The setting sun was like blood, soaking the sky in a flowing painting of molten fire. The sinking sun resembled a pierced wound, oozing viscous crimson light along the horizon.
Bathed in afterglow like blood and blazing flames, every black-iron-like dragon scale on Garos reflected a dangerous gleam.
His wings beat, fine scales scraping against one another and throwing off trails of sparks. His body shot straight through the clouds and tore through the air, racing toward Crescent Moon Valley, toward the Cliff Serpent Dragon's lair, like an unsheathed blade cleaving through the deepening dusk.
Whenever he sensed danger.
Whenever he felt his life was threatened.
Garos could never suppress the boiling killing intent within him. He wanted to erase the source of that danger.
This was not an effect of dragonkin blood.
As far as Garos knew, few dragons thought as he did. Most dragonkin, arrogant and self-assured by nature, believed they could survive any danger. They believed the world should grovel beneath their dragon wings and that they were indestructible, so they had little sense of crisis.
Garos had analyzed this carefully.
In the end, he decided.
It was most likely because he had gotten absurdly lucky and died once before. Having experienced the despair, fear, regret, and unwillingness of dying, he treasured this life as a dragon all the more. He wanted to live a long time, and from the bottom of his heart, wanted to nip every risk and factor that could affect his survival in the bud.
That seemed somewhat paranoid.
A little like persecution mania.
It could also be called a flaw in Garos's personality.
Just as he could never eat two magic gems in a row no matter what, when facing a threat to his life, he found it difficult to restrain his