Artorius ran. Every step was agony. His shoulder was torn open, his back burned raw, his ribs screamed with every breath. Blood dripped freely, marking his trail across the volcanic glass in a broken line of red. Yet he did not falter. He could not. Not here. Not in this place that wanted to devour him whole.
Behind him, the air filled with shrieks. Eggs split like thunderclaps, their shells bursting apart in showers of yolk and light. Hatchlings poured out one after another — red, green, blue, black, yellow each newborn voice shrill, hungry, ferocious. The Hatchery Fields echoed with their cries, their battles, their wrath.
Some tore into each other, yolk and flesh smeared in the sulfurous air. They clawed and snapped with manic fury, newly minted jaws cracking necks, claws tearing into bellies, devouring siblings before they could even stand.
Others skittered across the cracked stone, their half-formed wings twitching spastically as though eager to catch air they could not yet fly through. Some looked malformed — limbs bending wrong, wings fused into slick ridges of flesh. They crawled in desperation, only to be torn apart by stronger siblings. The Nest was merciless; weakness was culled within seconds.
A drakelet lunged from his left. He ducked beneath its snapping jaws, heat searing his scalp as its sizzling drool hissed across the ground. Another skittered from the right, wings too soft to fly but claws already sharp enough to eviscerate. He threw himself between two half-broken empty shells, staggering through shells and yolk that fell in the air, the smell of sulfur thick in his lungs.
The System flickered across his vision in a dizzying blur, flooding him with names, levels, fragments of description of the bestiary of nightmares hatching all at once from their shells and running loose in the place. He barely saw it. He just ran. By some miracle, he broke free of the field.
Image: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/6333255723644722/
Ahead, there was a path which led to a blackened rock split into a shallow cave, dark and empty. He stumbled into it, chest heaving, vision swimming. The musk of some creature lingered in the air sharp, reptilian, heavy. Not comforting, but it was a shelter and that was enough for now.
He sank onto a boulder, body trembling from fatigue and adrenaline. For the first time, he allowed himself to look. His wounds were grisly: deep rips across his torso, burns blackened and raw, strips of skin corroded where acid had kissed him. By all rights he should already be dead. Then the thought struck him like a hammer: it would get infected, then he might get a fever as it festered and rotted. Even if the drakes didn't finish him, his own body might betray him.
He tore strips from his shredded suit, binding the worst of the bleeding. It was a crude effort. Already the bandages were soaking through. With how things looked he wondered if he would make it even to the next day. What he needed wasn't cloth. What he needed was something more than that... the Egg-yolk or the Level-ups effects. Without it, he would slowly die from these wounds in the dark and become just another corpse feeding the brood. The thought made him laugh, hoarse and bitter. To live, he would have to go back out there. Back into that slaughterhouse.
He set his jaw. Better to face death head-on than waste away. Deciding to get this done and over with, he looked for any sort of weapon to use. He still had his egg shell which was acting as a dagger for him, but he knew he needed more. Thankfully there was a gnarled tree nearby the cave which he broke a branch and started using his shell to sharpen. Crude, but better than his fists alone.
He didn't stop there as he pulled out the items Ector had given him. Artorius held them up, there were the two tokens and crystal which the system was able to helpfully identify for him.
Squire Class Token(Tier 0) - An apprentice of combat and war who lives to serve and learn. Though starting off weak and untested, they are vessels of great potential who can flower into legends.
Knight Class Token(Tier 1) - Leaders of men and warmaster, they lead from the front and are indomitable figures of power and authority. They embody everything they stand for and defend the lands, realm, and people they are tied to.
White Dragon Queen Blood(Evolution Crystal) - This is the crystalized blood of the noble Dragon Queen Amidala, long may she rein. Her blood is tied to the legend of ??? With it potential racial evolutions open up to you! But be careful, it's not tame, you court madness, mutations, and death.
"What are these?" Artorius muttered to himself. Thankfully not only did the System tell him what he was looking at, but it gave him a brief description which let him parcel it out for himself. Looking them over, the only one that responded to him was the Squire token.
