When Sky Ling's eyes opened, the first thing he saw was the wooden ceiling of a room he knew too well—the physician's house of the clan family. He had frequently visited this place as a patient in the times when he was either injured by the other princes or beaten in duels. But what was most important was that he was home, safe and alive.
But how was a question that bothered him.
He turned his head slowly toward the window. It was ajar, letting in the scent of crushed herbs from the medicinal garden outside. The light of morning poured in—soft and golden, far removed from the terror that haunted his memory.
Ling sat up, sluggishly. His hand emerged from beneath the white blanket, reaching for his face. To his surprise there were no bruises. No blood. He at least expected his jaw to ache, or his ribs to protest—but he felt whole.
"What happened to me last night?" he muttered under his breath.
It came to him in fragments: the ambush, the fists raining down on him, the dark figures in black cloaks… and then something strange. Just as death crept close, something else had stirred. A figure cloaked in light. A voice that resonated deep within him as he tried to recall it as best as he could.
He shook his head. "I must be going mad, there's no way that was real."
His black hair fell into his eyes as he pushed himself upright. By all rights, he should have been bedridden for weeks. Yet here he was, unscathed.
"This is… incredible." He said to himself as his body felt much lighter than it had ever been.
"What's incredible, Fifth Prince?"
The sudden voice made him jump. A wrinkled face leaned into view—weathered, lined, but stern. Chief Physician Mink made his entrance, not caring one bit about privacy or personal space.
Ling flinched, startled, and pulled away—his head knocking lightly against the wall. A dull ache followed.
Mink scowled. "You should be ashamed. Drunk in the woods, again? I know you've grown tired of your pathetic life, but must you always drag the Sky name into disgrace?"
Ling stared at the man. Mink's beard was thick and long, robes far too large, sleeves folding over his hands. A walking relic of the clan's traditions.
"I wasn't drunk," Ling said. "I was ambushed. I nearly died out there."
Mink raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "If you were ambushed, there would be wounds. Bruises. Blood. But there's nothing on you."
"I'm telling you, they beat me—" Ling tried to argue.
Mink interrupted him. "Are you calling me blind boy, I might not be in my flower days but I am sharper than ever before."
Ling tried to make his point. "You don't understand—"
"A traveler found you passed out in the woods," Mink interrupted. "You've been asleep here for a full day. I tried every method to wake you, but you slept like a pig. I feared your soul had fled this world."
Ling's breath caught. "That… can't be. I was—"
Mink waved a dismissive hand. "Spare me the theatrics. When you're ready to show your face again, I suggest you apologize to the family. Though frankly, I doubt your return will be welcomed."
With that, he turned and strode out.
Ling sat in silence, tension still laced in his limbs. He trusted Mink. The old man wasn't one to lie. But there was no explanation for what he felt—or didn't feel. No pain. No weakness.
And then, something shimmered into existence inches before his face.
[Recovery Complete]
A translucent screen, floating in the air above him. Words etched in blue light. Ling's breath hitched.
"Sir Mink…" he called softly, eyes wide. "Do you see this?"
There was no answer. The old physicians footsteps faded beyond the door.
Ling stared at the screen, heart thundering. It wasn't just his imagination, it felt connected to him.
Then, there was a shift in the air. A red mist coiled into shape, and a wingless dragon—serpentine and ethereal—emerged from the nothingness. It glided silently through the air, its form flickering faintly like a candle in the wind.
Ling's body froze, cold dread sliding down his spine. His instincts screamed, and he tried to back away, pressing against the wall. The creature hovered, watching.
"What sorcery is this?" he whispered.
The dragon raised a claw to its mouth in a hush gesture.
Then, it spoke.
"Forgive the intrusion. But I am no product of sorcery," it said calmly. "I am a construct of science."
Ling blinked. The voice was neither beastly nor human. It echoed with metallic clarity, calm and matter-of-fact.
"Science?" he asked, reaching blindly beside his bed for anything to defend himself. "Is that… some kind of martial art?"
The dragon gave a dry, rumbling chuckle. "Hardly. In your terms… science is what you would call sorcery—with rules and logic."
That only made Ling more confused. His fingers found nothing near him. In a moment of panic, he lashed out with a fist. It passed clean through the dragon's head, leaving only a trail of harmless red light.
"Black magic," he hissed, teeth clenched.
The dragon narrowed its eyes. "How rude. I saved your life and this is how you repay me, with hostility?"
Ling hesitated. "…You're the one who healed me?"
The dragon inclined its head, coils shimmering with data-light. "In a manner of speaking. The process required precise recalibration of your internal systems. You were broken so I repaired you."
Ling swallowed. "Systems? Repaired? What are you?"
The dragon's expression shifted—a curl of satisfaction on its translucent lips. "You are not ready to know fully. But I will start at the beginning, where all beginnings lead. Tell me, what do you understand about Chi?"
Ling's eyes narrowed. He'd never cultivated Chi himself, but even children knew the answer to such a simple question. Still, something about this moment made him hesitate.
"It's the universal energy," he said slowly. "The force that flows through all living things."
The dragon laughed.
Not mockingly, but deeply, with a strange delight that unsettled him. The laugh echoed around the room, too loud for something so spectral. After a moment, it calmed.
And then the dragon said something that would change everything he knew of the world.