The Dragon's Lair

Noah had been gone for an hour.

Cana hugged her wine bottle, slumped over the table, listless. She'd graciously decided to team up with Noah, only to be flatly rejected.

His excuse? He wasn't used to fighting in a group.

"What's the big deal? A rookie like him dares to turn down the care of a senior guild member like me?"

Muttering to herself, Cana was still worried something might happen to Noah—not because she cared, but because it meant he'd get hurt, and her commission would go down the drain.

Even for a defective magic tool from the 998-tier, a five percent commission was nearly 5000 jewels...

Doran sat down with a small ice bucket, dropping a cube into his glass. "Cana, what's the background on this kid Noah? His magic quality actually surpasses yours."

"Tch, last time you said Erza's magic was on par with mine! And what happened? She became an S-class mage two years ago at fifteen, while I'm still spinning my wheels."

Cana felt Doran was deliberately teasing her. Comparing her strength to Erza's now was like heaven and earth—the gap so wide Cana had lost all motivation to catch up.

Doran gave a helpless smile. "You underestimate yourself, Cana. You have great potential; you just haven't tapped into it."

"I don't buy it. If you could tell someone's magic quality just by looking, why are you still hammering iron here?"

"Because this is our clan's home."

Doran's gaze seemed to pierce through the walls, toward Iron Furnace Ridge, shrouded in searing heat.

Cana had known Doran this long, yet this was the first time she'd heard him mention the word "home." She wanted him to continue but felt awkward asking, so she just chugged her wine in gulps.

"Lord Doran! Bad news! Something terrible has happened!!"

A middle-aged man in tailor's clothes burst into Doran's shop, panicked. "Lord Doran, we've learned that those Dark Magic Cult people are heading for the 'Iron Dragon's' lair!"

"What! Those scum dare to covet the Iron Dragon's former residence!"

"Gather everyone. We'll wipe them out!"

In that moment, Doran's fury was like a lion's, his magic surging with blazing heat. Cana felt as if she was meeting this burly old man for the first time.

This old geezer was a master!

Who the hell was he?!

As Doran gave his orders, a deep horn sounded through the market. Nearly every magic blacksmith stopped their work, stepping out of their shops to gather at Doran's.

The market's customers stared in confusion. What was happening?

But it wasn't just the magic blacksmiths heading to Doran's shop.

A soldier captain in standard armor found Doran, his expression grim. "Clan Leader Doran, you've heard the news too? That Dark Magic branch was deliberately exposed to divert our attention."

"Now two Dark Magic Priests are leading their cult's elites deep into Iron Furnace Ridge."

Doran's face shifted as he was about to command his people. "Dark Magic Priests! Damn it!"

"Doran, you old fool, you've doomed me!"

Cana shoved past Doran and the soldier captain blocking the door, rushing out to find Noah.

Two Dark Magic Priests meant two S-class mages. Their methods were brutal. A fresh guild rookie falling into their hands would be in grave danger.

Cana was consumed with guilt. If anything happened to Noah, she'd never forgive herself.

But before she could take two steps, a thunderous roar erupted from deep within Iron Furnace Ridge.

It sounded like a dragon's cry, yet also like machinery grinding.

A valley deep within Iron Furnace Ridge.

The valley was vast, its floor slightly sunken as if some massive creature had once dwelled there long ago. Mountains surrounded it on all sides, and an endless expanse of ore lay exposed on the surface.

A squad of soldiers in black-and-white armor, about twenty in number, marched in perfect unison until they stopped at the valley's end.

Leading the group were two figures: the burly Haomen, with "Matcha" written on his forehead, and the golden-haired handsome Jerome, who wore a longsword at his hip.

"Found it. The lair of the 'Iron Dragon: Metalicana.'"

Haomen bowed deeply toward the valley's stone wall, a perfect ninety-degree angle.

Jerome was long used to his colleague's odd behavior. After all, what normal person joined the Dark Magic Cult?

Ordering his men to wait, Jerome drew his sword and infused it with magic. The blade was instantly coated in pitch-black energy, radiating an ominous aura.

Several sharp sword strikes landed on the valley's stone wall.

With a sizzling sound, the wall was corroded away by the dark magic in an instant, revealing a massive cave entrance.

"Almost no defenses. Worn down by time? Or was that Iron Dragon just that weak?"

Jerome sneered. His "Dark Sword" was a black magic that could corrode anything. If not for the bishop's orders, he wouldn't bother exploring a dragon's lair from four hundred years ago.

Jerome was a pure strength supremacist. In his view, the dragon race had gone extinct—proof they weren't as mighty as legends claimed.

Haomen, however, seemed intrigued. "An Iron Dragon friendly to humans, huh. Since you were so kind to them, you wouldn't mind us taking your things, would you?"

"Hehe, I almost forgot. The Iron Dragon's been dead for nearly four hundred years. Can't hear me anymore~"

Jerome didn't bother mocking Haomen's cold joke. He just made a hand signal behind his back, ordering his men to enter the cave and scout ahead. To him, these so-called cult elites were nothing but slightly tougher cannon fodder. If they died, they died.

Yet a minute passed, and still none of his underlings made a move.

"Did you not hear my orders, you rabble?!"

Jerome whirled around in fury, only to freeze at the bizarre sight before him.

Of the eighteen-man squad, seventeen lay unconscious on the ground, leaving only one standing motionless in place.

"Hey! What happened? Answer me!"

Jerome never bothered to remember the names of those beneath him in strength, addressing them only with arrogant commands.

But that man remained utterly still.

Jerome realized the man could no longer answer him. Whoever had taken out all their underlings without a sound was clearly a formidable opponent.

Before Jerome could draw his sword, Haomen had already cast his magic. A massive battle-axe materialized out of thin air, and in an instant, he hurled it forward.

The heavy, viciously thrown axe cleaved that underling cleanly in two, his entrails spilling across the ground in a gruesome mess.

Haomen had expected someone to be hiding behind the man, but there was nothing there—only empty space.

Just as Haomen moved to investigate, a figure appeared behind Jerome like a ghost, pressing down on the hand reaching for his sword.

"All your magic is bound to this blade. If you can't even draw it, what happens to you?"