Death had become routine.
Hooks. Knives. Fire. Humans were endless in their cruelty. Bounce saved him sometimes, Bite helped him feed, but he was still weak.
So when another hook tore into his side and dragged him into the sky, he expected the same end.
Except it didn't come.
The hands that lifted him were small, soft, trembling. Water dripped from his scales as he blinked upward and saw her—sunlit hair plastered to her cheeks, wide eyes full of wonder.
"…Pretty," she whispered.
Pretty. To everyone else, he was just meat. To her, he was something else.
Her name was Mari.
And instead of gutting him, she lowered him gently into a porcelain bowl, filled it with clear water, and smiled. "From now on, you're mine."
—
She kept her promise.
Every morning she carried his bowl into the garden, crouching to watch him swim. She fed him bread crumbs, worms, even polished rice stolen from her own meals. At first, he clumsily bumped them away, unsure how to use Bite properly, but Mari only laughed. "Silly fish. Eat slower."
So he did. For her.
In the afternoons, she took him to the river. Dressed in her swimsuit, she waded in, cradling his bowl, then released him into the shallows. He circled nervously, shy of her long legs stirring the current, but Bounce always pulled him close. She cupped him in her hands and whispered, "Don't run away. Stay with me."
He stayed.
—
Seasons turned. He learned her rhythms as surely as the river's own.
In spring, she brought him beneath cherry blossoms, petals drifting into his water. She leaned close and blew them away so he wouldn't choke.
In summer, she dove and surfaced, hair flashing in the sun. "Race me," she laughed, splashing, and though he had no chance, he always tried.
In autumn, she set his bowl on the porch beside her lamplight. Sometimes she read aloud, her voice weaving into the water. He never understood the words, but the sound curled warm around him.
In winter, she placed his bowl near the fire. "Don't freeze," she whispered, wrapping her palms around the porcelain as though her hands could shield him.
He thought, If this is weakness, then let me stay weak.
—
Mari grew.
Her dresses lengthened. Her hair tied back more often. She hummed while cooking, her laughter ripening from girlish to womanly. Suitors knocked at the door, but she only shook her head and retreated to her room with him.
"You're the only one who listens," she confessed one night, tracing her finger along the bowl's rim. Her voice carried a loneliness only he could hear. "When I talk to you, it feels real."
He wanted to answer. He wanted to tell her she was right.
Instead, he bobbed against the surface. She smiled faintly. "See? You understand."
Years slipped past. She celebrated birthdays with him at her side. At seventeen, she tied a red ribbon to his bowl. At eighteen, she carried him through a lantern festival, ignoring the laughter of children pointing. "Ignore them. You're special."
At nineteen, she cried after a fight with her parents. He pressed against the glass, desperate to comfort her. She dipped a finger into the water, stroking his head. "At least you're here."
At twenty, she sat by the river in a white dress, feet dangling into the current. "Do you think I'll ever leave this village?" she murmured. "Maybe I'll take you with me. To the sea. We'll swim forever."
The thought made him dizzy.
It was a lifetime. Not his, but theirs.
—
Until the day the sky burned.
The ground quaked. Screams split the air. Shadows drowned the village as the Dark Fire Dragon descended.
It was nothing like the White Dragon he had slain by accident. This one blotted out the sun, scales black as char, veins burning like rivers of molten iron. When it roared, the air itself shattered.
Mari clutched his bowl to her chest, tears streaking her cheeks. "Don't be afraid," she whispered, though her voice shook.
Flames swept the village. Houses collapsed. People turned to ash. Mari stumbled, curling her body around the porcelain as though her flesh could protect him.
"I'm sorry," she breathed, holding him tight.
The world became fire.
His body boiled. Her skin blackened. Together, they vanished.
—
[Host terminated.]
[Entering long sleep.]
[Revival in progress…]
—
He woke in the river again. Whole. Alive.
But alone.
The porcelain bowl was gone. Mari's hands were gone. Her laughter, her whispers, her ribbon—all gone.
"System!" His mind roared. "Bring her back!"
[Correction: Human mortality is absolute. Mari is terminated.]
The words tore through him like hooks.
He floated in silence, the current dragging him forward. His chest burned with helplessness.
"Then what's the point?!" he screamed. "Why save me again and again if I can't protect anyone?"
[Purpose undefined. Host remains weakest existence.]
His fins shook. "Then tell me how to change that. Tell me how to fight. Tell me how to kill that dragon!"
There was a pause.
Then:
[Condition noted. Path to strength possible. Requirements: unknown.]
"Unknown?" he spat.
[Directive: Survive. Adapt. Repeat. Through endless death, Host may accumulate growth.]
His teeth clenched. Endless death. Endless revival. If that was the path, then so be it.
For Mari—the girl who once called him pretty, who grew into a woman and gave him a lifetime—he would bounce, bite, and suffer however many deaths it took.
Resolve flared hotter than hunger, sharper than fear.
He flicked his tail, cutting through the current.
"For Mari… I'll kill that dragon."