Starting out as a Dragon Slave

Seated across from Lazare in the sunlit office where the natural light seemed to catch every suspended dust particle in its path Isaac maintained a neutral posture, no visible tension, but internally, he was analyzing everything. Though the StarSky guild master appeared cordial and approachable, there was an undercurrent of calm authority in him that stifled any attempt at premature familiarity. A serenity born of obvious power. Even when he smiled.

Lazare spoke first, fingers interlaced before him in a gesture that seemed to ritualize the beginning of a serious conversation.

— I’ll be direct, Isaac. The elite team I’ve assembled isn’t made of rookies. You might be tempted to think they’re just average hunters... but that’s exactly what we want the dragons to believe too.

He paused, closely watching his guest’s reaction, then continued:

— This team is made up of trained, selected, and discreet A-rank hunters. I myself will accompany them during the initial incursions. The plan is simple: this afternoon, we’re running through several low-level dungeons the kind others ignore. Why? Because if a dragon wants to eliminate hunters without drawing attention, that’s where it’ll strike.

Isaac raised a single eyebrow the first genuine expression he allowed himself since the beginning of their meeting.

— You’re betting they’ll make the first move? he asked, his voice betraying a professional curiosity.

Lazare’s eyes gleamed with something sharp almost predatory.

— It would be logical, he agreed. If dragons are intelligent, they’ll want to quietly purge weak links from the system. More importantly, they’ll want to verify survivors. You’ve seen what one of them can do to a full squad. Imagine what a single infiltrated dragon could do if it spotted someone who might recognize them.

A cold shiver crawled down Isaac’s spine not out of fear, but from the dawning realization of the true scope of the threat. If dragons were capable of coordinated strategy, the situation was far worse than he had imagined. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

Lazare then reached for a small square device embedded in his desk a discreet, yet clearly advanced internal communicator. He pressed a softly glowing button, which emitted a faint chime.

— Join me in the office, please, he said calmly into the transmitter. We have a new ally to introduce.

The word "ally" not "recruit" or "member" didn’t escape Isaac’s notice. A deliberate nuance that placed their relationship on different ground one of converging interests rather than strict hierarchy.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was tactical — a shared pause before the arrival of other players in this unusual mission.

Only a few seconds passed before Isaac heard footsteps in the hallway — multiple sets, moving in sync, revealing the kind of coordination forged through years of operating together. His body responded instinctively, straightening slightly, his muscles readying for the evaluation of the newcomers.

The door opened without a knock another sign of familiarity and trust between Lazare and the team now entering the room.

There were seven of them. Four women, three men.

Isaac sized them up in a heartbeat with that almost supernatural acuity born of needing to assess potential threats in an instant to survive. His first impression was one of brutally efficient discipline, carefully controlled.

They didn’t look massive or imposing like typical tanks. No they were lean, agile, honed. Bodies trained for mobility, precision, survival. And more than anything, in their eyes, he saw a cold lucidity he knew well: the look of people who had already stared death in the face and learned to dance with it instead of fleeing.

Lazare stood with fluid grace, naturally drawing everyone’s attention.

— This is StarSky’s Phantom Unit, he announced with restrained pride. The squad that will be combing through dungeons by my side.

He then turned to Isaac, pausing for a moment before continuing.

— And this is Isaac, he said, indicating him with a simple gesture. The man who survived a dragon attack.

All eyes turned toward Isaac with that particular intensity reserved for those who might hold life-or-death secrets. There was no open hostility, nor excessive warmth just a sharp, professional evaluation sharpened by the stakes of their shared mission.

The four women each stood out with a distinct presence that revealed their specialty without a single word spoken:

The first, a tall redhead with a lean silhouette, stood slightly apart from the others a position not born of shyness but of a deeply ingrained habit to maintain optimal firing distance. Her arms, partially exposed by a sleeveless tactical top, were marked with complex tattoos that weren’t simply decorative Isaac immediately recognized the patterns of runes meant to enhance visual perception and stability. She carried a foldable sniper rifle in a specialized back sheath, an advanced model designed to deploy in under a second. Her eyes, a pale green bordering on translucent, were already calculating distances, angles, positions instinctively tracing potential trajectories even in this peaceful setting.

To her right stood a woman with hair cut so short it was barely more than a shadow on her sculpted skull. Her compact, densely muscled frame evoked a perfectly balanced blade. Unlike most melee specialists who burdened themselves with visible weapons, she wore nothing obvious her bare hands, their knuckles slightly swollen from countless impacts, were her tools of choice. Her deep black eyes carried that piercing quality that seemed to dissect every movement, every potential weakness, with surgical precision.

The third was a blonde whose energy was almost palpable, her body seemingly always a second away from springing into action. Her predatory grin revealed a row of perfect teeth, contrasted by a scar slashing through her left brow. Her light armor, which at first glance appeared standard, was in fact a sophisticated array of miniaturized techno-magical gadgets communicators, scanners, jammers, and likely several concealed weapons. On her belt hung a holster containing what looked like a modified pistol, though Isaac quickly identified it as a short-range magical pulse launcher a tactical support weapon rather than one for direct assault.

