Chapter 21: A Suitor?

**"ROAR!!!"**

The growing Greenwood Wyrm opened its massive maw, and the breath that roared out could rip objects from their places like leaves in a storm. Bai Qi, still small and delicate, felt as fragile as a sparrow caught in a hurricane.

The Greenwood Wyrm took a step forward—its charge powerful enough to shatter a stone wall with ease, and fast enough to keep pace with the wind itself.

This time, it wouldn’t give Icechime White Dragon a chance to gather power.

Icechime’s wings unfurled like butterfly wings, lifting it effortlessly into the air. One gentle push of its limbs, and its slender, snow-white body soared higher, dancing above the fray.

At the same instant, the Greenwood Wyrm lunged upward, jaws snapping shut—aiming straight for the white dragon.

But just as it launched itself, the emerald vines sprouting all around its body twisted and coiled, forming a monstrous, gaping maw that sealed off every escape route. Icechime was trapped—either ensnared by the glowing tendrils or devoured whole.

With a flick of its tail, Icechime darted sideways—then, in a flash, its speed surged forward like a blade cutting through silence.

Wings flared. The icy filaments along its wingtips scattered like frost-laced sparks, carried on rising currents—and slammed into the advancing vines.

The vines had been fierce, wild, ready to bind. But as the ice shards struck, they froze instantly, crystallizing mid-swing into rigid, glittering spikes suspended in the air.

Bai Qi shot through the frozen web, evading the trap—escaping the Green Wyrm’s deadly ambush.

“Watch out for poison!” Zhu Minglang’s voice cut through the chaos.

He’d noticed it earlier—the venom sacs blooming beneath the wyrm’s scales during its evolution. This wasn’t just a beast of vines. It was a predator laced with poison.

Bai Qi had overlooked that danger. Lucky for it, Zhu Minglang had seen it in time—giving it just enough warning to prepare.

Icechime spun backward, its secondary wings vibrating at lightning speed. From them poured a storm of magical frost—crystalline mist that swirled and solidified midair, forming a dazzling ice barrier.

The shield spread wide—a sweeping fan of shimmering blue, like the tail feathers of an ice peacock. When the toxic spray came, part of it splashed against the barrier and shattered into vapor.

The acid ate into the stone walls and wooden desks. Rock and floor held up well—just a few scorched marks. But the furniture? Gone in seconds. Rotting, crumbling, dissolving. A single drop on human skin would burn right through flesh and bone.

Icechime stood unharmed behind the shield. But the Greenwood Wyrm wasn’t done.

It crashed through the vines, tore through the ice wall like paper, and swung its clawed paw—wrapped in venomous tendrils—straight at the white dragon.

The ceiling was high, but not high enough. The space was too tight for full flight. And the wyrm’s control over the battlefield was becoming overwhelming. Vines slithered across the floor, crawled up the walls, snaked across the ceiling—all tipped with poisonous thorns. In moments, the entire hall was choked with writhing green life.

Icechime danced through the chaos, weaving between attacks with acrobatic grace—but its room to maneuver was shrinking fast. Twice, it barely dodged claws meant to tear it apart.

“Fly out,” Zhu Minglang called. “Don’t fight it here.”

This cramped space was no place for a creature of agility. He regretted it now—this battle should’ve been fought in open terrain.

Too late.

The vines had already sealed off all four balconies. If Bai Qi tried to flee, it would walk straight into a trap.

Now, at the growth stage, the Greenwood Wyrm was no longer just a brute. It wielded forest magic—sprouting endless vines that tightened like a living net. For something quick and nimble, it was a death sentence.

Finally, Icechime was cornered.

The wyrm charged, claws slashing from both sides, vines descending from above, jaws wide open—ready to crush or devour.

One bite like that, and even a dragon of Bai Qi’s size would be dead—or broken beyond repair.

Zhu Minglang clenched his jaw. His palm turned toward Bai Qi. A sigil flared to life in his hand—a portal between soul and spirit. If the wyrm touched Bai Qi, he’d pull it back into the spirit realm.

But the sigil was more than a summoning gate—it was a shield. A sacrifice.

When the enemy’s attack hit the sigil, the shockwave rebounded onto the master’s soul.

And soul wounds? They hurt ten times, a hundred times worse than physical pain. Healing was slow. Sometimes impossible.

A force strong enough could kill the master outright.

…

Icechime hovered motionless, wings still, as if resigned to fate. No way out. No hope.

