The light beyond the tunnel mouth spills golden through the trees. I blink as I emerge, the forest cool and quiet. My boots crunch against leaves and pine needles. The sun hangs overhead—just past its peak.
'Still plenty of time.' I roll my shoulders and start down the sloping trail toward the beach. I stick to the trees, keeping low beneath the canopy as I move through the underbrush. Dragon sightings have been high lately.
The sea wind carries faintly through the leaves, tinged with salt and the cry of seabirds.
—---------------------
'Alright... time to collect a whole damn ocean's worth of salt water.' I crouch at the edge of the treeline, eyes scanning the wide, empty stretch of beach. Pale golden sand gives way to frothing waves, the sky above painted in streaks of light blue and hazy gray. I narrow my eyes, scanning the sky first—no wings overhead, no shifting shadows, no glint of scale in the sun.
'Especially no sign of that Nadder.' I tense instinctively at the thought, then exhale through my nose. The coast is clear.
'A few gallons should do for now. I've got plenty of freshwater from the stream, but I need something to actually boil down for salt.'
I step cautiously onto the sand, boots crunching softly beneath me as the cool breeze rolls off the ocean. It smells like salt and seaweed, the faint scent of fish just beneath it. The water sparkles under the sunlight—clean, clear, and mercifully quiet. I glance across the shoreline.
'No Scauldrons either. Just waves and wind.'
Kneeling near the surf, I extend both hands into the foamy water and call up the system. A ripple of energy pulls through my arms as the sea begins surging into my inventory. Within ten seconds, twenty gallons of saltwater have vanished into storage.
'No weight limit might actually be the best gift I've been given so far.'
I close the window, rise to my feet, and glance toward the horizon—calm, untouched. Just as I begin turning back to the trees, I hear it.
The wingbeats.
Low. Heavy. Fast.
'No… not again.' I roll instinctively to my left as a Nadder spine thunks into the sand where my leg had been a second earlier, throwing up grit and steam.
'Of fucking course it's you.' I snatch up the freshly embedded spike, pivot, and bolt for the treeline. Branches whip against my arms as I sprint through the undergrowth, adrenaline coursing through me. I glance skyward as I weave through trees—it's him. That same Nadder. Purple scales, yellow eyes, and a glare like it remembers every time I got away.
'No more running. Time to end this.'
I press harder, leaping over fallen trunks, ducking beneath thick branches as magnesium-bright blasts light up the forest behind me. Trees crack and splinter. Another spine slams into bark just beside my head, showering me in splinters.
As I clear the last bend, my cave looms into view, carved into the rock like a yawning mouth. I reach into my inventory and yank the club free, sliding into the entrance just as another Nadder spike buries itself into the dirt beside my hand.
THUNK. I slam the club against the stone wall.
"Get up!" The Gronckles stir, their eyes fluttering open, confused, sluggish. The venom haze is lighter now, but their minds still haven't fully cleared.
"I said get up!" Another strike of the club echoes in the chamber. One of the Gronckles jolts fully upright. I level a finger at it.
"Out there. I need that Nadder dead."
My voice lowers, colder.
"Help me, or die."
The words cut through the fog. Their bodies shift into motion.
I toss the club aside and draw my makeshift Nadder spear, sprinting toward the cave mouth. Outside, the dragon circles in confusion, just beginning to land—probably expecting another game of cat and mouse.
What it gets instead is a tail the size of a battering ram to the face.
CRACK. The Nadder's head whips sideways as the first Gronckle slams it across the snout, sending it skidding through the dirt. It screeches in pain, dazed.
I charge, spear raised, and drive the spike into its lower jaw. The blade punches through scale and cartilage, drawing a howl of agony. I rip it free as the Nadder rears back, gathering breath for a fireblast.
But it never gets the chance.
A second Gronckle barrels into its side, knocking it off-balance again. The third follows—leaping, tail high—and brings it crashing down on the dragon's skull like a warhammer.
The Nadder shrieks and falters. It tries to rise, wings twitching wildly.
I lunge forward and thrust the spear into its eye. The dragon stiffens… then crumples.
Still.
'Finally.' I exhale, chest heaving, and store the corpse in my inventory before the blood has time to soak into the stone. The system chimes softly.
[Quest Complete: Kill the Nadder]
Eliminate the Deadly Nadder that has been harassing you for the past several weeks.
Reward: +20 Gacha Tickets, +5 Vitality, +5 Strength
[Achievement Unlocked]
Command a Dragon – Direct a dragon to act on your orders in combat.
Reward: +10 Gacha Tickets, Title: Dragon Commander, +2 Intelligence
[Skill Acquired]
Spear Proficiency (1/25)
Enhances your proficiency with spear-type weapons through improved grip control, thrusting accuracy, and fluid combat movement. Higher levels increase precision, reaction speed, and overall lethality in melee encounters
I flex my fingers, already feeling a subtle surge of energy flowing into my limbs—muscles tightening with a bit more ease, breath coming just a bit easier.
'That... was more than I expected.'
I turn back to the cave, where the three Gronckles now stand at the entrance. Alert. Tense. Waiting for more orders.
I wave a hand.
"It's over. Go back to sleep. I'm sorry for waking you."
