The Red Wolgan

Hera sat curled up in a large, worn chair, quietly turning the pages of a book about wolgans. Since she was a child, she had always been drawn to stories of legendary creatures—especially the wolgans, beings said to be half wolf and half dragon, surrounded by mystery and wonder.

As she grew, her love for them never waned. She became a painter, her days and nights spent sketching and painting wolgans, trying to bring them to life through her art.

The passage before her told a darker story:

“Endless war. Bloodshed without mercy. Death that came swiftly and without warning. The world was once consumed by fire and fangs, and the horrors of that time have never been forgotten.

The war between werewolves and dragons became one of the greatest tragedies in recent history.

For a hundred years, dragons rose against human lands. Many lives were lost. Countless people tried to escape but died at the claws of dragons, while werewolves fell in the midst of battle.

The war nearly destroyed the world. But in its darkest hour, a savior appeared—Magnus Conri, a dragon-wolf hybrid. No one knew where he came from or who he truly was, but he defeated the dragons and brought an end to the war. His origins remain unknown, yet the world owes him its peace.”

Hera read the passage again and again, her eyes stopping at one name—

Magnus Conri

.

Every time she whispered it, something stirred deep in her chest. It was a strange feeling, like remembering something she had never known. It wasn’t just a story to her—it felt… personal.

For a brief moment, an unfamiliar image flickered in her mind—fire, a pair of glowing eyes, and a voice she could not fully remember.

She closed the book and stood up. A neighbor had told her that a newcomer had recently arrived in town—a man who collected wolgan sculptures. Curious and excited, she decided to visit him right away.

“No war should ever happen again.”

Darth clenched his jaw as memories of past battles filled his mind. He had once fought to protect humanity, facing powerful enemies without fear. In the middle of it all, he saved a girl named Hiree and entrusted her with something precious—the Vermilion Stone.

But she never returned.

It became his greatest regret.

Without the stone, he could not return to the sacred Cruxia Cave, where his lineage awaited him. Though people knew him as Darth, his true identity was Magnus Conri—the dragon-wolf hybrid who once ended the great war, now living quietly in the mortal world.

He raised his sword, letting the sunlight reflect off its blade. It had become his habit—training both his body and his control over the power within him.

“You won’t defeat anything by holding your sword like that.”

Darth turned and saw his master, Amoux, watching him.

“I’m not planning to fight anymore, Master,” Darth said, lowering his sword. “I’m just practicing for my student.”

Amoux smirked. “I know. I just wanted to bother you.”

Darth let out a small chuckle.

“So, how is the search for the Vermilion Stone?” Amoux asked.

“Still nothing,” Darth replied. “I’m thinking of giving up soon.”

Even as he said it, he knew he wouldn’t.

Amoux looked at him calmly. “There is no such thing as too late, Your Highness. In a world that chases results, be the one who understands patience.”

Darth gave a faint smile. “Do you think I will find her again? It has been two hundred years.”

“Perhaps,” Amoux said. “But the Vermilion Stone does not simply fade. It may have taken another form… or found its way into a new soul.”

Darth said nothing for a moment, though something in his chest tightened at those words—like a distant memory trying to resurface.

He shook his head slightly. “You sound like Master Xenon.”

Amoux laughed. “Well, he is my father.”

They walked together through the garden before parting ways.

“The guards will bring the weapons for your lessons soon,” Amoux added. “Keep me informed.”

“I will.”

After Amoux left, Darth sat alone on the porch, deep in thought. As he looked at the blooming flowers, a sudden noise caught his attention.

He stood and made his way to the backyard— then stopped.

A hooded figure stood near the fence.

For a second, the air felt different—too still, too heavy—as if something unseen had shifted the moment she appeared.

“Who are you?” Darth asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “This is my residence. How did you get in?”

The woman stepped back slightly. “Please… I mean no harm.”

She removed her hood.

Darth froze.

She was striking—fair skin, emerald eyes—and for a moment, he lost his words. Something about her felt strangely familiar.

Not just familiar—known. Like a face he had seen in another lifetime.

A faint, almost forgotten warmth stirred in his chest, followed by a sharp ache he could not explain.

“I’m sorry,” she said nervously. “I heard you were new in town. I just wanted to… observe.”

“Observe what?” he asked, his tone firm, though his gaze lingered longer than it should.

“You,” she admitted. “And I heard you have dragon-wolf sculptures. May I see them?”

“No,” he said calmly. “You are trespassing. Leave now.”

But she stepped closer.

Her fingers brushed lightly against his hand.

The moment their skin touched— something shifted.

A sudden rush of warmth, quick and unfamiliar, passed between them, like a memory trying to awaken.

Darth’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

“Please,” she said softly. “If you let me see them, I will show you my paintings too.”

“My paintings?” he repeated, slightly intrigued—yet distracted by the lingering sensation on his hand.

She nodded. “I have always loved painting dragon-wolves.”

There was something sincere in her voice.

And something else—something that made it difficult for him to look away.

“I’m Hera,” she added, offering her hand. “I am a painter.”

For a moment, Darth considered taking it. But instead, he pulled back.

“Come back tomorrow,” he said instead. “And do not enter my residence without permission again, or you will be banned. Understood?”

Hera nodded, a small smile forming on her lips. “Yes! What should I call you?”

He turned away, though he could still feel her presence behind him.

“Darth Lancelot.”

“Thank you, Darth! See you tomorrow!” she called out. “By the way… where is the gate?”

“At the north side,” he replied without looking back. “Now go.”

As he walked away, his thoughts became restless.

That feeling— it would not leave.

Why had his chest tightened the moment he saw her?

Why did her touch feel… familiar?

And why, despite himself, did a single thought linger in his mind— have we met before?