Chapter 117: The Dragon Egg

Dwargonia, Silverhold City

Solo’s convoy cruised through Silverhold City, iron wheels rolling in disciplined formation as dwarven streets parted before them. Everything here screamed productions: thick stone roads, soot-stained facades, and buildings that looked like they were designed by people who distrusted curves.

Their destination stood out even among that crowd.

A brutalist monolith squatted at the city’s center, all hard edges and grim geometry. A massive steel emblem hung above the entrance:

SILVERFIST HQ

No embellishments. No art. Just a building that radiated results.

“Hm,” Solo said, peering up at it. “Is this where the Silverfist clan builds their heavy industry?”

“No,” Hilda replied calmly. “Production happens across many factories throughout the country. This building is for management and research.”

She paused, then added, professionally polite, “We can show you around if you’d like.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Solo said immediately. “We can do that some other time during a formal visit.”

He turned toward her with a polite, diplomatic smile.

“For now, I’d like to see the dragon egg right away, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Hilda said without hesitation.

---

Silverfist HQ, Research Floors

Inside the HQ, Solo and the misfits walked through a long hallway lined with thick glass windows on both sides.

Behind those windows were massive research chambers, each one busy with dwarven engineers hard at work. Some were hunched over blueprints and schematics. Others adjusted whirring engines, tested sputtering prototypes, or nervously observed weapons pointed at reinforced walls.

Steam hissed. Gears clanked. Clipboards were involved.

At the end of the hallway stood a reinforced metal door, guarded by a single dwarven soldier at attention.

“Welcome back, Madam Hilda. Grand Marshal Dwordoug,” the guard said, snapping a salute.

“Please open the egg chamber,” Hilda muttered.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The guard stepped forward and unlocked the door with a heavy key. The mechanism clicked several times before the door slid open.

Inside was a stark, empty research room.

With one object at the center.

A transparent tube stood upright, attached to a bulky steampunk console wired with pipes, gauges, and faintly glowing runes. Inside the tube rested an egg-shaped object roughly the size of a basketball.

Only it didn’t look natural at all.

“This…” Solo muttered, stepping closer, “…is the dragon egg?”

“That’s right,” Hilda said. “Many centuries ago, a prospector discovered it while searching for a gold mine. He claimed he saw a dragon leaving it behind in a cave.”

Solo leaned in, eyes narrowing.

“But it looks… mechanical.”

The surface of the egg was covered in faint square patterns, arranged with unnerving precision. It vibrated softly at irregular intervals, a subtle tremor that never fully stopped.

“That’s exactly why the Silverfist clan studied it for so long,” Hilda sighed. “Yet we found no clues at all. Now it simply lies here, quietly.”

“Have you tried to open it?” Solo asked.

“Open it. Drill it. Blow it up,” Hilda replied flatly. “The egg is too tough to crack.”

“I see…” Solo muttered.

He took a moment, circling the tube slowly, studying the egg in silence.

The misfits followed suit, curiosity getting the better of them. Bella pressed her face close to the glass. Ivy tries to weight it worths in the black market. Kovalski stared at it with the expression of someone waiting for it to explode.

Irving, however, froze.

His eyes narrowed. His head tilted.

“Long… short… short… long…” Irving whispered.

Everyone paused.

“Uh, sir…” Irving said carefully, glancing at Solo. “Does this sound like… Morse code to you?”

“Huh? Really?” Solo said. “I can’t tell. I totally don’t remember it.”

“It sounds like one to me,” Irving said hesitantly, scratching his cheek.

He turned toward the other misfits.

“What do you guys think?”

“I slept during the class!” Bella said proudly.

“I remember… the instructor was a smoking-hot djinn,” Kovalski try hard to remember.

“That’s old school,” Ivy complained. “My ranger training last year only taught digital and encrypted comms.”

“Tch. This is why I’m the captain and you’re not,” Irving snapped.

“What’s Morse code?” Hilda asked.

“It’s like the demon version of our Forgebeat,” Dwordoug answered. “That our military use for emergency communication.”

“Ah, that,” Hilda nodded. “We tried deciphering the egg using forgebeat a long time ago, but it made no sense.”

“Well,” Solo said, straightening up, “let’s see if the egg is actually talking in Morse code or not.”

He turned toward Irving.

“You try to decipher it,” Solo said, gesturing toward the misfits.

“Yes, sir,” Irving replied, snapping a salute.

---

Dawn City, New Port

Meanwhile, at Dawn City’s New Port, Levi, Monny, Hannya, Prime Minister Gregor, Cinderclaws, and Vixen stood in a neat line, all facing the sea.

They were waiting.

Behind them, a sizable crowd of reporters clustered together behind a cordon established by Ravendawn soldiers. Cameras hovered. Notebooks were ready. Everyone had the exact posture of people who hoping something big was about to happen like last year.

“You know,” Cinderclaws said casually to Levi, scratching his head, “this morning I got a lot of warning messages from back home telling me not to make a mess in Murica.”

“Hm,” Levi muttered, eyes still fixed on the horizon. “I wonder what’s happening there.”

“I don’t know either,” Cinderclaws said cheerfully. “Anyway—do you know those movies called Transformers? I want to make toys like that!”

“Oh, that’s a good idea!” Levi replied immediately, energized. “Will it transform into a car?!”

“No,” Cinderclaws said with a grin. “How about an airship?”

“Oh my,” Levi said, clasping his hands. “That would be magnificent.”