Would you like to Select the Squire Class?
[Y/N]
He glanced over at his empty class in his character sheet. "Might as well," he muttered as he went with the obvious choice and picked yes.
The cave dissolved into black glass. Sound bled out of the world until only a heartbeat remained, his heartbeat echoing through a boundless void. Then, light bloomed. It wasn't warm. It was judgmental. The System's voice followed, colder than he'd ever heard it before:
[Class Trial Initiated: The Squire]
[Prove your worth to bear the weight of legends.]
A single figure materialized in front of him. Himself. Not a reflection in a mirror, another him, standing under a pillar of golden light. This version was whole, pristine. His wounds were gone. His posture was unbent. He even had armor which gleamed with purpose. A ghost of the thing he might become.
Artorius swallowed hard. "So this is how it's gonna be, huh? I have to fight myself? Cliché much!"
Image: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/2674081025568000/
The other him didn't answer. It drew a blade, a perfect sword, gleaming with the faint shimmer of destiny. The air trembled around it. Then, it spoke in a voice that was his, but stronger, steadier, eternal. "You seek to take on a story you do not understand. You still bleed like a man, yet to become the legendary figure you are meant to be!"
The reflection lunged. Steel sang. Artorius met the strike with his jagged eggshell shard, sparks flaring. The blow nearly tore his arm from its socket. He staggered, rolled, came up swinging the sharpened branch, every breath a rasp.
The mirror pressed him hard, it was perfect, relentless, inevitable. Each movement was something Artorius almost recognized: a stance his father drilled into him as a boy, the weight shift of a Pendrath duelist, the poise of a knight who had never fallen. He was fighting the ghost of his own potential.
"You still fear pain," the mirror said, parrying his wild swing. "You cling to the body like it's sacred."
"What am I suppose to let myself get skewed by your sword?" Artorius asked indignantly.
His reflection stood there silently and Artorius replied in disbelief, "Are you serious?!"
"Are you willing to bear a King's wound?"
Artorius wondered if this was some sick twisted ritual, most likely that was the case but what option did he have. "I am not going to die am I?"
"There is no reason to fear Death. It is not the end, but only the beginning!"
"Great you are both cryptic and insane," he grumbled under his breath, Artorius was sure he did not want to become like this, still he wondered what it said about him as he went along with this.
The blade ignited. The air around them trembled like a struck bell. He felt it before it touched him, that ancient agony, the echo of a great king's death. And he understood.
The blade slid through him like light through water. For a heartbeat, both of them froze two look alikes, bound by pain and revelation. Artorius met his own eyes and whispered words he didn't know where they came from, "If my King could bear it, so can I."
The reflection smiled, the first human thing it had done. Then it dissolved into golden motes that drifted into the wound, sealing it not with flesh, but with light. The pain ebbed. In its place, a warmth spread through his chest heavy, sacred, eternal. The wound remained, but it no longer bled. It burned. The System's voice returned, quiet, reverent.
[Trial Complete.]
[You have accepted the Wound of Kings.]
He forced himself upright, his knees shaking. "Well done, Squire. Every story begins with pain." His reflection whispered one final time before it was gone.
From the silence, a figure awaited, seated upon a broken throne of stone and gold. Standing up, Artorius saw a man in tattered royal robes. His armor was ancient, gilded and cracked, his crown dulled, and from his chest jutted a single spear. His eyes were closed. Around him lay a circle of rusted blades not fallen weapons, but memories of them, ghosts of all that once fought beside him.
Even dead, the figure radiated authority, the kind that didn't need worship to exist. Artorius could only look on in awe as the figure finally stirred. A single eye opened, pale as morning frost. "Another… heir," he murmured, voice distant but vast.
"No…" he peered closer to him and then realization bloomed across his face. "I see." And as the last light dimmed, the dying King's voice whispered across the dark, soft as the turning of a page. "Rise, Squire. Albion stirs again."
[You have glimpsed the King of Knight ???]
