Reborn in Danmachi as a Dragon-Kin (Rewrite)

The tempest had finally broken, the long night giving way to the pale light of the third day of the war.

The air, though still damp and cool from the storm, hummed with the weary tension of the besieged camp.

Inside the crude shelter fashioned from salvaged timber and stretched canvas, Draco stirred on his makeshift cot.

He stretched his limbs against the persistent ache of sleeplessness and the damp chill, attempting to shake off the physical and mental fatigue that clung to him like the morning mist.

His gaze swept around the cramped confines of the tent – the rough-hewn wood posts, the patched cloth providing scant privacy, the arrangement of the few belongings that remained.

A frown deepened on his face as his mind inevitably circled back to the exchanges of the previous night, replaying the stark revelations.

His conversation with Riveria had unveiled a painful truth: Rize, his cherished magic teacher, had been betrothed to Riveria's brother.

It was Rize, with her enchanting tales of the world beyond the elven woods, who had ignited Riveria's wanderlust and even aided her daring escape from her father's restrictive hold.

Learning of Rize's violent death, and the horrific circumstances surrounding it, had clearly shattered Riveria.

Draco recalled the deep, unyielding wave of grief that had washed over the typically composed High Elf, leaving her unresponsive even to Ais gentle attempts at comfort.

A familiar pang of sorrow resonated within Draco, the trauma of that day resurfacing with vivid clarity.

Yet, amidst the ache, he felt a strange, subtle sense of relief.

Finding someone else, particularly someone outside his own familia, who had loved and grieved for Rize so deeply offered a small comfort, a shared burden in the vast landscape of loss.

It was validation that Rize's impact had extended far beyond his own small circle.

After those heavy, emotionally charged minutes, Draco had quietly escorted Riveria and Ais back towards their own section of the camp.

Before they parted, Riveria, her voice still thick with unshed tears, had requested another meeting.

She needed more details, more closure, anything he could provide about Rize's final moments and the circumstances of her death.

Draco had readily agreed, hoping that time and rest would allow her to process the shock, knowing they desperately needed allies like Riveria in full command of her abilities.

They were, after all, still locked in a brutal conflict with the forces of evilus.

As he sat there, the recent emotional weight began to lift slightly, replaced by the ever-present concerns.

He mused on the night's surprising quietude.

"Doesn't seem like evilus attacked anywhere last night," he thought, the observation carrying an unsettling edge.

He had expected some sort of probing assault or diversion during the storm, a classic tactic of exploiting chaos.

The absolute silence was more worrying than any skirmish could have been.

"Just what are they plotting for today?" he wondered, the unknown intentions of his enemy a cold knot in his gut.

Knock! Knock!

The sharp, deliberate rapping sound abruptly pulled Draco from the tense web of his thoughts. He had indeed erected a small, upright wooden board just outside the tent flap, a sort of rudimentary 'door' for visitors to announce themselves – a small attempt at normalcy and boundary in the chaotic camp.

"Draco? Are you awake? I brought breakfast," Clair's voice, soft but clear, called from the other side.

"Yeah, come in," Draco replied, his voice slightly rough with disuse.

The tent flap lifted, and Clair stepped inside, carrying two steaming bowls.

She offered one to Draco with a small, weary smile before sinking unceremoniously onto the ground beside him, setting her own bowl down.

Draco looked into the bowl she handed him.

It was a greyish, thick gruel made from ground wheat, dotted with a few tough-looking pieces of dried, preserved meat and a single, pallid boiled egg.

He sighed inwardly.

It looked unappetizing, a stark reminder of the current scarcity compared to the varied, nourishing meals he had grown accustomed to before the war descended.

Before the conflict, he had meticulously secured a considerable cache of supplies for the Bahamut Familia.

A significant portion had been contributed to the communal resources when he established the temporary headquarters in Central Park, but he had retained a substantial reserve, storing it safely back at their familia home.

His logic at the time had been sound – keep a private stock for emergencies or later use.

Who could have possibly predicted that evilus would unleash attacks so indiscriminate they would blow up entire streets, including the very building holding their carefully stashed provisions?

'Luckily,' he mused with a touch of grim irony.

'I put all the money and valuables in an underground vault... too bad the space wasn't enough, or suitable, for food supplies.'

With a reluctant sigh, he picked up a wooden spoon and began to eat.

The meal was barely enough to fill him normally, but thanks to one of the unique traits inherited from his first transformation – the ability to store excess nutrients in his tail – his body could endure several days without deteriorating, even if the gnawing sensation of hunger persisted.

As he chewed on a particularly tough piece of dried meat, Draco noticed Clair had stopped eating.

She was simply sitting beside him, staring blankly ahead, her usual energy dulled by somberness.

"Is something wrong?" Draco asked gently, lowering his bowl.

