The shadow that blocked the moon didn't just bring darkness; it brought a heat so intense that the mud beneath Elian's feet began to hiss and steam.
He didn't need his Annotate skill to know what was coming. He had read this description a thousand times in high-fantasy epics. The displacement of air, the smell of sulfur, the primal fear that froze the blood in one's veins—it was the signature entrance of an endgame boss.
"Run!" Elian screamed at no one in particular, his voice cracking against the roar of the wind.
He threw himself behind the stone ruins of the village well just as the sky turned a blinding, apocalyptic orange. A pillar of fire, thick as a castle tower, slammed into the earth where the headless body of Arthur lay. The impact wasn't just physical; it was a concussive wave of mana that shattered the remaining cottages like toys made of matchsticks.
Debris rained down—burning wood, molten stone, and the vaporized remains of the villagers. Elian curled into a ball, covering his head, feeling the heat sear the hair on his arms.
This is wrong, his mind raced frantically. The Ancient Red Dragon is supposed to be the final encounter in Book 3. It lives in the Molten Peaks, five thousand miles away. Why is it spawn-camping the starting village?
The roar died down, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thud of massive footsteps. Each step shook the ground, rattling Elian's teeth. He risked a glance over the rim of the well.
Standing amidst the inferno was a creature of nightmare majesty. Its scales were the color of dried blood, and its eyes burned with a chaotic, purple light that didn't belong in a standard fantasy setting.
[Target Identified: Ignis, The World-Burner.]
[Level: 99 (MAX).]
[Status: Glitched / Corrupted.]
[Note: Entity has deviated from script. Aggression set to 1000%.]
"Level ninety-nine," Elian wheezed, sliding back down against the cold stones of the well. "I'm a Level 1 Editor with a rusty dagger I don't know how to hold. This isn't a difficulty spike; it's a massacre."
The Level 50 Goblin that had killed Arthur was nowhere to be seen, likely incinerated by its own boss in a display of friendly fire. That was the only silver lining: the chaotic AI didn't discriminate.
The dragon inhaled again. The sound was like a vacuum sucking the air out of the world.
Elian looked around desperately. The village was gone. The forest edge was burning. There was no hero to save him, no Deus Ex Machina event waiting to trigger. The plot armor that usually protected important characters didn't apply to him; he was an anomaly, an external file inserted into a crashing program.
Think, Elian. You critique stories for a living. How does the weak character survive the monster?
They don't fight. They hide.
He spotted a cellar door on the remains of the tavern, half-buried under a collapsed beam. It was twenty meters away.
The dragon's throat began to glow bright orange again.
"Physics," Elian muttered, his eyes locking onto the heavy oak bucket hanging above the well. "Action and reaction."
He drew the rusty dagger he had looted from the dead Protagonist—an item he had instinctively grabbed in the chaos—and slashed the rope holding the bucket. The heavy wood plummeted down the deep shaft.
Splash.
The echo was amplified by the stone walls. It wasn't loud, but in the sudden silence before the dragon's breath, it was distinct.
The Dragon's head snapped toward the well, its reptilian pupils narrowing. It was distracted.
Now.
Elian sprinted. He kept low, scrambling over burning embers and sliding through the mud. The heat on his back was unbearable, blistering his skin. He didn't look back. He dove toward the cellar door, grabbing the iron ring and heaving it open with every ounce of hysterical strength he possessed.
He threw himself into the darkness below just as the world above turned white.
The dragon unleashed its fire breath into the well, vaporizing the water instantly. The shockwave slammed the cellar door shut above Elian's head, plunging him into total darkness, choking on dust and the smell of fear.
He lay there on the cold dirt floor, gasping for air, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He checked his hands; they were shaking uncontrollably, but they were still attached to his body.
[Narrative Checkpoint Reached.]
[Current Objective: Survive until dawn.]
Elian let out a dry, humorless laugh that sounded more like a sob. He was alive, trapped in a root cellar beneath a burning village, with a god-like dragon prowling above and the designated hero headless in a ditch.
He fumbled in the dark until his fingers brushed against a flint and a half-melted candle on a nearby shelf, and with trembling hands, he sparked a tiny, fragile light against the suffocating dark.