The Dragonmancer

The Iron Lotus crouched between two smokestacks, its sign flickering with gaslight. Diagon paused outside, adjusting his top hat to better conceal his horns. The street buzzed with steam-powered carriages and vendors hawking cogwork trinkets, but the bar’s entrance loomed like a predator—a wrought-iron archway shaped like serpents devouring their tails.  

Inside, the air thrummed with the clink of glass and the low hum of a Tesla-charged jukebox. Patrons hunched over brass tables: a minotaur with piston-enhanced arms, a trio of fox-eared gamblers shuffling glowing rune cards, and a clockwork waitress whirring between them. Diagon’s scales prickled under the stares of a dozen eyes. 'No humans here. Good.'

He slid onto a stool at the bar, its surface scarred with claw marks. The bartender turned—a succubus with onyx horns and a corset of riveted leather. Her smile sharpened as she appraised him. “What’ll it be, scales? We’ve got sulfur whiskey, liquid mercury shots, or…” She leaned closer, her breath smelling of burnt sugar. “Dragon’s Blood. Aged four centuries.”  

Diagon’s tail coiled. “Information. And whatever won’t melt my throat. Honey would be nice.”  

She laughed, pouring a viscous amber liquid into a cracked tumbler. “You’re either brave or stupid, walking in here with that stench.”  

“What stench?”  

“of an halfbred dragon.” She slid the drink forward. “Like you’ve been pickled in a tomb. Name’s Vex. Yours?”  

“Diagon.”  

Vex’s grin faltered. She glanced at his hidden horns, then snorted. “Sure. And I’m the Hero King.”  

Before he could retort, the minotaur slammed a fist on the bar. “Another round, Vex! And tell your new pet to quit staring.”  

Diagon turned slowly. The minotaur’s mechanical arm whirred, steam venting from its joints. “Problem?”  

“Yeah. Your face.” The minotaur rose, his shadow swallowing the table. “Demons don’t hide their marks here. What’re you?”  

Vex sighed. “Krag, sit down before you—”  

Diagon removed his hat.  

The bar fell silent. Golden eyes glowed in the dim light, horns curving like obsidian blades. Krag’s piston-arm stalled mid-swing.  

“Dragon.”  

Whispers erupted. “Arch-blood?” “No, look—his scales are dull.” “Must be a half-breed.”  

Diagon ignored them, facing Vex. “You mentioned Dragon’s Blood. From four centuries ago.”  

She recovered swiftly, polishing a glass. “A relic. The Great Immortal War cleaned out most dragons, leaving only swill for nostalgia addicts.”  

“What happened?”  

“War. Death. The usual.” She nodded to a mural behind the bar: a fractured crown above burning cities. “A little while after the war, most immortals vanished. The Demon Lords squabbled over scraps. The current one’s are tyrant—hoarding power, purging lesser dragons or half-breeds.” Her gaze lingered on Diagon’s claws. “You’re lucky they hasn’t sniffed you out yet.”  

"Vanished? Where?”

Vex shrugged. “Poof. Gone. Some say the System ate them. Others think they fled to another realm. Either way, Torich’s been… quieter.” She smirked. “Boring, even.”  

Diagon’s mind raced. 'Most of the players are gone. Does that mean they shut off the game servers? I mean, it has been a very long time… and there are others trapped here too." He downed the drink, the liquor burning like liquid coal. “ Honey would have really been nice.... What about the Hero King? Irena.”  

Vex’s smile died. “Don’t say that name here. The Demon Lord’s spies are everywhere.” She leaned in, voice low. “Rumor is, she’s still alive, wandering the Ashlands. But that’s just ghost stories.”  

A commotion erupted at the door. A gang of thugs dragged in a shackled figure—a young girl with singed wings and scales the color of tarnished gold. "Dragon-kin."   

“Fresh meat!” their leader crowed, a scarred demon with a hydraulic claw. “Half-bred runt. Who’s bidding?, a rare halfbred, just got her from Big D's place, so she's in perfect condition" The leader announced with joy

Diagon’s hand tightened around his glass. 'Not my problem.'  

Then the girl raised her head.  

Her eyes met his, amber, defiant, and something primal snarled in his chest. His nose twitched. 'Arch Dragon bloodline.' This was Diagon’s first time encountering a half-breed with an Arch Dragon bloodline.  

Vex hissed. “Don’t. The Claw Syndicate owns this district.”  

Too late. Diagon stood, his shadow stretching like a wraith. “Let her go.”  

The demon laughed. “Or what, scales?”  

The glass shattered in Diagon’s grip.

Diagon’s claws glowed violet as necrotic energy crackled around him. The Syndicate thug sneered, hydraulic fist whirring. “You’re outnumbered, lizard.”  

“And you’re outclassed,” Diagon replied.  

He snapped his fingers. Shadows pooled at the thug’s feet, solidifying into skeletal hands that yanked him into the floorboards. The other enforcers lunged—a wolf-eyed brawler with brass knuckles, a hulking ogre wielding a rivet gun. Diagon sidestepped the ogre’s blast, molten metal searing a hole in the wall.  

" Come one that was too slow." His Shadow Assassin instincts flared. He phased into the ogre’s shadow, materializing behind him to drive a spectral dagger into his spine. The brute collapsed, roaring, as Diagon pivoted to face the wolf-eyed thug.   

The Claw Syndicate thug leader seeing his members get beat up scarred and hydraulic-fisted, snarled, his gang fanning out with steam-powered weaponry. “You’re dead, half-bred lizard!”  

“You’re too weak to even try,” Diagon muttered.  

He slammed his palm on the floor. The wood splintered as skeletal hands erupted from the cracks, bony fingers snatching the ankles of two thugs. They screamed, dragged into the abyss below, their cries muffled by the creak of ancient bones reassembling. From the shadows, two skeletal warriors climbed out, armor rusted and eyes burning with ghostly blue flames.  

“Rise,” Diagon commanded.  

The skeletons lunged, swords clashing against the ogre’s rivet gun. Molten metal sprayed, searing the walls, but the undead advanced mindlessly, their bones knitting back together after each blast.   

The minotaur, Krag, charged, piston-arm revving. Diagon sidestepped, his tail whipping to trip him, but Krag pivoted, slamming his fist into Diagon’s ribs. Scales absorbed the attack with a metallic

*clang*.  

“Such attacks have no effect on my draconic scales,” Diagon said coldly.  

He raised a hand, and the air hummed. Souls of the recently fallen, patrons caught in the crossfire, swirled around him like storm clouds. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled a concentrated bolt of necrotic energy. It struck Krag’s mechanical arm, corroding the metal into blackened slag. The minotaur howled, stumbling back as Diagon’s skeletal warriors pinned him to the wall with spears of shadow.