They grunt softly—almost understanding—and lumber back toward the dying campfire, curling around it once again as the room slowly darkens.
I watch them for a moment longer, then walk deeper into the cave, each step a little more grounded than before.
'I've got the rest of the day—maybe less—before the venom wears off.'
I watch the three Gronckles sprawled around the cooling campfire, their breathing deep and heavy, but no longer irregular. The glaze in their eyes had already started to fade during the last command. Soon, they'd start to question, resist—maybe even remember.
'And when they do, they'll either see me as their trainer… or their executioner.'
I grit my teeth and rub at the back of my neck. The weight of that choice sits heavier than I'd like. Killing them would be brutal, but clean. Controlled. Predictable. Training them, on the other hand—that's a risk. Time. Effort. And no guarantee they won't rip me apart halfway through.
'Option three is more Deathgripper venom… but what are the odds I get more of that anytime soon?' I glance toward the mouth of the cave where the horizon's light is already beginning to shift. The day is sliding by too fast.
'Kill or train. That's it.'
With a sigh, I turn away from the dragons and walk deeper into the cave, boots scuffing against the stone. My thoughts spiral with a growing checklist of tasks—curing meat, setting up a smoke rack, forging gear, scavenging. There's simply too much to do.
'There's not enough time in the day for all of this.'
I pause halfway to the campfire, eyes narrowing in thought. 'What if I didn't have to do all of it? What if I just… skipped ahead?' A Monstrous Nightmare. If I could tame one of those, the island wouldn't be a cage anymore—it would be a starting point. A base. I could fly, scout, travel, leave.
But taming a Nightmare without prep is basically suicide. And I've already played that game with a Nadder. 'Best not push my luck.'
'Let's keep it simple.' I walk over to the firepit and begin setting a hanging post above it—two split branches planted on either side of the stone ring with a crossbeam tied into place using thick, coiled cord. The steel pot hangs nicely from a hooked notch in the beam—stable, even when filled.
'Not bad for bushcraft.' I light the fire beneath it, going through the increasingly familiar ritual: flint, dried leaves, a spark. Smoke curls upward as the flame catches, flickering softly in the shadowed cave.
I pour in a few gallons of saltwater, watching it swirl inside the metal before sealing the lid.
'Now we wait.'
My gaze drifts to my inventory, still cluttered with the remnants of recent hunts and gacha gifts. My fingers brush across the image of a long, sturdy branch I'd pulled weeks ago—weathered, slightly curved, and nearly perfect for bowmaking.
'Maybe it's finally time to make a bow.'
The thought sparks something—an itch. Quiet, focused work to drown out the tension.
I pull the branch free and grab my stone hatchet. Sitting cross-legged by the fire, I begin to carve, letting the hatchet shave away uneven edges. The wood yields under the blade, surprisingly straight and dry, with only a few stubborn knots I work carefully around.
'I could sand down some Nadder spikes and make proper arrows too. Barbed and sharp… more than enough for a first hunt.'
I lose myself in the rhythm of carving. The scent of burning pinewood mixes with the smell of salt and smoke from the pot. Each motion of the hatchet is guided by intuition and the quiet whisper of my carpentry skill at work.
Even the act of cutting the wood feels smoother than it should. 'Carpentry and lumberjack working together again. I guess that explains it.'
I wipe sweat from my brow and examine the half-finished bow, running a thumb along its edge.
'Guess I've got one more skill to add soon… archery.'
The thought lingers as I toss the leftover shavings and splinters from the bow carving into the fire. They catch easily, crackling sharply and sending thin wisps of smoke curling upward into the cave's dim air. The flames respond, rising higher as the pot above continues to boil with a low, steady hiss.
I exhale slowly and turn my attention back to the bow, the half-finished length of wood resting across my knees. Time slips by unnoticed, lost in the methodical rhythm of carving. My hands move automatically now, smoothing the limbs of the bow, evening out the weight distribution, trimming the thicker ends with careful hatchet work and slow shaving motions. The world narrows to grain and shape, firelight, and the quiet breathing of the slumbering Gronckles nearby.
Eventually, the shape feels right—primitive but serviceable. I notch both ends and begin wrapping tight bands of cordage around them, using tension to pull the arc gently into shape.
When I lean back and finally let go of the breath I'd been holding, the cave is darker, and my muscles ache from being in the same position too long.
'Damn. I really hyper fixated.'
The bow rests across my lap, stiff in some places, uneven in others. It's not perfect, not even close—but it's mine. A proper, if crude, longbow carved from a single good branch, made with hands that didn't know how to do this just days ago.
I sigh, frowning slightly at the stiffness near one of the limbs. I bring the hatchet back and start carefully shaving it thinner, testing the flex with slow bends. Every stroke brings it closer to being usable—reliable, at least until I can get something better in a village or from a passing trader.
A sharp hiss pulls my attention back to the pot.
'Oh, the first batch is done.'
I rise and walk over, peering down into the steel container to find the water completely gone, leaving behind a thin white crust at the bottom—salt, coarse and still clinging to the metal. The fire's heat has dried it partially, but I'll still need to spread it out later for proper storage.
