"The Blade of Naga..."
Forged in the realm beyond stars, born from celestial fire and hammered by divine smiths, the blade had been passed down through generations of the Falcrest bloodline.
Within its iron veins slithered the essence of the great serpent. Her venom, her wrath, her curse, all forged in steel. A weapon of unspeakable beauty and unparalleled horror.
"And I lent it... to a child," came a cold voice.
The man's face remained cloaked in shadow, only the glint of his pale red eyes piercing through.
Glass shards, blood-stained bandages, and half-used syringes littered the stone floor and crimson streaks marred the walls.
Pasta knelt, his breath shallow and broken, his body trembling from hours, no, days of relentless training masked as torture.
Sweat, blood, and something colder clung to his skin.
"Your father deemed you worthy," the voice said, tapping a finger against the cold steel table. "Not that he had much choice. You're his only son. Even after you failed as a brother."
"But that's why you're here, isn't it? You begged for this. For her. Commendable… but foolish. Still, it was your choice."
Pasta's eyes flared. He remembered the moment everything shattered. The guilt. The blame. The silence from his parents as they handed him over to the general. This training wasn't tradition, never planned for him. It was the punishment he gave himself.
He bit down on his tongue right as the whip cracked through the air.
A searing pain tore across his back.
His scream echoed, swallowed by the stone walls.
This was his world. A cavern of darkness, agony, and silent resolve. By night, he bled. And when the sun rose, he would smile and play beside the one person who gave him warmth—his little sister.
No one knew. Not even she.
The ancient training of the Falcrest family wasn't even known to his father since he chose the arts.
But this...
This was his burden and no one else.
"Your life force grows stronger," the man said. "But your ambition is pitiful. As pitiful as a skinned cat. Still—for a boy of twelve, you endure well. The blood of Falcrest does not lie."
Pasta raised his head. Blood dripped from his brow, but his eyes were defiant.
"Cut the crap," he growled. "Get to the point... Zyrion."
From the shadows stepped a tall, young figure. Crimson hair shimmered under the dim torchlight, and in his hand, the whip was still warm with blood.
Zyrion.
"Not angry, are we?" he asked with a twisted grin. "This should be a celebration, no? You're finally free. Soon to be knighted… by your beloved sister."
Pasta's eyes didn't blink. "Hand me the sword."
Zyrion tsked, amused as he strode to the far corner of the chamber. He dragged out a long, obsidian box and opened it slowly.
Inside it lay the blade.
Dark green steel glimmered beneath intricate etchings. Serpent sigils twisted into each fold of the hilt and symbols too old to name scattered across the blade itself.
The chains around Pasta unlatched with a heavy clang. He rose, staggering at first, then reached out and took hold of it.
His fingers curled around the hilt, the blade humming with dormant power.
Light danced across its surface, and in that faint glow, he saw his reflection. Bloody, broken... but unyielding.
Zyrion turned his back to him, arms folded. "The blade of a cursed being. A creature of nightmares. Wield it well, Pasta." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Your training ends here. No more shackles. No more orders. Forge your own path and defy your fate with your very hands upon that very sword."
Pasta sank to the floor, a weary smile breaking across his bloodied face.
Knighting. Battle. Glory.
This was just the beginning of a life filled with exhilarating fights and exciting opponents.
He clutched the sword to his chest, his gaze hazy, locked onto the doorway where Zyrion had vanished. Still...
There was one monster he longed to face.
#
The beast growled.
"Naga…"
Pasta swallowed hard. Calm down. Breathe. His fingers twitched near his hilt, but the sheer pressure in the room surged each time he even thought of drawing his sword.
Does it know… about the serpent?
The dragon sniffed the air, its voice rumbling low. "You're not…" It leaned closer, nostrils flaring as it whispered again. "Naga."
The aura, it was the same overwhelming sensation he felt when witnessing Mr. Swordsman's gift. This beast… it wasn't just powerful. It was familiar. Like the monster in the sky, the one Pasta had seen once and never forgotten.
Then came the question, slicing through the silence like a knife.
"Why is she so quiet?"
Pasta blinked. What?
He wanted to say something, anything, but his body refused to move. His fear was so intense it had steamrolled every other emotion, confusion included.
