I stand over the dragon’s body, chest heaving, gore slicking the stone beneath my feet.

  The Black Dragon Guard Commander is dead.

  What remains of him twitches once, then goes still. His scales have lost their sheen, black dulled to matte, smoke no longer curling from his nostrils. Gold energy bleeds out of the corpse in thick, luminous streams, pouring upward like fire turned liquid.

  I don’t hesitate.

  I tear into him.

  My hands find his chest and wrench it open with a wet crack of bone and cartilage. Heat washes over me as I reach inside and rip free the heart. It’s large, still warm, black-veined, and heavy in my grip.

  I bite down.

  The taste is overwhelming. Richer than anything before it, layered with heat and rot and something sharp that burns along my tongue. Power floods me as I chew and swallow, my body reacting instantly, greedily, like this is something it was always meant to consume.

  Golden energy surges into me in a rush so strong my knees almost buckle.

  My vision explodes with text.

  Level Up.

  The sensation hits immediately. Muscles tighten. My stance shifts without conscious thought, balance correcting itself as strength stacks atop strength.

  Level Up.

  My breath hitches. My spine pops softly as density settles deeper into my bones, weight redistributing in ways I don’t yet understand.

  Level Up.

  The pressure intensifies, not painful, but insistent, like a forge hammering something into its final shape.

  Level 2 to 5: Increasing Primary Stats. Increasing Remaining Stats.

  I grunt as it finishes, the changes locking in with a sense of finality. This one I feel more clearly. It still isn’t overwhelming, not compared to the raw power of this body, but it’s unmistakable. A steady climb.

  Then another message cuts in.

  Skill Up: Greatsword: Novice to Greatsword: Beginner.

  Something clicks in my head.

  Grip refines itself. Footwork sharpens. I suddenly understand angles and follow-through better than I did a moment ago. It’s subtle, but real, like muscle memory being rewritten on the fly.

  I swallow the last of the dragon’s heart.

  The world steadies.

  Then the air tightens.

  A different weight settles over me as a new message appears, heavier than the rest.

  Bloodline Quest Granted: Your consumption of the Heart of a Juvenile Black Dragon has Optioned this Bloodline Quest for you.

  I freeze.

  Bloodline.

  The word hums in my skull.

  Consume the Heart of an Adult Black Dragon and gain the Black Dragon Bloodline: Minor.

  My eyes narrow.

  Adult.

  Another line follows, clinical and tempting.

  Black Dragon Bloodline grants many benefits. At the Minor Level: These benefits include taking on aspects of the black dragon, such as claws and scales, and an Immunity to nearly all acids.

  My mind latches onto one phrase instantly.

  Immunity to nearly all acids.

  I don’t even think about it.

  Do you accept? Yes / No.

  My hand twitches reflexively in the air, fingers stabbing at the option before doubt can form.

  Yes.

  The confirmation is immediate.

  Quest Accepted: The Nearest Adult Black Dragon’s Location has been set up in your overworld map. Open your overworld map to see the location and some basic information on this foe.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  I blink.

  Overworld map.

  I didn’t know I had one of those.

  The thought barely finishes before something in me shifts. Awareness tilts, like my perspective has been grabbed and lifted.

  Suddenly, I am no longer standing in the corridor.

  I am above it.

  Above everything.

  My consciousness soars upward in an instant, ripping free of my body without pain or resistance. The world stretches out beneath me, vast and impossible.

  I am looking down on… something.

  A map.

  It is enormous, sprawling beyond what my eyes can take in at once. Continents? Regions? Structures layered atop structures? It’s hard to tell. Almost all of it is dark, obscured, blurred into indistinct shadow.

  Nothingness.

  Then I realize.

  It isn’t nothing.

  It’s unknown.

  I haven’t been there. I don’t know what’s there. And so the map shows me nothing.

  A chill runs through me at the scale of it.

  The prison. The world. Everything beyond.

  Then I see it.

  A flag.

  Bright yellow, stark against the darkened map. It pulses faintly, impossible to miss. It doesn’t look far away. Or maybe it only seems that way because distance here doesn’t mean what it used to.

  I focus on it.

  The map responds instantly.

  Information unfolds.

  Black Dragon Warden: This Adult Black Dragon is the Warden of the Red River Prison Complex and the final boss of the Sector’s dungeons. Consuming his heart will grant the bloodline Black Dragon: Minor.

  Warden.

  The word carries weight.

  Final boss.

  Sector.

