16: Chapter 16 The Tail Boy

Twilight.

Eight thousand Unsullied stood in the square. Spears. Shields. Bronze helmets. The phalanx was as neat as if measured by a ruler. The distance between each row was identical. Everyone's standing posture was the same. Even the rhythm of their breathing was the same.

They were not men. They were weapons.

A high platform had been erected in the center of the square. Iron cages were placed on the platform. Rhaegal and Viserion were hissing inside, their wings flapping against the iron bars.

Drogon lay on Daenerys Targaryen's shoulder. His scales shimmered with a dark luster. He did not move.

Daenerys Targaryen gripped her whip. Her hand was trembling.

Jorah and Barristan stood behind her. Both men had their hands on their swords. It was useless. There were over three thousand Dothraki Mercenaries around them, along with the Astapor city guard and crossbowmen. All of them were staring at them.

The fat man stood on the other side of the platform. Behind him were a dozen or so Great Masters. Each one was dressed in silk, wearing jewelry, and smiling as if they had just picked up money.

They had, indeed, picked up money.

Using eight thousand eunuch slaves to trade for three living, fire-breathing dragons.

This deal, anywhere, was a massive profit.

Drogon closed his eyes.

Transformation countdown: thirty minutes.

The door of the iron cage slammed shut with a boom.

The fat man turned around. A wine cup appeared in his hand. He took a sip of wine. He looked at Daenerys Targaryen. The corners of his mouth twisted.

"Foolish woman."

Common tongue. The pronunciation was terrible, but clear enough.

"Did you think I would hand over eight thousand Unsullied to you?"

He laughed out loud. The dozen or so Great Masters behind him followed suit.

"They are my cash cow! And you—you will become my new pet! As for your dragons—I will train them into beasts that only listen to me!"

He waved his hand.

Crossbowmen appeared from all around the square. Not just a dozen. Hundreds. Poisoned arrowheads were all aimed at Daenerys Targaryen.

Several Great Masters pushed up a bronze device. It was huge. It had a dragon-shaped relief. The crossbow mechanism was thicker than a man. The bolts were cast from iron, the arrowheads shimmering with a green light—also poisoned.

Barristan's face turned pale.

"A dragon-fire crossbow! Contraband from The Citadel! They had planned this all along!"

Jorah drew his sword. Barristan drew his sword. The Bloodrider drew his blade.

It was useless.

Hundreds of poisoned arrows. A dragon-fire crossbow. Three thousand mercenaries.

Daenerys Targaryen did not retreat.

She straightened her back. She turned her head. She looked at Drogon.

Her eyes were red.

"I'm sorry, Drogon. I might... not be able to be your mother anymore."

Drogon opened his eyes.

His vertical pupils were no longer gold.

Nebulae. Chaos. Something was exploding and reforming deep within his pupils.

He flew up from Daenerys Targaryen's shoulder. He hovered in mid-air. His body began to glow. Light leaked from the gaps in his scales—not red, not yellow, but gold mixed with black, like molten lava stirred into ink.

The fat man stepped back. His wine cup fell. The wine spilled all over the ground.

"What... what kind of sorcery is this! Shoot him! Shoot him dead quickly!"

Arrows flew over.

Drogon did not dodge.

The light swallowed all the arrows.

The moment the arrow shafts touched the fireball, they vaporized. The iron arrowheads turned into molten iron, dripping onto the high platform, burning through the stone slabs.

The flames began to contract.

Not extinguishing. Condensing. Collapsing inward. Shrinking from a fireball into a cocoon of fire, and from that cocoon, a human silhouette emerged.

"Ding! Achievement unlocked: [Transformation in Fire]! Shock value +20,000! Reward obtained: Attribute points +400!"

A sound wave exploded.

It was not a dragon's roar. It was the clear, long whistle of a youth. A visible shockwave exploded from the center of the fire cocoon, overturning a dozen Great Masters and pushing the dragon-fire crossbow three zhang away.

The flames finally coalesced.

They transformed into a black trench coat. It was made purely of condensed dragon fire. No seams. No buttons. It just clung to the youth's body.

