Red + White = ? (2)
One minute, two minutes, three minutes, four minutes... As time passes, Cliche's eyes grow steadily calmer. His growth is extraordinary too. His body, which had been the size of a newborn infant, swells in mere moments to a height of 145 centimeters.
"I'm Cliche," he mutters.
"The strongest race, dragons. Offspring of the red dragon and the white dragon. Someday, I'll definitely return."
But his grand, mighty dragon flesh has already transformed into frail human form. Cliche springs to his feet and throws a few punches into the air. Born a dragon but never once lived as one—perhaps that's why the human body feels so incredibly comfortable. Standing on two legs, wiggling his five toes, he senses the cool dirt and grass between them.
As Cliche familiarizes himself with this human body...
"Grrrr..."
A low growl rumbles from behind.
"...?"
Cliche turns to see something bizarre. A beast covered in brown fur. Over three meters tall, weighing more than 500 kilograms. The brown bear looms over Cliche, drooling.
Cliche furrows one brow.
"...What the hell?"
In that instant, something flashes in Cliche's eyes. A savage, hooked glare, housing blood-red irises and frost-white pupils...
...fused into pink eyes.
The brown bear meets that red-hot pink gaze laced with white chill and feels flames scorching its body alongside freezing frost. The result...
"Whoooong..."
The bear flops down contentedly, looking utterly blissful. Perfect temperature. Like a spring day that even makes a starving predator stretch out on the ground.
At that moment.
Crunch.
Rustling erupts from the bushes, and someone emerges. A tall man with a gleaming bald head etched with dense scars like knife wounds. His face is fiercely intimidating. He wears a coat made of crow feathers, an axe dangling at his side.
Caw!
A crow perched on the man's shoulder glints with red eyes.
The brown bear spots the bald man and flees in terror.
"Hmph, recognizes me and runs. Sharp instincts for a bear," the bald man snorts at the retreating beast.
Then he looks down at Cliche, who stares up at him blankly. Pink hair, pink eyes. Stark naked. Even his skin glows with a faint pink-tinged white.
"And what the hell are you?"
The bald man tilts his head at Cliche.
"And who the hell are you?" Cliche shoots back.
A vein throbs on the man's forehead.
"I'm the infamous Crowman," he declares, clearly expecting Cliche to freak out.
But Cliche, hearing the name for the first time, just nods like, "Oh, okay."
Then people start emerging from behind him one by one.
"Boss! You can't just charge ahead like that!"
A girl and a hooded old man appear, followed by a swarm of burly men.
Cliche asks them, "And what are you guys?"
The self-proclaimed Crowman steps forward.
"We're villagers from the Northern Mountains. Came over to the Southern Mountains looking for something. And you?"
"Name's Cliche. Dragon."
Crowman tilts his head. Dragon?
"You mean... the ancient race from legends?"
Ancient race? Cliche ponders. Guess dragons are mythical to humans.
"Yeah."
Crowman clicks his tongue and shakes his head.
"Poor kid... Gotta be brain-damaged from slave traders."
"Or maybe always been nuts. Look at that hair color—no sane person dyes it pink."
"But damn, he's pretty. Maybe noble-born. That arrogant tone screams it."
Then a short kid steps forward from behind Crowman. Blue hair, blue eyes. Pale skin, big eyes—a girl.
"Hi! I'm Roin. Last name's Hi. I'm the token girl in this party."
In that moment, Cliche's pupils dilate slightly. A familiar scent wafts from Roin. Faint, but unmistakable. The smell of his homeland, the land he fled.
Finally, the black-hooded old man introduces himself.
"I'm Dexter, handling admin for the party. Just call me Grandpa."
His kindly voice makes Cliche nod again.
The Crowman party debates what to do with the mountain-found boy. Conclusion: amnesia victim, so tag along and drop him at the nearest village. Not heartless enough to abandon a lost kid in the wilds.
"We're camping here tonight!"
At Crowman's order, the men pitch tents and light a bonfire. Night in the mountains is ready in no time.
Gathered around the massive blaze, they huddle close. Cliche sits blankly beside them. Roin plops down next to him.
"Hey, Cliche, right?"
Cliche nods.
Roin eyes him curiously.
"Wow, you're seriously pretty. Noble?"
"Not noble. Dragon."
"Pfft, what dragon has no wings or scales?"
"Dragons got their reasons."
Figuring Cliche's cuckoo, Roin drops deeper talk and opts for basic common sense instead. Craving conversation, apparently.