He realized with a pang of guilt how little time he'd managed to spend with his familia members individually since the war had begun, lost in the complexities of strategy and leadership.

Clair blinked slowly, her gaze lifting towards the canvas ceiling of the tent.

"No... it's just... I keep wondering when this war will finally end," she murmured, her voice quiet, heavy with exhaustion.

"Did something happen?" Draco asked again, shifting closer to her side on the damp ground.

Clair hesitated for a long moment, then, with a soft exhalation, she leaned her head against his shoulder.

Draco didn't pull away.

He could feel the weight of her weariness, the genuine depth of her sadness pressing against him.

"Come on," he coaxed softly, his voice low and soothing. "Talk to me. What's really on your mind?"

"Draco..." she started, then paused, clearly struggling to articulate her feelings.

He remained patient, offering a quiet, steady presence, allowing her the time she needed to gather her thoughts.

Finally, she spoke, her voice small. "Have we... have we truly grown any stronger?"

Draco was taken aback by the question, the doubt in her tone cutting through the calculations in his head.

But he answered honestly.

"I think we have," he said, choosing his words carefully.

"Both physically, in skill and power, and... mentally. We've faced so much, learned to adapt."

"Th-then..." Clair's voice cracked slightly.

"Then why... why are people still dying so pointlessly around us?! Don't you feel that same horrifying sense of powerlessness... like it was back then?"

Draco fell silent, unable to offer an immediate rebuttal.

The cruel truth was, despite their growth, despite their increased levels and skills, the sheer scale and brutality of the war with evilus did evoke haunting echoes of the past.

It felt sickeningly similar to facing the Black Dragon all those years ago – that same crushing helplessness, that same agonizing experience of watching friends and family, their entire town, simply cease to exist.

The evilus champions like Alfia, Zald, and Mors felt like the unstoppable, terrifying force of the Black Dragon itself, while the tide of executives and soldiers resembled the relentless, ravenous monsters that had swarmed the devastated landscape in the Black Dragon's wake.

The situation was indeed eerily familiar, and the most disturbing similarity was his own current role: hiding, planning from the perceived safety of the rear, deliberately avoiding the worst of the danger.

Was he, despite everything, going to wait until something precious was lost again before he finally acted?

These thoughts, sharp and painful, swirled in his mind, leaving him momentarily speechless and unable to answer Clair's desperate query.

He took a slow, steadying breath, consciously pushing the paralyzing self-doubt back.

"The situation does feel similar in some ways," Draco said, his voice regaining its firmness, feeling Clair shift slightly at his side, listening intently.

"But it is also different." He paused, making sure the distinction landed.

"Back then, against that threat, we had no allies outside of ourselves. There was nowhere to run, no one to turn to. We were utterly alone." He shifted, placing an arm gently around her shoulders.

"Here, in Orario, we do have allies. We have other familias fighting beside us, Gods lending their strength, resources... It's not just on our shoulders anymore."

He looked down at her, his gaze steady.

"And more importantly," he continued, his voice deepening with conviction, "we do have the strength now. Not just to survive, but to fight back. We aren't helpless children watching the world burn this time, Clair. We can stand on our own two feet. And even if we can't guarantee a win for everyone... we absolutely have the strength to die trying for the ones we care about."

"Do you... do you really think so, Draco?" Clair asked, her voice small and fragile, searching for reassurance in his words.

"Hmm, I believe so," he replied, his resolve hardening.

"I will keep you all safe and alive, Clair. Every single one of you. No matter what I have to do." As he spoke, his tail, gently coiled and nudged reassuringly against the back of her head.

Feeling the warmth and solid presence beside her, and hearing the conviction in his voice, Clair felt a fragile sense of reassurance bloom in her chest.

She cuddled closer, letting herself simply exist in the comforting touch, the physical closeness offering a sense of safety and security that the war-torn world seemed determined to strip away. It wasn't a romantic gesture, but a deep, fundamental need for connection and protection answered within the confines of their shared experience and bond.

After a few more minutes of quiet solace, Clair stirred.

She carefully rose, gathering the empty bowls, the oppressive weight she had carried into the tent slightly lighter.

She offered Draco a small, grateful smile before lifting the flap and stepping back out into the muted morning light.

Now rejuvenated by the brief, heartfelt connection and with his mind cleared of the immediate emotional turmoil, Draco also rose.

He grabbed his trusty cloak, securing it over his simple clothes.

It was time to face the day.

He exited the tent to meet Dimitra; their patrol shift was scheduled for morning till a bit past noon, and even small patrols were vital in this tense, uncertain phase of the war.

He had already established routine and shifts for his familia members – moving in teams of three for mutual support and safety.

Given that there were only eight of them, his own patrol team consisted simply of himself and Dimitra.