CHAPTER 159: 159. ISOLDE!!!

Even though every nerve in my body screamed for me to turn back and run—like some helpless girl in a slasher movie—I didn’t. I just needed to know what the hell was going on. Curiosity’s a bitch that way.

I hadn’t gotten a full view of the dragon earlier, just that one shimmering scale, but now...

I crept forward through the dense canopy, the shadows of the trees swallowing most of my silhouette. I moved like one of those horror movie survivors—the ones you yell at on screen because they know something’s wrong but walk toward the monster anyway.

And sure enough, I found the reason why the big lizard was lying still like a taxidermy project.

The group was already here.

And Leon was with them.

My gaze locked onto the scene in front of me.

Leon and Amelia were standing hand-in-hand like some doomed lovers in a myth, and his mana—pure and icy—was surging into her, wrapping around her figure like a protective aura. She had her hand placed directly on the dragon’s massive, cold-scaled body.

It was glowing.

The dragon, I mean.

Radiating a soft, bone-white light like moonlight refracted through a cathedral window.

Elegant.

Holy.

Absolutely terrifying.

I felt it again—the deep buzz of the system’s notification, that dreadful sense of scale (pun intended). That thing was regaining its strength.

And not just healing.

Awakening.

Every alarm in my brain went off like a fire drill. I knew it the moment I laid eyes on this ridiculous ritual.

I had a gut feeling from the start—Amelia’s plan stank. But now? Now I had proof.

This wasn’t reverting her mother back to some weak, peaceful state.

This was healing her.

Restoring her.

Returning her to full, eight-star, "wipe out a city in ten seconds" dragon glory.

And if she went berserk after that?

We’d all be dragon chow.

I didn’t care if Opalcrest burned. Hell, I’d roast marshmallows on their flaming corpses. But I wasn’t about to let my delicious EXP get vaporized by a grief-stricken lizard.

No way.

So, I approached. Quiet but purposeful.

The moment my footsteps crunched softly over the forest floor, Art, Zyon, and Freya turned around. They flinched, mildly startled, like I was a ghost popping out of nowhere. But the lovebirds—Leon and Amelia—were too busy playing mana-twister to notice me.

Good.

I walked up to the trio and leaned in, whispering just loud enough for them to hear.

"Guys," I murmured, "this dragon... it’s healing."

Their expressions twitched.

"Are we really sure this is the move?" I pressed. "Think about it. It’s stable now—but what if that’s just the dragon using Amelia’s emotional state to draw out her power? What if it’s manipulating her?"

Freya’s lips parted slightly. Zyon’s brows furrowed.

They were hesitating.

But then there was Art.

The guy practically started wagging his finger in my face like a disappointed nanny.

"Nope," he said firmly, shaking his head. "I don’t buy that. See—" he gestured toward the glowing scene. "Its mental state is unstable. If it were controlling Amelia, or feeding on her emotions, wouldn’t that have been normal then? But it isn’t. Which means the ritual’s legit, and you’re overthinking."

I scowled. "That’s not how it works, genius. It’s healing strength, not mental clarity. You think something this ancient and powerful needs to be mentally stable to be dangerous? One accidental sneeze from that thing and we’re vaporized. Are you willing to bet all of our lives on a coin toss?"

Art looked genuinely offended. Like I’d just insulted his grandmother’s home-cooked soup.

"It’s not a coin toss," he said. "You don’t know what a mother’s love can do. You wouldn’t understand. But believe me—she’s still in there. I can feel it."

"You can feel it?" I echoed, dryly. "Bro, are you high?"

"I’m empathic," he said solemnly, placing a hand over his heart. "I can read emotions just by looking at someone. And I can tell the creature in front of us is in pain. Not rage. Not hunger. Pain. Deep, soul-crushing pain."

I raised an eyebrow. "So... what? She’s just sad and wants a hug?"

"She wants retribution," he whispered, eyes practically glowing with poetic tragedy. "You don’t understand what she must’ve gone through. The torture. The torment. The pain. That’s how this bloodline awakened—the ’Grieving Dragon.’ Grief is her power."

"Yeah," I cut in, irritated. "Grief that she’s gonna make the rest of us feel if this goes sideways. Think for a second, will you? This is a ticking time bomb in slow motion. We’re playing with a detonator here, not a teddy bear."

Art leaned in, staring at me like he was preparing to deliver a sermon. "Then what do you suggest, Mister All-Knowing? What great wisdom do you plan to bestow upon us?"

I stared straight into his eyes.

Dead serious.

Glaring.

And said, "Get. Backup. Bitch."