"Listen up. This continent we live on is called Rap—shaped like a cross. This here's the deepest west edge."
"Mm."
Her exotic looks—unseen in mountain villages—sparkle Cliche's eyes as he listens raptly. Emboldened, Roin spits facts with gusto.
"We lived in the northern range on the west side. Super fertile. Crops grew like weeds—always bumper harvests. Believable?"
Cliche's eyes shine. Humans love land, he'd heard. Dragons too. And Roin smells of dragon lands—the way home he doesn't know. Faint, but there. Can't ignore her hometown.
Follow her, maybe find my way back.
Brimming with hope, Cliche hangs on her words.
"Then one day, massive fire hit our Northern Mountains. We call it the 'Eternal Flame'."
"Doesn't go out?"
"Nope. Too huge and fierce. Still burning now. Rumor says the Demon King started it."
"Demon King?"
Cliche tilts his head. Roin nods gravely.
"Yeah, horns on his head, massive build. Terrifying monster. Knights from the central continent's big nations came to slay him."
"But useless. Still fighting. So we do what we can. Legend says deep in these southwest mountains there's 'Eternal Ice'. That's why we're here—to douse the flames."
Cliche nods blankly. North's Eternal Flame, south's Eternal Ice.
He tilts his head. "Find the Eternal Ice, then back to your home?"
"Duh! That's the plan."
Roin's peppy reply relaxes Cliche's face.
"Then I'll find it for you."
Roin blanks—how to respond? As if you could! But... too damn cute!
"Heh heh, what're you kids chatting about?"
The hooded old man—Dexter—ruffles Roin's hair affectionately, smiling down at her.
"Joined midway, so not fully clued in, but from what the young'uns say, your village was paradise once."
Then Dexter's eyes meet Cliche's. He grins warmly.
"You stared down Crowman without flinching. Never heard the name?"
"Nope."
Roin bursts out laughing in Dexter's arms.
"Knew it! Ignorance is bliss!"
Cliche tilts his head. Dexter holds up one finger and explains.
"Crowman's a serial killer from the distant central continent. Slaughtered tens of thousands. World calls him the 'Midland Murderer'."
"Oh, really?"
Roin giggles mischievously.
"Don't freak. Boss's full of shit. Real name's Swain, not Crowman."
Dexter nods. "Fakes a scary criminal alias to ward off threats on the road."
From afar, by the fire, the bald man bellows.
"Hey, Roin! Told you not to spill that! It's classified!"
"Nyah-nyah!"
Roin sticks her tongue out at Swain. Dexter chuckles, petting her head.
"Ugh, Grandpa spoils her rotten—that's why she's like this!"
Swain grumbles, but Dexter just laughs heartily.
Then Cliche stares at grouchy Swain and asks.
"Mister."
"...Yeah?"
"That crow on your shoulder. Pet?"
Instantly.
"Huh? Ack! What the—! You scared me!"
Swain whips around, startles at the crow, which flaps away cawing.
Cawww!
"Hahaha! What was that?!"
"Thought you'd tamed it already!"
The men around Swain roar with laughter. Swain rubs his bald pate sheepishly, then joins in.
Swain—real leader of a Northern Mountains village. Born with mana affinity, his strength dwarfs normals. Superhuman, you could say.
Mana—condensed natural energy. Master it, unleash superhuman feats: strength tens of times greater, fire or ice from hands.
That's why he leads his folk from ruined home to these southern mountains. Seeking Eternal Ice to quench the Eternal Flame.
Swain's powerful but warm-hearted. Faking "Crowman" keeps attackers from getting hurt—for real. Mentioning it to Cliche? Wary of lurking slavers.
"Anyway. Welcome to the party. Let's do this."
Cliche tilts his head at Swain's proffered fist.
"Like this," Dexter chuckles, guiding Cliche's hand into a fist and bumping Swain's.
Cliche's eyes light up.
"No place to go later? Stay with us."
Roin pushes hard—adorable Cliche's won her over. The Eternal Ice valley's close anyway. Tomorrow afternoon, tops.
Destination: southwest Death Call Strait.
Target: Eternal Ice.
Ultimate goal: Extinguish Northern Mountains' Eternal Flame, reclaim fertile fields.
Cliche mentally maps his simple future plan. Roin's village might hold clues to dragon world.
Wait for me, you who cast me out!
He clenches his tiny fist, vowing return.