But behind it, its slender tail—once soft and delicate—had grown stiff, almost armored.

*Swish!*

Just as Zhu Minglang braced himself for the cost, Bai Qi’s elegant tail lashed out—transforming into a lethal dragon stinger.

In one explosive motion, the tail snapped forward, joints locking in perfect coordination. So fast, it left a ghostly afterimage—a needle-thin streak of light.

The stinger pierced the Greenwood Wyrm’s eye.

The attack broke the wyrm’s momentum. Its lunge faltered. Icechime slipped past, spinning away like smoke.

*Boom!!!*

The wyrm slammed into the stone wall. The classroom trembled. Chunks of plaster rained down like sand.

Students screamed, scrambling to the back corners.

*Whoo-oo… whoo-oo…*

Blood poured from the wyrm’s eye. At first, it was just pain. Then the agony spread—through its skull, down its spine, flooding every nerve.

Even a beast of fury collapsed, writhing in helpless torment.

Zhu Minglang stared.

The wyrm lay broken, screaming.

And Icechime landed again—on top of the wyrm’s head.

Nan Ye froze.

It was as if the stinger had pierced *him*.

Pain wracked his body. He trembled.

Defeated.

Again.

A matured Greenwood Wyrm—so close to the Dragon Gate, a true dragon in the making—defeated by a mere *miscellaneous spirit*?

“What… what kind of dragon is *that*?” Nan Ye roared, furious, humiliated.

Zhu Minglang stood silent.

Not because he wanted to look mysterious. Not because he was playing cool.

Because he was stunned.

A hatchling.

Strictly speaking—Bai Qi was still a newborn dragon.

And yet… it had just beaten a half-grown dragon.

Even Zhu Minglang couldn’t help asking: *What kind of dragon is this?!*

All living beings passed through four key stages:

Hatchling, Growth, Maturity, and Perfection.

Each stage brought a transformation—evolution.

Power doubled. Body changed. New abilities awakened.

Bai Qi’s current strength? It was nearing the first tier of true dragons—Dragonling level.

But most true dragons didn’t reach that level until adulthood.

Like Nan Ye’s own Greenwood Wyrm—only matured into a Dragonling.

And Bai Qi? Still in the hatchling phase.

Yet it had already surpassed that.

With three more evolutions ahead—each one a leap in power—what level could it reach?

Dragon General?

Dragon Lord?

Maybe… Dragon Sovereign?

“That’s an Icechime White Dragon,” a calm, graceful voice rang from the doorway.

Zhu Minglang hadn’t even known she was there.

But now he saw her.

The daughter of the waterfall serpent—she who had saved him and Xiao Heiya.

Was she… a student here?

“Teacher Duan Lan.”

“Good morning, Teacher Duan Lan.”

The students bowed respectfully. Their reverence for her was clear.

Zhu Minglang’s mouth dropped.

*Teacher?*

A woman so beautiful, so serene, so powerful?

It made sense now. How could someone raised by a waterfall serpent be just another student struggling at the Dragon Gate?

“Your performance was impressive,” Duan Lan said, scanning the ruined classroom with mild indifference. “Back to your seats.”

She didn’t care about the mess.

“Sister Lan…” Nan Ye still fumed. “My Greenwood Wyrm’s eye…”

“Use this,” she said, handing him a vial of glowing ointment. “It’ll heal quickly. You should be grateful—it could have pierced straight through the eye. That would’ve been fatal.”

No blindness?

Nan Ye hurried to apply the salve to the wyrm’s bleeding socket. Only then did he realize—the wound was near the corner. Not the pupil.

Still, without treatment, the infection would spread. The eye would die.

“All back to your seats,” Duan Lan continued, already turning to the chalkboard. “Today’s lesson: Bloodlines. Dragons fall into three great lineages—Ancient Dragons, Great Dragons, and Sky Dragons.”

She didn’t wait for them to settle. She began teaching.

Most students were still dazed from the battle. But respect kept them quiet. They straightened chairs, sat properly.

Their eyes, though—now fixed on Zhu Minglang—were different.

Especially Hong Hao, Li Shaoying, and those who shared his dorm.

“Ancient Dragons wield combat techniques. Great Dragons cast spells. Sky Dragons master mystic arts,” Duan Lan explained, as if she’d been listening outside the door the whole time.

“Take Nan Ye’s Greenwood Wyrm. It’s a textbook Great Dragon. Those emerald vines? That’s Green Forest Magic.”