Under a chorus of curious stares, Gauss and company left Gold & Silver Town.
They found a secluded spot in the wild.
"I'm going to let it out now, okay?" Alia asked, a little uneasy, checking with Gauss. Everyone in the party had felt the drake's power firsthand.
"Don't worry."
He kept it calm. Even aside from the ghostly golden chains binding it, with its strength sealed the drake likely wasn't their match now.
"Alright."
Carefully, Alia released the red-blooded drake from the beast bag. Until now she'd only fed it through the bag's mouth; she hadn't taken it out. Thankfully, while healing it had slept most of the time—no trouble.
Under Serandur's wary eye, a red figure blinked into the clearing—the drake flinched, clearly startled. One moment it was lost in dragon thoughts; the next, the world was spinning.
ROAR!
It roared on reflex. Gauss lifted a hand.
"Rr— ahem…"
Seeing the familiar yet unnerving man, it shivered; its throat pinched, the mighty roar strangled down. The impression he'd left was too deep. Even without that crushing aura, just looking at him made the whole body "remember" pain. Never in its life had it been disciplined so hard.
He didn't raise a fist. He set his palm to its scales and checked the body. The wounds were gone; missing scales had regrown—paler than the rest, the color would even out in time.
"Looks fully healed."
He walked around it, genuinely surprised. Ten days ago both he and the drake had been badly hurt. He'd had care; the drake had simply mended—dragon bodies are indeed unfairly blessed. Where most species would die, a dragon, if it can still breathe, can "eat dirt and heal"—sooner or later.
"Good, good," he nodded to himself. The trembling was there, but no attack instinct—he'd save strength. And though not grown, it was big enough as a mount—carrying several wouldn't be a problem.
"You'll be coming with us from now on, alright?"
He could feel the link the egg had forged; it should understand the gist. It started to lift its head to grumble—he raised a hand. It lowered it again.
Under a roof, even a dragon bows.
"No objections, then."
As for diet? Easy—dirt, plants, the monsters he killed—all fine. Dragon digestion will handle almost anything; the only question is preference. For now: "eat what we have." It wasn't here to be a pampered "Dragon Lord."
"Sir Gauss, here's the dragon saddle I forged—your present," Albena said, pulling a harness set from the storage in her armor.
Ah—that was the surprise. He couldn't refuse; he needed it. This was true magic gear—rich brown, specially tanned leather; key points in polished red metal; the profile sleek, hugging a drake's spine; a cushion of soft hide under the seat; a green mana crystal set at the back.
"It cuts drag and makes the ride smoother," she said. "Let's fit it."
No one else dared touch it; only Gauss could. For now the drake accepted only him; anyone else drew a stress reaction.
"Thank you—I love it," he said, hefting the weight. Albena had been at the forge for days to make this. Under her guidance, he buckled it onto the reluctant drake—perfect fit. As magic gear, it would reshape as the drake grew.
The drake shook its neck and rumbled deep.
"Alright—get used to it," Gauss patted its scales. The saddle even looked good—the red metal gleamed cold in the sun—as if it had "grown" from the dragon's back.
He rose on Fly—and settled onto the saddle. Light flowed across the tack.
"Take off."
He tapped the neck. Unwilling but obedient, the drake lifted—wingbeats kicking dust.
Gauss's mood soared with it. He still remembered seeing Guildmaster Eberhard's magnificent griffon in Grayrock—how it stung with envy. He'd dreamed of raising one—but they were too expensive. Who'd have thought he'd have a drake? Not full-grown, but already imposing—and a class above any griffon.
He guided it into the air; even sealed, its speed outpaced his own Fly by far. Dragons are born rulers of the sky—few creatures can match them. That was why, in the fight, he'd had to jump on its back at the moment of the dive; in open field it owned the engagement unless forced into a grapple.
The wind howled; the green crystal shed a soft field that domed over him—air slid past with no buffeting; the saddle cradled him; the ride was smooth.
They climbed. He sat steady, hands on the tack, feeling the wingbeats pump power. At first the flight was stiff—awkward under weight—but instinct woke quickly; the motion smoothed and grew strong.
Through the leather he felt its mood—irritated at first, then calming as it soared. He tried light cues with his weight; after a few attempts, the "slow" drake caught on, banking to follow.
The Ironscale bloodline had its own influence—the subdued drake felt little real rejection of the one who'd beaten it—partly because of the seal, partly because it couldn't win. Unable to fight, it learned to accept.
They circled over empty hills, growing used to their new mobility. Not long after, he signaled a descent. The drake folded down; the ground thudded under its landing.
"Sir Gauss—congratulations!"
"How's it feel?"
They hurried up, excited. Sitting a-dragon, Gauss looked made for it—the calm bearing above a crouching crimson beast; a scene straight out of a legend. He wasn't a hero—yet.
He swung down. "Very good. Big guy flies well—cooperative."
He patted its side. It understood—and looked away, snorting hot air. He glanced from the drake to his friends—and felt a lift for the road ahead. With the drake, they'd gained a powerhouse.
They crowded him with questions about the ride. He drifted for a second, smiling. Keep moving forward—the party would only get better…
…
On day two out of bed, Gauss returned to training. The job had given more than a drake—everyone had grown, especially Shadow at Level 5 and Gauss himself. He could feel the mage's cup brimming again.
Level up?
Fast—very. He'd only just hit Level 4 three months back when they burned out a goblin nest. Many use that time just to settle in—he was at the next threshold. Then again, tally the last months: White Falcon swordplay; oceans of Sahuagin and Shore-Walker Goblins; unlocked a second class; learned two Level 3 Spells early; killed a commander-tier Basilisk Bull; helped build out village defenses; trained new seedlings; most recently—mowed kobolds, downed a dragonborn, subdued a red drake. Big commissions, big reputation, huge piles of low-tier kills, and boss hunts—well beyond a normal Level 4's diet.
"This is the crystal and reagents," Alia said—they'd prepped all day. A mid-grade earth crystal—usually master-tier stuff—but with his mana stores, it made sense.
"No rush. A few more days," he said, seeing her fuss. His body had healed, but training had dulled both edge and flow—he needed a few days to groove back in. He was lucky—no permanent damage—just needling things to tune out. Many fall short after big injuries—stumbling at thresholds, regretting it for life.
"Be ready," Alia said again. Level 5 was special—the last "elite" rung; beyond that, master-tier. For casters, 4 to 5 was a bigger jump than 3 to 4—normally you unlock Level 3 spell at 5th. Gauss's bump would be smaller—he already had them.
Time slid by in tidy training.
…
In a little rural hut, teammates stood outside as Gauss went in.
"Hope it goes smooth."
"Relax—the captain's a genius. Have some faith."
"You're sure you're not kidding me? Sir Gauss only broke to Level 4 three months ago?" Albena still couldn't wrap her head around the tidbit she'd just learned. It sounded like a fairy tale. If it weren't Gauss, she'd call it nonsense. Who measures class ranks in months? How is that even… reasonable?