There was a time when Drakonia was a continent suspended between sky and abyss, shaped by the fire of the first winged serpents and the wisdom of the dragon goddess who watched over life’s cycles. It was a land of balance: the heavens preserved light, the underworld recycled darkness, and between them, mortals drew the present with the strength of virtues.

It was in that era that Drakonia’s rulers were born: Celia, the queen with crystal-gray eyes, and Kael’Tharan, the king whose roar was heard even in the ash mountains. They ruled with justice and passion, safeguarding the Seven Virtues that sustained the world’s heart. But when the rivers turned purple and the water became poison, the winds brought silence instead of song. The sky, once pulsing with vitality, had grown murky. The purple water had invaded the land.

Some said it came from the stars. Others claimed it sprang from time’s dead roots. But the kings knew more. One day, without announcing it to the people or the council, they departed in search of truth—and never returned.

Drako was young when he witnessed his parents vanish. He was made of gold and fire, but a shadow dwelled in his gaze. He grew among elders and the echoes of an empty court, hearing fragmented legends, dreaming of the muffled screams that the purple water had buried. When dreams turned into visions, he realized he could wait no more. Mounted on his own wings, he descended into the island’s heart—and there his journey began.

He traveled every corner of Drakonia: the fields where sun-following flowers once bloomed, now turned into wet, scentless mud; the temples where monks once chanted virtues, now silent and cracked. At the ancestral waterfall, he heard voices for the first time—not carried on the wind, but born from somewhere beneath all roots.

Drako was too young to understand, but old enough to feel absence like a blade. The golden son—the last of the solar dragon line—grew surrounded by shadows trying to shield him from the truth. Nobody spoke of Kael’Tharan, the king who roared for justice. Nobody mentioned Celia, the queen who dreamed of gardens in the sky. But their names were in every breath of the mountains, every moss-covered statue. When he reached his fiery maturity, Drako embarked—not for glory, but for longing. Not for vengeance, but for truth.

The first revelation came not from Rose’s libraries—the dragon librarian who read launching words like projectiles—but from the waters of the first corrupted spring. When he touched the purple liquid, he felt no pain—only a calling.

At first, he searched for signs.

On the eastern cliff falls, he found purple stains dripping with unusual density—and there, for the first time, he heard the legend of the Soaked Cave. Guided by intuition, he entered the liquid darkness. There, the purple water was alive: it whispered, it pulsed, as if holding its own memory. When he emerged, his eyes had changed. He could now see traces of corruption in the air.

He headed north to the Ice Ring, the region where frozen mountains held ancient secrets. There, the purple water did not flow—it solidified into translucent, dangerous cubes. Inside one, he saw a dragon bone. When he touched it, he glimpsed an ancient battlefield frozen in time and morality.

From the cold, he journeyed south to the lava mountains. There, the purple water evaporated into gas, moving like spirit—almost like a living serpent. Following its trail, he arrived at the living border between desert and forest, a transitional region where sands turned to roots before his eyes. There, between mutation and waiting, the poison revealed itself.

In that in-between place, he discovered the Forgotten Garden—once his mother’s home. Trees entwined with thorns, black flowers murmuring like shadows. Upon touching one, he realized it was a warning. The flowers didn’t bloom for no reason—they pointed. And all pointed to the same place.

Following the path of the flowers, he returned to where his journey began: the corrupted waters. But now he understood: this was not the end, but the entrance.

In the center of the purple lake, red light vibrated from the underworld. And in its reflection, something called to him. He stepped in.

Thus he reached the Underworld. Guided by Charon, the dragon ferryman, he crossed the river separating the living from the undead. There, in the icy breath of the void, he saw the impossible: Kael’Tharan’s reflection—but not as a father, but as the demon forged by the Underworld. He was now called Vortigorn.

In the place where time flows backward and light is memory, Drako confronted the void and the truth. In the damp, dark walls of the Underworld, he discovered the first answer: to leave, he must die. Let go of ego and entrust himself to fate, with the virtue of the complete dragon. He would walk the Path of the Seven Virtues—not as heir, but as apprentice.

And so began Drako’s true journey.

First Portal: The Submerged Cave of Wisdom
Here he was challenged to understand without seeing, to learn by listening to the murmurs of mute fish. He encountered the memory of his fragile, distorted childhood and learned that wisdom isn’t what’s stored—but what’s heard in silence.

Second Portal: The Ice Ring of Strength
A battlefield echoing with his ancestors’ endless conflict. Drako didn’t defeat them—he embraced them. Strength, he learned, is accepting one’s limits without breaking.

Third Portal: The Temple of Fire and Justice
Walls wrapped in flames and banners burned by wind. He witnessed ghosts debating laws and vengeance and learned that true justice chooses neither side—but perceives both.

Fourth Portal: The Desert-Garden
Here he waited. And waited. And waited. Until a flower sprouted at his feet, and the desert smiled. He learned patience.

Fifth Portal: The Black Garden of Compassion
Flowers lied. They had eyes. The trees wept. Drako reached out to his attacker, suffered wounds to save a poisoned creature. He learned compassion is choosing to be hurt so another doesn’t bleed.

Sixth Portal: The Underworld’s Dark Core
There he found his father. Vortigorn, no longer king, but monstrous and corrupted by purple water—with eyes of hatred and a cracked voice. Drako did not destroy him. He remembered him, spoke his name, recited his story. His father wept, dissolving in fire and tears. Drako left the Underworld not as a prisoner, but as the Heart of Courage.

