It wasn’t a surprise to the peers, mentors, or underlings of Verita Auctoriotas when he announced that after graduating he’d be pursuing the path of science. It was only natural that someone intelligent who sought knowledge in every corner of life would spend the rest of his days searching and researching for understanding and truth… Or at least, that's the conclusion the others reached in slightly less elegant words with “nerd”, “know it all”, “bookworm,” and other terms of endearment staining their tongues.
In reality, they had no idea how much the paths of a warrior and a scientist overlapped.
In both, there is a disturbing amount of hubris.
Every Dragonic Archetype is a reflection of the soul within. Obviously, with how varied individuals are, it makes sense that their souls are equally diverse, and thus categorization becomes difficult, if not impossible. It’s probably because the task is so difficult that the professor has spent far too much time attempting to defy nature's chaos and place its products into neat little baskets. Much like warriors, scientists love a challenge, if anything.
At present, he’s landed on three categories within which Draconic Archetypes can fall: Elemental, Material and Abstract Archetypes.
The simplest of the three are the “Elemental Archetypes”. Originally, these were grouped with “Material Archetypes” under the umbrella of “Natural Archetypes”, though over time, as more archetypes were… archetyped, it became clear that it both cast a net far too wide and excluded some more niche abilities. Eventually, the brothers and their assistants decided on splitting the category of “Natural” into “Elemental” and “Material”. In the words of the professor’s brother, Sole Auctoriotas, the term “Elemental” is used as an “umbrella to refer to the naturally occurring phenomena of the world” and thus “Elemental Archetypes allow for the creation and manipulation of naturally occurring phenomena, known as ‘Elements’”. When thinking of examples, the obvious come to mind: wind, water, thunder, stone, etc.
Because “Elemental Archetypes” are so simple to define and you can tell by a glance whether an archetype is elemental or not, any archetype that doesn’t fit into this is loosely thrown into the other two categories, “Material” and “Abstract”. “Material Archetypes” are those that allow for the generation of matter. “Abstract Archetypes” are those that allow for the manipulation (or manifestation) of abstract ideas. As much as the Auctoriotas twins pride themselves on their precision and formality, this comes across as wishy-washy at best when explained to anyone else, simply because of how complex Draconic Archetypes are.
Francis Artoria, one of the current Elder Dragons, is most famously known for being incredibly powerful, unbearably conceited, and, of course, his Draconic Archetype as the titular “Light Dragon”. Verita and Sole are still at each other's intellectual throats as to whether “Light” in the way he manifests it is “Elemental” (in case it is a naturally occurring phenomenon), “Material” (in case it is a matter created by facets of the world), or “Abstract” (in case his abilities relate more to light as a concept). Francis is far less interested in the rambling of scientists, though he does love being at the center of attention. He especially likes people of incredible intelligence calling him an ‘anomaly’. It has a nice ring to it. Usually they’re calling him names far more unsavoury and far less catchy.
Getting back on topic, the professor’s Draconic Archetype allows for the manipulation of “Knowledge”, an incredibly broad term that even the professor struggles to define at times, but can be simplified to “what you know and the state you know it in”. Facts, memories, skills, experience- they’re all unique knowledge, and whilst you’re highly unlikely to be the only person that knows a concept, remembers a moment, or understands how to perform a task, the way in which you know to do something is completely distinctive to you. It also passively affects him in a few ways, including how he consumes knowledge, the quality of the knowledge he consumes, and the ease with which it can be recalled.
Now comes some more rambling on behalf of the professor.
Knowledge is another form of matter, one far more ethereal and far harder to explain, though much like physical mass, knowledge cannot be created or destroyed; it can only be transferred or transformed. It makes a lot less sense than matter’s conservation since all matter that exists now originated at the beginning of the universe, yet memories can seemingly be created from nothingness just by witnessing a moment in time. In reality, that is where the secret lies. A memory, a fragment of knowledge, a concept, etc, cannot exist without a moment in time to draw it from, and anything that remains simply flows into the next moment, and the next, and the next. It's akin to drinking from an infinite river. Then the question becomes how it is conserved? Knowledge lingers within your mind, either at the forefront or deep in its darkest recesses; once you die, how is that knowledge conserved? Does the knowledge remain infused into your very matter as your body decays, or is it simply a matter of you falling into the river, giving your knowledge in depth to give exactly as you took?
