TuxedoTranslations

Chapter 29

Zeman stared intently at the calm and composed boy. Every scar on his body seemed to whisper a story that Zeman could only imagine.

The scars, old and new, overlapped in intricate patterns, spreading densely upward and disappearing into the elegant silk sleeves, as if recording six years of the white-haired boy’s life.

How many times had he been hurt?

Looking at that still-youthful, familiar face, and then at his scar-riddled body, Zeman felt as if he were sinking into a deep ocean. The icy waters pressed down on him, stealing his breath, his chest so tight it seemed ready to burst. His heart throbbed with a pain so piercing it felt as if a sea monster’s sharp teeth were gnawing away at it.

What unsettled him most was the boy’s faint expression of pride amidst it all.

After all, his Albin had always been terrified of pain.

When they traveled together by carriage and Albin stumbled and fell on the rough roads, he would snuggle into Zeman’s arms, whimpering softly, seeking comfort from Zeman’s clumsy words of reassurance.

How could such a delicate child endure such agony and still wear a proud expression?

Zeman recalled the words of that emerald snake back then—something about a “blood slave plan.”

The cold from the seawater seemed to seep into his very marrow, making his entire body tremble. This trembling, born of rage with no outlet, shattered the icy surface of the ocean in his mind.

That was his child!

His warm, kind, adorable child, whom he had lovingly dressed, read bedtime stories to, and cradled to sleep.

That child was the one soft spot in his heart, the last light of his life.

And now, Zeman realized that this softness, along with his heart, was being trampled on and cruelly harmed.

Rage surged through him, yet Zeman knew this was a dream—a maddening nightmare where he had no power to intervene, no way to change what unfolded.

But everything in this dream felt too real, as though it was telling him that this was a world that truly existed.

The dream continued.

The dragon, upon seeing the boy’s scarred arm, betrayed a hint of surprise on his otherwise impassive face. Yet he lacked the identity of a “father” and so did not let fury consume him.

“Are you the remedy they speak of?” the dragon asked, scrutinizing the boy.

“Sir Dragon, you’ve heard of me? That’s wonderful.”

“A rat demon once tried to use that to recruit me.”

The boy replied, “You must be referring to my dear father.”

The dragon narrowed his eyes, as if pondering something.

“Is he part of your god-slaying plan?” There was a hint of displeasure in his tone and distrust in his gaze.

He could trust the child but not those around him.

This child, treated as a remedy, was nothing more than a pawn—a bargaining chip in others’ schemes.

He would never trust such people.

Those who forsook their humanity to leech off a child’s blood had no place in his eyes.

“Not exactly. My father isn’t aware of what I’m doing,” the boy explained, before hesitantly extending his arm. “So, Sir Dragon, what do you say?”

“No need,” the dragon coldly declined.

Though a creature of magic, he had not descended into the kind of monster that consumed human blood.

Surprisingly, the boy looked disappointed rather than pleased. His small face drooped in dejection, as if he had been wronged.

“Why is it that all the magical beings I’ve met recently refuse my blood?” he muttered.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” the dragon asked, puzzled.

The boy puffed out his cheeks. “I used to be so confident that my blood was something everyone would want, but now it feels like I’m being rejected. Does this mean no one likes me? I thought for sure that winning over Sir Dragon would guarantee your support.”

The dragon could not comprehend his logic.

Though their acquaintance had been brief, he could not believe anyone would dislike this child after spending time with him.

If his companions hadn’t used his blood, that was not entirely a bad thing.

“My father taught me not to be selfish. The only thing likable about me is my blood, so I should offer it to everyone. Only then will they like me.”

“This is the one thing I can do, and I’ve always been confident in it,” the boy said, confused. “But now that no one wants my blood, will they still like me?”

Zeman looked at the boy’s bewildered face and felt his heart tremble once more, as though pierced by countless needles.

How could his child have been taught to think this way?

Albin didn’t need to rely on his blood to earn anyone’s affection. He was inherently lovable.

Whether it was Zeman or the strangers they met along the way, no one could dislike this kind and lively child.

Even if this was a dream world, based on the conversation between the boy and the dragon, Zeman was certain the child was deeply cherished.

That so-called father, that wretched rat, had brainwashed the boy, using this method to manipulate him into offering his blood willingly.

Zeman’s fury burned ever brighter.

Yet he remained powerless to change the events of the dream. He could not embrace the child, for too many barriers lay between them.

All he could do was powerlessly pin his hopes on the version of himself within the dream.

This time, even Demon Dragon furrowed his brow.

It was as if he could see a brilliant gem being deliberately dulled by malicious hands.

He had never meddled in others’ family affairs before, but the child before him was clearly being exploited.

He spoke: “Someone who truly cares for you would never like you because of your blood.”

The white-haired boy became even more confused. Years of brainwashing wouldn’t be undone by a single statement from Demon Dragon.

“Have your companions ever drunk your blood?”

“No.”

“Do they like you?”

The white-haired boy was suddenly stumped. He hesitated and shook his head in confusion. “I… I don’t know…”

“Then go and ask them.”

The white-haired boy thought for a moment, then immediately put the advice into practice, tilting his head to ask, “Dragon Sir, do you like me?”

The Demon Dragon choked.

The white-haired boy’s dejected expression seemed to say, “I knew it.”

The dragon coldly replied: “I’m not your companion. I never agreed to join you.”

“Eh—” The white-haired boy looked at him pitifully. “But Dragon Sir doesn’t like my blood. So how can I make you join us?”

After a moment of watching him, the dragon said: “You’re searching for the Spear of Godslayer, aren’t you? If you truly manage to find it, I’ll agree to join.”

