Chapter 4: The Newborn Dragon.

How long have I been unconscious?

Perth’s thoughts were a complete muddle. His heavy eyelids felt glued shut with adhesive.

With great effort, he pried them open a sliver—only for piercing light to force them shut again. His brows furrowed tightly from the dull, throbbing ache that radiated from deep within every bone in his body.

At first, Perth only registered that he was confined in a warm, viscous, extremely cramped space. It felt profoundly uncomfortable.

But soon he realized this container was not a prison at all.

Instead, a gentle, nurturing power—warm and soft like the very origin of life—seeped in from every direction. It slowly but steadily permeated his aching muscles and faintly painful bones, smoothing away the tearing agony with patient persistence.

This strange comfort wrapped around him like a tender lullaby. His taut nerves involuntarily relaxed, and his consciousness slipped once more into darkness.

Yet the long slumber was not entirely peaceful.

Perth’s body seemed to have endured the cruelest tortures in the world. While his mind struggled within the void-like container, heart-piercing pain finally dragged him back to reality with brutal force.

First came a splitting headache.

Then an explosive agony erupted from deep within his spine—as though someone had forced a red-hot iron rod between his vertebrae and pried them apart.

At the base of his tailbone came a brand-new, panic-inducing sensation: swelling pressure and the distinct feeling of something foreign. It was as if something had already broken through the skin there, now intimately connected to every nerve ending, pulsing and throbbing faintly in time with his returning awareness.

His entire body felt as though it had been scorched in roaring flames, then plunged into ice water for quenching. Every inch of muscle, every bone had undergone complete disintegration and rebirth.

A massive wave of terror surged in Perth’s heart—he had no idea what monstrous form he might have become.

But now, after that endless torment, the discomfort in his body had finally settled into calm.

Having maintained a fetal curl for so long, his limbs were numb and stiff. Instinctively, he tried to stretch, to loosen his sore joints.

The very next instant—

Crack.

A faint yet crystal-clear sound of something fracturing rang right beside his ear.

Perth froze instantly. His muddled mind snapped awake.

He jerked his eyes open wide.

What met his gaze was not the familiar darkness or firelight, but a soft, hazy milky-white glow.

He seemed to be wrapped inside an enormous, warm cocoon of light. The sound just now had come from a thin crack that had appeared on the “wall” surrounding him.

Intense curiosity and the primal instinct for survival overpowered his fear of the unknown.

Perth drew a deep breath and pushed outward along the crack with force.

More fissures spread outward like a spiderweb.

“This is… where?”

Perth murmured softly to himself. After all the earlier screaming, his throat felt strangely delicate.

As he pried away a larger fragment and let it fall, the confining milky-white radiance was finally torn open.

A completely unfamiliar scene slowly unfolded before him.

It was a room steeped in deep, oppressive tones.

The walls were painted a rich, coagulated-blood crimson. Heavy black draperies cascaded to the floor.

Strangely, in the midst of this grim and murderous atmosphere, dragon statues of various kinds stood everywhere—on the walls, atop the desk, scattered across shelves.

Young flying dragons, some coiled, some with wings spread. Crafted from different materials: cold forged metal, even roughly carved raw wood. Each one carried an eerie yet exquisitely refined artistic flair.

Perth narrowed eyes that somehow felt sharper now, a huge wave of confusion rising in his heart.

The owner of this room harbored such a pathological obsession with juvenile dragons?

“Whose room is this?”

Perth muttered unconsciously.

“This is my bedchamber.”

A low, icy voice—magnetic and lazy—sounded without warning directly behind him.

It poured into his ear like it was pressed right against the shell, carrying invisible pressure beneath its casual tone.

Perth’s heart clenched violently.

Still in the posture of having just broken free, he sat rigid in place.

The next instant, pure instinct took over.

He snatched up the largest, sharpest fragment of eggshell within reach and clutched it tightly in front of himself like a weapon.

With eyes full of wariness and panic, he whipped around—pointing the jagged shard directly at the black-haired demon Restel, who was currently regarding him with the appreciative gaze one might give a fine work of art.

“Hahahaha…”

Restel burst into deep, delighted laughter, as though he had just witnessed the most hilarious scene in the world.

His long, elegant fingers rose gracefully to cover the corner of his mouth. Those dark crimson eyes sparkled with unconcealed amusement as his gaze lingered on the thin fragment of eggshell in the silver-haired little dragon’s hand—still faintly glowing with milky-white light.

“What’s this?” His voice dripped with thick mockery. “Planning to give me a little scratch with your own eggshell? Quite the unique greeting gift.”

“My… eggshell?”

Perth frowned and repeated the words instinctively.

His eyes followed Restel’s teasing gaze—finally landing on the “weapon” he gripped so tightly.

One look, and overwhelming horror crashed over him like a bucket of ice water.

What he saw was not the familiar, callused, clearly jointed hands of an adult man.

Instead, a pair of small, fair, delicate little hands—skin fine as newborn petals, knuckles rounded and adorable, nails a healthy soft pink.

Clearly the hands of a young child.

“Eh?!”

A short, involuntary cry of shock burst from his throat.

The voice was clear, childish, even carrying a milky sweetness—completely lacking any trace of his former deep, powerful timbre.

Perth jerked his head down to examine himself.

Cascading over narrow, fragile shoulders was long silver hair that flowed like moonlight—made to look even thicker and longer by the suddenly shrunken proportions of his body.

Broad, sturdy shoulders had become thin and delicate. Collarbones stood out pitifully sharp.

A flat chest. A slender waist typical of an undeveloped child.

Even the steady, adult anger that once burned deep in his core now felt diluted inside this fragile shell—reduced to something closer to a child’s sulky grievance and stubbornness.

“Where are my clothes?!”

Shame crashed over him belatedly, flooding every inch of his being.

In a panic, he pressed the sharp eggshell fragment tighter against himself, curling his small body in an attempt to cover more of the skin exposed to the air.

His little face flushed crimson. Silver eyes blazed with humiliated fury as he glared death at Restel.

His voice trembled from sheer rage and the unnatural childish pitch:

“You bastard! Give me my clothes back!”

“Oh? Clothes?”

Restel raised an eyebrow, as though only just remembering such a trivial detail.

He thought for a moment, then answered with perfect calm:

“They were probably treated as snacks and chewed up by those enthusiastic little darlings in the water. They have rather poor taste in fabrics.”

The casual, offhand reply ignited Perth’s fury completely.

She gathered every ounce of strength and roared—trying to vent the anger and humiliation that threatened to tear her apart.

“Give me my original body back—!!!”

Yet the cry that emerged was soft and milky, the voice of a fledgling bird just learning to chirp.

Far from intimidating, it echoed pitifully and cutely through the vast stone chamber.

To anyone listening… it sounded almost like… whining?