He dropped from the air. Barefoot. He stepped onto the high platform, which had been baked until it cracked.

"Sizzle—"

Blue smoke rose from the stone slabs under his feet.

Eighteen years old.

Black hair. Messy. Like obsidian shards. Reflective.

His eyes were still vertical pupils. The whites of his eyes had turned dark gold. His pupils were two burning miniature stars. Whoever he stared at, their legs would go weak.

His face. Sharp, angular features. The corners of his mouth were curled up. Not a smile. It was the kind of curve that made everyone seem ridiculous. His canine teeth were sharper than a human's.

His body. Slender. Well-proportioned. The muscle lines were smooth but not exaggerated. A layer of fine, miniature scales covered his skin. Black. Like crushed black diamond powder pasted onto his body. You couldn't see it unless you looked closely, but it would shimmer in the sunlight.

No wings. The wings had retracted into the scales on his back.

He had a tail.

A thick, black-scaled dragon tail extended from his tailbone. The tip of the tail tapped on the ground. Every time it tapped, a crack appeared in the stone slab.

Daenerys Targaryen covered her mouth with her hand. Tears rolled down.

Jorah's jaw almost hit the ground. Barristan was drawing a seven-pointed star. The Bloodrider's sword fell to the ground, and no one picked it up.

Eight thousand Unsullied—eight thousand fighting machines trained to have no emotions—had "confusion" appear in their eyes.

The fat man slumped to the ground.

Drogon moved his neck. Crack, crack.

He looked down at his own hands. Five fingers. The nails were black. Sharp. There were fine scales on the back of his hands, extending to the knuckles.

He looked up. He met the fat man's eyes.

He smiled.

"You just said—you wanted to make my mother—submit to you?"

He took the first step.

The stone slab under his feet exploded. Spiderweb cracks spread from the point of impact, reaching the fat man's feet.

The fat man's crotch was wet.

The system popped up a prompt: "Enemy shock value overflow detected! Automatic conversion: Luck +50!"

Drogon didn't look at the prompt. He looked at the fat man.

The fat man finally reacted. He screamed. He pulled a golden dagger from his waist. He stabbed forward.

It wasn't slow. This fat man must have practiced before. The tip of the knife was aimed at his heart.

Drogon didn't dodge.

"Ding—"

The dagger stabbed into his chest. Onto the scales. It snapped.

The tip of the dagger flew off. It bounced on the stone slab. Clang, clang, clang.

There wasn't even a scratch on the scales.

He looked down at the broken dagger tip. He sighed.

"How very rude."

He raised his right hand. Five fingers together. A hand blade.

He aimed at the fat man's chest. Lightly and casually. He stabbed in.

"Puchi—"

A dull, teeth-grinding, piercing sound.

The hand blade stabbed in through the front of the chest. The black-scaled palm emerged from the back. Five fingers spread open. In his palm, he held a heart.

It was still beating.

Faintly. Once. Twice. Three times. It stopped.

The scales on the back of his hand were unstained by blood. Smooth as a mirror.

He leaned in close to the fat man's ear. His lips were almost touching the ear. His voice was very soft. Very gentle. Like a lover whispering sweet nothings.

"Remember. In your next life, when you do business—don't bully women."

He paused for a moment.

"Especially a woman who has a son with a dragon."

He let go.

The fat man's body hit the ground with a boom. Face up. His expression was frozen—fear, disbelief. His mouth was open, his tongue sticking out.

He tossed the heart aside casually. The heart bounced once on the stone slab, rolled onto the fat man's face, and stopped on the tip of his nose.

He turned around.

He faced the remaining Great Masters. He faced the crossbowmen. He faced the three thousand mercenaries.

"Who's next?"

No one answered.

A Great Master knelt down. It wasn't that his knees were weak. It was that his whole body had collapsed. A puddle of water flowed out from under his silk robes.

"Ding! Killed 'Great Master Kraznys', Attribute points +100! Because the method of killing was extremely shocking, additional reward: Title 'Heart-Piercing Hand Blade'!"