It wasn't human. It wasn't beastly either. It sounded like it was something in between but not.
A sound that resonated through the soul. It echoed off the valley walls like a trumpet blast that had been warped by pain.
Jurra's eyes snapped toward the sound. His expression hardened.
Then, the wind shifted.
He felt it immediately. The strange energy in the air changed. It rippled, reacting to an approaching force.
From the distance, piercing the mist, a shape emerged.
Wings. Wide. Beautiful. Terrifying.
It was a flying eastern red dragon.
Its scales glistened like polished rubies under a haunted moon, each one so perfect it looked forged in a royal furnace.
From snout to tail, it radiated power—a strange energy similar to mana, so thick that it clung to the air like a stormcloud. Horns curved back over its head like ceremonial blades. Its eyes glowed molten gold, and when it flapped its wings, currents of heat pulsed with every beat.
It flew with elegance, but every motion shook the heavens.
Then it roared.
And what a roar it was.
It wasn't just sound—it was presence.
A wave of force that bent the trees sideways, shattered small stones across the edge of the hills, and blew mists apart as though clearing the field for a duel.
The roar echoed, and echoed, and echoed.
The hills of the Dominion caught it and reflected it back a hundredfold.
The wind spiraled in tight cyclones. Animals hidden deep in the terrain fled in silence.
The very mana streams recoiled from the vibration. Even the Dominion's defensive glyphs briefly flickered.
Jurra stood unmoved.
A deep frown carved into his face. He couldn't see the dragon's level. Not like in the previous expansions. There was no health bar. No name. No elemental type. Just reality. Real blood. Real danger.
But he did see something.
A massive wound across the side of the dragon's right thigh—deep, jagged, and burning.
Around it were marks Jurra recognized instantly.
The claw pattern, the angle, the mana residue—it was the strike of one of his Sentinel Raptors.
That meant…
Jurra didn't finish the thought.
He turned his head just slightly, and there—emerging silently beside him—was the orange raptor Sentinel, covered in blood. Its glowing orange lines flickered with pride. It bore no wounds of its own. The blood was not its own.
It had returned.
Jurra didn't speak. He only gave the raptor a glance, his arms still crossed. The raptor stood tall beside him and there was a dragon's blood slowly dripping from its maw like it was some sort of a trophy.
The sky rattled again.
Wosrh! Worsh!
The dragon, high above, flapped its small wings hard, three times—like thunder clapping from heaven itself.
Then it dove, descending with grace like serpent diving with fury, and indignation.
And finally—
It landed.
Its claws dug deep into the valley's edge. Cracks spread. The strange energy similar to mana exploded outward again in a ripple.
Then it roared again—angrily this time, a wounded monarch demanding respect, revenge, and challenge.
The very soul of the land seemed to scream with it.
The dragon's head tilted down, eyes locked with Jurra.
Jurra didn't blink.
The two eyes locked at each other.
Suddenly, the Eastern Dragon's golden eyes narrowed, a low hiss escaping its nostrils as it pulled back its body to the air, gliding around the airspace like a coiling serpent, suspended by the graceful undulations of its body.
Its long, elegant frame wound through the sky with a threatening beauty—each scale catching the fading light like shards of ruby and garnet. Then, it spoke.
Its voice rolled like thunder and silk, mocking and ancient.
"So… it was you, little ground dragon. You, and your pitiful little creatures with claws. You dare disturb my slumber?"
It hissed, curling in a tight circle mid-air as if appraising Jurra from above like a displeased emperor glaring down at a rebellious insect.
"A cowardly ground dragon… whose dragon blood is so thin, I'm surprised your pathetic hide hasn't evaporated under the spirit of this forest. Do you think growing a few spikes and claws makes you one of us?"
It dipped low, head hovering near eye level as it smirked. Its tail flicked the clouds behind it, stirring the sky.
"Do you know what I was doing just before your mongrels attacked me in my sleep? Sleeping off the pain of battle, fool. A band of thieving scum—vermin from the southern ridges—tried to steal my treasure. They fought me, tooth and claw, and when I began to breathe properly, they ran. Cowards. Like rats scurrying under moonlight."
The dragon's expression twisted in disdain, voice rising.
"And now what do I find upon waking? More pests. Ground dwellers. Lowborn, barely-draconic mongrels with no wings, no flame, no heritage, poking me while I dream. As if I am some slumbering beast ready for slaughter. As if I am prey!"
He whipped around again in the sky, dancing with menace, voice turning cruel.