The dragon turned away, its massive body still sprawled across the floor, wings tattered like torn parchment.
"How long has it been?" it asked. "How many stars died?"
Pasta inched toward his sword, heart racing, only to stop when the dragon spoke again, softer this time. Almost kindly.
"Boy. Don't fret. Have a seat."
Still trembling, Pasta couldn't relax. His aura coating flickered and nearly cracked under the pressure. The energy had evolved—this wasn't the same presence from earlier. It had grown far beyond that.
But still, he stepped forward. Step by step.
Slay it before it slays you, he thought. Isn't this what you wanted? A real fight? A dragon?
"I'm sorry, Naga," the beast murmured suddenly. "Your eyes… I can't feel them."
Light from the domain leaked in through a crack above, illuminating the dragon's face. Its blank eyes stared at nothing. Its wings were punctured with holes, and it lay in a dried pool of its own blood.
"Why so quiet…?" the dragon said again, his voice broken. "You must still be angry. Don't worry… It's okay now. I'll make things right."
Pasta froze. He could see it clearly now.
The dragon was blind.
The air shifted. The crushing presence… it vanished. Like a weight lifted from his chest. His shoulders relaxed for the first time since he appeared in the chamber.
He looked around. The signs were there—dead flowers in the corner, an empty bowl of food, a small stack of books. This was a creature waiting to die.
The dragon coughed. "I am deeply sorry for corrupting your eyes with this wretched sight… You must be tired. Have a seat."
Gone was the suffocating aura. The space around the dragon had transformed, no longer hostile, but serene. A bubble of quiet. A sanctuary.
The massive creature curled inwards, folding his ruined wings and crawling slightly to one side as if trying to get comfortable.
Pasta's stomach betrayed him with a loud grrrrrrrowl.
He clutched it immediately, cheeks flushing.
"I am… deeply sorry. I have no food here," the dragon said, shame in his voice.
"No, no! That's not what I—I wasn't—uh…" Pasta flailed his hands, then dropped them awkwardly. Why am I acting like this? Who even am I right now?
"She says you're a good boy," the dragon said suddenly, his tone… humorous? Well. He tried.
"Are you a good boy?"
"I-I'm g-good," Pasta stammered.
The dragon rested his chin on the stone. "She's quiet again…"
Pasta glanced at his sword, then at the dragon. "Did you know her?"
"Yes."
Pasta hesitated. Then sat cross-legged beside the creature. "Can you… tell me about her?"
The dragon growled again, though this time it sounded less like a threat and more like a chuckle.
"Why is she so quiet? Ask her yourself."
Pasta blinked. "You keep saying that. But—how am I supposed to ask a sword? Swords don't talk. You know that, right?"
The dragon tilted its head.
"…Sword?"
"Yeah. My sword, Naga. What's wrong with—?"
The dragon let out a roar so thunderous that the walls quaked. Pasta flew backwards, hitting the ground with a dull thud.
His aura coating shattered like glass and yet, somehow, his body remained unscathed.
Chunks of rock crumbled from the ceiling. The chamber shook with each echo of the roar.
Then… silence.
The dragon lay his head back down gently, whispering like a broken wind.
"I am sorry… Forgive me… Please… I beg you."
His blind eyes turned toward Pasta.
"May I… touch her?"
Pasta's fingers tightened around the sword. He hesitated… then stepped forward, presenting it—but only halfway.
"That's enough," the dragon murmured.
"Dragons don't cry," he whispered. "Our tears burn before they ever escape our eyes. I can't weep for you… only scream and hurt myself. My flame… my spirit… they have died out."
He exhaled. "I want to be with you… both of you."
Pasta's heart ached.
What had Naga meant to this dragon? What kind of bond had they shared?
His family had always spoken of Naga as a terror. A cursed serpent was slain by their great ancestor, who died from her poison. Her spirit sealed within this very blade, passed down from firstborn to firstborn like a badge of tragedy.
He reached forward and rested his forehead against the dragon's.
Everything went white.
His breath caught as flashes of another life rushed in. Visions. Memories lost to time and a connection that defied history.