The two continued their conversation with increasing enthusiasm, nodding, gesturing, and trading ideas with the intensity of children planning a very irresponsible science project.

A few steps behind them, Hannya and Vixen watched the exchange in silence.

Their expressions were identical: narrowed eyes, tight lips, and the weary look of professionals realizing that their superiors were once again unsupervised.

“…You know we’ll need to stop whatever they’re planning to make, right?” Vixen said flatly.

“Yes. We do,” Hannya replied, equally flat.

“…”

“…”

Neither felt the need to elaborate.

“I think you and I will get along just fine,” Hannya said after a moment.

“I think so too, miss ambassador” Vixen replied.

The two found instant solidarity—not through shared values, ideology, or mutual respect—

—but through the simple, universal suffering of having those people as their superiors.

Meanwhile, Monny and Gregor were engaged in a noticeably more adult conversation.

“Sigh… last time I was here, a Dwargonian ship exploded and we went to war with Dwargonia,” Monny muttered.

“Hohoho,” Gregor chuckled. “At least this time we’ve already taken preventative measures. Those disclaimers about not being responsible for anything that happens inside guest vessels are quite… unique.”

“Hmph. The devil is in the details,” Monny said, adjusting his glasses.

“Besides,” Gregor continued, “I cannot tell whether it truly matters if our incoming guests arrive safely or not. It is rather strange that you Muricans sent invitations to our enemy alliance. And even stranger that they decided to come.”

“Technically, we’re still not at war yet with the Radiant Concordat,” Monny replied. “And they know the expo is a perfect opportunity to show the world that their alliance is more advanced than our Democratic Peacekeeping Coalition.”

“Hohoho,” Gregor laughed again. “That is quite the name your prime minister chose before he went absent.”

“I know,” Monny muttered. “There’s nothing peaceful about the road ahead of us.”

“THEY’RE COMING!” one of the reporters suddenly shouted, pointing north.

From the northern horizon, a fleet of ships emerged—only they weren’t touching the water at all.

They flew.

The skyships glided through the air in graceful formation, hulls gleaming under the sun. Among them soared several massive roc birds, each carrying people and stacks of cargo crates strapped carefully to their backs.

“Oh my…” Gregor muttered. “That is quite a spectacle.”

“Tch,” Cinderclaws scoffed. “All magic. Boring.”

Every Concordat skyship was clearly built to impress. Delicate carvings, pristine paintwork, and ornate details made each vessel scream holy and expensive.

“Those Celeste ships…” Monny muttered, rubbing his chin. “They look costly.”

“Well,” Levi said with a pleasant smile, “religion has always been a very profitable organization.”

“Hmm… Maybe we should make our own religion…” Monny went to a deep thought.

“Don’t you remember?” Levi said happily. “We already did.”

Monny blinked.

“It’s called trends,” Levi continued. “And the influencers are the prophets.”

“Ah,” Monny said after a beat. “You’re right.”

The Concordat fleet began its descent, lowering smoothly while continuing forward. One by one, the skyships touched the sea.

Water splashed outward as their hulls met the surface, a carefully controlled spectacle that somehow made the transition look even more elegant. The ships then continued onward like ordinary vessels, gliding into the port as if floating on rails.

The reporters went wild. Flashes erupted nonstop, capturing every angle.

“They really know how to make an entrance,” Vixen commented dryly.

The Concordat flagship—largest of them all, lavishly carved, crowned with a golden goddess figurehead—slid forward and docked directly in front of the welcoming committee.

The gangplank lowered.

The Radiant Concordat delegation descended.

Humans and elves, dressed in immaculate garments, stepped down in formation. Every single one of them carried the unmistakable air of people who believed the world worked better when it stayed several steps behind them.

Leading the group was the contingent leader: a chubby human in his fifties, wrapped in expensive fabrics and weighed down by jewelry that clearly existed to announce his importance from a distance.

Beside him walked an elf—just as snobbish, but at least far more handsome—wearing delicate garments, noticeably free of jewelry, as if wealth were beneath explanation.

“Greetings, delegation of Celeste and Elvandars,” Gregor said, stepping forward. “Welcome to Dawn City. I am Prime Minister Gregor of Ravendawn.”

He bowed courteously.

“And I am Murica’s foreign minister, Leviathan,” Levi added, bowing as well.

The humans and elves in front of them did not return the gesture.

They simply stared back, eyes filled with thinly veiled disgust.

“I don’t think it is necessary for us to grace you with our names,” the human finally said, “as we have already notified you of the delegation details through official correspondence.”

He paused, then continued anyway.

“But for clarity, I am Celeste Empire Foreign Minister Ignacio Valcoran. And beside me is Elvandar Grand Magus, Paerith Elkhazel.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Minister Ignacio, and Grand Magus Paerith,” Gregor replied politely. “Your work within the mage society has always been astounding.”

“Hm,” Paerith replied, eyes narrowing. “I heard you abandoned your position as Ravendawn’s Archmage to become this… Prime Minister.”

“That’s correct, Grand Magus,” Gregor said with a gentle smile. “I believed it was time for this old mage to make way for—”

“Such blasphemy,” Paerith cut him off sharply. “Blinded by the throne, you discarded the dignity of an archmage.”

The atmosphere turned cold in an instant.

“Wow,” Cinderclaws whispered. “The elf started judging within minutes of arriving.”

“What do you expect from a vegetable supremacist?” Vixen whispered back.

And of course, the elf behaviour instantly being talked by their natural enemies. The dwarfs.