Without wasting time, I scoop the residue into my inventory and pour in a fresh batch of saltwater. The process starts again with a bubbling hiss, steam rising into the cool, cave air.
'That'll keep boiling. Back to the bow.'
The wood only needs finishing touches now. I run my fingers along the curve, feeling every imperfection, every slight bump or notch I missed. The grip is barely formed—just a section of the branch with extra cordage, no sculpted handle. The curvature is shallow, still stiff.
But it's functional.
I grin, pride bubbling quietly beneath my fatigue.
'I now have a bow.'
I lift it slightly, admiring the result of my work. Crude, yes—but real. A hunter's tool. Something I made with my own two hands. I tuck it into my inventory for now, knowing I'll need to finish it properly later—either by oiling the limbs or charring them to harden the fibers and seal the wood.
'Charring might be the better route. Stronger. Longer-lasting.'
I move back to my workbench and pull out one of the Nadder spikes—long, narrow, slightly curved with a jagged tip. I hold it up to the firelight, inspecting the ridges, the sharp points. Even after being torn from a beast's tail, it still glistens faintly. Dangerous. Perfect for arrows.
I grab the bonesaw I'd pulled from the gacha earlier. It's heavier than I expected, but it slides cleanly across the hardened surface of the spike. I brace it against a slab of stone and begin sawing—slowly at first to avoid slipping.
Skrk… skrk… skrk…
The sound is sharp and rhythmic. Fine white dust begins to curl off the sides. My goal is to slim it down—reshape it from a tail spike into something aerodynamic. Each stroke smooths the spine just a bit more, prepping it for sanding. I'll need to round the base and balance the weight, but it's doable.
And I have plenty of material to work with.
I glance back toward my inventory. Over seventy Nadder spikes. Most of them collected from my constant near-death run-ins with that same damn dragon—its corpse now sitting in storage. A poetic kind of justice, really. What once tried to kill me might now help me hunt.
—---------------------
'That makes about five and a half gallons of saltwater boiled down.'
I nod to myself, scraping the last batch of coarse white crystals from the bottom of the steel pot. The salt flakes off in brittle layers, clinking softly into a woven basket I've repurposed as a drying container. I shake the pot clean, watching the last grains tumble free before stowing both the salt and the pot into my inventory.
'Now comes the hard part—drying it.'
I glance around the cave, eyes flicking across stone, firelight, and bare patches of dirt. I need airflow, something sunlit, but I'm not dragging this salt out into the open where some passing dragon or scavenger could ruin it.
'I could spread it out on a flat rock, maybe near the mouth of the cave. Sunlight and warmth without fully exposing it.'
The idea clicks, but before I move, my thoughts shift to the other problem gnawing at the edge of my supplies—the meat. Even with some stored raw and some preserved, I know what's coming. Spoilage. Time is ticking.
'Better get a smoke going. Even a small batch now will help hold me over until I finish salting the rest.'
I walk over to a clear patch of floor and begin laying out stones in a tight circle, forming the foundation for a second firepit. My fingers move quickly—experienced now—stacking kindling and small branches before forming a narrow tripod above it using sturdy limbs I collected earlier. The apex of the tripod is bound together with braided cordage, tight enough to hold weight but loose enough for adjustment.
I finish the structure and sit back on my heels, eyes narrowed in thought as the fire structure takes shape.
'Smoking should work. Low heat. High smoke. Slow process… but the meat will last.'
I dig into my inventory and pull out several thin, rib-section cuts from the Gronckle—tender and smaller, perfect for the first test run. The meat is still deep red, firm, and cool from storage. I slide a few sharpened sticks through them like makeshift skewers and hang them from the tripod, letting them dangle over where the fire will soon be.
I grab the pot again, this time filling it with freshwater, and set it beside the new pit to keep steam and moisture in the air while the fire smolders. Carefully, I start the flame—small at first, just enough to get the smoke rolling. I feed it damp wood and bark shavings, ensuring more smoke than fire rises between the stones.
As the smoke curls upward, it begins to wrap around the hanging meat—tendrils of scent weaving into the surface of each cut. It smells sharp and earthy, already different from a fresh fire. The cave takes on a new scent: meat, wood, and survival.
I glance toward the cave entrance. The daylight outside is beginning to fade—softening from gold to the dusky blues of late evening. Shadows stretch long across the walls, and the air is cooling, settling like a heavy cloak around me.
'No time to waste. I need to start fleshing the Gronckle hide before it gets too dry to work with.'
I turn away from the entrance and head back into the lab—butchering room—my own little corner of controlled chaos. The butcher's posts still stand firm in the center, rope hanging loose now that the carcass has been fully processed. Bone dust still clings faintly to the floor where I last worked. I give them a passing glance before veering off to one of the back corners, where I've kept the bulk of my crafting tools and spare wood.
I kneel and pull out a thick log—heavy, damp, and perfect for what I need. Then a few thick, forked branches to act as supports. With a grunt, I draw my axe and start carving the branches, notching them to cradle the log like a makeshift beam rack. The wood groans under pressure as I jam it into place, but it holds.
'Not elegant. But it'll do.'
