Pocket Dimension SSS-Rank Dragon Tamer

Marek blinked through the blood and dust.

The pain in his leg was sharp, but it wasn't numb anymore—that meant it was still there, still real.

He looked up toward the battlefield.

The soldiers were still charging even after all the deaths.

They moved forward, cutting through whatever was left. He could barely hear their shouting now, like echoes bouncing far behind him.

Was this what they saw?

The ones who collapsed halfway through and crawled off the road.

Did they see what he was seeing now?

The monsters, some dead, some dragging themselves away. And just beyond it all—just past the edge of the carnage—was the forest.

It looked far, but not impossible.

If he crawled, or limped, or even dragged himself with one arm—he could reach it.

He turned his head and spat out the dirt in his mouth.

"I'm not dying here," he muttered.

He had nothing left but his hands and the weight of a broken leg.

But he pushed anyway.

He used his elbows first, dragging his body through the dirt.

He reached a fallen spear and used it as a crutch, pulling himself upright on one leg.

The trees were closer now.

He couldn't think about what might be in there.

But, it didn't matter.

He limped forward, one foot after another.

Just the sound of his own breath now, and the rustle of trees ahead.

"Just a bit more," he whispered. "Just a bit more."

And he kept walking into the forest alone.

He slid behind the thick base of a tree and dropped the spear.

His whole body felt cold, even though the air wasn't. Blood soaked through the cloth underneath, and now that he had stopped moving, he could feel how bad it really was.

His leg wasn't just broken—it was torn. His side was bleeding too, maybe from when he got thrown.

He leaned back against the bark and let his head rest.

His breath was getting shorter.

Am I dying?

He looked up through the branches.

The sky was pale.

He couldn't hear the battle anymore.

Only the wind, rustling leaves.

His eyes were starting to close.

He thought of home. The little yard behind the house, the table his father made, and hisis mother shouting for him to eat.

He remembered sneaking food under the table to the neighbor's dog, and chopping firewood while pretending it was a monster's arm.

And he remembered Lucas. His brother had always been ten steps ahead.

But is still the same brother who gave him his first wooden sword and told him to hold it like it meant something.

"You'll catch up," Lucas once said. "I believe in you."

He never did catch up.

He remembered the training grounds. The other kids teased him for being weak. Some tried to help.

He couldn't remember all their names, but he remembered the feeling of being surrounded by people who still gave him a chance.

He remembered Romaine.

He laughed once.

Now it was just him.

He closed his eyes, and the cold crept further up his body.

His head leaned against the tree.

He wasn't scared anymore. He just felt… tired.

I really thought I'd have more time, he thought. Even if it was just one more chance.

The world was fading. Marek couldn't feel his body anymore.

Even the pain that had gripped him a moment ago was slipping away, like it had gotten tired and left first.

His breathing had slowed to nothing. His vision was just shadow. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was how it ended.

Then—

"Oh wow, you're actually dying? Like, for real?"

A voice echoed in his mind.

"No dramatic last words? No scream for help? No 'I'll never give up'? Man, you really are built like a weakling."

Marek twitched.

"I mean, I've been watching you for like ten minutes, and you didn't even try to scream one last heroic line. You just laid there, bleeding like some half-priced side character."

He wanted to respond, to say what is happening? but he couldn't speak. The voice didn't seem to care.

"Alright, let me make this simple," it continued, with a dramatic sigh. "My name is Velkaroth and I'm an ancient dragon. Not the scaly fire-lizard kind. I'm the soul-rending, mountain-splitting, divine catastrophe kind."

Marek blinked once.

"And you," Velkaroth went on, "are Marek Draganov. You are age fifteen, one-star knight with a broken leg, severe blood loss, and currently lying against a tree."

The voice paused.

"Here's the pitch. I don't usually do this, but I'm desperate, and you're unlucky, so I think we can help each other. A soul I can live inside. And you—you need someone to keep your dumbass alive."

Marek's thoughts stirred. It felt like a flicker.

"You're asking... me?" he mumbled.

"Well yeah," Velkaroth replied, "I was going to pick that guy who got crushed earlier, but he kind of exploded. So here we are."

Marek would've laughed if his lungs weren't failing.

"But let me be clear," Velkaroth continued. "This isn't a charity project. You don't get to sleep through life while I carry you. If I'm giving you my power, then you're going to move and you're going to stand."

Silence hung in the air for a second.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Marek didn't answer with words. He forced his hand to move.

Velkaroth laughed. It wasn't kind.

"Finally, there it is. It took you long enough, man. I was about to leave and find someone else."

Marek's chest heaved as he took a shallow breath.

"I don't want to die," he whispered.

"Then get up, idiot," Velkaroth said. "

Marek's hand closed into a fist.

The cold was still there. The pain was starting to crawl back in. But something deeper was rising inside him now.

"Marek!"

Velkaroth's voice boomed through his skull like thunder cracking through the sky.

"Wake up, dumbass!"

Marek groaned, his fingers clawing at the ground. His legs wouldn't listen. His arms were barely moving.

"I did not just give my soul to some kid who flops like a fish at the first sign of blood. MOVE!"

His teeth clenched. The world wasn't just black anymore. He could see light.

Then—

"ARGHHHH!"

He screamed like something had been torn open inside him. Not pain—something else.

His legs kicked forward.

His eyes snapped open.

The forest lit up with strange red lines beneath him, glowing from the ground as mana surged through his body like fire. His wounds vanished. His bones cracked, then fused.

He stood up.

A sword flashed into his hand, summoned from nowhere. The blade pulsed with energy. He didn't know how he created it.

And in the distance—

The Bowlers turned, confused.

Marek didn't wait.

He roared and launched forward.

"ARGHHH!" Marek charged forward, his sword flashing like lightning as it sliced clean through the nearest Bowler.

The beast collapsed with a thunderous crash, its massive body hitting the ground in a cloud of dust.

The remaining Bowlers turned to face the sudden threat, but Marek didn't hesitate. He moved like a storm, cutting down one monster after another without breaking stride.

The soldiers watching from behind the safety of the wall stopped in their tracks, jaws dropping.

"Did you see that?!" one shouted.

"No way—that wasn't any of us!" another yelled.

General Radek stood firm atop the battlements, his arms crossed.

His sharp eyes tracked the mysterious fighter moving like a whirlwind among the monsters.

"That's no ordinary soldier," Radek muttered, voice low but fierce. "Whoever that is... they're beyond skilled and faster than any knight I've seen."

A young recruit nearby nearly stumbled, shouting, "That's impossible! One person took down all those Bowlers!"

The soldiers exchanged stunned glances.

"Do you think it's some kind of spirit?" someone whispered, half in awe and half in fear.

General Radek narrowed his eyes, a rare smile creeping onto his lips.

"Whatever it is, it just saved this city. And if it's on our side..."

He paused.

"Then we owe them everything."

The crowd erupted into cheers. The impossible was now real.

Beyond the wall, the last of the Bowlers fell silently, their threat had ended by a shadow no one had expected.

And Marek, standing alone among the fallen beasts, felt the weight of their eyes—and the unspoken question hanging in the air:

Who was this mysterious warrior?