Chapter 68: Ancient bloodline
The ambient noise of the bustling tavern seemed to dim, swallowed by the heavy, ominous weight that Torvald’s words left hanging in the air.
Beside Vince, Lyrielle let out another soft, airy giggle.
Her eyelids were heavy, a bright, unnatural crimson flush staining her cheeks as she shifted her weight, resting the full, relaxed posture of her head against Vince’s shoulder.
The high-potency ember-ale had thoroughly dissolved her royal, disciplined elven composure, leaving her completely unbothered by the sudden shift in the table’s atmosphere.
Vince, however, remained sharp.
The green rings within his deep pupils pulsed faintly as his Spectral Oculus tracked the erratic, anxious spikes of mana fluctuating within Torvald’s chest.
"A monster among monsters,"
Vince repeated, his voice low, measured, and entirely neutral. He didn’t shift away from Lyrielle, letting her lean against him as he twirled the wooden flagon between his fingers.
"What exactly do you mean by that?"
Torvald let out a long, slow breath, the scales along his jawline twitching as he reached down to grip his own flagon, not to drink, but to steady his trembling hands.
"You look at us, human, and you see horns, scales, and claws,"
Torvald began, his gravelly voice dropping into a raspy whisper that barely carried over the tavern music.
"To the outside kingdoms, the folk of Ignis-Vara are considered dangerous beasts. But we are civilized. We forge, we trade, we build houses, and we value our community. Vetra... Vetra is entirely different. She doesn’t belong to our tribes. She is the absolute last living descendant of a feral, ancient dragonkin bloodline. A bloodline that knows nothing but raw chaos and absolute destruction."
The rowdy group who had escorted them earlier sat completely still, their boisterous grins replaced by hollow, shadowed expressions as they stared down at their drinks.
"In our history books,"
Torvald continued, leaning across the table, his amber slitted eyes locking onto Vince’s neutral profile,
"her bloodline was whispered to be blessed by the primordial volcano itself. They don’t just wield fire. Their internal cores generate a volatile, destructive heat that physically warps the space around them. But Vetra didn’t just inherit their power—she inherited their absolute, unyielding pride. She lives by a singular, archaic law: she only acknowledges the strong. To her, weakness isn’t just a trait; it’s an insult to existence."
Vince took a casual sip of his burning ember-ale, his face completely unfazed.
"If she values the strong, has no one ever tried to challenge her? Earn her respect?"
Torvald let out a sudden, dry laugh that sounded like cracking stone.
"Challenge her? People tried. Oh, they tried. Decades ago, before she isolated herself, she used to walk these very streets. She didn’t care about politics, wealth, or territories. She only cared about the thrill of the fight. The elders say she would openly challenge anyone—tribal chiefs, traveling S-rank mercenaries, even rogue human warlords who thought they could tame a dragon. She forced them into raw, brutal, one-on-one brawl matches right in the center of the geothermal basin."
Torvald’s gaze drifted toward the tavern’s dark stone ceiling, his eyes reflecting a deep, inherited awe.
"No weapons. No complex magical arrays. Just raw, unfettered physical dominance and volatile fire mana. The stories say it was terrifying to behold. She would deliberately take her opponent’s strongest attacks head-on, completely unprotected, just to feel something. And then, she would break them. She won every single brawl match. Dozens of them. She dismantled the strongest warriors our race had to offer, shattering their bones and crushing their pride without ever taking a single serious injury herself."
Torvald leaned back, his massive shoulders slumping as he let out a defeated sigh.
"But do you want to know the most terrifying part? She didn’t stop because she was defeated. She stopped because she got bored. She looked at the broken bodies of the strongest elite warriors in the region, realized that no one could give her a real challenge, and simply walked away. She openly claimed that the world was filled with nothing but fragile, disappointing insects. She retreated to the absolute peak of Mount Ignis, stepping directly into the eternal ash storms and volcanic lightning, and she has never been heard from since. That was over thirty years ago. She chose isolation over a world that was too weak to entertain her."
Silence settled back over the booth. The weight of the lore was staggering—a picture of an undefeated, arrogant titan who literally abandoned society out of pure, unadulterated boredom.
Vince sat entirely still, his mind working at a hyper-calculative speed. Through his perception, he was already visualizing the layout of Mount Ignis.
Instead of being deterred by the tale of a martial monster who crushed S-rank warriors with her bare hands, a faint, dangerous smirk touched his lips.
Undefeated. Arrogant. Bored.
To any normal person, that was a death warrant. To Vince, it was the perfect blueprint for an S-rank subjugation. With his newly acquired Spell-Vein Drain and the atomic breakdown of Micro-Kinetic Harmony, he had the exact tools to shatter that legendary pride.
"I see,"
Vince said smoothly, setting his empty flagon down on the wooden table with a soft click.
He looked back up at Torvald, his deep eyes locking onto the guard leader with an unbothered, predatory calm.
"Thanks for the information, Torvald. I appreciate the history lesson... but I’ll take my chances."
Torvald blinked, his jaw dropping slightly as he stared at Vince like he had just witnessed a man volunteer to jump into a volcano.
"You... you’re still going? Did you not hear a single word I just said, human?! She will rip you apart for simply stepping into her territory!"
"We’ll see,"
Vince replied casually, sliding his legs out from under the booth.
Before Torvald could utter another word of protest, the sudden movement shifted Lyrielle’s balance.
The elven princess slurred a soft moan, her yellowish hair spilling over Vince’s chest as she suddenly gripped his shirt, her emerald eyes opening, completely unfocused and heavily glazed over from the alcohol.
"Whaaa... where are you going?"
Lyrielle pouted, her voice raising into a loud, incredibly whiny pitch that instantly drew the attention of the nearby tavern tables.
She stomped her booted foot against the floorboards, her face twisting into a dramatic, highly uncharacteristic tantrum.
"No! You can’t leave! The ground is spinning, Vince! You... you’re a jerk for making it spin!"
Vince let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh, his neutral expression cracking into a look of pure exasperation.
"Lyrielle, you’re completely drunk. Stand up."
"I am not drunk!"
She yelled, flailing her arms wildly, nearly knocking over Torvald’s flagon.
She puffed out her cheeks, her royal dignity completely incinerated by the ember-ale.
"I am an elven princess! I have royal... royal tolerance! You’re the one who’s drunk! The whole mountain is drunk! Don’t look at me with those stupid purple eyes!"
Torvald and his guards could only watch in absolute, jaw-dropped bewilderment as the charming elf who had dazzled them earlier turned into a thoroughly embarrassing, whiny toddler.
"Right. Let’s go,"
Vince muttered.
Without a single drop of hesitation, Vince leaned down, scooped Lyrielle up entirely, and threw her effortlessly over his broad shoulder like a sack of grain.
"Let me down! This is mutiny!"
Lyrielle protested loudly, her fists feebly pounding against Vince’s back as he turned away from the table.
"I’ll shoot you! I’ll tell mother! Vince, you barbarian, put me down!"
Vince didn’t shift his gaze back, completely ignoring her loud, slurred tantrums as he gave Torvald a brief, respectful nod.
"Thanks for the drinks, Torvald. See you tomorrow."
With an unbothered, steady stride, Vince walked right through the center of the staring, snickering tavern crowd, firmly gripping the throwing-a-tantrum elven princess as he dragged her out of the main hall and down the stone corridor toward their designated room for the night.
Behind him, Torvald slowly picked up his flagon, taking a massive gulp as he shook his head in sheer disbelief.
"A human dragging a screaming elf up a volcano to fight the Crimson Calamity... May the primordial flames have mercy on their souls."