The Gronckle hide is heavy—divided into two massive sections when I first skinned it due to its sheer size. Even now, folded in my inventory, it feels like I'm carrying around a rolled carpet of stone and rubber.
I summon the first half and drape it over the log, the scaled surface cold and stiff. Beneath it, patches of flesh and fat cling stubbornly to the underside—pink, sinewed, and rancid-smelling.
'I hope the skinning knife can handle this…'
I pull out the tool—absurdly small in my hand, its curved blade better suited for rabbits and fish than something the size of a wagon. Still, it's all I've got.
'I should've made a proper fleshing knife. This is going to be miserable.'
I sigh, resigned, and begin.
The knife bites in—barely. Each stroke feels like carving leather with a spoon. I dig along the underside, separating membrane from hide, yanking at sinew with gloved fingers when the blade slips. It's slow. Frustrating. Sweat beads on my forehead as I lean into the motion, back and shoulders screaming from the angle.
Fifteen minutes pass. Then thirty. Then longer.
The firelight flickers in the corner, and the room fills with the smell of raw fat, old blood, and the faint acidic tang of dragon musk.
'This is the worst game of tug-of-war I've ever played.'
Eventually, I finish the first half. I store it and summon the second. The process repeats—slow, grueling, painful. My hands go numb from gripping the knife. My knees ache from leaning into the beam.
But I finish it.
Bloodied. Greasy. Breathing heavily.
'That was an absolute pain in the ass.'
I wipe my face on the edge of my sleeve and frown as I remember the next step. Liming. Of course.
'I forgot… I need to soak wood ash in water first to make lye.'
I exhale sharply and curse under my breath as I store both hides. I'll have to scrape the ashes from the firepit and soak them overnight before the hides can go in. No sense rushing it now. It'll take time—and a lot of it.
I step out of the lab, back into the central chamber of the cave… and immediately freeze.
The Gronckles are awake.
All three.
They're no longer foggy-eyed, no longer sluggish. Their gazes lock onto mine with full clarity—sharp, alert, uncertain. The youngest's wings twitch, nervous energy running up its limbs. It looks between the other two like a child waiting for its parents to speak first.
I take a single step forward. They don't move, but their bodies tense.
'Shit. They remember. Or at least… they feel something's off.'
I set my jaw, keeping my voice steady as I speak.
"You have two options," I say, loud enough to fill the chamber but not threatening.
"Leave… or stay."
The silence is thick. Crackling. The fire behind me pops once, sending sparks upward into the shadows.
The eldest tilts its head slightly—thinking. The middle one's nostrils flare. The youngest takes a half-step toward the entrance… then hesitates.
Waiting. Watching.
'Please… stay.'
Not because I can't kill them. But because I don't want to.
The largest of the three Gronckles shifts its weight, stepping subtly toward the other two. Its movements are slow, deliberate—almost uncertain. It doesn't growl, doesn't threaten—just pauses near them, as if seeking silent counsel. Its wide, heavy head tilts slightly toward the middle Gronckle, who responds with visible irritation.
The middle one's small crest-wings flutter in a sharp shake—clearly displeased. Whether it's indignation, disbelief, or pure frustration, I can't tell. But it doesn't want to hear what the eldest is proposing. Behind them, the youngest sits nervously—hunched low to the ground, breathing quick and shallow, its round eyes darting between the others.
It's waiting to follow. Not lead.
"I won't stop you from leaving," I say calmly, watching them through narrowed eyes, but my hand is already hovering just inside my inventory—ready to draw blade or spear in a heartbeat. My voice stays steady, but my thoughts are anything but.
'If they try to attack or flee, I'll have to kill at least one—preferably the middle one. Three at once might overwhelm me, but two is manageable.'
Still, I don't want that outcome.
"But…" I continue, lowering my tone, just enough to sound more human, "you could live easier here."
The eldest hesitates. I can see it in the slow twitch of its tail, the tension in its legs. It's thinking—really thinking. Its gaze flickers across the cave, to the warm firelight, the cleared space, the security of shelter.
"I won't hurt you," I add, softer now, "and I'll give you a place to rest. In return, I'll ask for your help—clearing the cave, expanding it, maybe backing me up if a stray dragon gets too close."
The words hang in the air for a moment, smoke curling faintly from the fire's embers. The youngest Gronckle perks up slightly, its wings lifting in a quiet show of interest. The promise of stillness—of digging, eating, and not running—clearly appeals to it. Its body starts to relax, tail curling near its feet as it watches the others.
The middle Gronckle, though, remains rigid. Its eyes never leave me. Distrust radiates from its stance—muscles tense, jaw tight, breath flaring through its nostrils. No matter what I say, it doesn't believe a word of it. I can feel the weight of its judgment as clearly as if it were speaking.
I point to the mouth of the cave. "The exit is right there. You can leave if you want."
But even as I say it, my fingers brush against the hilt of my spear inside the inventory. Every muscle in my body is tensed—coiled and ready. My mind is already calculating: how long it would take them to cross the threshold, how many seconds I'd have to act, and which one I'd need to bring down first.
Then, to my surprise, the eldest exhales—a long, low rumble—and settles down by the fire.
No aggression. No challenge. Just resignation... or maybe acceptance.
