Chapter 29: Underhanded Intent

Rain-making and cloud-summoning—by the time Li Shaoying grew up in a pastoral family, it felt no different from magic performed by gods themselves.

Their herd was vast: cows, sheep, goats—all of them needed grass to survive. And grass? It needed rain. In scorching summers or dry autumns when no drop fell from the sky, the entire family would spend days dragging livestock across barren hillsides in search of green pastures. The journey drained both body and soul, and more often than not, animals got lost along the way. Worse still, without water, the grass withered. Cows starved. Sheep died. For a people whose lives depended on herding, this wasn’t just hardship—it was disaster. One bad season could mean no grain for winter, no clothes, no warmth. Some families didn’t make it through the cold months at all.

Cloud-summoning. Sky-dragon sorcery.

If he ever mastered such power, wouldn’t the whole village treat him like a living deity?

“Dragon magic includes summoning rain, calling snow, casting curses, even weaving illusions,” Segment Master Duan Lan said mid-flight, never missing a beat. “Each kind of dragon has its own unique gifts. Even siblings born of the same bloodline can develop entirely different abilities through growth and training.”

The wind howled past, sharp and biting—but her voice cut through it like a blade, clear and steady.

The other students listened intently. After hours of flat plains and endless skies, even the scenery had grown dull. But Duan Lan? She was endlessly fascinating—like watching a storm unfold in slow motion.

Dragons were divided into three great kinds:

Ancient Dragons.
Great Dragons.
Sky Dragons.

Ancient Dragons ruled the land. Massive, brutal, built like walking fortresses. They wielded ancient battle techniques, their bodies thick with muscle, jaws lined with jagged fangs, claws like steel hooks, hides as tough as stone. To Zhong Minglang, Blackfang’s lineage clearly leaned toward this type.

If only he could armor it in heavy plate… it’d be unstoppable.

Great Dragons were strong too—but they flew. With powerful fleshy wings, they soared through the clouds, battling in the sky or charging through mountain passes like living hurricanes. Luo Xiao’s Golden Flame Dragon was a prime example—a creature of fire magic, blazing hot and fierce.

But Sky Dragons? They weren’t the strongest in body. No. Their true strength lay in *sorcery*. Their arcane arts were so intricate, so deep, that even Great Dragons—masters of elemental destruction—couldn’t match them in mystical depth.

Duan Lan’s own Azure River Dragon was a pure-blooded Sky Dragon.

Still, most dragons in the world carried mixed bloodlines. A hybrid might inherit combat skills, magic, and sorcery all at once—or none of them. Pureblooded dragons? Ninety percent of them possessed their lineage’s signature ability. The other two powers? No amount of training could unlock them.

Bai Qi had once been a pure Sky Dragon. But after rebirth, Zhong Minglang sensed something had changed. The icy feathers covering its wings now looked less like natural plumage and more like crystallized magic—frozen spells given form.

…

Ronggu City nestled beneath a mountain stream. This year’s autumn had been unusually cold. The springhead froze early. The river, once a roaring torrent, now trickled like a thread of mist. No longer enough to irrigate the vast rice paddies or feed the sprawling grasslands.

The local rice matured later than anywhere else, thanks to the terrain and climate. But with no rain in a month, and the stream nearly dried up, what should have been a bountiful harvest now teetered on the edge of drought. Livestock suffered. Pastures turned brown. The city stood on the brink.

Above the old, dusty rooftops, six bird-like pseudo-dragons sliced through the air. One by one, they landed in the city’s heart.

A group of men in earth-toned robes rushed forward, bowing deeply—as if welcoming saviors.

“Honor to the two masters from Lichuan Academy!” The leader, a young man with a tight jaw and weary eyes, spoke.

“Mountains frozen solid. Streams dried up. As city lord, how could you fail to anticipate this?” Master Ke Bei snapped down from his mount. “Fifty miles east lies the front line—East Xuyu Fortress. Supplies are critical. If the Wutu riffraff breach the walls, do you think your head will stay on your shoulders?”

“I humbly accept your reprimand,” the young lord replied without flinching. “A month ago, I petitioned the Ancestor Dragon Confederation for a Rain Dragon. But few masters possess the skill of Ke Bei or Duan Lan. Requests were delayed… until finally, our plea reached Lichuan Academy. Please, Masters, and students—come, rest at my residence.”

“Given the urgency of the warfront, there’s no time for delays,” Ke Bei growled.