  This thing isn’t just another monster in a hallway. It’s the top. The anchor. The authority that makes the rest of this place function.

  And it’s close.

  Closer than it has any right to be.

  My perspective snaps back into my body.

  I’m standing in the corridor again, dragon blood cooling on my hands, power humming through every inch of me. The map is gone, but the knowledge isn’t. I know how to open it now. Know how to look again.

  I bare my teeth in a slow, eager grin.

  Immunity to acid.

  All I have to do is kill the Warden.

  ***

  I stand in the forked corridor, dragon blood drying on my hands, the weight of what I just learned settling in my gut.

  I could go after the Warden.

  I know that now. I know where he is. I know what he is. A part of me itches at the thought, drawn forward by hunger and ambition and the simple promise of acid no longer being a problem.

  But I also know better.

  This place isn’t finished.

  The hallways are quiet now. Too quiet. The Dragonkin are dead, their bodies cooling where they fell, their patrol routes broken and bleeding into silence. But Death Row is more than guards. More than corridors.

  It’s prisoners.

  I look down the branching halls, three paths stretching away from the intersection like veins cut into stone. At the end of each, a heavy door waits. Thick. Reinforced.

  I turn to the right.

  My footsteps echo as I walk, sword resting across my shoulder, my presence filling the narrow space. The corridor slopes slightly downward, and the stone walls are close enough that my knuckles brush them if I’m not careful.

  The door at the end is steel.

  Not wood reinforced with iron. Not stone. Solid steel, scarred and pitted, its surface scratched by decades of futile violence. Heavy hinges bite deep into the surrounding frame. A narrow viewing slit sits at eye level, dark and unwelcoming.

  Locked.

  I stare at it for a moment.

  Then I punch it.

  My fist slams into the metal with a thunderous clang. The impact shudders up my arm and bites into my knuckles. I feel my skin split. Feel blood run.

  I look down.

  The wound is already closing.

  The metal dents inward slightly, a shallow crater spiderwebbed with stress lines.

  I hit it again.

  And again.

  Each blow lands harder than the last, my shoulder and torso twisting into the strikes, turning my body into a living battering ram. The steel screams, warping and bending, bolts popping loose one by one.

  After several more strikes, something gives.

  The hinges tear free of the stone with a shriek of tortured metal. The door collapses inward, crashing to the floor in a cloud of dust and sparks.

  I step through.

  The room beyond is dimly lit, the air heavy and stale. Thick chains crisscross the space, bolted into the walls and floor. My eyes adjust instantly, cutting through the gloom as if it isn’t there at all.

  Against the far wall stands a figure.

  He is chained.

  But he is not weak.

  The creature is tall for his kind, broad-shouldered and thickly built, muscles packed tight beneath dark, leathery skin. His arms are corded with strength, veins standing out like cables. Heavy iron shackles bind his wrists and ankles, chains drawn tight enough to bite into flesh.

  His armor is battered but still formidable. Layered plates of dark steel cover his chest and shoulders, scarred by old battles but well maintained. A heavy belt circles his waist, its buckle engraved with crude symbols of rank and command.

  His face is sharp and angular, tusk-like teeth jutting slightly from his lower jaw. His eyes are hard, calculating, burning with restrained violence.

  A hobgoblin.

  No.

  More than that.

  Something flares in my vision.

  Kragus: Hobgoblin Warlord. Threat Level: High. Faction: Unaligned.

  Even bound like this, he radiates danger.

  I stride forward without hesitation, each step deliberate.

  The chains rattle softly as he lifts his head to look at me.

  “Come to eat me then?” he asks, his voice rough and dry, but steady. There is no pleading in it. No fear.

  I stop a few paces away and look him over again.

  He is smaller than me. Considerably.

  But I can see it in the way he stands despite the chains. In the way his gaze never drops. This is a creature who has commanded others. Who has killed. Who has survived.

  “Maybe,” I say. “Or… offer you a chance to live.”

  His brow furrows, just slightly.

  Something new appears in front of my eyes.

  Offer vassalhood to Kragus: Hobgoblin Warlord? Yes / No.

  I don’t hesitate.

  Yes.

  Kragus stiffens.

  His breath catches for a fraction of a second, eyes narrowing as something unseen presses against him. He straightens as much as the chains allow, testing whatever it is he’s feeling.

  Then he looks at me again.

  Really looks at me.

  Something like understanding flickers across his face.

  Another message blooms into view.

  Kragus has accepted: Faction Name?

  I smile, my vicious teeth flashing in the light.