Image: https://in.pinterest.com/pin/298011700365026183/
Artorius gasped awake in the cave. The smell of sulfur and blood rushed back in. The wound across his ribs throbbed. His breath came ragged. But inside him something had changed. A warmth pulsed in his chest like the echo of a forge. The System appeared again, soft and radiant.
Squire Class Options!
Dragon Squire(Unique) – Bound to dragonkind, shadows their strength, pride, and fire. Earned due to bloodline.
Heraldic Squire(Special) – Bearer of crests and banners, entrusted with symbols of legacy and the weight of noble heritages. Earned due to upbring.
Battlefield Squire(Special) – Forged in mud and war, hardened by blood and steel rather than halls of courtly grace. Earned due to disposition.
Ace Squire(Special) – Prodigy blessed with natural talent and skill that outpaces their peers and excels what they put their mind to. Earned due to talent.
Storybook Squire(Rare) – Torn straight out of fairy tales, a living tale in the making, destined for greatness; every stumble and triumph feeds their legend. Earned due to myth.
Closely reading what he was offered, Artorius frowned, reading them twice over. He didn't know how the rarity ranks worked, or what exactly they meant, but instinct told him they mattered. The first was the Drake Squire which he thought might be useful in this place, but he did have his race making it redundant.
Then there was the Heraldic Squire which looked good, but he had no crest, nor kingdom flag, or banner to fight under which was most likely how that class worked. Next was the Battlefield one which did speak to him, due to how practical it was, but like the option before it felt like it worked best in a specific situation, that being on a battleground.
Then came the Ace options which looked to be the hot shot from amongst the bunch which he might have gone with if the final option didn't present itself. The Storybook Squire. It was the one that stood out to him and had the most questions associated with it.
It was the only one marked Rare. It was the only one that spoke in terms of destiny rather than role, legend rather than circumstance. He wasn't sure what it entitled, but for some reason it felt like this was his path. That this was his… destiny. Deciding to take a bet on it, he made his choice and let out a slow breath. "To hell with playing it safe." His finger hovered, then pressed.
[Class Selected: Storybook Squire]
+1 to Strength, Constitution, Willpower, Charisma and Luck every other level!
Gained Skill: Heroic Blow
The words blazed across the screen, burning into him like the opening line of a tale. And in his bones, in his blood, he felt it — the first page of his story had turned. Not only that, but he felt as if the words rang. The chime was pure and resonant, reverberated through his mind in a musical note. And he could have sworn the Nest paused, if only for a heartbeat, as though even this cruel place recognized the choice.
Looking down on himself, light poured from him. Not sunlight or fire but something softer, golden, feeling like the warmth of a hearth in the dark. It wrapped around him, seeping into his skin, his bones, his blood, and even his soul.
Artorius gasped. His body felt lighter, stronger, every nerve singing as though a hidden current had been unbound. His wounds still bled, his flesh still ached, but the pain no longer bent him. Instead it sharpened him, set against something greater inside.
More than that, he could feel something greater, the System stitching threads of possibility into him. Not just numbers, not just strength, but a story. For an instant, he swore he saw it: faint script glowing in the air, curling like smoke. Words not his own.
The boy draws the sword from the stone… beginning his legend!
The line faded, but he felt it burn across his heart like an oath.
Image: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/49258189669675822/
Once he came down from whatever transformation he experienced, he looked more closely at his character sheet to see what he was working with exactly.
Character Sheet
Name: Artorius Pendrath
Titles: None
Archetype: Leader[Awakened] – lvl 0
Race: Pure-Blood Dragonmen(Homo Draconis)[G-hatchling] – lvl 1
Class: Storybook Squire(House Pendragon)[Tier 0] – lvl 0
Health: 25/90 | Stamina: 40/85 | Mana: 90/90
Stats
Strength - 8→9
Dexterity - 7→8
Constitution - 8→9
Intellect - 9
Willpower - 10
Perception - 7→8
Charisma - 10→11
Luck - 10→20
Trait: Commander
Skills: Inspect(Common), Standard Tongues(Common), Heroic Blow(Rare)
Mutation: Draconic Adaptability(Rare)
Laws: None
Technique: None
-
His name was his name, for the title there was nothing but it did have a description for what it was supposed to hold. Titles: Earned through various great deeds, victories, accomplishments, and recognitions.
