The Dragon Heir (A Monster Evolution LitRPG)

Heralas paused the flow of magic, a scowl darkening his face. "Bloody hell," he muttered, snapping at himself before forcing the mana back into the circle. His shift was nearly over, after all—no time for cock-ups now. Both hands were firmly pressed against the runes etched into the wall, each one glowing an obnoxious red as he funneled his mana into the runes.

Something was definitely off. By now, the ritual should've been wrapped up. The resistance he'd felt when he first started this nonsense was supposed to have melted away ages ago. The Flower of Sauren should've been summoned by now, greedily sucking up the mana from the remote arrays to establish itself in the dungeon.

But instead, it felt like he was pouring his mana into a bloody black hole. No signal to stop, no bloody nothing.

His core was getting dangerously low—something that made his skin crawl. Bollocks, this was not his idea of a good time. But Triton would be on shift soon, and Heralas could hand off this mess and report the anomaly to the lord.

Stepping back for a moment, he shook out his hands, the fatigue of holding them in place too bloody long starting to set in. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he placed them back on the damn glowing runes.

"Fucking hell, Arion, you useless sack of shite! If you're doing this just to piss me off, I swear by Selene's withered tits, I'll—" he caught himself, cursing his own rage for making him blaspheme.

Damn it all to the pit! Where the hell was Triton? Heralas was nearly drained dry of mana, and soon, he was completely tapped out. His legs wobbled, and he cursed under his breath, grabbing onto a nearby pillar to steady himself. Staggering out of the chamber, his vision started to blacken at the edges. Ha, he should've kept some mana in reserve. Maybe pushing himself was a terrible idea.

The thought crossed his mind—perhaps the ritual was completed. Maybe the Flower of Sauren had taken root, and it was just Arion being a spiteful prick, cutting the connection to make Heralas suffer.

After all, Heralas had been the one to recommend that lazy sod as the perfect candidate to oversee the ritual, just to keep himself out of it. He'd even fibbed about his knowledge of Flora Ritual Arts, just to avoid getting roped in.

So, it made perfect sense that Arion would take his petty revenge by severing the connection once the Flower was anchored, letting Heralas's precious mana drain into thin air.

Or maybe, just maybe, Heralas was entirely wrong about the whole damn thing.

Wading through the corridor, he eventually reached a door and slammed his fists into it with what little strength he had left. "Triton! It's your bloody turn, you daft prick! Get your arse in here, now!"

There was a bit of shuffling behind the door, and when it didn't open within ten seconds, Heralas' patience snapped like a twig.

"What in the blithering fuck are you doing in there? The bloody array's dormant! You should've been down there ages ago, ready and raring to go!"

The shuffling quickened—just a tad—before the door was flung open. Out stumbled another mage, hair a chaotic mess of blonde, his angular jaw set with a pair of ruby-red eyes and pointy ears just like Heralas'. The lad was a good deal younger, shirtless, and draped in a blanket that looked like it had been snatched from a bed mid-slumber. His hair was in such a state that even a blind sod could tell he'd been having a kip.

"What do you mean, 'Already'? Wasn't your shift four hours ago?" he yawned, as if Heralas had just disturbed his beauty sleep. "Can't believe you didn't last that long."

Heralas' long elven ears flushed crimson, twitching with the barely contained fury bubbling beneath his skin. He let it show, not bothering to hide the temper that was rising like a storm.

"You do realize, you brainless twat, that we've got to crank up the output once the resistance dies down! Not all of us are blessed with a mana core as massive as yours! Just—" Heralas rubbed his eyes, his frustration seeping out. "Don't argue with me, just shut your gob and get your arse in gear."

"But—"

"I said SHUT THE FUCK UP and get to work!" Heralas knew exactly what was coming—a complaint about not having fully topped up his mana reserves. But four hours was more than enough, and this lazy sod recharged faster than anyone else. Selene had blessed him, after all—there was no way Heralas could compete with that sort of divine favoritism.

"Just give me a sec," Triton muttered, slamming the door shut, leaving Heralas to fume in the corridor. No doubt he was getting dressed, probably faffing about with his robes. Heralas seethed, his anger simmering as he waited for what felt like an eternity.

When the mage finally reappeared, he was the picture of elven nobility—white robes perfectly pressed, even the wild hair tamed and combed back. Heralas' ears twitched again, his rage rekindling.

"You made me wait just to comb your sodding hair?" he asked in a low, dangerous whisper.

