The green flames died down, leaving only wisps of emerald energy dissipating into the night air. The dragon’s massive form stood amid the devastation—broken bodies, shattered stone, and the ruins of what had been an elite imperial force—a living monument to overwhelming power.

Jolthar’s draconic head turned toward Milan, who stood behind his barrier with Andrion, both princes looking shell-shocked by what they had just witnessed.

When the dragon spoke, the voice was recognizably Jolthar’s despite the harmonic resonance of the massive form.

"Milan, I need you to take me to Minister Richardus’s house."

Milan froze, his mind processing the request and immediately understanding the implication.

Jolthar wanted to go after Richardus directly, to confront the man who had orchestrated this entire situation. Given what he had just done to five hundred knights and forty-five mages, what he might do to a minister in his own home was terrifying to contemplate.

"No," Milan said, shaking his head firmly despite the fear that had to be coursing through him at denying a request from a creature of this magnitude.

"Absolutely not. That’s not a good idea, Jolthar.

I understand you’re angry—you have every right to be—but if you attack a minister directly in his residence, you’ll escalate this beyond any possibility of resolution. The Emperor himself would have to respond, and not even your power could withstand the full might of the imperial military and every divine-blessed warrior they could mobilize."

The dragon’s eyes narrowed, clearly not pleased with the refusal, but before Jolthar could argue, a new voice cut through the tension.

"Well, this is certainly unexpected."

Everyone’s attention snapped to the entrance of the courtyard, where a small group had appeared—just ten men, but their bearing and equipment marked them as elite soldiers of a caliber that made even the defeated Shinokishi look like regular troops.

They moved with the efficiency of veterans who had seen real war, not just ceremonial duty or urban peacekeeping.

Leading them were two men.

One was perhaps fifty years old, built like a bear despite his age, with graying hair and eyes that had seen decades of combat. He wore armor that was functional rather than decorative, marked with insignia that identified him as a general of the highest rank. His presence carried authority that had nothing to do with titles and everything to do with proven capability.

The other was Wymar, the mage who had intervened during Jolthar’s battle with the princess, his expression caught somewhere between professional composure and personal astonishment.

The older man, who could only be Great General Remin, was standing before the Jolthar’s dragon form and stared at him with genuine surprise crossing his weathered features.

"An ancient dragon, one that belonged to the era of the gods. I never thought I’d see one in my lifetime. They were supposed to be extinct, relegated to history and legend, yet here stands one in the middle of the capital city."

Wymar’s eyes were scanning the dragon’s form, taking in the distinctive beige coloring, the unique fur-skin texture, and the green energy still radiating from it. Something in the aura felt familiar to him, a signature he recognized from previous encounters. His voice carried doubt and disbelief when he spoke, barely more than a question posed to the universe rather than expecting an answer.

Wymar was more familiar with Jolthar at this point, and he could differentiate his aura from others easily. And considering his experience, he would not be wrong.

"Jolthar?"

The dragon’s massive head turned toward Wymar, and when it spoke, confirmation came with casual acknowledgment.

"Wymar!! What are you doing here? I thought you’d be with your military unit, not playing mediator in capital politics."

Both Wymar and Remin visibly startled at the confirmation. They weren’t aware that the dragon was Jolthar nor did they expect the dragon to be Jolthar. It was completely beyond their assumption. They only knew that Jolthar was a swordsman.

The mage’s composure cracked completely, his voice rising with a mixture of confusion, concern, and the exasperation of someone whose understanding of reality had just been fundamentally challenged.

"How? What? What is this? When did you become a dragon? How is this even possible? You were human when I last saw you and now you’re—" he gestured helplessly at the massive draconic form "—this!"

"How can you turn into a dragon? You are not of the dragon race? How!? HOW???!!"

Remin just stared at the dragon; the subtle surprise was still present on his face.

"It just turned out this way," Jolthar replied with what might have been a shrug if dragons could shrug, the enormous shoulders moving in a gesture that was almost casual despite the apocalyptic destruction surrounding them.

"I’ve been unlocking new abilities, new forms. The dragon is one of them, apparently useful when faced with overwhelming numerical superiority."

Wymar ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration and disbelief. It had become a habit for him to frustrate whenever he met with Jolthar.

"Can you turn back to human form? Please? Things have gotten extremely out of hand here, and I need to be able to have a rational conversation with you, not conduct diplomacy with a creature of legend. Also, I brought Great General Remin specifically to meet you, and I think that conversation would go better if you weren’t looming over us in a form that could accidentally step on people."

Remin, for his part, was watching the dragon with calm, assessing eyes, his military mind clearly cataloging capabilities, gauging threat levels and evaluating the young man who had somehow become something far more than human.

This was a warrior who had faced terrible enemies on distant battlefields, who had commanded armies through impossible situations, and who was not easily rattled by displays of power. Still, even he seemed impressed by what stood before him.

Jolthar’s draconic gaze settled on Remin and Wymar for a long moment, weighing the request and considering the situation.

Then he released a sigh—a sound that came out as a gust of wind heavy enough to rustle clothing and stir debris across the courtyard.