After making that call, Gauss unconsciously let out a breath.
A “true dragon” and a “drake” differ by a single word, both born of dragon mothers—yet they’re practically two different beings. True dragons are a sapient race; drakes are more like powerful beasts wearing a dragon’s shape.
The forr possess keen intellect—capable of philosophy, language, intricate magic. Anything humans can do, they can do—usually better—if they care to spend the ti.
The latter think more like cunning predators—wolves, tigers—their behavior largely driven by instinct: hunting, fighting, guarding territory.
In magic, a drake might wield a natural breath—fire, acid, frost—more a biological function than studied art; their minds generally aren’t up to mastering higher sorcery.
True dragons, by contrast, are born casters: with age, even if they spend most of their lives asleep, they naturally accumulate spells—from trivial cantrips to city-levelling magics.
Why was Gauss so sure? Because everything about the creature’s bearing was wrong for a true dragon. The way it roared, the way it moved—more beast than mind.
If it was a drake, the earlier puzzles snapped into place. Why gather so many kobolds? Why were wild monsters so ta and rule-bound? Why constant mining and slting? All because of this drake.
Kobolds, by blood, worship dragons. By the sa token, they’ll almost certainly worship a drake. Whatever you call it, dragon blood still runs in a drake’s veins; that blood compels dragon-blooded monsters like kobolds to revere and fear it. No further reason needed. And in their ager lives, how often do kobolds ever et a true dragon? Essentially never. A drake is a reachable “king”—even a “god.”
They’d count themselves lucky.
Beyond spiritual fervor, a drake within the tribe brings tangible gains. It is an absolute authority that unites the clan; even the lowest tunnel rat will gladly toil. Such is a dragon’s gravity. And while a drake isn’t a true dragon, it still bears dragon blood and a monstrous body—at its tier it hits brutally hard. It deters competing predators and keeps the tribe safe. Its re presence can sharpen kobold bloodlines over ti; so “blessed” may awaken special traits.
It also made more sense that a drake, and not a true dragon, would be here. To dragon mothers—especially the chromatic—such mindless throwbacks are a sha to be discarded. Confirm it’s a drake, and the mother abandons it; were it not for so taboo against filicide, so would likely kill it outright. Or sothing else happened? In this region, the only famous dragon was a green dragon queen—no word of an adult red.
In short, stumbling on a lone, juvenile drake is likelier than on a true dragon.
As Gauss thought, his view suddenly went black—the feed cut. His mind snapped back into his body. He shook his head.
“What is it? What did you find?” Alia and the others had seen the change in his face.
“A dragon in the kobold stronghold,” he said.
“A dragon?!” all of them started. For most low and mid-tier adventurers, that target sits far above their weight.
“More precisely, a drake—looks like red dragon blood,” Gauss added. Their reaction matched his first—nerves, excitent, and a bit of being at a loss. Dragons’ strength is baked into this world’s bones—tales, ballads, scriptures. Art can paint a dragon depraved or arrogant or foolish—but rarely weak. A true dragon is born destined to beco a force—if it survives.
“A drake… the true dragon’s ‘dumb’ cousin?” Alia asked again.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Gauss nodded. They all exhaled. In raw terms, a drake is weaker than a true dragon—body without the legacy of magic and heritage.
“What stage is it at?” Alia asked the key question. Everyone knows a true dragon’s power scales with age. Eggs—harmless, guarded by the mother. Hatchlings start at least challenge 2, horse-sized, typically CR 2–5.
A few to ten years on, they beco wyrmlings—“juveniles”—bodies in a growth spurt; strong ones can rival an elephant in bulk and CR 6–10.
Any true dragon that survives the hatchling phase beside its dam will naturally step into commander-tier.
Then young dragon, CR 11–16—fully mature body, regional overlords, cunning, many spells, stacked resistances, and gathering vassals into fearso lairs.
Beyond that: adult and ancient—godlike to common folk and mid-tier adventurers.
“Wyrmling stage, I’d say,” Gauss said, describing the size—bigger than a hatchling, but not an outlier among juveniles.
“So at least level 6, but not 9 or 10,” Alia nodded. “And a drake,” Serandur added. The subtext was clear—sa size, a drake is weaker than a true dragon.
“But reds are the strongest of the chromatics, right?” Albena put in. Yes—among chromatics, the red is widely seen as the strongest; white the weakest; blues likely next; greens and blacks about even. A drake’s modest size tempered their estimate; red blood nudged it back up.
“Well?” Gauss looked to them. He’d already told the Guildmaster they’d reassess if needed; they weren’t bound to a death march. But… even a drake is a treasure. Alia swallowed—didn’t speak, but he saw the spark. No adventurer is unmoved by the chance to face a juvenile dragon.