An unnecessary explanation, as stated by his own brother. He is owed no answers by Nature Energy, and especially not in this aspect.
Really, this is just scientific meandering, attempting an explanation as to why he’s been unable to destroy knowledge using his archetype. The truth is as unclear to himself as it is to the rest of us; it’s simply the will of Nature Energy and the imprint of his soul that a memory not be destroyed, and it’s simply his hubris that demands he create a suitable explanation. Maybe it’s because of his inquisitive soul and how all knowledge is sacred in his eyes that he cannot destroy any of it.
That makes a lot more sense, and is far less interesting.
The reason he was currently in this landscape where both everything and nothing existed was to repair the broken fragments in peace and quiet. Whilst both of them were conscious, there was a constant fight as knowledge continued to flow between themselves and the world around them. Worse, the knowledge he was attempting to repair constantly shifts in the mind of the beast, making any repair akin to solving a jigsaw puzzle in the middle of an earthquake: possible, but difficult, and the least of his worries in a place as precarious as he was.
His solution was simple. Brain drain. To mass siphon all of the knowledge that dragon held into himself for repairs and return it to them once his work was complete. Obviously, without “knowledge”, the creature is nothing, which renders it unconscious until that which was taken from it is returned. At the same time, the professor’s “storage” is overloaded with the combined knowledge of two creatures and thus, to prevent potential issues in the long term, his body is forced into stasis also. The only way this can be resolved is to return the knowledge that he’s taken, or at least enough to where his brain isn’t at risk of overload.
So he retreats to his library and begins to reconstruct the fragment of Alexandria he was able to get his fingers onto.
He continues to move fragments of knowledge into place, watching the dark splatters of incinerating ink be cleaned off every moment, drop by drop. He plays memories in his head, ones that don’t belong to him, seeing just how well each moment melds together. When there's an issue he stops, continuing to place fragments in a sequence that’s disorganised and orderly in a way only a natural life can produce.
He knows he’s on the right track once he starts to see details rather than their distorted shadows.
A canopy of leaves shows up overhead that he can recognise, even at a glance, and their smell is just as familiar, though slightly more polluted than his own experiences. The sun's fragments trickle through the roof as heavy rain may, illuminating the vision of the one lying beneath its radiance. It's beautiful even through a memory, or rather it’s beautiful because it's a memory. It's something the beholder has to decide. He continues to watch through her eyes as she revels in the heat and light with no plans to move in the slightest. His power over knowledge was incredible, moulding like putty between his fingertips and playing in front of him like a high definition film, yet just like a movie, he can’t change perspective. He’d love to look downwards at the face of the woman, to look around at what lingered within the fathoms of the forest, to soar into the sky and see just what the island looked like at this point in time, and yet, like the spectator he was, what he saw was fixed. It makes sense, since it’s already happened. Disappointing as it may be, it removes a certain burden.
He doesn’t dare skip a single frame, a single second, a single moment. The birds cries grow monotonous. The forest's smell grows stale. The dirt and foliage beneath her body grows uncomfortable. It doesn't phase him. Authenticity is of utmost value in this experiment meaning he’ll move when she moves. Luckily, it doesn’t take long for that to happen. A sigh of solemn softness slips from her as a few smooth movements lift the girl, or rather woman, back to her feet. He feels the same struggle she does as recalling her steps doesn’t come as easily as taking those steps in the first place. Verita can only watch on with a sense of dramatic irony since he knows how she arrived here, and thus knows the way back.
His younger self would try to call out like some sort of pantomime. Now he knew how futile it was.
