldn't do it. Weak hatchlings will sometimes bend the knee to stronger dragons, but that doesn't mean they'll willingly become another race's mount or servant.
Dragon pride is carved in the bone—especially for reds, with their violent tempers and lust to rule. When they yield to other dragons, it's usually under duress—an overwhelming gap in power. And dragons have their own "hire contracts" in their legacy to protect both sides.
For a human to forge a pact with a dragon is very hard—requires a contract scroll of the highest grade. And even those shining dragon riders, rumor has it their pacts are harshly equal—sometimes more like one-way devotion from the knight to the dragon.
Scraps of hidden lore ran through Gauss's mind—rider and house pay in treasure and rare reagents for a time-limited, mutually beneficial deal. Even then the odds are poor—you first have to meet a dragon not hostile to humans, and most chromatic dragons despise them by nature.
They revere violence; selfish, sly, self-centered; scarcely pious to their five-headed goddess—pragmatists and shallow believers. If that's how they treat gods, what of humans? To chromatics, humanoids are slaves, tribute, or food.
Metallics, for their part, uphold order and protect the weak, striking from shadow or openly to guard civilization, walking the world in human form to guide heroes and fight evil.
That doesn't mean they'll sign with humans. Their goodness carries a faint "dad energy." They protect and enlighten—they stand above as mentors, wise sages, acting from their own measure of Order and Justice.
Most humans to them are short-lived "children" or cute pets. The help is sincere, but it's an unequal relationship—why would they become someone's mount?
Worse, metallics are family-bound; few ever let humans near their young or drakes. "Angel Investment" is off the table.
Even if a would-be rider met a dragon and they took to each other, there are more hurdles: compatibility must be high or the pact fails; the rider's faction must sustain the dragon with steady wealth—food, treasure, rare things. It's far harder than snagging a "supercar" in his past life.
So when Gauss first scouted the red-blooded drake by clay magic, the thought of dragon-riding flashed and died. He simply didn't have the power to suppress it. Even if he pinned it down briefly under special states—then what?
The scroll to bind a drake is far beyond low-tier reach, and he couldn't afford to feed it. Once it recovered, it would be a bomb—huge risk of backlash. How would a red-blooded drake truly yield to someone weaker?
Should he live ready to trigger that stacked form at any moment—and spend his attention babysitting it? The drake would be burden and threat, not aid.
In the end, he lacked strength. If he fought at a calm, constant Level 9 or 10, he could smother this danger at will.
But…
In the face-to-face fight, his thinking shifted.
It was the white "egg" long sleeping in his body—stirring with a strange urge. It could help. More precisely: it wanted this. The drake's presence benefited it somehow; it woke and pressed its will upon him.
"…Fine. Let's try it."
He exhaled. In recent months—thinking back to that black forest—he'd begun to guess the egg's role. It was like an "experience amplifier": where one adventure might give a share, with it, it could be one and a half.
He wasn't ungrateful. "Rent" or not, it had helped, and he didn't mind listening when no harm was done. If it failed—this drake was already broken and bleeding; he could always take its life.
Sensing his "change of heart," the egg rejoiced—like a child finally given its toy.
Under the drake's trembling, pleading gaze, Gauss leaned down and pressed a palm lightly to its spine. A mysterious force flowed from the egg.
Crack—crack—
Brilliant golden chains unfurled from his hand—not physical, but woven of ancient, tight-packed runes, warm and holy—yet heavy with a superior's authority.
The drake jerked; instinct screamed run—but it was too beaten to move. A blood-deep fear washed it; the chains felt like a higher law.
"Mm…" a barely audible whine.
The chains wrapped it like living things—and tightened.
Crack, crack—crack, crack!
They didn't tear its scarred flesh; they passed through scale and meat—sinking into the body. Gauss felt the connection—between the drake and him—no, between the drake and the egg in him.
Before his eyes, the drake's aura dimmed; its lids slid down; it slept.
He understood. He didn't know how, but the egg had suppressed and sealed the drake—down to about a Level 6 professional's strength—and skimmed the surplus as tribute, a portion of which would flow to Gauss.
Rebellion would be… difficult.
He finally let out a breath. The egg was mafia as hell—and he liked it.
The drake was the egg's captive—his captive. From this moment, he was a dragon rider. A drake is still a dragon…
"Heh."
He couldn't help but laugh. As for the drake's wounds—he'd leave them. It would heal.
He turned his eyes to the other fight. The rest of the party held the kobold horde in a tense grind—not desperate. The dragonborn was dead; without it, the kobolds couldn't easily break Albena's line. If the drake were combat-ready, it would be simple—but for now, it was on the party.
As for ruling the kobolds through the drake—no. A vassal's vassals aren't your vassals. Herding monsters is taboo; even if his bloodline cowed them for a time, their nature toward humans wouldn't change.
Let them scatter, and he'd be to blame for the harm. If word of "monster nesting" got out, he'd be a target for everyone. The Church's zealots and paladins would brand him a blasphemer no better than a cultist.
The price was too high.
While his power still held, he kept the dragonfear stack and flashed toward the battlefield.
…
His arrival smashed the balance. His suppression of kobolds was absolute; even the clay constructs fed off it. The scene turned to efficient reaping.
Once the kobolds realized the drake had been "killed," they broke. Without will, strength flagged.
The sand fell silent. Bodies lay everywhere; blood hung heavy.
"Gauss, are you okay?" Alia grabbed his arm—his face had gone pale. He was half-man, half-dragon in pale energy—but clearly drained.
"I'm fine—listen," he said through breath, forcing the words.
"The red drake is subdued. Don't worry about it. Alia—see if it'll fit in the beast bag later. Keep it quiet. Go gather loot. When I drop this state, I'm going to crash—cover the rest."
"Albena…" He looked to the towering woman. He wasn't entirely at ease—but he had to trust her. The drowsiness was coming in waves. "Please—watch over them."
"Don't worry, Sir Gauss," Albena said, scratching her head, a little lost but willing.
Gauss sighed inwardly—and released both Ghoul Form and Ironscale.
It was like pulling the skeleton out of his body; bone-deep weakness drowned him. The blue armor flickered out; gold eyes went back to normal.
"Ugh—"
He couldn't hold back a groan. The backlash was worse than he'd expected. All strength vanished. He tried to say more—blackness swept his vision.
"Gauss!"
Shouts spiked at the edge of consciousness—then the tide of dark took him.
As he fell, Serandur was there in a heartbeat.
"He's in rough shape." Muscle fiber torn everywhere; nothing uninjured; heart and lungs rattled. Anyone else would be dead.
But something puzzled him—a warm, powerful force cupped Gauss's heart, feeding into the wreck to mend it.
"He'll live," Serandur said at last, wiping sweat away. "Alia—collect the spoils. I'll tend the captain."
He popped the Folding House and settled Gauss inside. The mystery energy would work—but he wouldn't just stand by. He set about weaving healing magic over Gauss's battered frame.