Anthony's words left the rest of the group in silence. Then they divided the labor and began processing the giant lizard corpses.
Anthony naturally had no intention of working. Given his status, no one dared order him around. But standing idly by would only breed resentment, so he chose to wander ahead.
"The wind patterns have changed up ahead. I'll scout the path."
The adventure group's thought processes clearly couldn't keep up with the archmage - or perhaps most of them simply weren't as cunning as Anthony.
Tegal took his words at face value, while the more selfish members held their tongues out of respect for his power and focused on the task at hand.
With the archmage gone, six people remained - exactly matching the six giant lizard corpses.
Lolo looked nauseated by the scene and hesitated to start. The young woman also wore a troubled expression, as if facing some great hardship.
Seeing this, the quick-witted Zad spoke up: "How could we let you lovely ladies do such bloody, rough work? Just sit back and rest. If you're in the mood, maybe sing something to help us relax."
Dagger curled his lip in disdain. He was doing all the dirtiest, hardest work, sweating buckets while this fat oaf swooped in to steal credit.
But he didn't dare complain aloud - that would make him seem petty. He could only blame himself for lacking silver-tongued charm.
The little witch didn't overthink it. As the battle's MVP, sheit was natural for her to sit aside and rest.
The young woman blushed - whether from shyness or exertion was unclear - and demurred awkwardly: "Oh my, this is so embarrassing... I didn't really help much..."
What should have been a six-person job now fell to four men, nearly doubling the workload. Yet few voiced complaints.
The little witch was young and a powerful spellcaster - this kind of work was beneath her.
The young woman had quickly become the team's favorite. Her melodic voice and... ahem... distracting proportions made the extra effort feel almost worthwhile.
Ah well. More work never killed anyone.
But before they'd made much progress, Anthony suddenly reappeared. "I found a fork in the path ahead. Time is tight - finish skinning within half an hour, and keep the hides intact for maximum value. I'll scout which route is safe."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and left.
The group exchanged glances. Dagger was the only skilled skinner among them; the others barely knew the basics. Without proper skinning knives, they relied entirely on Dagger's dagger - progress was painfully slow.
"Fine, let's all pitch in. Every little helps," Yoda finally said, playing the bad guy.
The young woman made a face but obediently approached a corpse. The little witch, however, pouted in displeasure.
Spellcasters are nobility. How dare they order her around like some common laborer? That last battle had been won solely because of her magic!
Not a single teammate had even suffered a scratch in the fight, and now they expected her to do menial work? What kind of nonsense was that?
What angered her most was how that archmage came and went as he pleased.
He was their strongest combatant. This kind of irresponsible behavior left everyone feeling insecure.
Dagger, taking pity on the girl who seemed younger than himself, tried to help - though his words came out all wrong: "Skinning takes practice. No offense, but without experience, you spellcasters would just get in the way. Better to sit this one out."
Lolo nearly exploded with rage. "Who says I'd get in the way? I've dissected monster corpses before - I can handle this myself!"
Snatching a dagger, she marched over to an untouched giant lizard and began making precise incisions along its hide. As she worked, she muttered under her breath, the words too quiet for others to discern.
Yoda watched this dysfunctional team with an internal sigh. Leading this bunch is no job for mortals.
———
Anthony left the Small Groups behind to travel alone, but it was definitely not an excuse to be lazy.
He'd genuinely spotted a fork in the path ahead—and from the left Passage, the scent of Dragonkin hung thick in the air.
His draconic heritage whispered in his mind: Black Dragon.
The reek of danger.
Yet the discovery sent a thrill through him. Meeting one of his own kind, even a rival, stirred something primal.
Sure, Five-color dragons rarely got along. But if this one was chatty, he might pry useful intel about Menzoberranzan.
Who knows? If the timing was right, they could team up for a little… acquisition.
And if the dragon wasn't home? Well, Anthony wouldn't mind playing Rogue and liberating its Treasure.