The youngest follows instantly, practically diving into the spot beside it. It curls into a half-ball of stone-like scales and sighs, nestling down as if it's been waiting for this moment all day.
Only the middle one remains standing, frozen in place. Its eyes widen slightly, as if betrayed by its own kin. It looks between them and me, torn between instinct and loyalty—freedom and familiarity.
I let out a slow breath. "Thank you," I murmur, eyes softening as I glance at the two who've stayed.
The eldest stares back at me with an expression that could only be described as… contempt. Not hatred. But it doesn't trust me. Not yet. Maybe never.
The middle one lingers a moment longer before snorting—a loud, defiant puff of air that I can only interpret as a grumble of frustration. Then, it lowers itself beside the other two, stiffly, like it still might change its mind at any moment.
I nod once.
"You always have the choice to leave," I say to the middle one directly. "You're not my prisoners."
It glares at me—flat and unblinking. I can already tell this one will be the troublemaker.
'Understandable… but I might still have to kill it one day.'
I finally ease my hand out of the inventory and let my shoulders drop as I walk over to the firepit, now reduced to softly glowing embers. I sit down beside it, the warmth a welcome contrast to the growing chill in the air. A few dry sticks and leaves from my bundle get tossed in, the fire crackling back to life with a faint pop.
I stare into the flame, letting its rhythm calm me.
'So much for getting sleep.'
I reach into my satchel and pull out the day's rations—chewy strips of smoked meat and dried berries—and chew slowly, letting my mind drift through the day's work.
'Let's see…'
'Tamed three Gronckles—or at least got them not to kill me. Skinned one. Killed a Nadder. Made salt. Built a smoking rack. Fleshed a hide. And now I'm negotiating with dragons.'
I let out a long, weary breath, nodding slightly to myself.
—---------------------
"No, no—like this," I say, crouching beside the hole and raising my hands in front of my mouth like a stage actor in a low-budget drama.
I fake a dramatic retching motion over the wooden post planted in the pit, complete with exaggerated gurgling and body lurches. 'Gods help me—I'm teaching a dragon how to puke lava…'
The youngest Gronckle stares at me in deadpan silence. One heavy brow ridge lifts ever so slightly, its expression somewhere between genuine confusion and existential disappointment. It tilts its head, eyes squinting.
I can almost hear it thinking: "Really, brother?"
I let out a slow sigh and rub the bridge of my nose. "I know, okay? I know how stupid it looks. But the post is right there. Just… give me one good blast. For the foundation."
With a huff that borders on theatrical, the Gronckle rolls its eyes—yes, rolls its eyes—then opens its jaws and lets out a short, burbling stream of molten lava directly onto the base of the wooden post. The heat pulses against my face like a blast furnace, but I'm ready. I open my inventory and water dumps over the pooled lava, steam erupting in a sharp hiss.
The lava cools instantly, fusing the base of the post into the stone like a welded anchor. Solid. Secure.
"Perfect," I mutter, standing back and shielding my eyes from the steam as it curls around my head. The Gronckle just gives me another flat look, then waddles away with a flick of its tail like it's doing me a favor.
'A couple days. That's all it took for them to start treating me like some overgrown, incompetent sibling.'
I shake my head and glance between the three of them.
The eldest is clearly the leader. Level-headed, surprisingly reliable, and always the first to act when I give commands. The youngest—the lava-spitter—is the most energetic, always eager to help but never without some sass or half-hearted grumbling. And the middle Gronckle? He just tags along, like a grumpy middle child doing things out of obligation rather than interest. Never directly defiant… but never really listening either.
'I should probably give them names. Something fitting.'
'Eventually I'll do it.'
I leave the youngest to smolder in its attitude and walk toward the corner where I've stored the salt barrel—my improvised preservation cache now half-buried in gravel to keep it cool. I lift the lid and am immediately greeted by the sight of crystalline white salt caked over thick slabs of meat.
'This batch should be done curing.'
I reach in, brushing the coarse crystals away to reveal a firm cut of Gronckle rib. The salt has pulled most of the moisture from it, leaving behind a dense, pale surface 'You're going to taste awful. But food is food.'
I wipe off the excess salt with a cloth, then slip the meat into my inventory. One by one, I work through the barrel, brushing and storing, until all the salted cuts are secured. Once emptied, I scoop the remaining salt into a sealed sack for later rinsing and reuse. I'll need to dry it, but it'll last.
I take a breath and lean against the wall.
'Salted meat… smoked meat… and still five months of rations. I'm stocked for at least a year.'
But that doesn't mean I'm done. I glance at my inventory again, eyes landing on a cluster of roughly formed clay bricks.
'Now I just need to fire the damn things.'
I rub my hands together, remembering—almost fondly—those late nights in high school when I spiraled into a weird obsession with bushcraft videos and doomsday prepping. From building mud kilns out of cinderblocks to turning river silt into clay by hand… I'd gone down more rabbit holes than I care to admit.
'And everyone thought I was just wasting time on YouTube.'
I smile to myself… then immediately frown as my gaze drifts toward the glowing gacha interface hovering just off to the side.
'Or… I could gamble.'
The logical part of me begins to weigh options. Resources are good. Security's improving. I'm stable for the first time since arriving here.