And then, the one who said nothing. She stood slightly in the shadows, as if her natural place was always just outside the light. Her ebony skin contrasted sharply with her eyes a shifting hue that seemed to change with the lighting, now amber, now steely gray. Her thick, black hair was bound in a tight braid that fell down the middle of her back. Her armor, minimalist and utilitarian, seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. No bright metal, no unnecessary ornamentation only pure efficiency, honed through years of relentless refinement. She carried two curved daggers, partially hidden in back sheaths designed for silent, instant draw. Her gaze rarely met others’, but when it did like now, with Isaac it carried a disturbing intensity. The kind of look from someone who sees beyond the surface, deep into the darkest corners of a person’s soul.

— And this is Naesha, Lazare introduced.

On the men’s side, the reception was wrapped in a professional roughness that barely veiled a primal wariness:

The first, a dark-haired man with an imposing build, looked like his muscles were perpetually braced, even in this seemingly relaxed stance. His arms crossed, he sized Isaac up with a dark, analytical gaze that betrayed no personal animosity just the methodical caution of a tactician assessing a new, unaccounted variable. His square jaw tightened slightly a sign of restrained internal tension. Isaac immediately pegged his role in the team: the tactical tank, the one who absorbed damage while coordinating the squad’s movements.

The second, leaner but no less dangerous, stood out through an almost disheveled appearance deep circles under sharp, intelligent eyes, complex tattoos trailing up his neck to the base of his partly shaved skull. His belt held several pouches clearly containing alchemical components, and his fingers bore the stains typical of one who frequently handled volatile substances. He wore a skeptical frown, but his gaze was already calculating not Isaac’s physical capabilities, but his potential as a variable in some complex chemical reaction.

The third and clearly the youngest was a blond who looked almost too polished to be a field operative. He wore a crooked smile teetering between insolence and genuine curiosity. His gear, unlike the others’, appeared brand-new and borderline ostentatious gold-accented reinforcements on a high-quality light armor, an ornate sheath for a short sword at his hip. He carried that specific brand of confidence possessed by those who hadn’t yet known true failure tempered, however, by a level of competence that justified his place in this elite unit.

— And this is who we’re relying on to find a dragon? he asked casually, with no overt hostility but a subtle edge of challenge in his voice. Hope he’s better than the rumors...

Isaac noticed the subtle shift that passed through the group at that remark not approval, but neither open disapproval. A watchful neutrality, waiting to see how the dynamic would evolve.

Naesha turned her head slightly toward the blond, her gaze settling on him with quiet, unequivocal intensity. No words were exchanged, but the effect was immediate. The insolent smile faded from his face, not from scolding, but from realization as if that single look had reminded him of foundational truths he knew but had momentarily ignored.

Isaac recognized in that silent exchange the full complexity of the group’s internal dynamics the informal but powerful hierarchy that existed beyond official ranks.

Lazare smiled inwardly, clearly satisfied with a group dynamic he knew well.— You’ll be working together starting today, he announced in a voice that, though gentle, allowed no room for argument. Isaac will accompany the first observation mission. He won’t fight unless necessary. He’s here to explain their combat style, their characteristics, and everything he’s witnessed.

He then turned to Isaac, his tone shifting to something almost friendly offering a carefully calculated space to speak.

— I’ll let you introduce yourself. They’ve all read your name. But they haven’t yet heard your voice.

Isaac understood perfectly what Lazare was offering him not merely a chance to introduce himself, but the opportunity to define his position, to set the terms of how he would be perceived by the group. In a world of predators who functioned as much on instinct as intellect, first impressions carved invisible but vital boundaries.

He inhaled quietly, then locked eyes with the young blond who had questioned him earlier, holding his gaze with a glacial calm that held no arrogance, only a certainty forged in blood.— My name is Isaac, he began, his voice low and clear, carrying effortlessly to the far corners of the room. I’m the sole survivor of Dungeon Delta-14. All my teammates are dead. I saw a dragon. Up close.

He paused deliberately, letting the weight of those simple yet charged words settle into the room, then added with a quiet determination that revealed his true purpose:— And I’m here to make sure that never happens again.

A silence fell. Light, but heavy with a new kind of respect not born of bragged feats or inflated reputation, but from the brutal simplicity of a shared truth: they were all survivors in their own way, and they instinctively recognized one of their own.

Naesha, still standing apart, inclined her head slightly a minimal gesture, but coming from her, it carried the weight of an accolade. The others said nothing, but their gazes had changed from wary assessment to a form of professional acknowledgment.

Even the young blond, his demeanor shifted, now looked at Isaac with respectful curiosity rather than disdain.

Lazare nodded, visibly pleased with a first contact that had laid a stronger foundation than any long speech could have.— Good, he said, rising to his feet, signaling the end of the meeting. We leave in two hours. Get ready. We’re going hunting.

Those last words echoed through the room with a finality that electrified the air, transforming the formal briefing into a prelude to imminent action.

Isaac felt a long-dormant sensation awaken in him not the thrill of combat, but that distinct clarity that comes with having a defined purpose after drifting for too long.

As the Phantom Unit began to disperse for preparations, their movements fluid and precise, the product of years of training together, Isaac briefly met Naesha’s gaze.