Seventh Portal: The Sky and the Machine
Enshrouded in colossal clouds, he beheld the Machine—cold, merciless, feeding on newborn souls to sustain the old in false immortality. It was the source of the purple water, pain, and imbalance.

And there he learned the final truth: his mother hovered there, an ethereal spirit suspended between the living world and oblivion. The dragon goddess Lythariel had abandoned the sky to seek the Seven Crown Jewels, for only with them could the cycle be healed. Aurikon, the sun god and Lythariel’s lover, awaited her, apathetic to the heavens' woes.

Drako descended once more.

Returning to the damp valley where purple water ran densest, he realized it held memory—not just poison. The soaked vegetation concealed a submerged opening, veiled by moss and hanging roots, as though the island itself tried to forget.

Crossing the icy water, he entered the Soaked Cave. Inside, in absolute silence, everything pulsed. The living rock vibrated in his companion’s hands. When he touched it, he saw not his own reflection—but his mother’s. Celia smiled, surrounded by dragon-children in a garden of black flowers. When he reached for the image, it shattered like glass.

The jewel was not visible. Wisdom is not given—it is heard. Drako closed his eyes. The cave walls began to whisper ancient words, fragments of prayers, forgotten names. He listened—presence was required, not comprehension.

When he reopened his eyes, the water was calm. Beneath, a pale blue light trembled. He dove—and there, in perfect silence, awaited the Jewel of Wisdom. When he touched it, he heard only one phrase:
“Memory does not serve the past. It serves choice.”

The lava mountains overhead looked like a sleeping beast’s back. In their deepest fissure, where even heat hesitated, lay a jewel on a scepter, worshipped by Eye cultists. There, ancient rites were performed—not all survived.

Drako descended the scalding walls to the cavern entrance. It pulsed with heat; thick gases danced like spirits. In the center, dragons formed a circle, chanting ancient words and stamping the ground.

Xar’thul emerged from the shadows—a dragon of flesh, metal, and suffering, with a spinning mechanical eye probing his bones.
“You came for the jewel? Give something of your own first,” it demanded.

Drako stepped forward. Fire cannot be conquered by force—it must be offered. He plucked a fragment of his scale—a token of lineage—and cast it into the circle. The circle glowed. The Eye calmed.
“Only one who wounds by choice understands sacrifice’s value,” Xar’thul said—and dissolved into heat.

They reached the library cavern’s entrance, overgrown with vines and silence. Crossing the threshold, Drako saw floating shelves, self-arranging books, and words writing themselves in the air—the realm of Rose, guardian of the word, who read like firing projectiles.
“What you seek is already written,” she told him, “but it’s yours to find what’s missing.”

Drako climbed paper stairs. Every book he touched revealed memories—his childhood with Celia, the last flight with Kael’Tharan, forgotten battles—but all tales ended before his parents disappeared. In the center, near Rose, he found a single book in his hands: untitled, authorless, sealed with a jewel. He opened it. The pages were blank. There, he wrote: “They left. But they left no void.” The jewel detached, translucent and trembling with memory.

On an island slope, a grotto carved by divine hands housed Lythariel, the dragon goddess… and the cave’s jewel. Drako felt he was not alone—echoes of his own desires surrounded him, whispers of power, voices urging: “Bring back your parents now. Seize the jewel. Use it. Change everything.” But he remained silent.

In the goddess’s hands lay the coveted jewel. Free will’s jewel is not taken—it is declined. By refusing immediate power, Drako received it.

In the heart of the central mountains—like the world’s womb—lay the greatest cave: the Emerald Cave. Drako entered through moss-covered fissures. The ground pulsed beneath his claws, as if breathing. Translucent plants hung from the ceiling, the air was sweet and dense—almost hallucinogenic. In the center, on a flower-shaped stone, sat the guardian: an immense blue dragon, eyes closed, wearing VR goggles.
“You see flowers,” he said, “but they see you too.”
The cave simulated the outside world—distorted. Perfect and overly ordered—a false paradise. Drako, disoriented, almost lost himself. But from the guardian’s virtuality sprang the green, living, true jewel.
“Healing is not denying pain,” said the blue dragon, removing the goggles. “It’s acknowledging it.”

Then he ventured into the Underworld again, where ancient bones still whispered. Apep slept, and Charon awaited his moment. Inside, Drako saw alternate pasts—versions of himself who had given up, who had dominated, who had been corrupted. He saw Kael’Tharan in a thousand roles: king, assassin, martyr. In the center pulsed the jewel—alive. Drako touched it, and his heart was warmed by the power of his own fear.

Angelina, the weapon of the skies, awaited Drako’s arrival at the highest cloud. Armor and light formed her body, her gaze was one of judgment and tenderness. “Last jewel,” she said. “Last chance. What do you wish?” Drako did not answer. The jewel appeared. Because a promise is not a shouted wish—it is a burning silence.

With all seven gathered, the Crown was reborn—and harmony returned to Drakonia. The Machine ceased forever. The poison ended. Waters cleared. The sky shone. The Underworld fell silent.

Angelina, the angelic dragon, welcomed Drako to her cloud and granted his greatest desire: his parents—not as ghosts, nor mere legend—but in new bodies. Alive. Restored. With eyes that still remembered and hands that still knew how to love. Alongside them, in the cave of final treasure, were thousands of redeemed voices and a new promise that Drakonia would never forget—because someone would always remember:

Drako. The Last Golden Dragon.
The First King of Memory and Immortality.