That kiss was necessary… for medical reasons." I'll need to get that quickly"Her Skyler said as her fingers fumbled around before she pulled out a small bottle, then paused. "No… not this. I need the Llypkin solution."
She hesitated, then shook her head. "Wait—forget that. I'll need Neet Candies instead."
Elsie raised a brow. "Candy?" she asked, clearly confused. "What do you need candy for?"
Skyler looked up from where she was sorting herbs and gave a small nod. "It's not ordinary candy. It heals wounds, just… slowly. It works from inside. I've used it before. It's gentle, but effective."
Before anyone could respond, Tony let out a rough cough from his sleep. The sound echoed softly through the cave.
All three of them turned.
His eyes fluttered open for a second—tired, distant—then shut again. He didn't speak. Just that one glance, then nothing.
Elsie moved closer, heart thudding in her chest. Her eyes were wide with fear. She watched him for a long moment, hoping he'd move again. Say something. Anything.
But he didn't.
"What's going to happen to him?" she asked quietly, almost like she was afraid of the answer. Her voice trembled. "He's… he's my brother. I can't lose him."
No one had the answer.
The cave felt colder than before.
And as the silence settled again, the weight of it all pressed down on them.
"I'll help Skyler get her candies," Elsie said quickly, grabbing her small pack. She turned to Gabby, eyes pleading. "Please… do me a favor. Stay here. Take care of my brother."
She paused, her voice softening as her gaze flicked back to Tony. "Please," she repeated, almost in a whisper.
Gabby gave her a small nod. "I will," she said, her tone steady. "Go. And hurry."
Meanwhile, far across the plains, Z-12 stood deep in thought, staring at an aged scroll spread across his worktable. His eyes traced the elegant sketches and faded ink drawings of a mythical creature—one few had ever seen and lived to tell.
"Dragon…" he muttered. "Medesha the Dragon."
The name sent a chill through him.
This wasn't just any beast—it was said to possess powerful magical properties. Its breath was believed to carry a divine flame, and any sword passed through that breath became nearly unstoppable in battle.
Z-12 leaned in, reading more.
"It was used in the Great Conquest… by the warriors of Maghis," he whispered to himself. "No wonder so many feared them."
His mind began spinning. If even a trace of that power could be harnessed again… maybe they could save Tony. Maybe they could fight back against what was coming.
"A sword that doesn't need to strike twice..." Z-12 whispered to himself, eyes wide as he stared down at the ancient text.
He flipped another brittle page, his fingers trembling slightly. "Once it hits a person... no matter the treatment—herbs, potions, healing magic—they'll still die. It's certain death."
He paused, brows furrowed in thought. "Then how is anyone supposed to survive a wound from this blade? Is there even a way?" he muttered, thumbing quickly through more pages, desperation starting to creep into his tone.
His hands came to a sudden stop.
There, drawn along the edges of the page in aged ink, was an illustration of a sword—long, jagged at the hilt, glowing with an eerie light. The caption beneath it sent a shiver down his spine.
"Forged in ancient days. Tempered in the breath of Medesha the Dragon. Wielded by the bloodline of fire. This is the Oparsin Sword. None who stand before it remain standing."
Z-12 stared at the page in silence.
"This is it," he said. "The sword in the hands of the descendants. No creature… no man can survive its strike. It has slain thousands with a single blow."
He sat back, troubled, his thoughts racing.
"Honoured be the people of Maghis," the ancient scroll read, "who hold the sword in lineage and blood—an ancestry known only to them."
Z-12 ran a hand across the faded words, his breath catching slightly as he read on. What came next chilled him more than the history itself.
"The only known cure for one struck by the Oparsin Sword… is not medicine, nor spell, nor healing charm."
He leaned in closer, heart pounding.
"It is the blood—no, something more than blood—offered willingly by a living descendant of the Maghis. Only then can the curse be reversed."
Z-12 leaned back in disbelief, muttering under his breath. "That's impossible…"
He scribbled notes on the margins of his parchment, recalling what he'd learned from fragmented records.
The people of Maghis once ruled in a kingdom known as Abergdon—a proud and noble realm. Far to the west, the Bracadis had their lands, separated by the valley of Molab. In those days, the two nations lived under a fragile treaty, pledging to support each other in times of need.
The king of Abergdon, the Maghis ruler, was said to be gracious and welcoming, often receiving the leader of the Bracadis with open arms. But peace didn't last.
Z-12's pen slowed.
"They betrayed them…" he whispered.
Under cover of darkness, the Bracadis crept into Abergdon. They assassinated the king—struck him down in his sleep—and by morning, they had unleashed their forces, storming the realm in a surprise attack. The Maghis were wiped out. Burned. Scattered. Left with no heirs, no defenders.
"Almost all," Z-12 reminded himself. "But history said 'almost.'"
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"If a Maghis descendant is the only way to save Tony… then someone, somewhere, must still carry their blood."
The question now hovered like a storm over his mind, sharp and blinding.
"Who is the living descendant?"
The answer could change everything.