"You think your little claws made a scratch? You think your toys—your raptor dolls—scared me? They got lucky. Lucky enough to tear skin I care nothing for. Do you know how many of your kind I've devoured before learning to fly?"
His eyes flared, breath heating the air.
"You're not a dragon. You're a cosplayer, wrapped in scales and bravado. I've seen deer more draconic than you."
But Jurra… didn't flinch.
He listened, arms crossed, gaze still. Calculating. Reading between the words. The dragon's wounded leg said more than its voice. Its pride, its fury—they meant one thing.
It was hurt.
And hurt meant vulnerable.
Jurra's eyes narrowed.
Level 30. That was his guess. Maybe 31 at most. The same as his Sentinels. That explained why one could injure it. His Raptors were limited to Level 30 because his current Overlord authority hadn't progressed past that cap. But still—they hurt it.
Meaning… it wasn't as strong as it claimed to.
And more importantly—it wasn't controlled.
This dragon didn't talk like an NPC. Nor a controlled unit of a player. It had no system prompts. No quest markers. It owned its words. Every insult, every boast came from somewhere real.
However, Jurra was still unsure, the expansion is very realistic. He needed more so that knew he was not in a trap.
Suddenly, the Eastern Dragon dipped again, glaring at Jurra with narrowed eyes. The crimson in its irises flickered.
"So, what now, ground lizard? Do you want to eat me?" it asked, almost amused. "Do you think that just because you've cultivated some meager spiritual form, that you can defeat me?"
Jurra finally responded. Calm. Cold.
"What world is this?"
The dragon blinked. Then snorted.
"You attack me. You bleed me. And now you want conversation?"
It let out a deep, rumbling laugh, clouds swirling in its mirth.
"You have the audacity to ask me for answers? Pathetic. Typical of lowborn mongrels who stumble into power. First they claw, then they beg. I will not waste my breath enlightening you."
Jurra's jaw clenched. His eyes flicked sideways.
Then came the subtle rustle of movement—barely audible, but undeniable.
From the ridges, from the mist, from the thick undergrowth and faint hills, they appeared.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
All black-scaled. Eyes glowing. Each Sentinel returned from their assigned sweep, standing in the valley like silent statues. The orange raptor, the one that had first returned bloodied, stood already by Jurra's side.
Now they are seven.
Seven Raptors. Seven warlock beasts of the Jurassic Dominion.
Jurra's voice sliced the air.
"I repeat. I need information… or death."
The dragon stared.
Then—
It howled.
The roar was unhinged, loud, and wild. Its wings beat the air as it coiled into a spiral and climbed high above the trees.
"INFORMATION? FROM ME? FROM ME?!" the dragon bellowed, laughter choking on arrogance and outrage.
"A LOW-LEVEL GROUND DRAGON DARES TO DEMAND OF ME?! Do you know who I am? I have ruled this quadrant of sky and root for centuries! I have seen stone giants rise and fall, have dined upon elemental spirits, I have outlived the guilds of the west!"
Its body coiled, spinning around a cyclone of flame and cloud.
"You will pay for this lowborn ground dragon!"
Its wings beat harder, more furiously. Lightning cracked across the clouds above.
Jurra's face didn't twitch.
He sounds like someone he just destroyed.
His arms slowly lowered.
His voice was quiet.
"Blue. Gray. Green."
The three Sentinels moved instantly. No roar. No shriek. No flashy animation.
Just transformation.
Their bodies twisted in warlock flame, morphing into sleek raptor beasts once more—only now, each glowed with a distinct hue.
Blue shimmered like a cold star, Gray was like polished steel, and Green pulsed with emerald venom.
"Attack."
They didn't leap.
They launched.
Swoosh!
Three arcs of colored light—brilliant and terrifying—shot into the sky.
The dragon tried to veer, but it had already been flanked. Each raptor struck in perfect sync, tearing through its wings, its shoulders, its side.
It howled—not with arrogance this time—but with pain.
Real pain.
Jurra stood firm, watching.
That's it. That's your level.
A single Raptor might have struggled.
But these weren't just any Sentinels. The best of the captured Warlocks bound to his ability. They were trained. Merciless. Loyal.
Even a majestic, ancient dragon wasn't enough to stand against three of them combined.
The dragon tried to keep its form airborne, but its wings were shredded. Smoke poured from its wounds. The sky blurred as it spiraled downward.
Jurra raised a hand.
"Don't kill him."
The Sentinels froze mid-pursuit.
"I need to ask him more questions."
And then—
Crash.
The Eastern Dragon fell.