An eerie silence reigned in Ascalon's mind—a silence so dense it felt like it had weight, like fog pressing in from all sides. Then, a voice growled through the darkness, low and resentful.
"Why is this place so dark?" The deep rumble of the Crimson Dragon echoed, cutting through the void where the prince's consciousness lingered.
"Ahh… ahhh… it's always been like this," the prince replied, his voice light and casual, as if lounging inside the mind of a body he only half-occupied. "I mean, it's the inside of a soul, not a tea party."
A flicker of light. A flash of movement. Then—
"Prince? What's going on? Are you okay?" Ascalon's voice came in urgently from the waking world, his concern barely masked beneath his usual grit.
Before the prince could answer, the dragon snarled with a guttural breath and extended his will. A fiery surge erupted in the void—and suddenly the blackness split, peeled back, and reformed. Where there had been an endless shade of nothing, now bloomed a vast, open terrain—a breathtaking golden field with gentle wind bending the grass. Far off in the distance stood a line of crystalline mountains, their peaks glowing under a permanent amber twilight.
"Now this is… acceptable," the Crimson Dragon muttered, surveying the illusion he had just manifested with disdainful pride.
"Prince are you okay" ascalon shouts asking if Prince is okay.
"Stop shouting, you rodent. I am not going to harm anyone," the dragon snapped, his voice sharp enough to split thunder.
"Okay," Ascalon said flatly, unfazed.
"Ok," echoed the prince in mock agreement, like an afterthought from a kid being scolded for stealing sweets.
There was a beat of awkward silence. The grass rustled. The wind sang.
"So," Ascalon said, crossing his arms in the mental landscape like he was eyeing a particularly dusty bookshelf, "are you of any actual use to us? You know—like, do you have some insane passive abilities? Or are you just… a very dramatic soundboard?"
The dragon blinked. Once. Twice.
"HOW DARE you speak to me like that?!" The air cracked with his roar. "I may be dead, but I am the legendary Crimson Dragon—the Doom of the Infernal Peaks! The Scourge of the Sky! The—"
"Prince," Ascalon interrupted dryly, "can we, like, undo the passive card? Or maybe… eject him? I feel like we downloaded malware."
"What is malware" prince asks in confusion.
"YOU INSOLENT HUMAN!" The dragon thundered again, wings unfurling in an overly theatrical gust of ember and flame. "I will not be rejected like some common spell component!"
"Yeah, I hear you, Mr. Roaring Cloud of Ego," Ascalon shot back. "But here's the thing. I'm not even a little afraid of you."
The prince whistled low in amusement.
Ascalon stepped forward in the soulscape, his expression firm, posture relaxed—one hand on his hip like a school teacher scolding a misbehaving student. "Back then, when we fought, sure—I was driven by survival instinct. But now? You're just a voice in my head with attitude issues. If you want to live here, fine. But you'll do it quietly. And you won't mess with the prince."
The dragon's massive eyes narrowed, glowing like twin furnaces. "You dare command me?"
"No, I insist," Ascalon said, smirking. "Welcome to your new real estate: my soul. Rent's free. But act up again, and I will find a priest with a strong exorcism kink."
The dragon stood frozen, nostrils flaring, jaw twitching with indignation. The prince cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Sooo… anyone else feeling like this is the start of a very weird roommate situation?" he said, casually conjuring a deck chair out of sheer will and reclining in it.
The Crimson Dragon growled.
Ascalon simply smiled, now facing both inner voices—the prince, his ever-sarcastic guide, and the dragon, a once-terrifying beast now reduced to a disgruntled tenant of the mind.
"Good. Let's move forward," he said. "And maybe, just maybe, we'll find some way to use your 'legendary' powers without blowing up a continent."
The wind across the soulfield settled into a solemn breeze, brushing over the tall golden grass. The once-burning tension had cooled into something quieter—curiosity, unease, and questions left too long unanswered.
The Crimson Dragon stood tall beneath the amber twilight of the conjured landscape, his wings folded, his tail motionless. His gaze lowered to Ascalon and the prince, his expression thoughtful—calmer now, noble even, but edged with a new intensity.
"Your powers…" the dragon spoke, voice low and respectful, "they are too weak. As you are now, neither of you can bear the full weight of my strength."
Ascalon's brow furrowed. "Explain."
But the dragon didn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifted to the prince, the old soul watching the younger with quiet scrutiny. "Before that… tell me. What is your inner power?"
Ascalon blinked. "Prince?"
The prince turned slowly, avoiding Ascalon's eyes. His voice, usually so sharp and composed, carried an unfamiliar softness. "The thing is… I don't have one."
"What?" the dragon's voice rumbled, his tail twitching with surprise. "That cannot be. Every human—every living being—is born with inner power. Even the most fragile soul has it, even if dormant."
"But I don't," the prince snapped back, anger flickering through his voice—not directed at them, but at the memory. "At least… that's what they told me. Back then. Before I died."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Ascalon broke it, tone cautious. "Alright… then what is this inner power, exactly?"
The dragon inhaled deeply, as though drawing wisdom from ancient centuries before speaking. "It is the essence of life—what makes each creature unique. Separate from cards, inner power is the raw spiritual energy one is born with. It can grow, evolve… or be harvested. When a creature dies, their inner power crystalizes into a card, one that others can use. This is why slaying a beast—or a man—can yield such cards."
He looked to Ascalon with a somber gaze.
"Your pouch," the dragon continued, "is filled with such echoes. But the power you wield from birth—that is your true self."
Ascalon turned to the prince again. "So… you really had none?"
The prince gave a faint nod, his face grim. "Yeah. That's what they said. I was born without it. Weak. Incomplete. They called it 'Empty Blood.' A cursed title. The ministers whispered about it. Even the High Priest avoided me."
The shame in his voice was quiet, but it ran deep. Deeper than wounds of betrayal. Deeper than death itself.
Then something shifted.
The dragon's eyes narrowed, a sliver of realization dawning behind them. Could it be… that he holds that legendary power? And he doesn't know it? But does that power still function after death…?
The dragon hadn't spoken aloud. But Ascalon heard it.
He stiffened.
"Dragon," Ascalon said slowly, his tone turning serious, "I can hear your thoughts."
The dragon jolted—visibly, if only slightly.
"You… can?"
"Yes. Loud and clear." Ascalon stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "Now tell me. What is this power you're hiding from us?"
The prince raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two. "What power? What's going on?"
The dragon looked at Ascalon for a long moment, then let out a slow breath. His tone was no longer defensive. It carried weight—an old truth surfacing from the depths of forgotten legends.
"There is a power," he began carefully,
"spoken of only in whispers even among the ancient dragons. It is called… Origin Flame. It is not born into the world—it creates the world. A power that doesn't flow from blood, but from the void itself. Those who possess it are born with nothing. No inner power. Because they are the source."
Ascalon blinked. "You're saying… the prince…"
"I'm not certain," the dragon replied, "but if what you've said is true… if he was truly born without inner power, then it is not because he lacks it. It is because he holds the seed of Origin Flame. And such power… lies dormant until death—or rebirth."
The wind stirred again, sharper this time. The soulscape seemed to tremble, subtly, as if it too had heard something forbidden.
The prince took a step back, his voice barely a whisper. "I… I don't understand."
Ascalon stood in silence. But deep in his heart, something pulsed. Not fear. No doubt.
Hope.
Or perhaps… destiny.