"Hah! Of course you'd think that, brother. But we're here to serve Goddess Selene, aren't we? Lord Styn Lor himself might be watching, and you'd have me go in looking like I crawled out of a troll's arse?"

With that, the younger mage bowed with all the exaggerated pomp of a bloody peacock, strutting down the corridor like he owned the damn place. Heralas, left simmering in his own stew of rage, swallowed his pride along with a bitter dose of loathing. What else could the he do?

He trudged in the opposite direction, though it was more of a stagger than a stride. In the past 24 hours, his mana had been bled dry not once, but twice. Having one's core sucked dry once was already a kick in the teeth, but twice in one day? That was just taking the piss.

But rest? Oh, that was a distant dream. He had to report the anomaly to the lord first, then maybe, just maybe, he could collapse in a heap and call it a night.

As much as he wanted to curse Arion up one side and down the other for his current misery, he knew better. That bastard didn't mess around with this sort of thing. If the Flower of Sauren had already taken root in the dungeon, it'd need a bloody truckload of purified mana from outside to establish itself properly. But the whole thing was off—the sigils were supposed to be draining his mana like a starving leech, not leaving him to spoon-feed a gaping void.

Night was creeping in, and the mana lamps flickered dimly along the corridor walls. Heralas' palms were clammy as he descended the stairs. He was knackered, both body and soul, but he braced himself. He couldn't afford to show weakness, not in front of him.

Deep breaths, he told himself. Deep bloody breaths.

Before long, he stood before an ornate gate, a piece of art that would've made any lesser man shit himself. Seven serpentine figures, each with ruby-colored crystals for eyes, coiled against the background of a blood-red moon, their gazes fixed on Heralas.

Most would chalk it up to an artist's fever dream, but Heralas knew better. He'd been there when these beastly things had devoured a poor sod of a guard who dared lay a finger on this gate without permission.

Taking a shaky breath, he rapped gently three times on the middle serpent's head.

"Enter," came a soft voice from within.

The middle serpent's ruby eyes gleamed as it curled, forming a handle for Heralas to grip. He grabbed it and shoved the bloody heavy door open, struggling every inch of the way.

Of course, the miserable bastard inside could have opened it with a mere thought, not so much as lifting a lazy eyelid. But, of course, He wanted to see him suffer, knew damn well that Heralas was on his last legs, mana all but gone. Not even a drop left to muster a piddly Force Spell. And everyone knew that those who followed a pure magical path didn't exactly bulk up physically.

But if the sadistic git inside thought he was going to get his jollies watching him struggle, he had another thing coming. Not today, you bastard. Not today.

With every ounce of dignity he had left, Heralas forced his face into a mask of calm as he finally pried the door open and shut it behind him, ever so gently. No point giving the bastard the satisfaction.

"Lord Cerith," he said, voice as steady as he could manage, "I'm here to report an anomaly I detected earlier during my shift."

The chamber was nothing short of obscene in its lavishness. Every bloody thing reeked of wealth—the kind that would make even a someone as rich as Heralas himself feel like a beggar.

The furnishings were practically pulsing with Nature mana, courtesy of the Eldwood they were carved from. The ornaments—golden filigree, crystal vials filled with goddess-knows-what, and artifacts that hummed with powerful mana.

Massive mana cores, the kind one would only find by diving deep into dungeons, lined the shelves like trophies. Even the rug beneath Heralas' feet glittered with gem dust from magma crystals, it was all a ridiculous display of opulence if ever there was one.

And yet, behind that opulent desk sat a man who looked almost comically ordinary by comparison. Sure, he was handsome enough, but there was no flair, no bloody accessories—just a plain white shirt, neatly combed blonde hair, short and sensible. Bland as porridge, really. Not that Heralas would ever let those thoughts slip past his lips; he wasn't suicidal, after all.

The man was young, even by Elven standards. Barely thirty, with a youthful face marred only by a slight stubble. His pointy ears were pierced, but even they were bare, lacking the usual ostentatious adornments.

He crept up to the desk, every step a calculated effort to not trip over his own bloody nerves. When he finally bowed, it was with all the grace of a man trying not to shit himself. Bent double at the waist, hands splayed like a plucked turkey, he waited. And waited.

The man behind the desk just kept scribbling away, the pen scratching like a rat gnawing through the silence, while the rug beneath his feet let out a faint, firey cackle.

