The cave camp was a fragile bastion carved into the heart of a merciless world. Its walls, studded with faintly glowing crystal veins, arched high above, casting a dim, otherworldly light over the scattered shelters below.
The air carried the mingled scents of smoke, roasted rations, and the faint, acrid tang of blood—a reminder that safety here was borrowed, not guaranteed. Soldiers in patchwork uniforms moved with purpose, some tending fires, others sharpening blades that glinted in the flickering glow. Refugees huddled in makeshift tents, their faces etched with exhaustion, some nursing wounds, others lost in fitful sleep. Beyond the camp's edge, the tunnels stretched into darkness, their depths humming with an unseen pulse that set everyone's nerves on edge.
Xin stood near the entrance, his breath steadying as he took in the scene. His coal-black hair fell messily over his eyes, and his sword—its scabbard etched with faintly glowing sigils—rested across his back, a quiet weight that grounded him. Beside him, Belial scanned the camp with a wary gaze, his hand never straying far from the blade at his hip. Raven lingered a step behind, his posture taut, eyes darting to every shadow as if expecting it to move. Toren and Lira, the scouts who'd led them here, exchanged quiet words with a few soldiers, their relief arising now that they'd reached their destination.
But the camp's fragile calm shattered with a single movement.
From the corner of a crevice, where the crystal light barely reached, a figure emerged. Shadows clung to him like old secrets, reluctant to let go as he stepped into the waning glow. He was no monster—far from it. He was a man, and a striking one, his presence commanding the air like a storm held in check. His face could have been plucked from ancient murals or half-forgotten tales—noble, poised, ethereal. Blue eyes, cold as tempered steel yet burning with a hidden fire, swept over the group, meeting their curious stares with an intensity that felt both welcoming and piercing. His hair cascaded to his shoulders in waves of silver, each strand catching the light like liquid metal, shimmering with a life of its own.
What drew every eye, though, were the horns. They curled subtly from his temples, smooth and silver like his hair, blending almost seamlessly with his form, as if the heavens couldn't decide whether he was divine or monstrous. They weren't ostentatious, but their presence was undeniable—a mark of something ancient, something powerful. The aura that rolled off him was overwhelming, curling through the air like smoke—warm, heavy, and laced with a quiet terror that made the camp feel smaller, more fragile. It was too potent, too raw, for someone supposedly ranked B-class. Xin felt it in his bones, a pressure that stirred the ether at his fingertips unbidden. Belial's posture stiffened, his eyes narrowing. Even Raven, ever stoic, shifted his weight, his hand hovering near his obsidian shard.
The man took a few steps toward them, each movement measured, deliberate—not rushed, not sluggish, but perfectly controlled, like a predator who knew the weight of his own power. A woman from the camp approached him, her light tactical armor scuffed but intact, her auburn hair cropped short, her eyes bright with confidence. She nodded respectfully, her voice steady despite the newcomers' scrutiny.
"Boss, we found some new refugees," she said, gesturing to Xin and the others.
The silver-haired man smiled, and the expression was warm, disarming, yet it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nice to meet you," he said, his voice smooth, tinged with a faint accent that none of them could place—a cadence that seemed to hum with the echoes of forgotten places. "My name is Liang Shun."
Belial's gaze sharpened, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face.
Dragonborne,
he thought, though he kept the word locked behind his teeth. That aura—yes, definitely Dragonborne. But… different. Stronger. Too strong. A B-ranker shouldn't feel like he could crush the air from your lungs with a glance. His hand tightened briefly on his sword's hilt, a reflex he didn't bother to hide.
Shun's eyes flicked over the group, taking in their ragged state—the dirt-streaked clothes, the bruises, the exhaustion carved into their faces. "Welcome, everyone," he said, his tone softening but carrying an undercurrent of authority. "You've endured hardships to reach this place. Come—make yourselves at home."
