It was exactly like the message that Kronos had delivered through the Archmage Myrren had said. Around his neck, among many other trinkets and necklaces, were dragon horns; the horns of Lukas' forefathers.

"Unhand me!" The beastman's voice rumbled and with surprising strength, he shoved Lukas back. The impact forced Lukas to stumble back, his feet scraping against the uneven rock.

Lukas raised his hands at once, palms open, a gesture to show that he was not a threat. "I meant no harm by it," he said, his voice steady though his heart still pounded.

The tortoise adjusted the necklace protectively, his leathery fingers brushing over each of the horns as though they were sacred relics. His dark, ancient eyes narrowed, and a low grunt escaped him. The beastman shook his head slowly, the gesture deliberate. The disapproval in his eyes was clear as day. Lukas could feel his gaze—the gaze of someone who had lived too long, seen too much, and trusted too little.

But Lukas' conviction did not waver.

How could he ignore it when the truth lay before his very eyes? This was not a coincidence, he knew that.

"It's you," Lukas said, the words leaving him before he could even think. "You are the one who can heal me."

The tortoise blinked once, then twice, his expression flattening into one of quiet disbelief. "Heal you?" The beastman rumbled, his voice more tired than angry. "I do not know whether your wound is one that has been inflicted to your thick skull, because you do not seem to be thinking straight." His tone carried only weary irritation. "I am no healer, great dragon."

Lukas froze. That did not make sense.

Kronos had sent him to Khaitish.

The message had been clear.

The path he had taken—even when it had seemed so uncertain—had led him right here to this cell. And now, before him stood the beastman who bore the horns of his ancestors. Hope still flickered in the dragon's eyes like a dying flame refusing to be extinguished. "Then what are you?" Lukas asked. His voice was no longer filled with desperation but with a quiet determination. "Who are you?"

For a long moment, the tortoise said nothing.

The beastman only stared straight ahead. The tortoise studied him in silence for a moment. There was madness in the eyes of many who claimed divine purpose, but Lukas' eyes…they were steady, calm even in their conviction. The old beastman folded his arms, his shell shifting slightly with the movement. The cave was silent save for the distant dripping of water echoing from somewhere deep within the darkness.

There was no tremor of delusion there, this dragon was not one who had gone insane.

In those eyes, the tortoise only saw the clarity of truth.

Slowly, something in the beastman's expression changed.

The disapproval faded, replaced by a spark—small but unmistakable—of curiosity. Perhaps it was the certainty in Lukas' tone, or the ancient resonance he felt within the dragon's aura. Perhaps it was memory, long buried, whispering to him through the horns he wore.

"I am a Priest," the tortoise beastman said at last.

The words hung in the air between them, echoing faintly through the cavern's hollow chamber.

Lukas blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly.

A priest? Of all the things Lukas had expected—warrior, hermit or even exile— that was not one of them.

"A priest?" Lukas repeated softly, then tilted his head. "Of Oceanus?"

The effect was immediate. A flare of anger surged in the beastman's eyes, sharp and sudden, transforming the calm priest into something fierce and indignant. The firelight reflected in his dark pupils, making them look like smoldering coals.

"We of the beastkin do not worship that Titan!" he thundered, the words heavy enough to make the air itself tremble. "We do not exist because of him. We exist because of Pan." The name rolled from his tongue with reverence, almost musical in its depth. "And that is the only god that I would ever pledge my life to."

Lukas blinked, surprised by the ferocity of the beastman's conviction. He had not meant offense—he had merely spoken what little he knew of this pantheon.

Yet clearly, to the beastkin, his words had struck a nerve.

"Forgive me," Lukas said quickly, inclining his head in respect. "I did not know the beastkin worshipped another." The dragon hesitated, searching the priest's face for any sign of forgiveness. "Tell me more about...Pan."

For a moment, Lukas thought that would be the end of it. The priest's expression hardened again, and his heavy eyelids drooped in the manner of someone who had already experienced his fair share of ignorant questions. Lukas could almost see the decision forming in the beastman's eyes—to put an end to this conversation before it even began.

The tortoise studied him again, his nostrils flaring with a deep sigh.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

It was the sincerity in Lukas' voice—that unfeigned interest that could not be faked—that made him oblige.

Without a word, the priest pointed toward a pile of firewood stacked against the cavern wall. "Come," he said gruffly. "Let us build a fire before the night steals the heat from our bodies." The command was practical, but Lukas understood the gesture for what it was—an invitation and it was one that the dragon would gladly take.

Lukas obeyed without hesitation, crouching beside the pile and arranging the wood as the priest showed him. Sparks danced as flint struck stone, and slowly, through persistence and breath, a flame came alive. It began as a whisper, then a flicker, then a steady, pulsing glow that cast golden light over the two figures.

The priest settled down across from Lukas, the fire's reflection gleaming faintly off the curve of his shell.

"Pan," he began, his tone now gentler, calmer, "is the god of the Wild—more ancient than the Titans themselves."

