The first signs of winter were showing themselves. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of raw earth, and snowflakes began to dance, twirling gracefully like tiny, ethereal ballerinas as they descended from the steel-gray sky.
Yet, this nascent calm was a stark contrast to the destruction that lay beneath. It was the morning after the cataclysm.
The mighty cavern that once housed Kutbike and Küntigin was now a desolate, collapsed maw, its entrance choked with massive, fractured rock.
Near the cave, where Alaz's inferno had raged, the earth was scarred by vast, blackened swaths of incinerated trees, their skeletal remains reaching like clawed hands towards the heavens. The stench of burnt wood and ozone still clung to the frigid air.
But the devastation didn't end there. In other places, Ayaz's chilling touch had left its mark; the ground was frozen solid, coated in a crystalline glaze of ice that sparkled menacingly in the weak light. Patches of shattered ice shards lay scattered, sharp and unforgiving.
And amidst this landscape of dual destruction, lay the grim remnants of the battle. The bodies of the fallen invaders, victims of Karasungur's surprise counter-attack, were strewn across the frozen and scorched earth like discarded ragdolls.
Some were charred beyond recognition by the black flame, others frozen solid, their final expressions of terror preserved in distorted ice. The snow, beginning to settle, tried in vain to offer a shroud, but it only highlighted the stillness of death that had claimed the battlefield.
Küntigin lay naked as snow slowly covered him, and he narrowed his eyes at the new day.
At first, he didn't notice anything different. He stretched his legs and tried to stand, but failed. Somehow, his body felt utterly unfamiliar, as if his very essence had been poured into a mold that wasn't quite his own.
His limbs seemed too thin, his form too small, and the familiar weight of his draconic scales was utterly absent, replaced by an unnerving lightness.
As he examined himself, a painful headache drove him to the brink of madness. He screamed as if his skin were being peeled alive, the sound echoing throughout the desolate, war-torn landscape, a raw cry of anguish that tore through the frigid morning air.
Memories unknown to his being poured into his head like a raging river, threatening to drown his very sense of self.
Places he hadn't even visited, faces he hadn't known, words foreign to him—all surged through his mind, a chaotic torrent of experiences that were not his own. He saw flickering images of human lives, felt echoes of mundane emotions, and heard whispers of forgotten conversations.
He buried his head into the snow, his hands crawling against his will, writhing in agony. He tried to use his aura to lessen the pain, but to no avail; his agony only grew more immense the moment he attempted to summon it. His heart felt like it was being torn by a myriad of invisible knives.
Then, just as suddenly as it came, the headache vanished. But for Küntigin, that moment of torment had felt like an eternity, a searing ordeal more agonizing than any experience he had ever known.
After the pain's assault ended, his eyes were blood-red. Blood had poured from his seven orifices, painting the pristine snow crimson around him.
He was lost, utterly unable to clarify if he was Küntigin or Berilalp, the dying mage he had merged with. The agonizing torrent of memories had momentarily subsided, leaving behind a jarring mosaic of two lives.
His bloody lips parted, a rasping whisper escaping. "Who... who am I?"
The answer wasn't a voice from outside, but a sudden, vivid surge from Berilalp's past. A memory, raw and clear, of a distant moment. A loving voice—his father's, or maybe an elder's—echoed in his nascent consciousness: 'Your name will be Berilalp... May Tengri bless you with the wisdom of Mergen.' It was a fragment of a life, a moment of identity that now violently asserted itself within him.
"No!" Küntigin's raw voice rasped, the sound alien to his own ears. "I am a dragon! I am Küntigin! Son of Kutbike!"
More fragments of Berilalp's life assaulted him—magic practice, mundane joys, bitter disappointments. He experienced Berilalp's childhood fears, his teenage ambitions, his first love, the simple rhythms of his daily life.
He relived the quiet frustrations of an aging apprentice, a man in his late sixties, whose hands, though capable, never quite grasped the true heights of magic.
He saw the world through Berilalp's eyes, not as a tapestry of grand adventures, but as a series of small, hard-won battles. Berilalp, stuck at the fourth level—Akım, forever a practitioner of limited skill, burdened by a lack of raw talent and, perhaps more tragically, a lack of unwavering resolve.
He felt the raw thrill of that pivotal moment when Berilalp first truly wielded mana, not as a clumsy beginner, but with instinctive power. A blinding flash of pure light erupted from his hands, not only revealing his elemental affinity but also filling him with a sense of purpose he hadn't known was missing.
Then came Yasemin. He felt the blossoming warmth of her hand in his, the soft curve of her smile, the gentle rhythm of her laughter that chased away shadows.
He relived the quiet, intimate moments: shared meals under starlit skies, hushed conversations that stretched into dawn, the profound comfort of her mere presence. Their love story, a lifetime of shared smiles and tender whispers, culminated in their marriage.