“It’s nearly nightfall,” the city lord warned. “Temperatures will plummet. The rain you summon tonight may freeze before it hits the ground—turning to frost. That’ll damage crops, kill tender grass.”

“Then we wait until tomorrow,” Duan Lan said calmly.

Ke Bei opened his mouth to argue—then shut it.

“Please.”

Inside the mansion, Ke Bei kept teaching even as they walked. His tone remained composed, but every word carried weight.

The noisy students instantly quieted. Seeing their instructor command such respect in public made them sit up straighter, eyes wide, ears pricked.

“This rain ritual will be demonstrated by Master Duan Lan’s Azure River Dragon,” Ke Bei announced. “Start early tomorrow morning. Don’t miss it.”

…

Night fell deepest. The eastern sky blazed with flickering crimson clouds—pulsing, glowing, painting Ronggu City in the golden light of a dying sun.

Fifty miles away, the battlefield loomed. Watching those towering red clouds, Zhong Minglang couldn’t help but think of a pale-faced man—and a massive, fire-scaled dragon.

“That guy… he’s stronger now,” Zhong muttered.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly who posed the greatest threat: the man with the Golden Flame Dragon.

Cold-blooded. Ruthless. Obsessed with Li Yunzi—so obsessed that he’d go mad to claim her.

Zhong Minglang’s secret identity was already slipping. Rumors spread fast—himself and the Lady fleeing the dungeon together. Anyone with half a brain could piece it together.

Luo Xiao would find him. And when he did… there’d be no second chance.

This was his first real enemy. Not to be underestimated.

“Zhong Minglang.”

A soft voice broke through his thoughts.

“Master Duan Lan,” Zhong said, bowing slightly, left hand resting on right forearm in proper deference.

“Tomorrow, near noon, I’ll call the rain,” she said. “But it won’t last. The irrigation system needs constant flow. So does the pasture. I want you to rise at dawn, walk upstream along the stream, and check for any blockages—anything cutting off the water.”

“Yes, Master.”

It was assistant work. But he accepted it without hesitation.

“And don’t go too far,” she added. “Deep woods harbor monsters. Return before the ritual begins.”

Zhong bowed again. Watched her leave.

…

Dawn crept in. Zhong woke to the lingering scent of smoldering incense—sweet, clean, clearing his mind.

As he sat up, he noticed something small and white curled beside his bed.

A tiny creature, flawless as fresh snow. Its slender tail wrapped around its delicate frame like a silken ribbon. It looked like a cat—graceful, poised, utterly serene.

Its fur gleamed under the dim light, perfectly smooth. With each breath, its icy feathers—crystalline, feathery—gave a faint shimmer, like coral stirred by a gentle tide.

A smile tugged at Zhong’s lips. He reached out, gently stroking the soft fur along its neck. The tufted ruff of snow-white fluff felt like silk against his fingers—pure bliss.

“Yuuu~” The little Ice-Drake purred, nudging its head into his palm.

“You’re awake. Perfect. Let’s go take a walk,” Zhong said.

“Mm!” The little dragon nodded eagerly, hopping onto his shoulder.

“You should’ve evolved by now,” Zhong mused, studying it. “Why are you still this small?”

Time-wise, Bai Qi should’ve entered its growth phase since waking. According to the books, its dual bloodlines meant a very short juvenile stage. But nothing had changed.

Maybe it just needed more time. Zhong wasn’t worried. Probably just tired of sleeping in the spirit realm—wanted to stretch its wings.

…

He fed it some flower nectar. Though it had bird-like wings and butterfly-soft membranes, its limbs were adorable—small, cat-like paws, soft and dainty. Its mouth wasn’t a beak, but rounded, gentle—like a fawn’s.

No jar would do. Zhong had to pour the nectar into his palm, then hold it close. The little dragon lazily extended its tongue, lapping up the sweet liquid like a deer drinking from a stream.

As they walked upstream, Zhong fed it slowly, keeping an eye on the fields near the riverbank. Sure enough, a thin layer of frost clung to the crops.

Deeper into the valley, the path grew steeper. Zhong moved fast—his body still stronger than most humans. Unlike some dragon riders, who collapsed without their beasts, he didn’t falter.

Climbing over the ridge, the sun finally broke through the trees. Warm light spilled across the pristine forest. Life stirred—birds called, deer darted through the underbrush, insects buzzed. The world woke up.