Starting out as a Dragon Slave

Once he returned home, Isaac walked through the apartment in silence, carefully avoiding the worried gaze of Léna, who was watching him from the living room without daring to speak. The tension was palpable, heavy, almost suffocating. His sister had likely guessed, from his distant and cold expression, that the day had brought nothing concrete. And Isaac had no desire to explain, no desire to justify his decisions or his apparent failures once again. freewebnøvel.coɱ

He entered his room, closed the door softly behind him, and sat down on the edge of the bed. For a few seconds, he stared blankly ahead, his gaze lost in the shadows. His breathing gradually slowed, his heartbeat calming bit by bit, soothed by the silence.

Then, as it did every time now, a familiar sensation slowly crept over him. A chilling cold, dull and creeping, like an invisible hand plunging into his soul to tear it out. His mind was violently pulled away, reality flickered and collapsed in an instant.

His eyes snapped open.

—Mordred.

He was back in the oppressive darkness of his cell, the damp walls exuding a chilling moisture, thick iron bars slicing the pale moonlight into dark stripes on the ground. For a few moments, Mordred slowly regained consciousness, his breathing slightly ragged, his muscles tense, quickly readjusting his senses to this sudden shift in worlds.

He didn’t have much time to regain his senses. A dull metallic sound echoed in the outer hallway—the clinking of rusty keys, followed by the familiar creak of a heavy door. Two dragon guards appeared before his cell, their reptilian eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness.

— "On your feet, Mordred," one of them ordered sharply. "You’re coming with us."

Mordred stood up slowly, without protest, accustomed to these sudden interruptions. He sighed, the work at the mines would begin again. The heavy chains were swiftly placed around his wrists, a metallic collar fastened around his neck. The dragons took no risks with him, even after all his victories.

As he walked along the narrow, dark hallway, Mordred quickly noticed that other gladiators were also being led out of their cells. Creatures of various appearances, from different worlds: some tall and humanoid, others massive and bestial, all bound by the same chain of bloody victories in the arena. All chained like him.

They were led outside, into the cold courtyard where the night air bit viciously at their skin. A massive, armored carriage was already waiting, linked to four powerful wyverns, their black wings folded against their flanks, their hot, acidic breath releasing vapors into the frigid night.

Mordred felt his heart tighten. They weren’t going to the mines this time. This wasn’t an ordinary task. A much darker destination awaited. The gladiators were shoved inside the carriage without ceremony, their chains locked against the reinforced metal walls. In the oppressive darkness of the carriage, Mordred briefly caught the eyes of some of the other prisoners. He could read in their gazes the same uncertainty, the same anxiety hidden behind a cold facade of bravery.

With a sudden jolt, the wyverns took off, their wings spreading wide, powerfully beating against the icy air. Mordred felt his stomach clench slightly from the sudden altitude, but he made no sound, no complaint. He waited in silence, mentally preparing himself for what was to come.

During the journey, Mordred could glimpse through the narrow, grated openings of the carriage the landscape below: dark lands, ravaged by fire and war, patrolled by those ruthless reptilian creatures. Then, finally, the familiar and sinister towers of the Palace of the Blazing Fangs appeared in the distance. A chilling shiver ran down his spine.

A place he knew too well. A place where memories of humiliation and pain were etched into the very stone.

The wyverns landed harshly in a massive courtyard, illuminated by violently flickering torches. Elite guards rushed toward the carriage, weapons raised, faces concealed behind helmets adorned with fearsome draconic motifs. The gladiators were pulled out roughly, lined up in tight ranks like cattle.

Mordred quickly observed the surroundings: the palace walls were massive, imposing, covered with dark stone engraved with glowing crimson runes. Gigantic dragon statues seemed to watch every movement, every breath. All around, servants, soldiers, and even noble dragons watched the gladiators with strange looks morbid curiosity, cold condescension. Mordred felt a simmering anger rise within him. They were being treated like mere animals.

The group was led down a long hallway of black marble, the walls adorned with tapestries depicting the brutal conquests of the dragons over other races. Mordred walked in silence, each step echoing ominously in this place of overwhelming power.

Finally, two massive doors slowly swung open before them, revealing a vast room: the throne room.

Mordred felt his heart pound harder. He knew this place. He had been brought here once as a toy for Princess Elystria, displayed like a living trophy.