And yet… One hundred tickets. Earned from turning in a full Gronckle report. And from killing that Monstrous Nightmare in its sleep, a little too close to the edge of my territory for comfort.
'What's one roll?'
The thoughts of bricks and tanning racks and finishing the bow begin to evaporate, replaced by the slow, addictive pull of possibility. I hover over the draw window.
Magic? Gear? Tools I don't even know I need yet?
'I've earned it… right?' I stare at the gacha screen, fingers twitching with indecision as the familiar, dangerously addictive pull settles into my chest. That little whisper in the back of my mind—the one that always says "just one more roll"—is screaming now.
It feels like standing at the edge of a roulette table, all the chips stacked on black, the wheel spinning, the air charged with possibility. And just as it's about to stop—click—the ball lands on green. The table erupts. Everyone's in disbelief.
Except that one hobo in the corner who dropped ten bucks on green for the hell of it.
'I will never forgive that hobo.'
I kneel, almost reverently, before the glowing gacha window. My hands come together in prayer, eyes half-closed.
"RNGesus. Gachathulu. Lady Probability. Any god or entity listening, I humbly ask… don't screw me over."
Two Epic pulls, or one Legendary?
I stare at the options.
Epic offers reliability. Legendary promises chaos.
I close my eyes, take a breath, and tap the Legendary Pull—a single motion, simple and final. The air around me seems to hum, the cave growing inexplicably still. Then a soft chime echoes in the air.
I open one eye.
Golden light spills from the screen, casting a faint glow over my hands. Legendary. Confirmed.
But what materializes in my palms… is not what I expected.
[Result]
Skywraith Egg
'…What the hell is a Skywraith?'
The object in my hands pulses—alive. I try to slide it into my inventory out of reflex, but it resists, refusing to be stored. A jolt snaps through my fingers, and I immediately recoil with a sharp gasp, nearly dropping it.
The egg crackles with energy—literally.
I fumble for my leather gloves and hastily slip them on before picking it back up with more care. Electricity dances across the egg's surface in tiny arcs, snapping and crackling against the leather.
Its shell is slick and textured like volcanic glass, deep obsidian black laced with shifting streaks of violet, like a storm cloud trapped inside crystal. The static hums softly against my palm, like the build-up before a thunderclap.
'I never thought I'd be shocked by an egg.'
I lift it higher, letting the firelight catch its shape. Veins of pulsing purple throb beneath the shell, releasing faint arcs of lightning that kiss the air and vanish just as fast. It's warm—unnervingly so—and thrumming with a barely contained energy, like it's waiting for something.
'Honestly, I was hoping for… I don't know. A relic. A legendary spear. Maybe a reality-warping cloak. But a live egg?' I lower it slightly, already dreading how I'm going to care for whatever this thing hatches into.
Still holding the egg against my chest, I glance back at the Gronckles, now lounging near the smoldering fire.
"Hey…" I call out, trying to sound casual. "Do any of you know how to deal with a dragon egg?"
The youngest perks up first, its snout tilting curiously. It chirps once—confused, innocent.
The middle one's reaction is instant and visceral. It rises slowly, low growl building in its throat, pupils narrowing. Its wings stiffen, tail coiling like a spring.
The eldest… it doesn't move, but its eyes narrow dangerously. It studies the egg with a mixture of suspicion and dread. Something clicks behind its gaze.
"Whoa, whoa, calm down."
I take a step back, instinctively moving the egg behind me. Sparks trail from it like angry fireflies.
"It's just an egg—it won't hurt you." The tension in the room thickens. The youngest backs up behind the eldest, unsure but not hostile. The middle one inches forward, shoulders tense, a warning growl echoing from deep in its chest.
I lower my voice. "I don't even know what it is. I didn't steal it, I didn't make it. It's just… mine now."
The eldest still doesn't speak—not that I expect them to—but something in the way it stares suggests it recognizes the name Skywraith. Or perhaps the feel of the energy coming off the egg.
'Great. I pulled a time bomb, didn't I?'
"Okay, calm down," I say, trying to keep my voice level as the middle Gronckle continues its low, rumbling growl. Its nostrils flare, smoke curling from the corners of its mouth. The youngest remains behind it, tilting its head in pure confusion, clearly unsure of what's even happening. But the eldest—thankfully—steps forward.
With a deep-chested grunt, it rears slightly and lets out a short, commanding roar. Not a threat. A command.
The sound echoes sharply in the cave, bouncing off stone walls like a war drum. The middle one falters, growl catching in its throat, and turns to glare at the eldest with a look of incredulous frustration—like it can't believe it just got told off.
It huffs but doesn't advance.
"Let me figure this out." I slowly back toward the far side of the cave, careful not to turn my back to them completely. I settle onto a low, flat stone, setting the egg beside me, watching as it sparks against the rock with soft bursts of static. I quickly pull the Dragon Manual from my inventory, flipping it open with shaking fingers.
'Please let there be something… anything on Skywraiths.'
My mind races. 'Going off the name, it's probably a Strike Class—like Toothless, like the Skrill. Fast. Dangerous. Elemental.'
