Instead of leaving by the door, the King of Calidea sauntered into the dead end at the far back of the airy throne room, the princess shortly in his wake, and I followed along, wondering if this was a bizarre party game that the royalty had concocted in their idle madness. But there came no music and with his immense hand, the King clutched a golden candleholder jutting out of the smooth stone wall. It had a pair ten paces aside, which the princess seized, and they turned the decorations at the same time.

  A segment of the wall shifted inward and drew out of the way to reveal a hidden door behind. So seamless was the cover, I would never have noticed or believed it was there, if it weren't shown directly like this. Upon the hidden door were no handles, switches, nor hinges, but a magic seal. The King was not a mage, but he went on to lay his palm on the center of the glyph array and the stone rippled like water in a stirred barrel.

  “The way may only be unbarred by one of royal blood,” he said. “Though a mage of your caliber may find the obstacle less than impenetrable. The sorcery on it is close to a thousand years old, and I’ve been told things have rather changed in the field as of late.”

  I refrained from comment.

  Like the wall panel before, the thick door let out a dry groan and drew out of our way. We descended a series of narrow, precipitous stairways deeper and deeper into the many-layered beehive of old masonry, through lonely, windowless passageways, and through lifeless, forgotten chambers, which faintly fluorescent gemstones kept faintly lit for their rare guest.

  At last we arrived at what looked like another convincing dead end.

  I was quite positive there wasn’t another hidden door in the wall this time, but I was looking in the wrong place. The King went to stand upon a circle of mosaic tiling on the floor, and the princess went to stand by him. Suppose I had to go along, even if Nightmanes would’ve been better company.

  “Urusz!” the King barked a word in the dead language of the bygone Gauric settlers, and the pattern under us awoke into a dim, green-blue glow.

  The marked circle detached without a sound from the rest of the floor and began to sink through a long, smooth-walled shaft, sending my bowels momentarily floating in their cavity.

  “This is probably a meaningless thing to say to a walking state secret,” the King uttered in the dark, “but I must say it anyway: speak to no one of what you’re about to see.”

  I replied, “There are so few things I can actually tell anyone, I sometimes wonder why I have a tongue at all.”

  Only a very awkward silence followed, the floor falling beneath us. I got a bit worried if I hadn't given my host unnecessary ideas. I still needed my tongue for many tasks beside talking too.

  The walls suddenly fled away and we plunged into a seemingly boundless, impenetrable darkness deep, deep under Canelon Hill. What little light still chased after us from above was quickly swallowed and lost. But as we dove still deeper, I began to make out a different light source, an unearthly glow that stained us and our surroundings with its ghastly, sickly hue.

  To what pit of inferno was this bastard bringing me and why?

  Why couldn’t I be born in the time of a sane king? There had to be at least one or two mixed in the line.

  “Are you familiar with the tale of our founding father?” King Goring spoke up.

  Now I was getting a history quiz on top of everything?

  I briefly recalled the books I’d read over the summer in the General’s study, searching for the answer that had nearly been deleted as obsolete already.

  “Wiseley…?”

  “Indeed. It would seem schools do have hold some merit. Do you also recall the title by which King Wiseley was known?”

  I recalled he was known by many, going down in history as a legendary hero.

  The legendary hero, who raised Calidea from its pillaged Second Age ruin of an empire into a Kingdom of culture and principles. Wiseley the First. The Great. The Wise. The Shiny. At least half of his biography was fables made up by later age bards, who busily coined new monikers for the man, like it was a competition with money prizes. And in a sense, it was. The story with the most overpowered protagonist was guaranteed to make a killing.

  The other titles were fuzzier in my mind, so I proposed the most absurd one.

  “Dragonslayer?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I sighed. “Did he actually kill a dragon then?”

  “No,” the King answered. “He failed.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Then, as we still descended, I could see it come into view.

  A high, wide cylinder of azure light rose from the floor of a great underground cavern, reaching up to the ceiling. A tube formed of thousands upon thousands of spells layered densely as silk, spinning a private chronicle of the Kingdom's arcane history.

  The overwhelming volume of overlapped rites hit my brain like a red-hot brand, even through the glasses. I cut the mana flow to my retinas with a grimace.

  Then, looking again with more caution, I could make out the titanic shadow floating inside the magic light, like a specimen in an 80-yard jar of formaldehyde. A monstrosity without compare. A creature vaguely anthropoid and utterly alien at the same time. Great, bony arms hugging the bent knees in a fetal position, a long, jagged tail coiling around the legs with a tip sharp like the sea-splitting stem of a man-o’-war. A massive, barbed head of death crowned with handsome horns, a multitude of eyes closed in uneasy, unending slumber. Vast wings folded cleanly along the back to shroud the bony torso, atrophied in the eons of disuse. All the unsightliness coated in an impervious armor suit of sleek black scales that reflected the spectral magic light in distorted zebra lines.