Moments later, after some travel, a man appears, his skin like oak, his hair in thick black coils, his eyes a marvelous amethyst. It doesn’t take long for the warmth of the memory to sink into the professor’s own psyche, and yet it's an emotion utterly unfamiliar. It claims every corner of his body, every inch of his skin, most in his heart where it seems to both press from the outside and inside at once. The muscles of his stomach toss and turn, yet he feels no urge to throw up; it’s more akin to the way a child will be nuzzled and shaken by their mother, its… Excitement? Joy? Attachment? Warmth?
It’s alien, though the professor is certain that the connection between the woman and the man in front of her is ‘as real as it gets’, for lack of a better phrase.
They join hands. They shift between trees. Branches crack beneath her feet. Something flies away in a scurry. The smell of camellia rushes into them just as they rush into it. Maybe they’re poppies. They’re moving too fast to tell. Rushing. Rushing. Rushing. Every moment feels like a million yet every million moments feel the same. She almost trips. His firm hand holds her upright even as they continue. They breathe in sync as if diving into and out of water. Their steps thud through with chaotic asymmetry.
An uncharacteristic disgust seems to paint the professor’s mind. Like honey. Sickeningly sweet.
Even then, he continues to watch through the memories he reforms, his mind's eye gazing upon it with unshaken resolve and something akin to sympathy.
It could also just as easily be a curse.
Gala and Viktor know not of the professor’s methods or his plights. As mentioned previously, Gala doesn’t care, and to Viktor it doesn’t matter. In the current moment, however, he’s shot to the back of their minds as the demand at the very forefront is now survival.
There are two ways in which they can do so.
The first is relying on the professor and their bestial friend to wake up some time soon. The increase in capable numbers should allow them to either scare off or kill the beast, if necessary.
The second is simply killing the beast by themselves. It would be a task easier said than done, but a task that is possible. A beast that can bleed is a beast that can die, and seeing as they were able to wound the dragon’s eye, the likelihood they can kill it together is possible, no matter how difficult.
SWOOOSH!-
In reality, it's misleading to present both choices since we already know the stakes.
There’s only one choice: fighting to kill.
Their eyes sharpen like blades as they continue to dance with death, the steel-winged beast being its loyal, feral vessel that heralds destruction in each and every attempt on the pair's lives. It dives towards the ground. Gala heads left towards the nearby wall. Viktor heads right towards the cliff and the open air. The beast’s senses go haywire; it physically cannot relax now that half of its vision has been eliminated, though it’s unlikely it’d be able to when fighting for its life. Gala’s in its blind spot. She launches herself off the wall's cragged surface, her knee slamming into the dragon’s jaw. Its head is moved. A tooth chips. Viktor rises from beneath it, slamming a punch into its throat. They both look. Its eyes are still red. Viktor doesn’t let up. A kick to the side of its neck. Its head moves back towards Gala. She’s already prepared. A punch to the same spot. The chip becomes a crack. They both look. Its eyes are still red. It counters before they can continue. It uses the momentum of being hit by Gala to swing its tail towards her. She's hit. Nowhere dangerous. A throbbing pain swims through her forearms. She’s in its line of sight now. Viktor is in its blind spot. He immediately becomes the predator. A bounding leap brings him to its head. He digs his clawing hand into the tender flesh of its eye. A resounding SQUELCH. A resounding roar. Pain, raw and unyielding, dances from nerve to nerve through its body. It thrashes its head about. It slams into walls. It drags itself across the floor. It has no regard for its own life. The pain endures. Gala looks. Its eyes are orange.
“Viktor! Move it!”
