Conrad Stan walked beside Josh Aratat, keeping to his right as they moved deeper into the dim corridor. The stale air was thick with the scent of damp stone and something fouler—like rotting meat masked by metal and blood. Then suddenly, Conrad stopped.
His breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened. Before them stretched a long, narrow passage flanked by towering cages—dozens of them—each crammed with people. Humans. Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. Their faces were pale, hollow-eyed, gaunt with despair. Young and old. Some stood, others crouched in corners like animals. It was a sight that turned the stomach.
"This..." Conrad murmured, his voice hollow. His hand slowly rose to his mouth, aghast. "This isn't just a prison. It's a pantry."
Each cage bore a crude wooden placard, hastily carved and stained with age. Mages. Children. Men. Women. Aristocrats. Necromancers. The labels went on, categorizing human lives as if they were livestock.
Inside the cages, the prisoners stirred—fearfully. Their eyes locked onto Conrad and Josh, suspicion etched deeply into their faces. They shrank back from the bars, limbs trembling, some clutching each other as if bracing for death.
One by one, their eyes closed—not in prayer, but in resignation. They thought it was time. That the gates would open, and one by one, they would be dragged out into the dark to die screaming, like those before them.
But nothing happened.
No teeth. No claws. No blood.
Just silence.
Conrad stepped forward, planting his boot firmly on the ground, and raised his voice. It echoed like thunder through the stone halls.
"Prisoners of Manticore mountain, hear me! We've not come to harm you. We've come to set you free. My master—my lord—has paid dearly for your liberty. All he asks in return is that those with strength lend it to his cause. The mages among you... your talents are needed. But your freedom is not conditional. It is your birthright."
Murmurs rippled through the cages like leaves quivering in the wind.
Then, from a far corner, a voice broke through the tension—a rasping, uncertain tone. An old man, thin as a reed and hunched by time and torment, stepped closer to the bars. His bony fingers gripped the rusting metal as he spoke, "There's... there's a manticore king. He lives deeper in the mountain..."
Conrad turned to him, eyes fierce with pride. He pounded his chest once, and declared, "My master has slain the manticore king. You are no longer prisoners—you are survivors. And now, you are free."
A stunned silence followed.
Children stared, wide-eyed and uncomprehending. Women gasped, covering their mouths. A young man dropped to his knees, trembling. They had spent so long in hopelessness that hope itself now felt like a lie.
"Open the cages," Josh said softly, but his voice carried like a decree.
With a series of loud metallic clicks, the cages began to unlock. But no one moved.
Not a soul.
They stood frozen, unsure. Was it a trap? A cruel test from their captors to see who would break? Had the manticores learned to mimic humans? Were these two men just shapeshifters in disguise?
Josh could feel their doubt like heat pressing against his skin. He stepped forward, his black cloak catching the torchlight as he raised his hand in peace.
"We are not your captors. We are not monsters. We are also from this Region, region 32, I am... the Black Dragon."
He paused, letting the weight of the title settle in the air.
Josh Aratat chose to hide his true identity from them. Even some of his death level loyalists generals were not aware that he was Josh Aratat, the 8th imperial prince. For good reasons. If the emperor knew that what Chief priestess Sarzi Uno had told him about the prophecy was true, he would do everything and anything to kill His son, Josh Aratat, who was presumed dead.
"I have recently entered region 32, about 2 years ago, and a lot of changes are occuring within the region. I can assure you that from hence forth, the manticore problem is over. I promise you this: while I live, no harm shall come to you again."
He took a slow breath, his voice softer now—almost tender.
"I won't pretend I came here for no reason. I sought mages. I was told the manticores kept them here like trophies. That much was true. But your freedom is not a transaction. You may return to your families, your friends, your lovers. You may begin again. That is my gift to you... no, that is your right."
And then, as if lit by a spark, movement.