  The elevator touched down on the bottom of the cavern with a booming echo, and the King stepped off.

  “Just as men have their gods, so do the wyrms have their own,” he said. “Black Dragon God is the final form of the curse that the space-faring beasts inflict upon the worlds that reject them. Since its emergence two thousand years ago, it laid waste to many nations throughout the continent, until the science of the elves lulled it into rest. A millennium ago, it was momentarily roused by the ignorance of men, and King Wiseley, a powerful Sword Saint of his time, exhausted his might in the battle against it. But though he was victorious, he was unable to deliver the killing blow. The best the hero and his compatriots could do was lay the fiend back into slumber and reseal it with the best arts they knew. The King bound his line to guarding the monster, for should it ever awaken again, not only Calidea but all the world is sure to pay a heavy price. This castle complex itself exists to keep the dragon entombed and forgotten, forever. That is the mission of the Royal House, as well as the Seven Heroes of Calidea. The reason why we must not allow ourselves to be overcome by any foreign invader, whatever the cost.”

  A giant dragon right under the city.

  A black dragon.

  Now I knew where they got the ingredients for the rings.

  “It’s been a thousand years since the founding King,” I said, “and you’re telling me no one has been able to kill the sleeping monster in all this time?”

  The King shrugged.

  “You know how the saying goes. 'Hard times create strong men; strong men create good times; good times create weak men.' The wars we wage today are but children's games compared to what our ancestors had to go through. We’ve had it too easy, and no longer have an equal to give for Wiseley, let alone his superior. Lebercant the beggar is no dragonkiller. Alas, neither am I. The blood of my forebears has been too far diluted by generations of cowards and my best days are alread behind me. Moreover, the wards work both ways; to strike at the beast, its shackles must first be undone. But who would dare unravel the seal now to try, and sacrifice the three million capital citizens in the gamble? Once that jar is opened, we haven’t the skills to close it again, come whatever may. It's only complete victory or total ruination, and nothing in between.”

  The King turned around to face me.

  “How about it, XA? Mysterium calls you the deadliest of mortal mages. The one closest to the unfathomable Tier 9. Would you like to test your mettle against the apex of monsters? While unable to overpower even its dead scales?”

  I flexed my left arm.

  The rings seemed tighter, heavier than before, oozing cold, blind malevolence. With their donor so close by, I could almost feel its mind through the chaotic essence of the scales, and for a fleeting instance, could tell no difference between myself and the wyrm. Which one was trapped in a prison of imaginary numbers, dreaming empty dreams, and which one stood free outside?

  How fortunate that it was comatose. Had the dragon had any conscious brain activity left, I wasn’t sure if my sense of self could’ve endured the contest. It would’ve swallowed my ego like the night sea devours a castaway sailor, abyssal and stormy, and then I would’ve either been left a catatonic wreck, or become its unquestioning marionette.

  I didn’t want to admit but I was out of my depth.

  In this place, I really felt like a novice again. Clueless. I couldn’t even grasp the mechanics behind the enormous seal structure. Thousands upon thousands of co-dependent functions, somehow operating without conflicts, though you could neither insert nor remove a single line in the whole. Just looking at that overwhelming, kaleidoscopic monument of ancient magic made me nauseous. But gaining an understanding and control of the seal complex was practically the minimum passable level of expertise needed to face the immortal deity of dragons. Only the starting line.

  No matter what, that thing couldn't be set free.

  “Maybe another day.”

  “A wise decision,” the King said, not mocking my reluctance.

  “So you believe the Tarachians might attempt to release this thing?” I asked.

  Hands behind his back, the King stepped closer to the barrier to watch the sleeping figure of the titan like it was an exotic western vase.

  “They have no feasible way to complete their mission otherwise. The terrorists could haul out a thousand wolves and goblins from the Wood, and it would make no difference. They’re not getting into my city. Their only hope lies here in this lair. In mutually assured destruction in dragonfire.”

  “How could they even know about it? I may have learned a secret or two in my time, but I’d never heard of this.”

  “The tales of King Wiseley may be old and out of fashion, but they were unfortunately popular in the past. Almost every culture out there retains some version of his legend. There may even be variations more faithful to the real events, which were censored by our people. King Wiseley founded his own school of martial arts and had numerous followers and disciples, who traveled around the world after his death and took their knowledge with them. Some of them may have left records of the wyrm’s location. Or, it could be that there have been leakers among the past members of the Royal House. Who can tell? We cannot trust in the ignorance of the enemy. During the war, imperial assassins managed to infiltrate the castle twice. They were disposed of without casualties, but they were clearly looking for something more than my neck. To our fortune, they did not find the way here.”

  “Then, as long as the door stays closed, we have nothing to worry about.”

  No one responded to my comment. Lauriel shifted awkwardly. What is it?

  “Let us leave,” the King murmured and returned to the elevator. “Lingering here too long may drive a mortal insane.”