Bloodlike God

The Dragon's Care

The drive from the Orphis District to the hilltop where the Dravara Residence stood was like crossing into another reality. Through the tinted window, Roman watched as the maze of filthy, narrow alleys slowly widened into clean streets. The crumbling apartment buildings, with their laundry hanging like flags of defeat, were replaced by glass towers and grand villas hidden behind high, vine-covered walls.

The air outside seemed clearer here, as if even Valeria's toxic pollution didn't dare to cross into the territory of its most powerful people. Roman felt like he was rising from the murky bottom of the ocean toward a blindingly bright surface, and the pressure around him grew heavier with every yard they traveled.

Once inside the colossal gates of the Dravara estate, the car didn't stop at the grand main lobby. Instead, it glided smoothly to a side wing of the building, stopping in front of a more hidden and functional set of frosted glass double doors. This wasn't an entrance for guests; it was an entrance for private business, the place where the operational veins of the clan pulsed, far from the public eye.

"Follow me," Caelith said as the car door opened. Her voice was back to its commanding tone, leaving no room for argument.

Roman followed her into a brightly lit and sterile hallway, a sharp contrast to the dark grandeur he had imagined. There were no plush carpets or ancient paintings here. The walls were pure white, the floors were made of an anti-bacterial composite, and the air had the faint smell of antiseptic and ozone from humming electronic equipment.

A few staff members in white lab coats walked by with quick, quiet steps, nodding slightly at Caelith without slowing down. The place ran with the efficiency of a military hospital.

They entered a room that looked more like a high-tech private emergency room than part of a home. An automated medical bed, a multi-function heart monitor, and glass cabinets filled with expensive surgical tools and medicines lined the walls. This was a facility designed to handle gunshot wounds, knife stabs, and the various other injuries common in their line of work, far from the official records of the city's hospitals.

An old man with thin white hair and thick glasses was already waiting. He wore a clean white doctor's coat over an expensive shirt. His face showed a calm exhaustion and a professionalism that had been built over years of treating dangerous patients. He nodded respectfully at Caelith before turning his attention to Roman.

"Sit here," he said in a calm, reassuring voice, pointing to the medical bed. "Let's see the damage you've done to yourself."

Roman hesitated, his muscles tensing. Every instinct screamed at him not to let these people do anything to him, not to hand his fate over to a mob doctor's scalpel. But his shoulder was throbbing with a burning pain, and he knew he was losing a lot of blood. His thin shirt was already soaked and sticky.

Across the room, Caelith stood leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, her sharp eyes watching his every move. Her presence was both a guarantee and a threat. She was his protector, but also his captor.

Reluctantly, Roman finally sat on the edge of the bed and let the doctor carefully cut away the remains of his jacket and shirt from around the wound. The doctor cleaned the area with practiced efficiency, his experienced eyes narrowing as he examined the bullet's entry hole with a small magnifying glass.

"Interesting," the doctor muttered, mostly to himself. "The angle is clean. The bullet went through the deltoid muscle, but it seems to have missed the bone and any major arteries. The bleeding is also ... unnaturally controlled for a wound like this." He glanced at Roman over his glasses, his gaze now filled with a clinical curiosity. "The tissue around the wound is showing extremely rapid coagulation. You're very lucky, young man. Or you have one hell of a metabolism."

Roman said nothing. He just silently endured the pain as the doctor injected a local anesthetic, a cold sensation spreading beneath his hot skin. He focused his gaze on a spot on the ceiling, using all his willpower to control his body, refusing to give any reaction.

Through the whole procedure, Caelith never looked away. She watched the way Roman handled the pain without a sound, his jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tight. She saw that abnormal endurance up close, and it only deepened the mystery around this young man. He wasn't just some lucky street punk. There was something else in him, something hidden and possibly dangerous.

After the bullet was removed and the wound was stitched with a thin, almost invisible thread, the doctor wrapped Roman's shoulder with an advanced compression bandage that released a cooling gel.

"All done. You'll be sore for a few days. Avoid any heavy movement. I'll leave you with some broad-spectrum painkillers and the latest generation of antibiotics." He placed two small bottles on the side table. "Take them on schedule."

Just as the doctor finished, Ryker appeared in the doorway, his presence as quiet as ever, as if he could materialize from the shadows themselves. "Miss Caelith, Mr. Sareth is ready to see your guest now."

Caelith pushed herself off the wall, her observer mode ending. "I'll go with him."

"Mr. Sareth asked to speak with him alone first," Ryker said, respectful but firm. In the face of a direct order from her father, even Caelith's authority had its limits.

Caelith narrowed her eyes, clearly unhappy. But she understood the hierarchy. "Fine," she said finally. She walked over to Roman, who had now been given a clean, dark silk shirt by one of the medical staff. The shirt felt strange against his skin, too soft, too expensive. "My father is a very observant man. Answer his questions honestly, but don't give him more than he asks for." It was both advice and a warning.

Roman just nodded, and Caelith left the room, leaving him once again under Ryker’s watch.

The journey to Sareth's study was a completely different experience. Ryker led him out of the functional medical wing and into the opulent heart of the residence. Here, the hallways were lined with thick carpets that muffled every footstep. The walls were decorated with ancient paintings and marble statues that seemed to stare at him with empty eyes.

Every few feet, a niche displayed a rare artifact from around the world. This wasn't just a home; it was a monument to power, a private museum built on the profits of illegal business and the blood of enemies. Roman felt like every object around him screamed about how small and insignificant he was.

Finally, they arrived at a pair of double doors made of mahogany wood. Ryker knocked twice, gently, and a deep voice from inside answered, "Enter."

Ryker opened the door and motioned for Roman to go inside, before closing it behind him, leaving Roman alone with the dragon. The room was large, filled with the smell of old leather, polished wood, and the ozone from the rain outside. Sareth Veynark was not sitting behind his large, intimidating desk. Instead, he was standing by a wall-sized window, admiring the approaching thunderstorm over the glittering lights of Valeria Obscura.

"A beautiful storm," Sareth said without turning. His deep, charismatic voice filled the room. "A reminder that even in this city of steel and glass, nature still holds the ultimate power."

He turned, his sharp eyes looking Roman over with calm judgment. "The man who saved my daughter. The Dravara family owes you a debt."

He walked closer, his movements relaxed yet full of confidence. "Please, sit. I'm sure your shoulder is still sore."

Roman remained standing. "I'm fine."

Sareth smiled slightly. "Of course, you are. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here." He sat in one of the plush leather chairs. "I've heard the story from Caelith on the phone. Quite a heroic tale, I must admit. Now, the question is, what does a hero from Orphis want as his reward? Name your price. Money? An apartment outside the slums? A new life far away from Valeria? I am a generous man to those who help me."

This was a test. Roman knew it. Every answer would map him, categorize him, put a price tag on him.

"I don't want anything," Roman answered, his voice steady, looking Sareth straight in the eye. "I did what I thought was right."

Sareth let out a low chuckle, a deep and genuine sound filled with amusement. "A noble answer! And a very rare one. People usually come before me with a long list of desires." He leaned forward, his smile fading, replaced by a cold intensity. "But that answer creates a problem for me, Roman Valtérax. Because I don't like being in debt."

Sareth's gaze sharpened, as if piercing through Roman's defenses. "A talent like yours... your resilience... it's highly unusual. In my city, unusual and rare things have a way of attracting the wrong kind of attention. They tend to be owned... or destroyed."

He let the words hang in the tense air between them, a threat wrapped in a philosophical observation.

"Tell me, Roman Valtérax," Sareth continued, his voice now dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Which would you prefer?"