The white-haired boy immediately lit up with excitement and agreed eagerly.

“I’ll definitely do my best to find it. Then, Dragon Sir, you’ll have to answer my question too!” He beamed a radiant smile and extended his slender pinky toward the dragon. “Promise, okay?”

The dragon found the gesture ridiculously childish, but after being worn down by the boy’s persistence, he extended a sharp claw.

The boy’s soft little finger pressed against his enormous claw, and the white-haired boy smiled with satisfaction.

The boy lingered a while longer, itching to pet the dragon, but just before the black dragon could lose his patience, his companions arrived to fetch him.

A pink-haired fox and a jade-green snake.

The two magical creatures first checked over the white-haired boy thoroughly. Only after confirming he was unharmed did they breathe a sigh of relief, casting a wary glance at the dragon.

The pink-haired fox transformed into a humanoid figure dressed in a butler’s uniform, bowing slightly as he addressed the white-haired boy. “Albin, it’s time to leave.”

“Okay… Goodbye, Dragon Sir! I’ll come find you again!” The white-haired boy reluctantly bid farewell to the dragon.

The dragon blinked, signaling his acknowledgment.

The fox picked up the white-haired boy in his arms and began to walk away.

Nestled against the butler’s chest, the white-haired boy complained, “Padma, I can walk on my own, you know.”

The fox replied firmly, “The forest paths are treacherous. Be good and don’t argue.”

The jade-green snake chimed in: “You insisted on coming to see the black dragon alone. You scared me half to death.”

“Dragon Sir is actually very kind…”

Their voices faded into the distance, and the dragon’s lair returned to a long, lifeless silence.

Watching them leave, the black dragon rested his head on his arm, closing his eyes to quietly await the return of that bright, fearless voice.

—-

Zeman woke abruptly from the dream, an uncontrollable and terrifying aura radiating from him.

In the instant he awoke, the atmosphere around him seemed to freeze. The entire mountain forest trembled with his fury, every tree shivering, leaves rustling, and the ground quaking as small cracks spread across the earth.

Animals scattered in every direction, birds rose in panicked flocks, and their frightened cries mixed with the rumble of the trembling earth, sending chills down one’s spine.

In a distant human village, people woke in the middle of the night, lights flickering as they hurriedly gathered, believing an earthquake had struck.

It was as if a volcano had erupted. The forest was enveloped in dark magic, black clouds swirling, lightning flashing. His anger seemed to reshape the heavens and earth.

When Zeman opened his starry blood-red eyes, they burned with endless rage and killing intent. In an instant, the scene before him was obliterated, leaving only a massive crater deep within the forest, as if a chunk of land had been violently carved away.

The awakened dragon Zeman brooded over the calm yet horrifying nightmare, furious over a mere dream.

Even if he could kill the mastermind, Albin’s blood would inevitably attract other monsters.

How many creatures would he have to slaughter before it was enough?

Could Edward—both a priest and a prince, always busy—truly protect Albin?

Zeman didn’t doubt his friend’s strength; the powers of a love god’s priest were undoubtedly among the continent’s greatest.

Yet Zeman had never cared about magical creatures before. Only after becoming one himself did he realize they were far craftier than he had once thought.

There were cunning magical creatures like the pink-haired fox who deceived humans into trusting them, and those like Gold who used wealth to manipulate priests into opening paths for them. How could Albin withstand being endlessly preyed upon?

The child was still too young. Even with his talent, there were too many variables in his long path of growth.

One mistake, one misstep, and his Albin could end up in such a miserable state.

That was why Zeman couldn’t suppress his overwhelming fear.

He absolutely couldn’t let his child end up like that!

—

Because of the unusual phenomenon last night, the guild didn’t dare linger long with Albin. After ensuring the villagers were unharmed and that priests would come to handle the situation, they resumed their journey.

The raven still followed them.

By dusk, they arrived at a city. They queued to pass inspection at the gate before it closed.

When it was the guild’s turn, the guard glanced at the white-haired, red-eyed Albin and suddenly froze, rushing away immediately.

The two were left bewildered until they saw an elderly priest from the Sun Temple, his robes in disarray, hobbling toward them with excitement.

“Your Holiness, the Saint!”

Albin looked around, but they were at the end of the line, and no one else was nearby.

The two exchanged confused glances, unsure who was being addressed.

“Your Holiness, the Saint!” The elderly priest stopped before Albin, his voice trembling with reverence.

“Me?” Albin pointed at himself, puzzled.

Even if someone from the Wine Temple called him a saint, it might make sense. But what did he have to do with the Sun Temple?

“Why are you calling me a saint?” he asked, bewildered.

“Because when you touched the magical crystal in the temple of the last city, my lord chose you as the new saint of the Sun Temple.”

Albin still found it strange. “Are you sure you’ve got the right person? I don’t remember doing anything like that.”

The elderly priest remained adamant.

“Did you not test as having the White Gift?”

Albin nodded. “But wasn’t that a mistake?”

The priest pressed on: “Do you not bear the red sacred mark?”

Albin recalled Zeman mentioning that those chosen as saints bore a sacred mark on their bodies.

He removed his gloves, showing his pale palms and turning them over to display the smooth backs of his hands.

“Nope. So you must have the wrong person, right?”

While Albin did indeed wish to become a saint, he wouldn’t pretend to be someone else.

The elderly priest froze, unwilling to believe it. He inspected Albin’s hands again thoroughly.

How could there be nothing?

The Sun Temple’s saint mark was supposed to appear on the back of the hand! The prophecy couldn’t be wrong!

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