#
The stars twinkled like scattered diamonds across a vast, cerulean sky. Multiple moons hovered silently above, casting pale silver light that painted the clouds in ghostly hues. The atmosphere felt ethereal, like a dream pulled from another world.
Pasta stood still, breath caught in his throat.
Before him was the dragon soaring across the heavens—whole, unscarred. Its wings stretched wide and majestic, no longer marred by blood or time. A little girl with long, dark hair sat cheerfully atop its back, her laughter brighter than the moons and stars combined.
Beside them, a massive white wolf with glowing blue and green stripes sprinted through the air, her paws gliding as though the wind itself carried her. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and joy, and she exchanged a knowing look with the dragon, their bond radiating warmth.
Pasta blinked. "What… is this?"
He was no longer in the sky, but in a vast, sun-drenched field where wildflowers swayed in a gentle breeze. The girl was older now, her youthful energy matured into grace. She reclined against the dragon's side, idly stroking the wolf's soft fur. A book lay open in her lap, her voice rising as she read aloud:
"The king slew them all, casting the land into famine and ruin. Blades and arrows danced like crows in the wind, and the sky wept crimson over the fallen as men gave out their last cries and curses. The wrath spread like wildfire, devouring all in its path. The End," she said with a little chuckle.
The dragon let out a deep, offended rumble. "What a wretched king and an awful ending. He deserves to rot in the deepest pits of the underworld."
The wolf raised a paw, her tone playful yet unsettling. "Oh, I don't know. I'd say a lighter punishment is in order. Something like… cutting his arms and legs, then tossing him into the underworld."
The girl burst out laughing, her hair catching the sunlight like ribbons of silk. "Yes, yes! That's quite fitting—"
She stopped as her gaze locked directly onto Pasta.
He stared back at her, perplexed. Wait. Can she see me?
Slowly, he raised a hand.
The girl smiled.
Suddenly, the field faded, replaced by a room where faint sunlight filtered through the windows, casting itself on the wrecked wooden floor. The air smelled faintly of herbs and glass. Pasta now stood in what looked like a laboratory as crowded shelves lined the walls, cluttered with flasks, vials, and bubbling glass cylinders glowing with vibrant, living colour.
"I did it, guys!" the girl shouted, triumph in her voice. She held a bubbling vial high above her head. Her face was alight with pride as she turned to a tall man in a flowing robe. His long, silver hair spilt like a river across the floor, shimmering in the low light. His name was Valdorith, the very dragon Pasta had encountered.
Another figure leaned over curiously. A petite girl with shoulder-length white hair and pointed ears. She wore a sleeveless, flower-patterned dress, far too short for the occasion, and her eyes glittered like starlight. The wolf? Pasta realized. She's not just a wolf—she's an elf?
"Oops, I forgot the sample!" the dark-haired girl chirped, handing the glass bottle to Valdorith. "Hold this."
Then she walked… straight toward Pasta.
He panicked. There was no room to move. Behind him was a wall, and in front, a table full of very delicate glassware. He yelped, quickly covering his mouth.
But she didn't stop.
She walked right through him.
"…Wha—?" Pasta murmured, glancing down at his hands. He was nearly transparent.
I'm inside the dragon's memory, he thought. This is the past, so... they can't see and touch me?
He turned back to her.
The girl picked up a small, sealed jar and poured the contents of the vial into it. At first, nothing happened.
Then, whoosh.
A cloud of luminous butterflies burst forth from the jar, their wings painted in radiant hues of blue, violet, and gold. They fluttered around the room, casting shimmering lights on every surface. The air sparkled with their glow.
Pasta stared, wide-eyed, reaching out instinctively toward one. It passed through his hand, leaving behind a soft glimmer and a hissing hole in the nearby table.
"Still brewing poisons, are we?" the dragon said, smiling proudly, even as one butterfly singed the edge of his robe. "You never cease to amaze me. I'm so proud of you."
Poison? Pasta thought, watching the creatures. Wherever they flew, they left trails of smoke and tiny, smouldering craters.
Aurelis, the elf raised a brow and smacked the dragon's side. "Proud? Aren't you supposed to be all-knowing? You of all beings should know that deadly butterflies won't scare villains. Try something with more oomph. Something monstrous. Something terrifying. And I know what'll fit the occasion"
Valdorith nodded thoughtfully. "Hmm. True. But this—this is already too beautiful. Any more, and we might create something too divine for this world to handle."