I navigate through the pages, quickly thumbing past entries until I find the familiar icon: Strike Class. The pages here are thinner, filled with quick notes and detailed sketches from Hiccup's older years. And then, buried near the bottom of the section—
'Skywraith.'
The name is written in a slightly smudged ink, as if the pen had trembled in the writer's hand. The entry itself is barely a few lines.
"The Skywraith is the true unholy offspring of lightning and death. It was faster than I or Toothless could track. At times, it seemed like it wasn't flying at all—but tearing through space itself, a thunderbolt given form. Even Toothless, now the King of Dragons, hesitated in its presence."
I stare at the words. My throat goes dry.
'Even Toothless was afraid?'
I keep reading.
"It seemed to fly faster than lightning—or perhaps it was lightning. Unlike the Skrill, it didn't just manipulate storms. It became them. Twice the size of a Night Fury, and marked by metallic spines not unlike the Skrill. This drawing is the best I could make from the glimpse we caught."
My eyes shift to the sketch beneath. It's rough, hasty, but haunting.
A dragon-shaped blur, little more than a silhouette of sleek black with jagged lines of glowing purple and cyan threading through its body like veins of lightning. Its tail tapers into a serrated whip-like edge. Its eyes—barely visible—are almond-shaped slits of bioluminescent white.
It doesn't look like a dragon.
It looks like a weapon.
"What the hell did I pull from the gacha…" I whisper, voice low and disbelieving as I glance down at the egg resting beside me.
The shell pulses again—black as night, threaded with lightning, arcs of energy jumping from one end to the other like static on a charged coil. Even now, through my gloves, I can feel it humming—alive with anticipation.
'Can I even raise this thing?' The thought creeps in before I can stop it. Not should—can. I'm no dragon trainer. I'm just a scavenger, a builder, a survivor.
I look down at the egg again. It sparks once. Then again. Almost impatiently.
'Too late now.'
I close the manual with a soft snap, store it in my inventory, and gently lift the egg into my arms again. The shocks are duller now—maybe it's adapting to my touch. Or maybe it's getting ready to hatch.
I take a steady breath.
'If it's anything like a Skrill, it'll want altitude. Storms. Isolation.'
My eyes drift to the mountain that cuts into the sky at the far end of the island—tallest point in the region. Jagged, wind-blasted, and unfortunately close to a stretch of Monstrous Nightmare territory. Still, it's my best chance.
I glance over my shoulder at the Gronckles.
They're still watching. The eldest with caution, the youngest with curiosity. The middle with barely restrained rage.
'They'll be fine. They've got each other. And besides, my only real concern is the drying rack.'
Most of the food is stored or salted. I'm not risking the egg just to babysit some smoked meat.
I step toward the cave mouth, tightening my grip around the egg as another arc of static dances along the shell.
'Let's find a storm.'
—---------------------
[Quest: Hatch the Egg]
Climb the tallest mountain on the island.
Rewards: +20 Gacha Tickets, +5 to Dexterity, Skywraith Saddle
'How convenient…' I stare up at the mountain rising before me like a stone god, its peak lost in a wreath of clouds. My gaze drops down to the quest prompt still floating faintly in the corner of my vision, then back up to the cliffs and treacherous ledges ahead. I exhale slowly—long and steady—trying to brace my nerves.
At my waist, a small woven satchel bounces lightly with each step. Inside, wrapped carefully in thick cloth, the Skywraith egg pulses against my hip with gentle static. Every few seconds, it crackles softly—like storm-charged air just before a flash of lightning.
I start walking.
The incline is steep from the get-go, and the trail is barely a trail at all—just a half-worn line between tangled roots and jagged stones. The mountain looms above, jagged and vast. Each step is measured, cautious.
'I never thought I'd be doing this.'
My eyes never stop moving—scanning the trees, the ridges, even the sky. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves puts me on edge. I'm not worried about wolves. I'm worried about dragons.
'Of all the places, why does the tallest mountain have to be in Monstrous Nightmare territory?'
I skirt around a bend in the trail, boots crunching softly on gravel. I don't look in any one direction for more than a moment. If something's watching me, I want to see it before it sees me.
'Well… if anything happens, I guess it's time to see if those Strength and Dexterity stats actually mean anything.'
I pull up my status screen briefly.
[Status]
Name: Erik
Race: Human
Gacha: 0
Strength: 25
Vitality: 30
Intelligence: 19
Dexterity: 23
'Stats doubled across the board, tripled vitality… but still can't bench-press boulders or leap cliffs like a comic book character. Guess it's additive, not multiplicative.'
I sigh, not for the first time wishing the system had a user manual.
Then—snap.
I freeze.
Muscles tensing, I spin toward the sound, the Nadder Spike Spear already in hand before the rest of my body finishes turning. My heart races.
A pair of reflective eyes stares back.
A raccoon.
It lets out a weird chitter before darting into the underbrush, its tail disappearing into the ferns.
I exhale sharply. The tension in my chest finally releases.
'Damn coon.'
I slide the spear back into my inventory and push onward, legs aching now as the slope sharpens. Sweat beads on my forehead, and the chill of elevation mixes strangely with the warmth radiating off the egg. Its shell is still warm, still buzzing—like it knows it's getting closer to where it wants to be.