Not a peep from him, of course. Just more of that infuriating scribble-scratch, as if Heralas wasn't bent over like a bloody fool right there. Each second felt like a personal attack, the slow simmer of rage building in his gut. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he gritted his teeth.

Losing his temper now would be a disaster – exactly the sort of entertainment this sadistic bastard would enjoy.

"Rise." The word finally slithered out, as if it was a monumental effort for him to spare even that.

Heralas straightened up, inch by painful inch, and found those frigid crimson eyes boring into him.

He'd seen them before, but they never failed to send a jolt of pure, icy dread down his spine. It was like staring into the abyss and realizing it was staring back with the intent to make you its plaything. And why wouldn't it? This man wasn't just any mortal; he was one of the direct descendants of Goddess Selene, like all the ancient Elven nobility.

Slowly he set his pen down, carefully tidied the papers on his desk, and then, with infuriating calm, placed his hands flat on the table. "What is this anomaly you are talking on about?"

Heralas swallowed hard and nodded.

"As per your instructions, we made the necessary adjustments to the spell array and commenced the infusion of additional mana. The resistance dissipated sooner than anticipated, but we deemed it inconsequential at the time. Consequently, our mana reserves depleted more rapidly than expected. Yet, despite all this time, no signal has been received from the dungeon base to cease operations. I believe—" He faltered, knowing full well that suggesting something might be amiss was like waving a red flag at a bull. "I believe it would be prudent to conduct an investigation, to ensure that all is proceeding as it should."

The silence that followed was rather heavy. Those crimson eyes were still locked on him, and he felt a trickle of sweat snake its way down his spine. Summoning what little courage he had left, he firmed his tone. "However, if we are to continue, I recommend assigning more mages to the task, so we can effectively recharge our mana while having proper rest—" Oh bollocks, he'd screwed up! "Proper Rest!" What the bloody hell was he thinking, mentioning that?

But the man's face remained a mask of stone. Not a single twitch, not even a flicker of emotion as those crimson eyes continued to bore into Heralas like a hot poker.

"Well, what a surprise," came the reply.

Wait, what? Did he hear that right? This pompous, sadistic arse actually agreeing with him? Not a bloody chance.

"Indeed, some adjustments may be warranted. It is the will of the divine, after all; we are but mere instruments in Their grand design. We cannot afford to idle about with matters of such import at hand."

"R-right, of course." Heralas smiled. Did the bastard just agree with him for the first time without lobbing an insult at his family tree? Miracles do happen.

"Yet, I do wonder..." Cerith continued, his tone shifting ever so slightly. "Should word of this reach the ears of the aristocracy, it might suffice to cast doubt upon the competence of your esteemed order. Dungeons are the scourge of our world, and the Goddess is resolute in her determination to eradicate them. At such a crucial juncture, are you truly capable of being the instrument of Her will?"

Oh, bollocks. Heralas might have been a bit too quick on the draw there. But now, a hot surge of anger simmered in his gut.

"Are you questioning my devotion?" Heralas snarled.

Lord Cerith eyed him like one might a particularly dull-witted insect.

"Devotion is disseminated through the Elven Queen and those born of the Palace, as She speaks through them. As it has always been."

Heralas quickly bowed his head, cursing himself a thousand times over. "My apologies, Lord Cerith. It is as you say."

Internally, he berated his own loose tongue. How close to getting his head lopped off did he want to get today?

"I trust you are aware that these particular rituals are of significant interest to us. I shall be assigning three additional mages to your group, Arcanist Heralas. Furthermore, if you are certain there has been an anomaly in the process, inform Arbiter Enlor and conduct an investigation into the portals established at the Thellan Ruins."

Of course, he'd be the one running around like a dog with a bone, delivering messages like a bleedin' errand boy. But he held his tongue, didn't he? Not a peep. Why? Because more mages meant more rest, and after this whole dog-and-pony show, he'd finally get to bloody sleep.

"Thank you, Lord Cerith. I shall promptly inform Arbiter Enlor of your orders and return to my duties," he said, though by duties, he obviously meant diving headfirst into a blissful coma.

But Lord Cerith's face was about as expressive as a stone gargoyle—until, miraculously, his lips curled into what could almost be mistaken for a smile. And just when Heralas thought he might've earned himself a pat on the head, the corners of Cerith's mouth twitched.

"Whoever said anything about returning to your duties?"

Huh?

"You are the one who has knowledge of this anomaly, are you not? So, do be quick about it, Arcanist Heralas. You shall be the one to investigate it."