Lukas listened intently.

"He is one of the Primordials," the priest continued, his gaze fixed on the dancing flame. "We, the beastkin, may walk among men but within our souls lie the creations of Pan. You and I call them animals driven by instincts, desires and the beating heart of nature itself. Our bodies act as vessels for these spirits of the wild. It is because of him that we are blessed with these bodies. Not Oceanus. Not any Titan. But because of Pan and only Pan."

As the priest spoke, his voice grew deeper, more rhythmic, like a chant carried by wind through ancient trees.

The fire responded—flaring brighter, as though listening.

Lukas leaned forward unconsciously, entranced by every word.

The flames began to twist and curl, bending under an unseen will. They rose higher, forming a shape—at first abstract, then unmistakable. Horns curved upward from a head of light; legs, fur, and cloven hooves took shape in the fire.

For a fleeting heartbeat, Lukas saw it—a figure both divine and wild.

It was Pan himself, speaking through the flames.

There was laughter in the fire, mischievous, playful, but powerful enough to shake the core of the soul.

Lukas' breath caught.

The warmth that radiated from the flames was not merely heat but life itself, pulsing, living and breathing. And just as quickly as it appeared, the figure vanished. The flames collapsed into their natural shape once more, leaving behind only embers and silence.

Lukas sat back, stunned.

"That…was Pan?" he asked quietly.

The priest nodded slowly. "A glimpse. Nothing more. He watches, even now, over his people without fail."

For a long moment, neither spoke. The crackling of the fire filled the stillness and Lukas found himself staring into it, trying to hold onto the image of the god before it slipped from memory like smoke through fingers. Lukas sat motionless, his gaze lost in the twisting dance of the flames. Each flicker seemed alive—echoing with whispers that were not his own, voices of something older and wilder than the world of men. The image of Pan still lingered in his mind: the horns, the laughter, the raw vitality that had emanated from the fire. It had reached deep into his spirit and stirred something that had remained long dormant.

Lukas could swear that somewhere deep within him, something wild had awakened.

But then a voice cut sharply through the silence, bringing him back to reality.

"You speak as though destiny itself has guided you here," the tortoise murmured at last, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. "And yet, you stand before me—unhealed, uncertain and lost." The beastman tilted his head. "Tell me, dragon…what is it that you think I can mend?"

The question hung heavy in the air.

Lukas' jaw tightened; the embers reflected in his eyes like fading stars.

"My Mana Pool." He answered finally, voice low but firm. "It has been shattered. I am no longer the dragon I once was. The Titan I serve promised me that I would find the one who could heal my broken body. I was to seek the one who wore the horns of my forefathers around his neck. And I would find him in the land of the beastkin."

As Lukas spoke, his gaze drifted down toward the necklace. The horns glinted faintly in the firelight—relics of a lineage that had been put through centuries of loss. The Priest of Pan instinctively reached for them, fingers brushing over their curved surface as though to protect them from the truth carried in Lukas' words.

His brows furrowed deeply. "And who exactly," the priest asked slowly, almost fearfully, "is this Titan you serve?"

Lukas raised his eyes, the firelight catching the faint draconic glow that still lingered within them. "I serve the God of Time," he said, each word deliberate, steady, and final. "I serve the Titan they call Kronos."

The priest drew in a sharp breath—a sound that echoed faintly in the cave. "Kronos," the beastman whispered, as though the very name might summon the god himself.

"Your name," the priest demanded suddenly, his voice tight with urgency. "Tell me your name, dragon."

"Lukas," came the calm reply. "Lukas Drakos."

For a heartbeat, the priest simply stared—and then he recoiled, eyes wide in disbelief. He shook his head, muttering under his breath as if trying to convince himself this was all some cruel illusion.

"Drakos…" he whispered. It was clear that the Priest had not heard that name for a very long time—the name of the Great House that ruled over Linemall's Seas. He looked up again, his expression torn between awe and fear. "You…are a son of the Seas."

Lukas nodded slowly, unsure of what to think of the priest's reaction.

"It's you," the beastman breathed, voice trembling. "You are the one the Prophecy speaks of."

The Prophecy.

Lukas had heard it so many times before—in Myrren's voice, in Kronos' message, in the dying words of a Divine Knight. It had followed him across years and battles, a thread of fate that refused to break. And now, once again, it surfaced—a whisper of destiny too vast to comprehend.

The priest's eyes burned with a strange mixture of reverence and sorrow. "Very well, Lukas Drakos," he said at last, voice steady once more. "I will heal your broken body. But you must understand—it will not be easy."

The beastman rose from his seat, the firelight glinting off his shell and the horns that hung across his chest.

The flames swelled briefly, as if in answer to the priest's resolve.

"For the path you are to walk," the beastman continued, his tone carrying the solemnity of ritual, "will not be an easy one. For your body to be healed, your spirit must endure what few can survive."

The Priest of Pan extended his hand toward Lukas, ancient and scarred. And the King of the Dragons took it.

"Let us begin."

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.