Banished One

In the wilderness, the Fortress of the Malevolent Dragon.

The warm sunset spilled from the horizon, bathing the land in a soft glow. Dragons returning from the hunt descended, flapping their wings.

Yongrong landed gracefully, shaking his head to rid it of sand picked up during flight.

With the returning dragons, the younglings abandoned their play, their tails swishing as they approached, sniffing the scent of blood on the hunters, inquiring about the day's catch.

It was a successful hunt, a ferocious Black Thorn was the prize. For young dragons, it was a feat worth boasting about. Excitement buzzed in the courtyard, as they proudly paraded their trophies.

"Yongrong, looks like you've had a good haul."

A deep, husky voice, laced with subtle hostility, approached. A large figure pushed through, its presence sending the younger dragons scattering.

This one was a hybrid, larger than the usual younglings, with muscles bulging like ropes under red scales, and two curved horns instead of a single horn, exuding a sulfuric scent.

"Fair enough," replied Yongrong, his tone flat: "Just enough to fill the belly."

The hybrid dragon, Kazan Rego, the strongest among the younglings, didn't hide his directness: "When will you fight me again?"

"Whenever there's a chance," Yongrong answered nonchalantly.

He didn't wish to clash with Kazan right now. Kazan, with his Red Dragon lineage, was exceptionally talented and physically formidable.

Yongrong had a clear assessment of Kazan's strength. Among the courtyard dragons, Kazan stood out as a "Strong Young Dragon."

Their previous fight had been tough, with neither gaining a clear victory. Kazan had taken Yongrong seriously ever since.

Yongrong's evasion was obvious, causing Kazan's aggression to simmer down a bit. Kazan snorted, saying, "Don't you get it? If you can't beat me now, you never will. If I were you, I'd seize every chance to challenge the strong, to hone my skills..."

Yongrong was barely listening. His gaze drifted over the dragons to the Dragon Castle, reserved for the older dragons. His pupils narrowed, something was happening.

A massive winged figure burst from the castle, Quis Nikleton, the "Young Dragon Nurturer." His scales blended with the sky, and a grassy ozone smell wafted from him. He firmly grasped a Black Dragon whelp in his iron-like claws, releasing it near the younglings' area with a thud.

Dust billowed, smoke mingled.

Yongrong saw clearly. The Black Dragon whelp had been severely injured, its wings twisted at unnatural angles, barely alive.

Quis Nikleton landed heavily, his presence dominating. "Let me remind you," he growled, "Every piece of meat, every drop of water, and every inch of ground you stand on belongs to the clan. We Blue Dragons do not rule with kindness or weakness."

The young dragons cowered under his authority.

Quis' gaze started with the adopted Black and Green Dragons, moving to the hybrids, and finally resting on Yongrong, Belron Kwo, and other pure Blue Dragons.

Yongrong lowered his gaze from the dying Black Dragon. Dragons considered their treasure sacred, and any theft was met with fierce retribution.

Quis continued, "Pray to the Mother of Evil Dragons. It's her grace that spares you. You won't die, but you have no place here anymore."

After releasing the whelp, Quis warned, "Go back to the filthy Blackwater Marsh. If you're seen in the wilderness again, we'll not hesitate to break your neck."

Though injured, the dragon's strong life force enabled it to crawl away, unchallenged.

Belron Kwo approached Yongrong, "Unable to control its desires, that fool is no better than a beast. Black and White scaled ones are unworthy of being called dragons."

Yongrong watched the Black Dragon leave, marking its final glance back, as if to imprint this place in its memory.

Kazan watched too, his brash nature showing through a grin. He made a mocking gesture towards the retreating dragon.

"Black Dragons are inherently evil, holding grudges even more than us Blue Dragons," murmured Yongrong.

"True," agreed Belron, "But they can never match us. Our clan cares little for their hatred. Over time, the gap between Blue and Black Dragons will only widen."

"That's not certain," Yongrong mused, "This world is full of uncertainties. That's what makes the Star Realm fascinating. Maybe I should remember its name. What was it again?"

"Who cares," Belron dismissed, "Just another nameless Black Dragon, destined for slavery. What do you think we're having for blood meal tonight?"

"I won't need to eat for three days after that Thorn Beast. Just guessing for fun."

...

For a long time, the courtyard remained quiet under Quis' authority. The Young Dragon Nurturer watched, satisfied with the respect reinstated. As night fell, he whispered to a corner.

Dog-headed beings, trembling, lined up carrying food - dead cows, slightly rotten fish, and charred bear limbs.

Yongrong noted, "More meat, a sign of victory in the eastern battles. Even our food has improved."

The food was laid out, mixing scents of savory, sour, and blood, a unique aroma familiar to feeding time. The young dragons ate in silence, maintaining order.

The dog-headed beings quickly left, overwhelmed by the dragon-filled air.

In the world of colorful dragons and all evil dragons of the Star Realm, only in Blue Dragon territories was such order seen. Blue Dragons were bound by blood, family, and support, forming cohesive communities capable of building unique dragon civilizations.

As night darkened, the wilderness quieted. After eating, it was time for prayer. The young dragons returned to their caves, praying to the Mother of Evil Dragons.

From certain vantage points, distant red flames were visible - the bonfires of the dog-headed settlements.

Yongrong sat in the open for a while, not wanting to show his lack of faith, then followed the others back to his nest.

His dwelling was no different from the others - a simple, dark hole with a deep look. The ground was packed earth, marked with faint footprints.

A communal space, a shared water pool, and individual nests were all they had.

Yongrong returned to his nest, eating some sand. Though dragons disliked this, it aided digestion, absorption, and toughened scales and teeth.

The taste was unpleasant, but Yongrong swallowed without issue.

"Praise to Tiamat," he murmured, ending the long prayer ritual with a single line. He found a spot to lie down, curling up protectively like a cat lacking security.

Yongrong closed his eyes, drifting into a light sleep.