For archetype he already knew what that was, but this new rank of Awakened drew his attention. Awakened: You have established a connection to your higher purpose in life, your calling.
True-Blood Dragonmen: A rare race. Who are a noble specimen with the blood of dragons coursing through your vein, the most purest and raw form with even the great soul of one.
Homo Draconis: An evolutionary offshoot group of the humans who are closely tied to dragons and share traits with them.
G-Rank: Lowest tier lifeform
Hatchling: Baby Dragons
House Pendragon: Your lineage is tied to the royal house of Camelot
Tier 0: the weakest rank basically apprentices and disciples
Health = life force
Stamina = physical endurance
Mana = magical essence
Stats
Strength – Physical power; lifting, damage output, force.
Dexterity – Reflexes, balance, speed.
Constitution – Toughness, endurance, ability to withstand damage.
Intellect – Mental capacity, strategical thinking, problem-solving.
Willpower – Fortitude, intent, resistance to fear, pain, and control.
Perception – Awareness of detail, threats, and hidden truths.
Charisma – Natural presence and authority.
Luck – Fortune, probability, and fate
Trait: They represent your personal characteristics
Commander: Leader of men. Your words carry weight and power; orders and rallying cries inspire, and can compel obedience.
Skills: They are the extraordinary abilities that let you do the impossible and miraculous.
Inspect (Common): System ability that lets you see levels, names, brief descriptions of beings and items.
Standard Tongues (Common): Universal System language skill that lets you communicate with other System races.
Heroic Blow (Rare): The strike of legend. A blow fueled by narrative weight, desperation, and belief. Able to bypass defenses, barriers, resistances, even illusions or fate.
Mutation: Mutable body parts
Draconic Adaptation (Rare): What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger! The dragon's hidden survival gift — your body learns and adapts to whatever damages it.
Laws: The fundamental reality-defining building blocks of the cosmos. They are the hidden great truths to be uncovered and understood.
Technique: Various methods, disciplines, and mastery of honing and amplifying powers or abilities unlocking new avenues of strengths.
Reading the flood of information scrawled across his vision, Artorius found himself with more questions than answers. The System gave a vast catalog of interesting tidbits of information, but in this moment, what mattered was survival.
He stripped the text down to the essentials, clinging to the tools that might keep him alive in this place. That being his skills which were what could give him the edge he needed. They would be his lifeline he needed to hold on to tight.
He wasn't too interested in the system skill, what could be his salvation was his class, racial, and archetype skills. Draconic adaptation skill seemed like a passive skill which promised resilience but it would demand suffering to sharpen it. A great boon, yes, but one that had to be forged in pain.
The heroic blow seemed to be the only offensive skill he had, but it seemed to come with some caveats. It looked like it could be powerful, but its conditions raised troubling questions. And then there was the Command skill which looked useful in ordering and rallying people but it held some disturbing undertones that unsettled him a bit.
Still, misgivings meant little here. Whatever these skills truly were, they were all he had and he would have to make do with them. Just then he ran into the resident of this cave. The silence was fractured with a low rumble, like distant thunder rolling through bone.
Then it stepped into the firelight, a beast of sinew and scaled brass, lion's mane curling around a reptilian skull, draconic wings folded close. Its eyes smoldered like twin embers.
[Brass Dragonne — LVL 3]
Image: https://www.worldanvil.com/i/1659352
The name of the creature seared itself across his vision. The Dragonne's roar shook the cave, a sound that rattled stone loose from the ceiling. Instinct screamed at him to run, but instead he stood his ground. The thing lunged, faster than its bulk should allow. He dove aside, but not fast enough due to all the injuries slowing him down, the claws raked across his ribs, tearing cloth, tearing flesh. Hot blood spattered the cave floor. Pain set his nerves aflame.
He staggered, barely keeping footing. He was so tired, all his wounds were weighing on him. He felt as if he had no strength left in his body as it was only running on fumes. But there was something new thrumming at his throat a Command.