Of course, if the beast outclassed him? No way he'd deliver himself as a free meal.
First, he'd gauge its strength.
There's a simple way to measure a Dragonkin's power: check its slaves. What races serve it? How strong are they?
His mother, for instance, ruled as overlord of Barovia. Three hundred miles around her lair, her word was law. Goblins? Kobolds? Most were too weak to even serve. Only the strongest, smartest Tribes earned the privilege of Mining as her slaves.
Selling yourself into slavery sounds insane?
Not here. This was a fantasy world where The law of the jungle ruled. Without a powerful leader, lesser factions lived in constant fear—of monsters, harsh lands, and worst of all, Human adventurers hunting Treasure, slaughtering entire dens on a whim.
Dragons were greedy, yes. But pay the Protection Fee, and a Small Territory could live in peace.
A Powerful Dragon settled disputes. Protected the weak.
Not out of kindness. Slaves were property. More slaves meant more wealth. A Win-win cooperation.
His mother, for example, commanded two elite Dragonborn squads—none below Level 12, the strongest at 16. Enough to crush Ferocious Beasts, even rival dragons.
If this Black Dragon had that kind of might? Anthony would steer clear, guiding his teammates away later.
But if it wasn't fully Adult? Even if it had a few decades on him… well, he'd remind it why Red Dragons ruled the Five-color hierarchy.
Heh. Why rob Humans when you can rob a dragon?
Anthony surged forward, 29 Strength leaving deep prints as he bounded ahead.
The motion demanded high Constitution—weaker beings might snap their own bones. But Anthony's body was tough. Not quite Extraordinary, but close enough to shrug off the risk.
The underground air was thick, his strides sending tremors through the earth. Small creatures fled, their tiny brains baffled by the compact Guy's power.
The deeper he went, the hotter it grew. Not from exertion—the terrain itself was heating up.
Anthony relished it.
He was a Red Dragon. Magma was a Bathtub to him. This? Felt like home.
The end was near.
Hot wind blasted his face as the Tunnel opened into a vast Ravine.
Glowing plants. Towering fungi. A subterranean lake. Stalactites loomed like swords overhead. Lizardman-like beings lounged, while Soldiers armed with spears and giant blades patrolled.
Anthony halted with a sigh.
This lair was perfect. Nature had carved a cavern where a dragon could soar freely—or maneuver in battle.
No light pierced the ceiling, yet he caught a whiff of surface air.
Clever. A hidden Emergency exit. If threatened underground, the dragon could flee to the surface via a Secret Passage.
The slaves weren't lizardmen, though. Their cousins: Salamandermen.
Demihumans. Intelligent. Class-leveled. Their heat-loving, light-hating Racial Traits kept them out of sight—but not out of strength. Long lives and raw power let them hunt underground creatures with ease.
From memory and observation, Anthony pegged their Elite Warriors around Level 8, Small captains at 10. Their leader? Maybe 12. No threat to him.
But their numbers… The Ravine teemed with them. A thousand strong, at least.
Taming a Tribe this powerful? Building a lair this refined? The Black Dragon here had likely ruled for centuries. A permanent stronghold—something even his mother hadn't attempted yet. (She'd wait for her next growth spurt, reaching true gigantism, before settling.)
Meaning this dragon was at least an Elder. A colossal, terrifying force.
Possibly stronger. Far beyond Anthony's current league.
He cast a longing glance at the lair, then turned back, grudgingly.
Black Dragons were Cunning and Deceitful. Stealing from one now would be suicide.
No wonder it dares to dig a lair near Menzoberranzan.
Fine. Today's your lucky day, scaly. Let your Treasure pile up a bit more—I'll be back.
The thought did little to soothe his frustration.
Returning to his bloodstained teammates, still scraping brains and tanning hides, lifted his mood slightly.
"Good work. I've scouted the path. We march two more hours, then rest. We have more miles to cover tomorrow."