Pasta couldn't help but smile.
This wasn't just memory.
It felt like something way more than that like an everlasting warmth.
A time when Valdorith wasn't broken. A time when laughter still echoed instead of groans and cries.
And somewhere deep in his heart, a quiet ache bloomed.
What happened to them?
Pasta blinked and the world shifted again.
Now, he stood in the heart of a small village, its humble homes basked in warm sunlight. Children laughed in the distance. Birds chirped lazily atop rooftops.
His thoughts turned, linking the faces from before.
If the man is the dragon… and the lady is the wolf… then that girl must be—
"Naga," came a deep voice from ahead, "it's time we depart."
Valdorith stood tall near the edge of the village, a large sack slung over his shoulder, his dark hair flowing like a silken banner behind him.
Naga was older now, around Pasta's age. Her long black hair cascaded down her back, almost matching the dragon's in length. She smiled softly as she handed a piece of fruit to a weary mother and her daughter sitting by the village gate.
"Almost done here," she said gently.
Aurelis tugged Naga by the hood with a dramatic sigh. "Finally. Let's go already."
Naga waved the family a playful goodbye before turning with a wicked grin. "I swear, one day, I'll kill you a million times and feed your remains to the undead."
Aurelis blinked, visibly shaken, her eyes growing misty. "S-Shut up!" she snapped, sniffing. "Valdorith! She's scaring me again!"
The dragon sighed, walking past Pasta without so much as a glance.
"You're too attached to humans," Aurelis muttered, narrowing her eyes. "They're self-centred. Corrupt. Every last one."
"They are," Naga replied, nodding. "Greedy. Selfish. They betray, lie, exploit… But," she said, looking up at the sky with a soft smile, "some are kind. They care. They dream. They fall in love with life and with each other. They try, even when the odds are against them."
Valdorith chuckled. "Our terrifying Naga… praising humans? Now that's unsettling."
Naga turned, her smile transforming into a mischievous grin. "Unsettling, huh? Want me to show you something truly unsettling? I could inject you with my newest batch right now and see what monstrosity you'll become o king of dragons."
"I just don't like seeing people hurt, that's all," she added, quieter this time.
Valdorith placed a hand on his chest, feigning offence. "And what about me? I deserve a bit of sympathy, don't I?"
"Oh, please," Naga snorted. "I could hurt you all day—"
Before she could finish, her head collided with a low-hanging rock as Aurelis yanked her forward.
"Argh!"
Valdorith burst into laughter. "Karma for your wicked experiments, Naga."
Grumbling, Naga rubbed her head and crossed her arms. "Just wait till we get home…"
Pasta watched them from afar, a wistful smile tugging at his lips.
The sky suddenly turned crimson.
The ground quaked beneath his feet.
Soldiers surged past him, armour clanging and war cries tearing through the air like thunder.
"What?" Pasta gasped, spinning in place.
"We fight for our homeland!" one roared.
"For our children! For our lives! CHARGE!"
He turned toward the horizon. A field, once green, now drenched in red. Flames danced across the hills. Two armies clashed like waves colliding. Screams rang out, thick with pain and desperation.
Pasta reached for his sword but it wasn't there. Then a voice echoed across the battlefield.
"Above! Bring down the beast!"
He looked up.
Aurelis soared through the sky in her wolf form, dodging a storm of arrows. Her fur was bloodstained, her eyes wild with fury.
"What is this?" Pasta whispered, heart racing. "What's happening now?"
Then he heard it.
A scream.
It wasn't human but something ancient and powerful. Twisted with agony and rage. The ground split with the weight of it, and the sky rippled as if torn apart by sound alone.
Pasta froze. His body went numb.
That… energy. He knew it.
No. It couldn't be.
He ran past soldiers, explosions, and rivers of blood. He pushed through the storm, through the cries of dying men, a cloaked figure, and through the chaos of fire and steel.
The stench of death filled his lungs. The heat of war scorched his skin. He didn't know what compelled him to run, only that something deep inside was screaming.
Something horrible had happened, his heart about to burst out from he chest as he ran to the other end of the battlefield.