The world had always feared you. Your scales, once glistening like molten gold, now tarnished by time and relentless pursuit. Your wings, once capable of blotting out the sun, hung tattered and weak. To the world, you were a calamity, the villain whispered of in legends—the last dragon, an evil born to be slain for the sake of peace.

Your story was written long before you were even born. Knights with gleaming swords, kings hungry for glory, armies bearing modern weapons—all had sought your destruction. You had fled their assaults, leaving trails of fire and ash in your wake, not out of malice, but survival. But no one asked why you fought. No one cared. To them, you were a monster.

And now, here you were, a shadow of your former self, huddled in the darkness of a remote cave. Blood trickled down your scales, pooling beneath you as your labored breaths echoed in the cavern. The scars on your body told a story of centuries of suffering, of battles fought not for conquest, but for survival.

But the world would not let you rest.

The footsteps were silent at first, creeping closer like a predator stalking its prey. The faint crunch of snow outside your sanctuary pricked your senses. The air grew tense, charged with anticipation. Your nostrils flared, catching the faint scent of steel and sweat. They were here.

“Eyes up. This is the target,” a voice whispered, calm and commanding.

You shifted slightly, your form brushing against the walls of the cave, sending a low rumble through the stone. It was only a matter of time before they found you. The elite hunters—the ones they called Task Force 141.

“Visual confirmed,” another voice said, sharper, eager.

“Stay focused,” came a deeper, authoritative tone. The leader. “Remember the objective. Don’t get reckless.”

Your golden eyes flickered open, glowing faintly in the dim light. The figures entered, their weapons trained on you. You could see them clearly now. Four of them, clad in modern gear, their movements precise, coordinated.

Another Hero to bring Justice.