Chapter 1 - Goblins and Death

Truth be told, my guest, I didn't always have this streak about me. And no, I do not mean the kind of streak where you possess a flattering, distinctive mark. I mean the kind of streak that allows you to eat someone... or something. Yes, that kind—an angry streak.

I should mention that I am an Astlan dragon of the older generation.

Surprised? You should be. After all, most dragons are not known for being very communicative or, for the most part, intelligent, especially in these lands. They are creatures of might, instinct, magic, and gluttony—if you care to listen to those callous human gossips. And trust me when I say that the rumor about dragons being gold-hoarding snobs is untrue, though we do like a little sparkle from time to time. Still, there are exceptions to every rule, and I am one of them—though my case is, to say the least, unique.

You see, before I was reincarnated as a dragon, I was human. Strange as it may seem, I retained all my memories from my human life, along with any intelligence I’d managed to accumulate. There are many different classes of dragons and distinctions between them, but that’s a topic best saved for later.

Now, on to the reason for my mean streak.

It’s quite simple, really. Years of fighting other baby wyrms, fully grown dragons, and facing countless challenges have given me this impatient, mean streak.

Well, enough about my complaints. Let me now tell you the beginning of my story as a human—and the lesson you should learn from its end: do not suffer fools or gossips lightly.

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When I was human, I went by the name Alan Mead. Of course, now I go by an entirely different name, in a different tongue—a leathery one.

I was the son of a fairly well-off merchant in a fairly well-off town. The names don’t matter anymore. The fateful day when the Lady—Death herself—decided to welcome me into her embrace was a hot and humid one. And as you’ve no doubt inferred by now, I do not mean the warm, loving embrace of a spouse or lover. I mean death, with her feminine skeletal frame in all its glory. It gets old not to imagine death as a cold lover after you’ve met her as many times as I have.

Still, in my human life, I only met the Lady three times up close. The first was at my mother’s death. The second, with a slave I’d met. And the third time, of course, was my own death. I suppose my luck had run out—or as they say, third time’s the charm.

The incident of my death occurred under the blistering sun. Our caravan had been moving at a slow crawl along the forest road, steadily making our way toward one of the larger cities thriving on trade. Just as the front caravan shouted that a clearing was in sight, we were attacked.

No one was prepared. Not the guards, not the two horses defecating by the road, not the couple exchanging spit and kisses in one of the finer caravans, and certainly not the merchant who had gone to relieve himself near me at the side of the road. Not even me.

And trust me—I’m an observant person.

It was unfortunate. Had we been attacked at the clearing, just a short stretch from our destination, our chances of survival would’ve been better. But here, on the forest road, those chances were slim.

The first sign of the attack came when the merchant fell mid-piss, a sleek black arrow lodged in the side of his head. Blood mixed with the puddle he’d made as his body thudded to the ground. I, along with the others, stared blankly at his corpse, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Then all hell broke loose.

Tattooed, black-skinned elves burst from the left side of the woods, while green goblins riding dire wolves stormed from the right. I had to laugh at our misfortune. What were the chances that both elves and goblin marauders would attack our caravan at the same time? The only certainty, besides our imminent deaths, was that the merchant’s piss puddle would spread no further. His blood had covered all of it and now pooled around his corpse.

I’d love to say that I went down fighting and that my life had cost them dearly, but the truth is, all I managed to do was step on a goblin’s oversized green toe and kick him in the groin. Perhaps if that goblin had been the leader and screamed a little louder while doing the ridiculous dance that comes with that kind of pain, I might’ve maintained some dignity before an iron-tipped arrow, shot by another goblin, pierced my skull.

Shows you shouldn’t believe the rumors—goblins aren’t terrible archers after all.

But don’t waste your pity on me. I died instantly, painlessly, as darkness overwhelmed me—though not before I heard a soft, seductive, and incredibly ancient feminine voice, giggling.