SQUELCH!-
The hand is removed, alongside a chunk of the soft tissue found on the inside of the beast's eye socket; the molten liquid stains up to the student’s elbow in crimson. Viktor slides across the earth, sprinting in the opposite direction shakily before once again-
“SKRAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
The world trembles under the force of the dragon's lamentation. The blast is narrowly avoided. The sound is not, though with both covering their ears, the noise is painful at best. Viktor takes a moment to shake some of the creature’s blood off of his arm, cringing slightly as the aftertaste of its soft eyeball lingers against his fingertips. Gala lets out a prolonged exhale as she continues to feel the force of its tail against her forearms; they shudder in reverence of its divine strength, though they could just as likely be trembling in rage at the beast’s audacity. The roar subsides. Green turns back to red as the dragon's single eye communicates all its emotions aptly: fury, suffering, desperation.
How silly. All it’s done is let the pair know that what they’re doing is working.
“When victory cannot immediately be decided by ability, it will be decided by will.”- Bertha Ferra, Commander of the Draconic Warriors.
In the teachings of Commander Ferra, will is split into three facets: superficial, definitive, and natural.
Superficial will is related to either enjoyment or improvement, for the most part. If you’re competing against another person and your desire is to play and win a game or to improve your abilities, your will is superficial. This by no means makes your will weak. The strength of your will is not decided by the facet it sits under; it is decided by your desire. At this level, ego is the biggest driver; defeat or victory has a personal impact, enough to push even children to play games as if their lives are on the line.
Definitive will is reserved for instances where the stakes go beyond enjoyment, where the cost of losing becomes high enough for will to erupt. The ego can still be, and usually is, an aspect at this level, though the stakes become far more significant. Ferra teaches that the difference between superficial and definitive will is best showcased in battles for ranking between students; two warriors sparring for fun and the same two fighting for their spot in the pecking order bring different magnitudes of flame to the battlefield.
Finally, natural will is not the will of your mind; it is the will of your body. The moment you’re born, it’s ingrained into the depths of your cells so that when the time comes and your survival as a being hangs in the balance, your resolve will burn as bright as the midday sun. It may come when hunting a beast for food; it may come when being hunted like prey; it will show its ugly head and turn your body into a vessel for unrestrained animosity. To guarantee survival, you must weaponize this ferocity but not forget your reason. Once both exist side by side, only then can a warrior truly become undefeatable.
One of the earliest lessons a warrior is taught is that the only way to guarantee victory is to match or surpass the will of your opponent.
Superficial will can be met with superficial will.
Definitive will must be met with definitive will.
Natural will must be met with natural will.
At the beginning of the fight, two options were presented. In reality, there was only a single one.
Truthfully, in a fight where a creature is attempting to kill you, the only way to survive is to respond with equal lethality. Fighting for an arbitrary timer to tick down, for a savior to rise from the dirt and bring you victory, is not fighting with your natural will and thus will do you no favours. Your very DNA screams for you to save yourself, to exterminate any force that makes an attempt on your life.
Thus, Viktor and Gala fought like wild beasts.
Essence tells them to kill, and therefore, they will.
“Haaah… Are you alright, Number One?”
The girl scoffs in the face of her teammate’s good intentions, rolling her eyes before she responds.
“Don’t piss me the fuck off. Of course I’m fine.”
“Morrigan hits about as hard. Elio’s more unpredictable.”
“The only thing this has on them is size… Big bastard.”
She doesn’t bother asking how Viktor is doing. He’s still alive, still strong enough to talk to her and still has enough energy to piss her off, knowingly or unknowingly. Any other details were unimportant. Black strands are swept out of her face once again; she’s starting to see why her mother was so vehement about her cutting her hair sooner or later. It’s been six years since she’s last had her hair cut, and it hasn’t caused her enough issues to where she sees it as an immediate priority. The worst thing it does is get in her face often and make her look a bit creepy with her big yellow eyes glowing through the dark veil… Maybe she needed to renew her bangs. It wouldn’t be a complete waste of time.
Worse for wear as it may be, Viktor’s body is still intact. Blood drips from a few cuts and scrapes, but it’s not enough to be an immediate issue; the injuries would clot soon enough due to their size, or lack thereof. It allowed him to focus on the immediate objective… Which was supposed to be survival, but it seemed with every interaction to be growing closer to killing the berserk dragon rather than surviving the encounter. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered other than completing their objective.
