The Dragon of Albion.
A superorganism born alongside the Earth, carrying 4.6 billion years of life's knowledge.
"The oldest, most primal superbeing on this planet!" Merlin declared, continuing his explanation of the ancient true dragon.
To prove his words, he led Alaric and Artoria to Albion's remains... a colossal canyon deep beneath a lake, so vast that even Alaric, a dragon rivaling a mountain in size, could pass through effortlessly.
In this abyss of unknown depth, Alaric seemed as small as Artoria.
"So massive... " Artoria gasped.
Even Alaric, initially dismissive of Albion, now adopted a grave demeanor, compelled to respect the behemoth that had lived on Earth for 4.6 billion years.
They navigated the canyon.
According to Merlin, the canyon itself was formed from Albion's corpse. When the path to the Reverse Side of the World closed, the stranded dragon tried to dig through the planet's core to reach the Root. It failed, and its body became this labyrinthine canyon.
"The Mysteries here… they rival a secret realm!" Merlin said.
Such was the might of a true dragon.
Even in death, its body harbored enough Mysteries to sustain a "sanctuary." Alaric noticed traces of rare phantasmal species living here, many bearing signs of partial dragonification.
"Lost dragonkin?" Alaric wondered, observing the creatures guarding the dragon's tomb. He briefly considered claiming the place but ultimately dismissed the idea.
Let the departed rest in peace.
This experience deepened Alaric's understanding of Scáthach's words: "An old relic like me, having fulfilled my purpose but refusing to die quietly, must find a resting place."
If Scáthach hadn't prepared her own resting place, would her body, like Albion's, become a mystical realm?
Alaric soon had his answer.
Moments later, a living example appeared before him.
Britain, White Castle.
Once the royal seat of Camelot, it had been seized by Vortigern after its fall, becoming the lair of the White Dragon King.
A true "dragon's lair."
"That's… a dragon." Artoria murmured, perched on Alaric's back, staring wide-eyed at the scene below.
Beneath a sky thick with dark clouds, a pale dragon sprawled across the empty city, its eyes half-closed as if resting.
But Alaric knew better... it wasn't resting. It was recovering.
"He's already noticed us." Alaric said. "He's just too weak to engage, so he's holding back to avoid conflict."
Alaric saw through the pale dragon's exhaustion in an instant.
In the next moment, a torrent of destructive light erupted from his mouth, aimed mercilessly at the White Dragon King coiled in the city.
"Strike while he's weak." Alaric growled, recalling Scáthach's combat teachings. Once the enemy was confirmed, there was no need for words. A war between dragons ended only when one fell.
"Wait!" Artoria cried. "You're attacking already?"
"Is the White Dragon King not even dodging? Did it hit?"
"Did it work?"
Artoria's expression shifted from worry to confusion, then anticipation, as she watched the dragon below.
But all her emotions turned to shock.
"The attack… hit." She whispered.
She saw Alaric's breath strike the dragon's back, blasting a massive hole.
Yet, what flowed from the wound wasn't blood.
It was a flood of black, nauseating sludge.
The sludge poured from the White Dragon King's body, spreading across the ground, igniting into roaring flames that scorched the already-ruined fortress city.
A curse!
The highest form of curse, born from the island itself.
Even Artoria, who hadn't inherited the title of "Master of the Island." felt the terrifying malice within the black sludge:
Why resist? Why deny? Why cling to humanity?
If Britain must fall, if we must perish, if this island is to be defiled by humans…
Then let it return to its primal state by my hand!
Let great Britain become a hell!
A dark paradise, forever uninhabitable by humanity's future!
The demonic dragon roared.
A roar of fury, of agony.
In the blazing flames, it thrashed, spewing black breath at its airborne foe.
The world's filthiest substance, capable of dimming all that was holy... Alaric dodged the vile attack and unleashed another strike at the dragon below.
Boom!
A gleaming white gale struck the demonic dragon's left wing.
But it meant nothing.
More black sludge poured from the wound, polluting the earth while mending the dragon's injuries. In mere moments, the demonic dragon bore no trace of damage.
"We should go." Artoria said, sighing as she issued the retreat.
She finally understood Vortigern's true nature.
The once-proud White Dragon King had fused with the island itself.
He was no longer himself but an incarnation of Britain's will, an avatar of the island.
His body was Britain itself... every attack against him was an assault on the island.
"We have no means to kill him." Artoria said. "We need to fall back and plan."
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