A single man stepped out of his cage, stumbling slightly as his bare feet touched the ground outside. Then a woman followed, tears streaking down her dirt-caked cheeks. Then a child. And then more. Dozens. Hundreds. Like a tide breaking through a dam, they surged forward, timidly at first, then with growing confidence.
Many of them paused as they reached the open world beyond. Their faces tilted skyward, mouths agape.
Some gasped.
Some wept.
For many, it was the first time they had seen the sky in years. For some, the first breath of fresh air felt like a miracle, a taste of something holy.
Laughter. Shouts. Tears. The mountain air rang with it all.
Conrad watched it unfold, his own eyes stinging with unshed emotion.
Josh stood still, unmoving, watching the people pour out into freedom like light from a cracked door. And though he carried many secrets in his heart, though his past was a cloak he could not shed, in that moment—just that moment—he felt like a king.
The wind rustled softly through the clearing outside the mountain, brushing over the broken stones and battered earth like a sigh of relief. Survivors continued to pour out of the dark tunnels, blinking against the golden light that spilled over the horizon.
There was a quiet kind of chaos—tears, laughter, hushed reunions, and the distant echo of chains clattering uselessly to the floor.
Amidst it all, Ralia Amia stepped beside Josh.
Her tunic was stained with dust and blood—not her own—but her eyes still burned with that same quiet fire. She looked to him, voice low but firm.
"Where should the mages gather?"
Josh didn't turn to face her. His gaze was fixed on the mass of people still emerging from the shadows. But instead of answering her directly, he raised his voice, clear and calm.
"If you are a mage—and if you are willing to fight for a cause that demands courage and strength—step forward. Come to me."
There was no thunder in his tone. No force. Just conviction. It was enough.
A stillness fell over the crowd. Then, slowly, a hooded figure moved through the throng—then another. One by one, cloaked mages and robed scholars emerged, their faces pale, their bodies worn thin by captivity.
Some came Forward with trembling hands, others bore arcane symbols etched into their skin like faded brands.
And they came.
They gathered before him—not because they were compelled to, but because something in his voice called to the part of them that still believed in purpose.
Ralia Amia nodded quietly and stepped away. Her task was not with the mages. She knelt beside a weeping child no older than seven, drawing the girl into her arms. With gentle fingers, she brushed away the tears from the child's soot-smeared cheeks and whispered something soft—words only meant for ears that had heard too many screams.
Meanwhile, the tide of freed prisoners continued to flow. Some walked slowly, stunned by the sudden return of sunlight and silence. Others ran—whooping, shouting, holding hands, falling to their knees just to feel soil beneath them again. The mountain that had once been their grave became their exodus.
And from that day forth, the legend began to spread like wildfire across the lands.
At first, it was whispers. Campfire tales. Drunken tavern mutterings. A name spoken with awe—The Black Dragon.
They said he appeared from nowhere, a force of nature in human skin. Some swore they saw him cleave through dozens of manticores with a single blade. Others claimed he walked through fire untouched, eyes glowing with divine fury. The truth barely mattered. The myth grew stronger with every telling.
The people who had been caged—who never even saw the battle—began crafting their own versions. And like all good stories, they grew. Sharpened. Exaggerated. Polished until they glittered like gold.
They spoke of how he descended from the sky on wings of darkness. How the manticore king, invincible for decades, fell to his knees before the Black Dragon's wrath. They said lightning obeyed his command, and shadows bent to his will.
By the time word reached the neighboring regions, Josh Aratat's name was already legend—even if most did not know it was his.
But in the quiet spaces, where celebration faded into duty, danger lingered.
From the treeline beyond the clearing, nestled in shadow, unseen eyes watched.
Figures hidden in cloaks, motionless as stone, lingered at the mountain's edge. They said nothing. They did not move. But their presence was palpable—like smoke that slipped between cracks unnoticed. Spies. Sentinels. Scouting hands of an enemy yet to reveal itself.
The Black Dragon had freed the prisoners.
While Josh was busy sorting out the prisoners, some spies were hidden in the shadows.