Disbelief

Steven stood at the fork, his golden night vision cutting through the cave’s gloom. The long hallway to the left stretched into shadow, its pull undeniable. He hefted his bag—three slots brimming with loot—and pressed on, boots crunching shale as the tunnel sloped deeper. The air thickened, a musky tang sharpening with each step, until the passage dead-ended in a cavernous chamber. Inside, dozens of leathery eggs lined the walls, glistening faintly, but at the center loomed a beast—a larger wyrmling, no juvenile. Twice the size of the first, its scales shimmered a darker green-black, spines thicker, eyes blazing with predatory malice. A flicker of worry tightened Steven’s chest, but he steeled himself, igniting Saiyan Fury—golden flames erupted, cloaking him head to toe.

The fight exploded. The wyrmling roared, lunging with claws outstretched—Steven dodged, but its tail whipped, slamming his chest with bone-crushing ****. Pain flared, ribs creaking, and he stumbled, casting Holy Magic. Golden light flowed faster than before, his skill honed—bruises faded, breath returning. He surged back, a fury of punches hammering its flank—scales cracked under radiant fists. A roundhouse Feet of Holy Fury smashed its ribs, drawing a pained bellow. It retaliated, claws raking his arm—deep gashes wept blood, venom stinging. He cast heal again, slower this time, the magic faltering as his focus waned.

The creature snarled, circling—Steven went berserk. He darted around it, a blur of kicks and punches—golden fire trailing each blow—pummeling its hide, cracking spines. It lunged, maw gaping, fangs aimed to rend—Steven met it with a **** uppercut, his blazing fist breaking through its upper palate, piercing its brain with a wet crunch. As it slumped, a dying tooth gouged his shoulder, blood gushing. Before its weight dragged him down, it shimmered and vanished, leaving 10 Small Dragon Scales—glimmering, iridescent—in its place. “Holy shit, that was a fucking small dragon? Fuck me…” he rasped, slumping to the stone, lightheaded from blood loss. Focusing his last scraps of magic, he stemmed the shoulder wound, the bleeding slowing to a trickle.

Wincing, he staggered out, the cave’s cleared path a small mercy. His bag—now four slots full with scales added—bumped his hip as he limped back toward town. Shockingly, luck struck near the cliffs—a tabby cat perched on a shop canopy, meowing defiantly, its collar glinting. “There you are,” he muttered. “Why don’t you come down so I can take you home?” The cat hissed, contesting. Steven smirked, casting Mind-Dominion—“Come with me so I can take you home.” Its eyes flashed, and it leapt onto his good shoulder, perching obediently.

He shuffled into the guild, blood-soaked and torn, the cat purring smugly. Guild members gasped; Torin Vaxblade, the guild master, mid-chat with a robed figure, spotted him. “Holy shit, did the cat do that?” he joked, eyeing the shoulder gouge and crimson stains. Steven grunted, voice rough but smug. “Um, apparently I killed a small dragon. Good times.” Torin’s brows shot up. “Get me Melissa—now!” he barked. The desk clerk bolted, and moments later, Melissa dashed in, her ill-fitting clothes straining as she cast a heal. Her magic—polished by 62 years—closed his wounds swiftly, flesh knitting under golden light. “Babe, what did you do?” she asked, wide-eyed. Torin shot Steven a look but held his tongue.

Travis, lurking nearby, sneered. “Don’t lie, fucker—no fish bait like you’s got dragon stories.” Steven, unfazed, pulled his ID card out that tracked every kill. The Guild leader plugged it into the machine.

“35 bats, 42 basic crabs, 4 king crabs, 1 wyrmling, 1 young dragon. Legit,” Torin said, grinning wide. “You’ve got balls, kid.”

Melissa stepped back, her new curves testing her seams, eyes still saucer-wide. Torin clapped Steven’s good shoulder. “Quest’s 3 silver, but that dragon’s a hell of a kill—saves us trouble on cave runs. 1 gold oughta do it.” Steven coughed, stunned. “One gold? Serious?” “Deadly serious,” Torin replied. Sophy sashayed in, her hips swaying, bearing a platter—1 gold coin, 3 silver. Steven pocketed it, his 36 copper now dwarfed by 1 gold, 3 silver—a fortune at his fingertips.