Starting out as a Dragon Slave

The silence of the apartment amplified each angry beat of Isaac’s heart. Motionless in the middle of his narrow room, he felt a cold rage creeping into his veins like molten metal. His fists were clenched so tightly that the crescent moons of his fingernails dug deep into his palms, nearly drawing blood. His phone lay on the bed, screen cracked after being hurled against the wall a silent witness to the conversation that had just ignited his fury.

- "Fucking bastards..." he muttered in a hoarse breath, every syllable steeped in restrained fury that seemed to make the air around him vibrate.

His gaze drifted to the window, where the gray Parisian dawn barely filtered through the half-closed blinds. The rumors, the accusations, the sidelong glances all had intensified since his release from custody. The hunter community had silently condemned him without trial. To them, he was the anomaly, the suspicious survivor, the liar who invented a story about dragons to cover up his own guilt.

Isaac slowly closed his eyes, trying to smother the wildfire that was devouring his mind. The ticking of his bedroom clock counted the seconds with almost insulting regularity tick-tock, tick-tock each sound magnified by his hypersensitive awareness, hammering against his temples like a relentless reminder of lost time. freewebnσvel.cѳm

- "If I stay here brooding, I’m going to lose my mind," he muttered into the oppressive silence of the cluttered room.

A jolt of willpower surged through his body like an electric shock. With a swift, almost violent movement, he began clearing space in the center of the room. Books were piled in a corner, clothes shoved aside, furniture scraped noisily across the wooden floor in protest. In a matter of minutes, a two-meter circle of empty space appeared in the midst of the chaos.

Isaac stepped into the center, feet shoulder-width apart, his stance grounded and stable. Slowly, the fury distorting his features shifted into relentless focus. The lines on his face, once tense with anger, reformed into a mask of cold, calculated determination.

- "Alright," he thought, mentally replaying the precise sensations of his last use of [Instinctive Awakening]. "Let’s take it slow this time. Half a second at a time..."

His eyelids lowered, shutting out visual distractions. His breathing, initially erratic under the residue of his anger, gradually steadied into a calm, controlled rhythm. Each inhale extinguished a bit of rage; each exhale carried away another distracting thought.

- "[Instinctive Awakening]," he murmured, barely audible.

The effect was instantaneous but meticulously measured. For a fraction of a second exactly half a second a faint ethereal glow swept over his skin, as if every cell in his body lit up from within. The world around him seemed to slip into a state of semi-stillness. Dust motes hanging in the morning light became visible, suspended like microscopic stars. The ticking of the clock stretched into a deep, drawn-out vibration. Even the air molecules seemed to brush against his skin with newfound clarity, every current detectable.

Then, with perfect discipline, Isaac released the skill’s grip before the characteristic pain could begin to manifest.

A faint smile touched his lips as he opened his eyes.

- "That’s it... half a second, no more. Spare the body."

That small victory fueled his resolve like oil on embers. Without delay, he resumed his position, the confidence now coursing through his veins replacing the rage that had consumed him just minutes earlier.

- "[Instinctive Awakening]," he repeated.

Once more, that supernatural clarity filled his senses. In that brief window of heightened perception, he distinctly heard his sister’s heartbeat one floor below, the rustle of a page she turned, the faint whisper of her breath. He picked up the low electrical hum of appliances on standby, the distant vibration of the metro rumbling beneath their neighborhood even the minute fluctuations in the Earth’s magnetic field.

A second activation. Then a third. Each time, he refined his control, sharpening his mastery like honing a blade.

Repetitions followed in succession, Isaac subtly adjusting his method each time, seeking the perfect balance between activating and deactivating the skill this potent yet dangerous ability. His body slowly adapted, developing a muscle memory that made each attempt smoother, more natural than the last.

By the thirtieth repetition, the first signs of fatigue began to show—a slight tremble in his quads, a fine sweat beading on his forehead, his breathing a little more labored. He allowed himself a brief pause, inhaling deeply to oxygenate his taxed muscles.

- "Faster... even faster..." he whispered to himself as he resumed the exercise.

This time, he consciously reduced the intervals between activations, pushing the limits of his recovery. His goal was crystal clear: turn this conscious skill into an automatic reflex something as instinctive as blinking or breathing. [Instinctive Awakening] needed to become a part of him, not a tool he wielded.

Sweat now streamed freely down his face, carving shiny trails across skin taut with effort. Every muscle in his body throbbed under the repeated strain, but he refused to stop. The toxic thoughts, the doubt, the accusations—all of it dissolved in the meditative void of his absolute focus.

Then, suddenly, after nearly an hour of intense training, a sharp, electric pain tore through his legs, forcing a grimace from his otherwise controlled expression. He immediately loosened his stance, bending his knees to relieve the strain.

- "Shit," he hissed, massaging his aching thighs. "I can’t push this too far yet."

He straightened up carefully, savoring the paradoxical sensation of exhaustion and accomplishment that filled every fiber of his being. Despite the pain, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The progress was tangible measurable.

"Good job, Isaac," he encouraged himself mentally. "Slowly but surely, you’ll master this skill."

