Hiro felt his hand fizzle with power as the whiteness faded, his vision returning.
The once-familiar fur bristled, shifting into interlocking plates of dark crimson scales. A low growl released from his Bear Claw’s throat—instinctive, primal—like a creature waking from a deep slumber. Flickers of heat shimmered around its body, the air distorting as it exhaled a puff of steam like it was savoring its transformation.
“Whoa,” Hiro said as he scanned the description that followed.
Roulette Skill: {Dragon’s Fury}
Rank: A
Description: When author Han Azzcok downplayed the tragic suicide of a young dragonkin as dragons will be dragons, and her classmates, who teased her for her unique cultural heritage as dragonkins just say the darndest things, the consensus was that this level of soulless depravity would get Azzcok canceled.
Anyone with the semblance of a heart would look at a situation like this and think, you know, maybe dragonkins under the age of ten shouldn’t be committing suicide from peer pressure; maybe mental health tied to a dragon’s cultural identity carries pressures that need further understanding; maybe, just maybe, we still have work to do when it comes to recognizing the struggles modern-day dragonkin face, even if they differ from the ones we once knew.
But that’s not how shit works.
The nastier, the stupider, the meaner, the better. That’s the blueprint. The sooner you figure that out, Survivor, the sooner you leave your mark on this godforsaken world.
What else can I say? The dragons adored Azzcok—his gritty, male-driven fantasy harem thrillers, his pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps attitude, his exceedingly endless wealth, how he constantly thumbed his nose at authority (but only at the authority he didn’t agree with politically).
Assertive, controlling, paranoid, afraid of his neighbors, depressed, armed to the teeth, able to say whatever he wanted and sieg heil until his wings ached—Azzcok had it all: the followers, the sales, the dragon booty, and the most importantly, the notoriety.
Yet he still wasn’t happy. Six wives, thirteen mistresses, two dozen kids, four homes, a private jet, two yachts, three helicopters, and Azzcok still wanted more.
Bored and desperately needing more attention, Azzcok transitioned into the motivational speaking circuit, delivering a message of divine poverty and chastity through phrases like ‘staying poor is the new getting rich,’ or ‘abstinence builds character, indulgence breeds weakness.’
His fellow dragons ate it up.
They attended his seminars, bought his self-help tomes, and poured over Azzcok’s fantasy harem thrillers hoping for hidden quotes on how to be better alphas. Memes, podcasts, news entertainment, and fanfiction followed.
Yet as his notoriety and wealth grew, so did Azzcok’s private despair.
After multiple sexual assault allegations surfaced, some homosexual in nature, Azzcok did what any dragon of his wealth and influence would do—he ran for office and won.
The entire populations of Narnia and Westeros cast their votes for him, alongside a solid majority from Middle-Earth and Azeroth.
And it was only after taking his oath, after surrounding himself with a cabinet of celebrity dragons even more deranged than himself, that Azzcok finally learned of the secret weapon known as Dragon’s Fury.
You already have a Bear Claw, Survivor, so you are more than primed to add the power of a dragon to it.
Yes, in case you weren’t paying attention, that means you can now breathe fire out of the palm of your hand. And no, this description had absolutely nothing to do with humanity or the kinds of people that continue to plague your species.
Stolen novel; please report.
It was all about dragons.
Rather than pick through the Doom System’s epic rant, Hiro shifted his focus to his scaled Bear Claw, curiosity burning in his mind.
I have to test it.
He thrust his hand forward, and the bear-dragon head grew in size, its form expanding over his knuckles with raw energy. A massive plume of white fire erupted from its maw, cascading across the earth in a brilliant wave. The flames scorched everything in their wake, yet just as quickly as they appeared, they dissipated into nothing, leaving behind no ash, no ruin—only the echo of their intensity.
“Easy there, firestarter,” Bianca said as she scooted along, her shield form shifting slightly. “And yes, I should be better than that at quips by now, but as you can see… the samurai-dude fucked me up.”
Hiro turned to her, the residual warmth from his transformed claw still tingling in his fingers. “You took a beating.”
Bianca scoffed. “Trying to save your ass.”
“I appreciate it. I always do.” He approached the shield after gathering her severed tentacles.
“My Hiro,” she said, teasing as always, though there was a flicker of exhaustion in her voice.
He set the tentacles near her, glancing at the damage she’d taken. “Just hold still. This won’t take long.”
Hiro pulled out a Healing cartridge, slid it into his vape pen, and took a long drag. As he exhaled a cloud or iridescent smoke. The healing magic settled, and the tentacles reattached themselves to the shield, shrinking instantly until they were no longer visible.
“Whew. That’s better.” Bianca flipped herself up and extended her tendrils, flexing them. “Thanks!” She proceeded to raise the roof and do a little shimmy as Hiro turned to the scattered remains of Hachi, who had been cleaved apart.
Hiro picked up a chunk of the Shiba Inu’s flesh and placed it on the ground. He watched as Hachi’s flesh twisted and knitted itself back together. A moment later and the dog shook himself off like he’d simply woken from a nap. His eyes locked onto Hiro’s, tail wagging slightly before settling, the Hachi resuming its cold demeanor.
Hiro let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding when his phone buzzed.
He drew it, expecting a message from his Companion. Instead, he was greeted by a screen that simply read Samuel.
“Mate, can you hear me?” came the Australian’s voice
“Yes!” Hiro experienced a strange sense of joy that came with recognizing the voice of someone familiar.
“Right, good. I just got access to the walkie-talkie thing. I didn’t know about it up until now. Another Survivor put me onto it. A bloke named Mike.”
“Big Mike?” Hiro asked, recalling the Survivor he had met along with another man outside of the Doom Sample Sale in which Hiro had been challenged with fighting Monica.
“That’s the one.”
“Was he alone?”
“He was.”
A frown formed on Hiro’s face. He recalled Big Mike being partnered up with another man. “What about Valeria? How’s she?”
“Val. Yeah, no. Not looking so great for our girl.”
“What do you mean?”
“What happened in the First Interim broke her, mate. She’s working toward every loophole she can this time around. I’m afraid we had to part ways.”
“That’s not good.”
“Yeah, no, no it isn’t.”
“What kind of Loophole are we talking about here?”
“She has some title that continually increases her Soul Cash by numbers that I haven’t seen since my trading days. I’m talking millions in Soul Cash, more by now.”
“Million? Whoa…”
“She has used that money to do a variety of things, from improving her Stats to hiring bodyguards. There’s a problem, though. For the number to keep increasing, though, she has to kill other Survivors. Now that Rena isn’t here, well, she has nothing to lose. That’s what I’m saying. Fucking tragic, mate.”
Biana reached a tentacle toward Hiro’s waist and grabbed the scanner gun. She aimed it into the trees and zapped a barcode baby. “Got you, fucker!”
Hiro ignored the prompts that followed as he spoke to Samuel again: “Where are you right now?”
“Near Times Square. That’s where I got the phone upgrade.”
“Can you meet me and another Survivor named Ben at the Guggenheim?”
“Heh. I always have time for a quick visit to the museum with the mates. Joking. No, yeah, I’ll be there. Won’t take me too long.”
“Good, see you there.”
“And one other thing, mate.”
“What’s up?”
“Val still blames you for what happened to Rena. So be careful out there, wherever you are.”
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