But this time, it wasn’t the princess he saw on the throne, shrouded in the shadows at the far end of the room.

A larger, darker figure dominated the space with a suffocating presence.

The King himself.

The throne room was plunged in sinister darkness, only pierced by the blazing torches set at regular intervals along the walls of black marble. At the back, on a massive throne made of dark stone inlaid with crimson runes, the imposing silhouette of the King stood out clearly. Every feature of his face, sharp and unyielding, expressed a cold cruelty, forged by centuries of absolute domination.

The gladiators, lined up before him like condemned men before their executioner, stood motionless and silent, their wrists and ankles shackled, a brutal reminder of their miserable condition. Mordred, among them, observed the King without averting his gaze. He had seen powerful figures before, but none emanated such an aura of calm terror, veiled threat, and total mastery.

The oppressive silence lingered for a long moment before the sovereign finally spoke. His voice echoed slowly through the hall, cold and unyielding, charged with an undeniable power.

- "Gladiators," he said, his tone leaving no room for reply, "you are here because you have demonstrated a certain... utility. You are the ones who survived, the ones who conquered, the ones whose blood has fed the arenas of our empire."

He slowly rose from his throne, his immense silhouette casting a terrifying shadow on the black stone floor. His gaze, piercing like blades of white-hot steel, swept over the gladiators one by one, barely pausing on Mordred.

- "But today, your fate takes a different path. You will serve a purpose far greater than mere entertainment for my people."

He paused dramatically, letting the echo of his voice fade into the vastness of the hall, as if allowing the weight of his words to crush the spirits of the gladiators, already weakened by their captivity.

- "You are being forcibly enlisted into the service of the Draconic Empire," he continued, his words as cold and sharp as blades. "You will be sent to the front lines during the first phase of the invasion. Lesser worlds, weak, populated by pretentious creatures who are still ignorant of an enemy worthy of them, await you."

Mordred felt his muscles tense, a simmering anger boiling beneath his skin. Worlds... portals. He finally understood. The invasion was about to begin, and they would be the first to be sent to the slaughter.

The King stepped forward slightly, descending the steps of his throne slowly, his predatory stride radiating feline arrogance, a latent power ready to erupt at the slightest sign of rebellion.

- "Your mission will be clear and ruthless: eliminate all potential threats before they can even represent a danger to us. You will be the assassins of the vanguard, the heralds of our victory. But..."

He paused again, a predatory smile slowly spreading across his merciless features, a smile that promised neither mercy nor reprieve.

- "Your current strength is pathetic, your mental capacities deplorable. Your endurance is ridiculous. You are far, very far, from what we expect of you. You are not yet ready to become the perfect instruments that the Empire needs. That is why, before we send you to massacre your future enemies, you will undergo special training. A training adapted to your... peculiarities."

The smile stretched even further, slightly revealing his sharp, almost reptilian teeth, gleaming like daggers in the dim light. Mordred felt a chilling cold descend slowly down his spine. He knew, deep down, that what the King was announcing was nothing less than a promise of suffering.

- "This training will be nothing like your pathetic arena drills," he continued, his voice laced with perfectly measured cruelty. "You will learn what it truly means to surpass your limits, to destroy your weaknesses, and to become what the Empire demands: perfect weapons, emotionless, without hesitation—deadly instruments capable of annihilating any resistance without question."

He stepped even closer, nearly within arm’s reach of the first gladiator, who immediately averted his gaze, terrified by the imposing proximity of the King.

- "Some of you will not survive this training," he stated coldly. "But those who do will be rewarded with the ultimate honor: to die with dignity for the Empire on the battlefield."

His gaze finally settled on Mordred, locking deeply with his eyes, as if reading every hidden thought, every doubt, every secret rebellion within him. A fierce chill ran through Mordred not out of fear, but out of a silent, icy rage ready to explode at the slightest opportunity.

- "Prepare yourselves," the King concluded as he straightened up slowly, reclaiming his intimidating height. "Your training begins at dawn, and there is no turning back."

A crushing silence fell over the throne room as the guards began to move slowly to escort the gladiators back to their cells. Mordred was pushed roughly toward the exit, the cold chains biting into his skin like painful reminders of his condition as a slave.