"STOP!" The word came out more prayer than order, but his skill answered. For an instant, reality itself seemed to stop, the Dragonne froze mid-stride, muscles locked, eyes dimmed as if the command had stolen its will.
For one very long instant. Then it snapped free with a bellow that shook dust from the ceiling with fury incarnate. It lunged again, jaws closing around empty air where his throat had been a second before. Claws struck his leg this time agony bloomed as the world spun and stone bit into his side.
He could feel himself unraveling. Each breath cost more than the last. His lifeblood pooled at his feet. There was death approaching, brass-fanged and merciless. And then — the whisper of his other skill called out to him... Heroic Blow!
His arm lifted though it felt heavier than mountains, his makeshift spear trembling in bloodied fingers. Light coursed along the edge, not flame, not mana, but story — inevitability forged into strike. Power flooded his arm, golden light tracing the path of his strike. He brought the blade down in an arc that was more than muscle; it was belief, story, inevitability. Seeing the power behind the blow, the Dragonne braced itself.
Its scales glowed molten yellow, plates hardening into something closer to forged metal than flesh. The blow struck home with a ringing note like a hammer against an anvil. Sparks screamed in the dark. His bones threatened to snap, his legs buckled. For a moment it seemed the strike would fail, that his strength was nothing before its armored body.
Then the world broke. The Heroic Blow cut through the brass plating as though it were parchment, ripping through defenses like it wasn't there. The light carried through scale, bone, and muscle. The Dragonne staggered, jaws opening in a last defiant roar that crumbled into a gurgle. With a crash that shook the cavern floor, the drake-lion fell.
Silence returned, but broken occasionally by heavy, gasping breathing. Artorius stood swaying, body torn open, drenched in his own blood. The System's voice echoed in the silence: You have slain [Brass Dragonne – Level 3]
Congratulations! You have leveled up.
Archetype: [Leader] → Lv. 1
Stat gains: +1 INT, +1 WIL, +1 CHA
Artorius pressed himself flat against the jagged stone of his hiding hole, every inch of his body screaming in protest. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths; his hands trembled, slick with his own blood and the residual heat from the Brass Dragonne's corpse. He had survived, but barely. Every nerve in him throbbed with pain, yet he knew the Nest did not rest.
Then came the sound. A low, rolling thunder unlike any storm he had known, vibrating through the volcanic glass beneath him, rattling his teeth. He blinked through blurred vision, squinting toward the cavern opening, and felt it in his bones before he saw it: the sky above the Hatchery had split.
Red clouds churned violently, boiling with sulfurous heat, and from them, massive, dark shapes appeared through the crimson clouds. Dragons, adult, massive, and impossibly strong circling high above, wings blotting out what little false light the Nest allowed. They carried something. Not prey. Not corpses. Eggs.
The first one fell. He watched as it struck the ground like a meteor and squashed some newborn dragons underfoot like bugs. More followed not one or two, but dozens, hundreds, perhaps thousands, cascading down like meteorites. Each was enormous, some as large as boulders, others large enough to crush a horse.
They hurtled through the crimson haze, tearing through the fractured stone of the Hatchery with deafening crashes, shattering the ground and splashing boiling yolk in all directions. Pools of gold and orange hissed, sending clouds of choking steam curling into the air. The ground became a chaos of life and death.
The Hatchery erupted into chaos. Hatchlings burst forth from the falling eggs, their cries tearing through the already cacophonous space. One massive hatchling, scales black as molten glass with flickers of crimson, leapt from a freshly shattered egg, jaws snapping. Sparks of fire and streaks of acid-like saliva mingled in the air as hatchlings tore at each other in blind instinct, a miniature apocalypse unfolding in real time.
Artorius could only stare, pressed into the shadows of his crevice, blood still coating his fingers. He swallowed bile and whispered to himself, barely audibly: "This… this is hell…"
-
The cave stank of brass blood and smoke. Artorius leaned against the wall, ribs screaming with every breath, his vision clouded at the edges. The Dragonne's corpse lay cooling behind him, its eyes dimmed to stone, its ruined body a monument to how close he had come to death. He could not linger. The Nest would not allow it. Already the shadows shifted beyond, he felt the weight of unseen gazes pressing in.