Shadow shrugged. “Either way.”
Serandur said nothing—eyes on Gauss. With the intel as it stood, either choice could be justified; it was simply a call.
“Sir Gauss—we could try,” Albena said first. He lifted a brow—he’d expected her to hold back and listen. “If it’s the size you say, it may not be that terrible,” she said, excitent without fear. “A drake—even a red—still isn’t a true dragon. Beyond the body, it has fire breath.” She smiled. “I’m confident I can hold it.”
He studied her—saw her confidence wasn’t a bluff. She wasn’t “just” Level 6. A normal six wouldn’t be this steady about a dragon fight they’d personally be in.
Gauss himself leaned toward pressing on. He might be Level 4, but his stats ran above par; he had multiple talents and two Level 3 spells—effectively master-tier.
And, if needed, he had a trump: activating [Ironscale Bloodline] and [Ghoul Form] together. He felt he could do it, though sothing deep in his body hissed warning whenever he tried—like the strain would damage him. Still, in a pinch, he’d risk it—and rest off the harm.
Add Shadow’s talent, too.
“Then we continue,” he said.
“Good!” Alia and the others nodded. Hearts thumped. They felt like heroes in a dragon-slaying tale, handed a holy charge. The word “dragon” sets blood on fire—slay it or ride with it, it’s legend either way.
They talked through a plan and moved. With the clay-spider mory fresh, Gauss navigated smoothly. Soon they halted.
“Alia, Serandur, Albena—as we discussed—you three wait here,” Gauss said. “Shadow and I will infiltrate; I’ll cast a Fireball into the town; the instant it detonates, Shadow pulls out and we regroup here.”
That barrier made a stealth insertion unlikely. The idea was to land a devastating blast to kill and sow chaos. He’d gauged the chamber—huge, reinforced; a Fireball wouldn’t collapse it outright, but it would hurt. The forges were perfect—fuel everywhere, elite guards concentrated.
Why not drop a fireball on the drake’s head? Too hard to execute; the “dragon’s nest” lay too far for his range. And he doubted a Level 3 Fireball would harm a red-blooded drake much; most commander-tier creatures have terrifying natural armor—and red blood brings fire resistance. Fireball is wide, not deep.
They’d agreed: strip the drake of its kobold claws. One drake versus Gauss’s party might even favor them if it were alone. But the kobolds would hurl themselves in—better to blunt them first.
“It shouldn’t reach here,” Gauss said, judging blast and space. “I’ll raise the shield if it does,” Albena promised. She could project a protective do centered on herself.
“Thanks.” As usual—buffs on. Alia and Serandur layered support on the two. When all was in place, Gauss and Shadow shared a look. “We’re off.”
Shadow wrapped them, and they slipped into the earth.
…
“Stop here,” Gauss whispered. They’d entered outside the barrier, in a hidden spot not far from the forges. Wrapped in shadow, he couldn’t cast; to do so, he had to drop the state.
“Wait—a patrol,” he breathed. “Got it,” Shadow said. They waited until the steps faded.
“Take to the edge.”
Shadow slid them forward to an invisible line. Through the haze, the nest shimred. They stepped out of shadow.
“You alright?” he asked—dragging a passenger cost Shadow more. That was why Alia and the rest had stayed back.
“I’m fine—catch my breath. Let’s hurry—before anyone notices,” she said evenly.
Gauss didn’t waste words. “Cover ,” he said, drawing the White Wand from his thigh. He inhaled; power surged; in the sea of mind, the mage’s cup and the Sword Soul’s white blade lit together. He rose, robes snapping in wind that wasn’t there. Through the blur of the barrier he could place his range—thanks to the ntal map cleared by the clay spider.
His erald eyes shifted to molten gold. The wand drew a line; mana flared—
WHUM—
Air distorted; even the barrier rippled.
Inside the nest—
Clang-clang-clang!
A kobold smith hamred a red-hot ingot, head full of joy. It had offered a fire-aspected crystal to the great Red Majesty; to taste a “reward,” too, would be sweet. The word was: soon the smiths would face the Red and receive a baptism—gain more power—and then follow their king to the surface to plunder all in its na, basking in glory.
In its reverie, a white-hot bead gathered in the air not far away. At the sa ti, the detection web over the nest shuddered violently.
“Rrr! Rrr! Rrr!” panicked cries broke the spell. Kobolds poured into the open, heads tilted up to the trembling barrier—and to the point of sunlike light blazing brighter and brighter.
In that instant, they all gazed on a long-absent sun.
The sun… was about to fall.
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