His gaze drifted toward the phone abandoned on the bed a symbol of all the accusations and hostility he faced daily. His fists clenched again, but this time with cold, calculated resolve far more dangerous than the boiling rage that had gripped him earlier.

That’s when the doorbell shattered the silence.

Driiing.

The shrill sound froze Isaac mid-motion, his breath still heavy. In any other context, the bell would’ve been ordinary, but in the charged atmosphere of his room, it rang with strange weight.

He frowned, instantly alert.

They weren’t expecting anyone.

His body, still influenced by the residual effects of his training, instinctively switched to defense mode. All his senses sharpened. He picked up the telltale creak of the building’s front door opening two floors below. Voices followed one belonging to his sister, calm but slightly tense; the other, male, deep, and measured, speaking with the kind of quiet authority that demanded no obedience yet received it naturally.

That voice wasn’t a neighbor’s. Nor a friend’s. Nor even a typical Bureau of Hunters representative. There was something in the tone a certain resonance, a near-musical quality that betrayed immense, controlled power.

Then Léa’s voice echoed up the stairwell:

- "Isaac! It’s for you."

He quickly wiped his face with a towel, threw on a clean T-shirt, and headed down the creaking wooden stairs. His mind was already calculating probabilities, assessing potential threats, preparing answers for possible accusations.

As he turned into the narrow hallway leading to the entry, Isaac froze, as if struck by an invisible force.

The man standing in the doorway wasn’t physically imposing. He was average in height maybe 5’10" at most and not particularly muscular like brute-force hunters. Yet his mere presence seemed to compress the air around him, creating a density so palpable it bent the space he occupied.

Isaac recognized him immediately, though they’d never met in person. Lazare Korr. The legendary master of the StarSky Guild, the most powerful hunter organization in France whose feats were studied in academies and whose name was whispered with reverence even by Rank A hunters.

The Rank S hunter stood with his back to the morning light, casting his figure into partial silhouette. His posture was naturally flawless, effortless as if gravity itself had bent to accommodate him. Every movement, no matter how small, spoke of total control over every muscle, every tendon.

He wore a midnight blue jacket of understated but undeniable elegance, tailored from fabric that Isaac immediately recognized even from a distance as rune-reinforced weave, likely crafted by a world-class artisan. Complex motifs, nearly invisible except at certain angles of light, shimmered across the garment, forming a web of magical protections rare outside the collections of elite guilds.

Around his left wrist glinted a deep-black chain, streaked with silver veins. At regular intervals, a cobalt-blue pulse coursed through the metal like an artificial heartbeat an upper-tier artifact, undoubtedly unique, and likely forged specifically for its bearer.

But what caught Isaac’s attention most were the man’s eyes. So pale a gray they bordered on silver, they held a supernatural clarity, a hypnotic depth. It was a gaze that seemed to see beyond appearances, to dissect the very soul of the one it studied. A gaze that had stared into abysses most humans couldn’t even imagine without going mad.

- "Sorry to intrude," Lazare said, bowing slightly to Léna a gesture of formal but sincere courtesy.

There was something strange about his voice almost unreal. Each word seemed to resonate not only in the air but directly within the mind, as if sound were merely a secondary vehicle for a deeper form of communication. Even Léa, usually impervious to intimidation, seemed momentarily unsettled, her fingers tightening imperceptibly around the doorframe.

Lazare’s gaze then shifted to Isaac, studying him with tranquil but absolute intensity. In a single instant, Isaac felt a dizzying sense that the man had catalogued every detail of him not just his physical traits, but also his current capabilities, recent injuries, perhaps even fluctuations in his mana. It was like being scanned by a system of terrifying precision.

- "I’m Lazare Korr, Master of the StarSky Guild," he introduced himself with a simplicity that contrasted with the overwhelming aura of power emanating from him.

Isaac stiffened slightly. StarSky wasn’t just France’s top guild it was a nearly mythical institution in the hunter world. Founded shortly after the first portals appeared, it had quickly set unmatched standards of excellence. Its members were handpicked from the nation’s elite hunters, trained through guild-exclusive methods, and equipped with artifacts and gear developed by their own arcane engineers.

StarSky officially collaborated with the Hunter Bureau, but rumors claimed the guild actually held significant influence over the Bureau’s own strategic decisions. And at its head stood Lazare Korr France’s only officially recognized S-rank hunter, a man whose exact abilities were classified, but whose exploits had saved Paris at least twice during major breaches.

- "I apologize for showing up this early, Isaac," Lazare continued with a distant courtesy that didn’t really expect forgiveness. "But I’m coming straight from the Bureau’s headquarters. I’ve been briefed on your testimony—the one you gave to Inspector Marc Lemaire."

Isaac remained silent, but didn’t look away. There was something in the way Lazare had pronounced the word "testimony" a faint modulation that suggested he didn’t necessarily accept the official version of events.

Isaac felt a subtle tingling at the nape of his neck—an instinctual sense that he was being assessed not as a suspect, but as a potential ally. The realization shook him more than any of the accusations he’d faced in recent weeks.