“I guess the only way forward is through it.”
His own hand sweeps through his hair, slicking back the ginger mane, remnants of the beast's blood dancing between the strands as if it were veins. The piercing pupils of his auburn eyes seem to compound alongside Gala’s golden gaze, locking onto the beast ahead that flaps its wings once again, bursting towards them with a pace more sluggish than their previous interaction… It's losing vitality. Even if it's still relatively healthy, it's feeling the freezing fingers of death on its nape.
So killing it is not completely out of reach.
“Alrighty! Don’t slow me down, Wolfsbane.” It approaches, twenty meters away.
“I’ll try my hardest not to.” It approaches, ten meters awa-
SWOOOSH!-
Gala doesn’t even give him a chance to finish his confirmation, or rather, the beast doesn’t, as it launches a crushing bite towards where she stood moments before. In her place, only the air remains, though the monster would be forgiven for the mistake with how fluidly she moved; a single bounce is enough to launch herself into the air, and after a second she comes crashing down onto the top of its head. There’s a reason she’s second to none. The attack's power, however, isn’t enough to cause much damage beyond a twinging pain on the creature’s scaly flesh. It flicks its head upwards, launching the girl behind it. Viktor takes advantage of the moment, launching a crushing blow to the creature’s exposed chest. A resounding CRACK fills the air as the creature cries out once more. The process begins again as they attempt to whittle it down little by little.
Viktor’s best guess of the dragon’s archetype is something to do with blasts. The creature seemed to require a chunk of time to charge up a powerful blast that can either be expelled in concentrated form through the flapping of its wings or without any regard for the environment through its roar. What the blast actually was was beyond his knowledge, though it seemed to be created through vibration, seeing as it was like a distortion rather than an explosion. Luckily for the pair, the attack had a significant time needed to charge back up, indicated by the beast's glowing eyes; at red it’s not ready, at orange it's almost ready, at green it can be unleashed immediately. In a cruel twist of fate, this stopped the boy from repeating what he’d done with the first eye on the second. Yes, he could permanently blind the beast, which would give them an avenue for escape whilst it couldn’t see, but potentially losing the only indicator of its most dangerous ability was a risk not worth taking in his eyes. He can only assume Gala feels the same way… He hopes she feels the same way.
There’s only one way to find out.
Neither of them plan on letting up the attack, a strike comes from above, it knocks the beast towards the ground, another follows up from the side, it looks at where it was attacked from, a piercing kick comes from its blind spot, its tail is held so it can’t move, the moment it flails to break free, another attack, the sounds of scales chipping fills the air. It breaks free for a moment and flaps its wings a single time. It produces just enough force to lift its body into the air, floating above Viktor before allowing its weight to slam down where he stands. He doesn’t avoid the attack, as simple as it may have been to do so; his hands raise in resistance to the creature's pure force and are barely able to resist being crushed, the wind being knocked from his sail as the outside of his vision darkens slightly. A grunt of effort escapes him, as, for a moment, he wonders where his teammate is, answered by the sound of a CRACK hitting the dragon's jaw once more and the weight of its body toppling to the side. Fragments of its teeth fall to the side wayside as getting back to its feet is a struggle. Signs of weakness, an opportunity to take advantage of-
Viktor notices first. His mouth opens to tell his teammat-
He has no oxygen.
He’s been moving this whole time off a single breath, not even taking a moment to breathe… No, rather he’s forgotten to do so, momentum steering his very form in the direction of the most optimal action.
Now he has no oxygen.
He has no oxygen so he can’t speak.
He has no oxygen so he can’t warn his teammate.
He has no oxygen so he has to breathe.
He’s not going to make it in time.
He has to warn her, but he’s not going to make it in time.
He can’t see the colour, but he can feel the tremble.
He’s sure she can feel it too, but it’s too late-
“Gal-!”
They’re in its blind spot.
BOOM!-
The world ruptures, a pillar of force erupts with Number One at the epicenter.