Art groaned, dragging a palm down his face like this conversation was physically exhausting him. Zyon rubbed his temples with both hands, and Freya... Freya had that polite, diplomatic, wry smile.

And of course, she was the one to speak next.

"Cassius," she began gently, stepping forward, "I think what you’re saying... might have merit. But we also need to consider Amelia’s emotional state. I mean—what do you think will happen to her if we go behind her back and call for backup? She’d be devastated, don’t you think?"

I stared at her, deadpan. "So?"

She blinked. "...What?"

I folded my arms. "So? Are you stupid or what, Freya? That thing—" I jabbed a finger toward the glowing dragon as it sucked up mana like a starving leech, "—is not a housepet. It’s not a sentimental old lady waiting to reconcile over tea. It’s a monster. And if it loses control even for five seconds, we’re all getting turned into barbecue. You seriously think we’ve got time to worry about Amelia’s feelings while standing three feet from a possible continent-wide extinction event?"

Freya flinched. My words landed hard.

Zyon, for once, took my side. "I support Cassius," he said, voice firm. "This has gone too far. Even if the ritual’s working now, we can’t ignore the possibility of failure. We need someone strong on standby. Cassius—can you call your father?"

My face twisted. "How exactly do you think I’m supposed to do that?" I spat. "You want me to send a fucking messenger pigeon?"

Zyon looked at me like I’d grown a second head. "You don’t have a phone?"

And that... that hit me harder than any sword strike I’d ever taken.

Phones? Are you serious? These people had phones?!

In all my months here, not a single damn person told me that was a thing. Astreel made sense—high tech, futuristic city. The Western Continent, maybe too. But Alaris?

Nope. I was still mentally living in the Middle Ages.

"I-I didn’t know..." I stuttered, eyes wide. "I don’t have one... no one ever told me..."

Art—being the smug bastard that he is—didn’t waste the opening.

He barked a laugh. "Then why the fuck were you acting like some high-and-mighty hero? All bark, no signal, huh? Where’s that confidence now, you dumb bitch?!"

That did it.

I grabbed him by the collar in a blink, yanking him toward me so hard he stumbled. Our noses were practically touching, my breath hot with fury.

"What? Say that again. You’re the dumb bitch here, Art," I hissed. "You’ve got a portal skill, right? Use that shit. Go to Region 7, Sapphire Hotel. Room twenty. That’s where Miss Celia is. She might have a phone to call my father, she can. Stop playing games and do something useful before I decide you’re the first casualty if this dragon wakes up cranky."

Art raised his hands in surrender once I let go, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulders like the drama queen he was.

"Okay, okay, relax," he muttered, tone suddenly casual. "It was just a joke, my guy. You need to chill. You’re way too serious for your age, it’s kinda depressing."

I didn’t respond.

He grinned.

"Besides," he added smugly, "I already contacted someone who can help us."

My gaze narrowed. "Who?"

He smiled wider, then pointed a finger behind me. "See for yourself."

I turned slowly, my gut twisting in premonition—like the world had just gone cold.

And then...

The scenery changed.

Gone were the forested shadows. Now, we stood inside a stone chamber. A prison. A dungeon, almost—but colder, cleaner, with walls reinforced in shimmering mana enchantments.

Chains coiled along the ground, their thickness absurd—each one as wide as three grown men’s torsos, etched with glowing seals that pulsed like dying embers.

And within those chains, bound and kneeling, was the dragon.

The same white-scaled beast. But subdued.

Just slow, labored breathing, like a slumbering god stuck between dream and nightmare.

Zyon and Freya recoiled in shock—they clearly hadn’t expected this either.

And then I saw her.

A woman leaning against the wall with casual, predatory grace. She wore a black tank top stretched over tight muscle, dark trousers fitted to her athletic build, and combat gloves that creaked as she flexed her fingers.

Her amethyst hair was tied up into a high ponytail. Her amethyst eyes gleamed like blood-slick rubies.

She didn’t smile.

Didn’t speak.

Just tilted her head and looked at me with that same mixture of boredom, disappointment, and bloodlust.

Isolde Lancaster.

Cassius’s mother.

I froze.

My mind blanked.

My legs trembled just slightly—not from fear. No, no. Absolutely not. Just... nerves.

’Fuck, my PTSD is kicking in—’

I could already feel it. The phantom sensation of her boots cracking against my ribs. The weight of her fists and kicks slamming into my temple.

Why was she here?

Why now?

She raised an eyebrow. "What, no hug for your dear mother?"

Her voice was a melody. Warm, almost. My lips twitched. I managed a dry chuckle.

"Hug?" I echoed, eyes narrowing. "Sure. After you promise not to put me in a coma again."

She stepped forward, cracking her knuckles. "No promises."