He needed more power. He needed more than the feeble strength and stubborn will he had. His thoughts turned back to the Hatchery Fields.
The memory of the place still haunted him, the nightmare that crawled and broke free, the eggs splitting open, yolk steaming in sulfurous air, newborn drakes shrieking and tearing into one another. But he remembered, too, the yolk's shimmer, the heat of it on his skin when it splashed across him. He remembered how even his rawest wounds had felt steadier afterward.
The dragons were born of fire and hunger. Their blood was poison, but their yolk was life. So he had to go back and he did just that.
The Fields stretched before him like a battlefield of broken shells and boiling pools. In the distance, he saw them — the newly born, already locked in duels of dominance. Scaled titans of varying sizes crashed into each other with enough force to split stone. Others, much more grotesquely and larger, towered like siege beasts, wings half-formed, jaws crackling with varying colored flames. Sparks and smoke marked their battles, their roars shaking the air.
Closer, on the ground he found what we were looking for as it was littered with failure. The broken and defeated crawled away into corners and shades licking their wounds. The malformed hatchlings cried out weakly, their wings and limbs crumpled, their jaws broken, their eyes weeping molten tears. Others limped, their scales thin as parchment, already bleeding out into the floor.
Artorius crouched low, skirting the edge where the shadows lay thickest. Every step was a gamble. One stray gaze from a healthy, powerful hatchling, and he'd be torn apart. But desperation had sunk its teeth into him sharper than fear. He moved like a scavenger among giants.
The first malformed wyrmling hissed at him, dragging itself forward on twisted claws. He drove his jagged spear through its throat, the motion clumsy but final. A chime whispered across his vision: You have slain [Iron Drakeling — Lv. 1]
Another limped toward him, one wing dragging behind like rotten cloth. Its bite scraped his arm, drawing fresh blood, before he crushed its skull beneath a stone he had found. You have slain [Sulfur Wurmling — Lv. 1]
The Nest seemed to watch him feed on weakness. He did not care. He was too broken for pride. He also seemed to be rewarded for his scavenging; Congratulations! You have leveled up.
Class: [Storybook Squire] → Lv. 1
Stat gains: +1 STR, +1 CON, +1 DEX, +1 CHA, +1 LUC!
At last he reached what he sought, the remains of a shattered egg, yolk still steaming within its shell. He dipped trembling fingers into the golden ichor and brought it to his lips. It burned. Fire slid down his throat, seared his stomach, licked across his wounds like a cruel caress. He fell to his knees, clutching his ribs, his body convulsing as if the yolk sought to remake him from within.
The pain ebbed into a strange heat. The bleeding slowed. His muscles felt tighter, as though threads of fire were stitching them together. The agony remained, but now it sharpened him instead of drowning him.
When he rose, his legs no longer trembled as before. His vision steadied. The pain at long last faded. The Nest still threatened to devour him whole, but for the first time since entering, he felt he could stand without immediately falling apart.
In the distance, two colossal hatchlings collided: one a black-scaled brute, the other a scaly one whose roar split the air like thunder. Their duel cracked stone and shattered eggs around them, the ground trembling beneath his feet. He knew he could not face such things. Not yet.
But he could take from the broken. He could build, piece by bloody piece. And so, moving like a carrion bird at the edge of a battlefield, Artorius hunted.
-
Author Note: What other class options would you guys have liked to seen?
One ability I enjoy making was the Draconic Adaption based on Mahoraga from JJK.
-
Chapter 4 Recap!
Gained new Tier 0 Class: Storybook Squire
Heroic Blow Skill gained!
Leveled up Leader: Archetype to Lvl. 1!
+1 Int, +1 Will, +1 Char!
Leveled up Class: Storybook Squire to Lvl. 1!
+1 Str, +1 Con, +1 Will, +1 Char, +1 Luc