He gestured toward the camp's heart, where crude but organized campsites sprawled. Fires crackled, Soldiers sat in small clusters, some eating, others tending to weapons with methodical care. Refugees stirred as the group passed, their eyes following with a mix of curiosity and wariness. The clatter of metal, the murmur of hushed conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter wove a fragile tapestry of life amidst the desolation.
As they walked, Shun's gaze landed on Xin, lingering on the tall youth with a spark of interest. The sword strapped across Xin's back seemed to draw him—the sigils along its scabbard pulsed faintly, a rhythm that matched the camp's crystal veins. Something about the boy felt… familiar, though Shun couldn't place why. He stepped slightly ahead, his voice cutting through the camp's hum.
"You there…" he said, his tone measured but edged with curiosity. "You're also a dragonborne, aren't you?"
Xin blinked, caught off guard, his hand pausing mid-motion as he adjusted his pack. "Yes… I am," he said, his voice calm but tinged with uncertainty. He wasn't used to being singled out, not like this.
Shun's smile widened, a gleam of recognition in his eyes.
He spoke then, his words shifting into Longyu, the ancient tongue of the dragons. They curled through the air, sharp and melodic, like it had a rich history and highly expressive. The sound made Xin wince slightly, stirring something deep within him—something he didn't fully understand.
Xin tilted his head, a sheepish chuckle escaping him. "Ah, sorry," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "I'm not that fluent in Longyu. I wasn't born in the Dragon Realm… I'm from Oasis."
Shun's laughter was hearty, genuine, breaking the tension like sunlight through clouds. "My mistake, then," he said, bowing slightly, the gesture graceful but not deferential. "You may just call me Shun."
"My name is Xin," he said, a tentative smile forming. "This is my friend… Nero and the one behind him is Raven."
Shun extended a hand to each, his grip firm but measured. "What a beautiful name! Nice to meet you all," he said, his eyes lingering on Belial, now introduced as Nero—for a moment longer than necessary. Belial returned the handshake with a force that bordered on challenging, his own aura flaring subtly, like a blade testing another's edge.
Shun's smile didn't waver, but there was a flicker in his gaze—amusement, perhaps, or recognition of the unspoken tension. The power in his palm was undeniable, like holding a storm wrapped in silk, but it didn't feel malicious. Not yet.
Maybe he isn't so bad, Belial thought, though his instincts refused to fully relax. Something about Shun was too polished, too perfect, like a mask that fit too well to trust.
They wove through the camp, the hum of life enveloping them. Soldiers nodded to Shun as he passed, their respect clear but not servile. Refugees glanced up, some with hope, others with guarded curiosity. The clink of armor, the crackle of fires, and the soft murmur of voices created a strange peace—a moment stolen from a world that offered none. Xin felt his shoulders ease slightly, though the weight of his sword and the memory of the cave's sleeping beast kept him grounded.
Shun's voice broke the rhythm of their steps. "Your weapons," he said, glancing at the gear they carried—sword, armor, the dharma wheel at Xin's side. "Why not store them in your visors' inventories? Wouldn't that be easier?"
Belial—Nero—shrugged, his tone clipped but not hostile. "Takes too long. Reaching in, pulling the sword out, unsheathing—it's a mess in a real fight. Better to keep it where I can draw it fast. In this… welcoming world."
Shun chuckled, the sound warm but laced with understanding. "Fair enough. That makes sense."
His gaze shifted back to Xin, narrowing slightly—not with suspicion, but with a reverence that made Xin's skin prickle. The camp's fires cast fleeting shadows across Shun's face, highlighting the curve of his horns, the glint in his eyes. He slowed his pace, his voice dropping to a quieter, more deliberate cadence.
"I do have a question for you, Xin," he said, his tone measured.
Xin turned, eyebrows lifting. "Yeah?"
Shun's eyes flicked to the wheel on Xin's side, its sigils pulsing faintly, the hilt shimmering under the firelight like a star caught in steel. He pointed subtly, his gesture almost reverent.
"That is a Regalia, right?"