Lazare went on, his voice now lower, almost confidential:

- "As you may know, my guild works closely with the Bureau. We’ve been informed of the threat represented by what you saw. And more than that its strategic importance. We’ve been authorized to contact you... discreetly."

He calmly clasped his hands behind his back in a gesture that, from anyone else, would have seemed formal or military, but in his case, felt entirely natural as if it were the rest of the world that was slightly out of sync, not him.

- "StarSky has assembled a special investigation team," he continued. "Elite members. Autonomous. They’ll be combing through low and mid-tier dungeons in search of any signs of draconic activity."

A heavy silence followed that statement. The word "draconic" echoed in the narrow hallway like a death knell.

- "Your testimony is the only one we have," Lazare continued, his silver eyes never leaving Isaac’s. "You’re the only survivor to have seen such a creature. Your experience is... indispensable."

The temperature in the corridor seemed to drop by several degrees. The implication was clear—they believed his story about the dragon. Or at least, they took it seriously enough to commit significant resources.

Léna broke the silence abruptly, arms crossed in a protective gesture that betrayed her rising anxiety.

- "No way!" she snapped, her voice trembling with anger laced with fear. "He barely made it out alive, and now you want to use him as a damn dragon detector? Are you kidding me?"

Isaac was surprised by the ferocity of her reaction not because she was usually timid, but because standing up to an S-rank required either extraordinary courage or complete ignorance of the unspoken hierarchy of the hunter world.

Lazare turned his gaze to Léna, observing her with quiet attention. There was no trace of annoyance or disdain in his expression. In fact, there was something that looked faintly like approval in his pale eyes as if he respected this display of sibling loyalty.

- "It’s not an obligation," he said softly after a pause. "It would be a voluntary arrangement. And I assure you, Isaac would have our full support. He wouldn’t be alone. He’d be joining an elite team. This isn’t a suicide mission."

There was a strange sincerity in his voice almost tangible. Isaac realized, with a hint of discomfort, that if Lazare had wanted to force him using status or pressure, he could have done so with ease. This respectful approach was a choice, not a necessity.

- "Why me?" asked Isaac, his voice steady even though he didn’t fully feel it.

A flicker of something curiosity? Respect? passed briefly through Lazare’s silver eyes.

- "Because you saw a dragon. Because you’re still alive."

He paused before adding:

- "And because the Bureau knows what you’re capable of, Isaac. They haven’t said anything publicly, but they’ve read between the lines. So have I."

That final sentence sent a cold shiver down Isaac’s spine. Did they know? Had they guessed something about his true abilities? About his second life? About Mordred?

Isaac took a deep breath, weighing his decision. The offer was both terrifying and fascinating. Dangerous, certainly. Perhaps suicidal, given what he truly knew about these creatures. But it also represented a unique opportunity a chance to uncover the mystery that had haunted him since his return: whether a second passage truly existed in these dungeons a gateway to that other world where he had been Mordred...

This mission might be his only chance to confirm that theory. To understand the real rules of the cosmic game in which he’d been trapped. And maybe, one day, to return willingly to that brutal world that had nonetheless given him a freedom and power he had never known here.

Léna sensed the change in his expression before he even spoke. She placed a trembling hand on his arm, her eyes full of silent pleading.

- "Isaac... you can’t... not again," she whispered, her voice cracking on the final word.

He gently covered her hand with his own, in a gesture rare in its tenderness.

- "I have to know, Léna," he said simply four words that carried the full weight of his personal quest.

Lazare watched this exchange in silence, his expression unreadable. But when Isaac turned back to him, he thought he caught the faintest trace of a smile not triumphant, but almost... understanding.

- "If you accept," the S-rank said with professional sobriety, "you’ll begin synchronization training with the team tomorrow. Just follow me."

Isaac briefly closed his eyes, visualizing the diverging paths ahead. One, safe and easy, leading to a quiet life haunted by unanswered questions. The other, dangerous and uncertain, possibly offering the keys to the mysteries that consumed him.

When he opened his eyes again, his choice was clear.

- "I accept."

Léna looked away sharply, her face betraying a painful mix of helpless anger, visceral fear, and resignation. She knew her brother well enough to understand that nothing would change his mind now.

Lazare gave a slight nod—a minimalist gesture, but coming from an S-rank, it was a significant mark of respect.

- "Very well," he concluded, his voice returning to a neutral professionalism. "I’ll contact you this evening with the details. Thank you for your time."

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. Just before stepping out, he paused briefly, as if considering whether to add something more. But in the end, he simply disappeared into the gray light of the Parisian morning, leaving behind only a faint energetic imprint a subtle disturbance in the mana flow that lingered like a phantom echo of his presence.

Isaac remained motionless in the hallway, the weight of his decision settling heavily on his shoulders. A Chapter had ended; a new path opened before him perilous, uncertain, but full of the answers he desperately sought.

And in that exact moment, in the narrow hallway of an ordinary Parisian apartment, Isaac’s fate became entwined with one of the most powerful forces in the hunter world. And somewhere deep inside him, nestled among doubt and fear, a spark of excitement flared to life the same one he had felt as Mordred, staring into the face of the unknown.