Then I hear it.
Wingbeats. Not the light fluttering of a bird. Heavy. Rhythmic. Powerful.
'Fuck me.'
I crouch low behind a twisted pine, pressing into the bark, peering through the gaps in the foliage. My fingers slip into my inventory and retrieve the spear once more, hands tight around the shaft.
I scan the skies.
Nothing—yet. But the thudding rhythm of wings grows louder. Closer. A heartbeat in the air.
The sky above flickers with movement. Then comes the smell—sulfur and ash. Heat rolls through the trees like a furnace blast.
'Please… just fly past.'
A branch cracks behind me. I turn, just in time to catch a flash of orange and black between the trees—and then the roar.
A shriek tears through the woods, followed by searing light.
I dive sideways, the spear tight in my grip as I roll across the forest floor. Bark shatters behind me as jaws snap shut just inches from where I stood.
I come up on one knee, spear raised, face-to-face with an enraged Monstrous Nightmare.
It towers above me, black scales striped with fire-orange. Its body is wreathed in flame—shoulders, neck, and jaw alight with raw heat. The fire doesn't consume it—it follows it, crawling across its hide like armor.
Its molten eyes flick down—not at me, but at the satchel.
The egg inside sparks wildly, a pulse of electricity jumping through the bag.
The Nightmare lets out a deeper roar, furious and guttural. Then it charges.
"Of course." I rise to my feet, spear clenched in both hands. My heart pounds. I glance at the satchel—the egg is crackling harder now, as if reacting to the Nightmare's presence.
The Nightmare barrels forward, flames streaking across the underbrush in its wake.
—---------------------
{A/N Hey everyone! I hope you all enjoyed Chapter 2, especially the way I approached the survival elements. I really wanted to avoid the usual "I suddenly know how to build an automated mega factory from sticks and dirt" trope. Instead, I've been focusing on keeping things grounded—making sure our protagonist actually has to work for what he gets. Struggling a bit and maybe a little swearing along the way just makes everything feel more earned.
Also… yeah, I may have made our main character a bit of a gambling addict. But honestly—can you blame him? If you were handed a system that could grant you magic, superpowers, and reality-bending artifacts, would you not be tempted to throw it all at a gacha pull? That said, we won't be seeing any god-tier abilities for a while. He's still very much in the grit-and-blood stage of survival.
Now, on to something I spent way too long obsessing over: the egg. I really hope you like what came out of that Legendary pull—it took me three hours just to settle on the idea of what he'd actually get. No spoilers yet, of course, but I'd love to hear your theories on what the Skywraith might be. Think: storm-born dragon meets apex predator… but that's all I'm saying for now.
Also, just a quick heads-up! I've posted this story on Fanfiction.net, and it's also available on Webnovel under the same title if that's your preferred platform. I've been thinking about starting a Patreon for those who'd like early access to chapters the moment they're finished, instead of waiting for the weekly schedule I'm trying (keyword: trying) to stick to. No promises, but it's something I'm exploring.
As with the last chapter, I'll be including a quick rundown below: the updated status screen, achievements, and any quests completed during the timeskip—which, by the way, will be happening semi-regularly in this fic. Just a fair warning for pacing reasons.
Thanks again for reading, and feel free to drop your thoughts, theories, or just unfiltered excitement in the comments. I read them all, and they seriously make my day.
[Status]
Name: Erik
Race: Human
Gacha: 0
Strength: 25
Vitality: 30
Intelligence: 19
Dexterity: 23
[Quests Completed]
Kill the Nadder
Objective: Eliminate the Deadly Nadder that has been persistently attacking you over the last few weeks.
Rewards: +20 Gacha Tickets, +5 Vitality, +5 Strength
Turn in Your First Field Report
Objective: Submit a field report on a local species (plant or animal), regardless of prior documentation.
Rewards: +20 Gacha Tickets
Kill a Monstrous Nightmare
Objective: Eliminate one of the dominant apex predators within the region.
Rewards: +20 Gacha Tickets, +5 Vitality, +5 Strength
[Achievements Unlocked]
Befriend a Dragon
Trigger: Successfully earn the trust of a dragon without coercion or venom-based influence.
Rewards: +10 Gacha Tickets and +2 Intelligence
Preserve Food
Trigger: Successfully salt or smoke a significant quantity of meat.
Rewards: +5 Gacha Tickets and +3 Dexterity
[Skills Acquired & Developing]
Skill: Spear Proficiency (3/25)
Enhances your proficiency with spear-type weapons through improved grip control, thrusting accuracy, and fluid combat movement. Higher levels increase precision, reaction speed, and overall lethality in melee encounters.
Skill: Bow Proficiency (1/25)
Improves your control, accuracy, and tactical efficiency when wielding bows and arrows. Grants minor enhancements to aim stability, draw strength, and movement while firing. Higher levels unlock advanced techniques for precision and rapid firing.
Skill: Masonry (1/10)
Increases your understanding of shaping, laying, and working with stone, clay, and brick-based materials. Grants basic knowledge of mortar ratios, brick-firing, and foundational structure design. Higher levels improve durability, construction speed, and design complexity.