And then, the crushing, unbearable weight of loss. He felt Berilalp's world crumble as Yasemin's light faded. The raw, silent sobs, the empty ache in his chest, the endless nights spent staring at the vast expanse of the night sky above his tent, seeking solace among the distant stars, as if pleading with Tengri himself to ease his unbearable grief, haunted by a ghost of a smile.
This profound grief, a love lost, intertwined with Küntigin's own aching memories of Kutbike, creating a symphony of unbearable sorrow within his fragmented soul.
In the desperate twilight of his life, with his magic stagnated and his heart heavy with loneliness, Berilalp had joined this raid not for glory or power, but for a faint flicker of hope.
Perhaps, in the chaos and danger, he might find something that would rekindle his lost ambition, a chance to rise above his mundane existence.
Instead, he met Karasungur's unexpected counter-attack. The black flames tore through him, inflicting grievous wounds, leaving him broken and bleeding on the frozen ground, teetering on the precipice of death.
As life drained from his body, his vision blurred. He saw a colossal white form collapsing nearby, a dragon, shattered and bleeding like himself.
And then, a soft, warm light began to emanate from the dragon, drawing closer. In his final moments, as the light enveloped him and the dragon's vast form came crashing down, Berilalp felt his own fading spirit embrace the light, a profound sense of peace washing over him as his consciousness dissolved, finally free from the burdens of his life, finding solace in the unexpected union.
Küntigin screamed again, a guttural sound that was neither entirely human nor entirely dragon, a terrifying symphony of fractured identities. The world spun, threatening to drag him back into the agonizing darkness.
As he drowned in Berilalp's memories, a more powerful and familiar voice echoed in his head.
It was his mother, Kutbike's voice—her last words to him. He didn't notice the change yet, as he listened to her. As her voice resonated, all of Berilalp's memories were forcefully pushed away.
As Küntigin came to his senses, he found a moment of peace. Then, remembering all of yesterday's horrors, a sorrowful cry began to tear from his throat.
As he listened to his mother's echoing words, he subconsciously began to turn back to dragon.
Under blinding lights, his form began to shift. His white, pristine scales erupted across his skin, covering his human limbs. From his back, magnificent wings unfurled, and his two emerald-like dark green horns spiraled upwards.
And somehow, after merging with the mage, all his injuries were healed; even his one broken horn was now fully grown back, and two newly grown limbs transformed into powerful forelimbs, ending in clawed hands, unlike any other dragon.
His mother's voice, though fading, delivered her final, desperate instructions. "...Küntigin now is not the time to mourn for me. You must find your father, Karasungur, as fast as possible. I have already transferred a map into you where he might be... but don't go where your father went last time because there might be a problem that obstructed him from coming back."
Then, a final, heart-wrenching whisper that shattered his fragile peace. "My sweet Küntigin... my child... I love you more than words can say. Don't blame yourself for this. Live... live for both of us. Live for Tengri... My love..." Her voice dissolved into the icy wind, leaving only the crushing silence of her absence.
Her words, like an anchor, solidified his fractured sense of self. They were a beacon, guiding him back from the encroaching chaos of Berilalp's past, firmly rooting him in who he was: Küntigin.
With a guttural roar of pure anguish, Küntigin collapsed to the snow-covered ground, his massive new body trembling with overwhelming grief. Tears, hot and scalding, streamed from his draconic eyes, melting the snow beneath him.
"Mother!" he bellowed, the sound tearing through the desolate silence. "No! How could you… how could you leave me?! Why, Mother?! Why did you sacrifice yourself for me?! I… I can't... I can't do this alone!"
He lifted his head, his raw, red eyes blazing towards the sky. "Tengri! Why?! Why take her from me?!" His chest heaved with each agonizing sob, the weight of his mother's sacrifice and his sudden, crushing loneliness pressing down on him like a mountain.
Amidst Küntigin's bellow, a woodpecker was watching him from the far top of a beech tree with curious eyes.
As Küntigin scrambled to his feet and roared towards the sky, a blinding light erupted from his maw, piercing the grim dawn.
Simultaneously, the very beech tree where the woodpecker perched began to stir. Its ancient branches, heavy with snow, trembled and shifted, as if responding to a call deep within the earth.
The shift wasn't merely the tree responding to magic; it was the magic itself, a deep, resonant force stirring from within its gnarled trunk. A moment later, the bark began to peel and crack, not in decay, but in a living transformation.
From the heart of the ancient beech, a figure slowly emerged—a man whose hair was a wild, tangled mess, the color of rich, dark earth. His skin, deeply furrowed with wrinkles like the bark of an old tree, held the same muted brown hues of a tree trunk. His eyes, though ancient and sharp with unreadable wisdom, held a distinct flicker of annoyance, clearly disturbed by Küntigin's frantic anguish.
This was Bilge Tonyukuk, and on his shoulder, his woodpecker companion, landed with a soft flutter, its curious gaze now fixed on Küntigin.