The grown man formed from a fragment of Azhdaha's consciousness stood some distance from the temple.
He gazed at the Dragon King Temple, which had begun to take shape, and the great stone before it.
He could feel the sincerity in the words carved into that stone.
Once, he had been gentle and loving, caring nothing for praise or what people thought of him.
So he had silently endured the pain caused by tremors in the ley lines, never proclaiming his own greatness.
But now, driven mad by erosion and wracked with pain, he, too, wanted others to understand him.
Love was mutual.
One-sided love might be great, but even it would eventually run dry.
Giving love without receiving any in return might seem harmless at first, but as time passed, that one-sided devotion would inevitably leave someone exhausted in body and mind, and empty inside.
Only mutual love could nourish both sides, soothing hearts worn down over the long years.
He might not care about others' praise, but he had given humanity his love, steadily and for so very long. If possible, he wanted to receive love from humanity as well.
It was precisely because he had loved humanity that he wanted its understanding and care.
It was like instinctively seeking comfort from a partner after being hurt.
After a thousand years under the Seal, tormented by erosion, Azhdaha had emerged into the world when the Seal loosened.
Yet he had not gone on a killing spree to vent his anger.
In truth, he had always loved humanity. Even when erosion had reduced him to nothing but rage and hatred, love for humanity remained etched into his instincts.
He had taken the form of a child, pouring out his pain, loneliness, and sorrow to passing travelers.
He loved humanity,