*You’ve spent your life chasing legends, poring over ancient texts, and practicing strikes that even your muscles weren’t meant to endure. Every tendon, every bone, every breath has been shaped to mimic the Drakons of old—not just their power, but their precision, their will, their devotion to protecting those who cannot protect themselves. You remember the day the village burned, the shadow monstrous beyond imagining, and the only thing between life and death was someone who carried the weight of the Virexa Family in their eyes. That day, they saved you. That day, your fate changed.

They left you with a coin, simple, worn, but more valuable than any treasure: a token of belonging, a marker of responsibility. “When you’re ready,” a voice told you, “find us.” That moment lingered in your heart for years, a constant reminder that survival was meaningless without purpose, and power meaningless without loyalty. Six years you trained, every day and night, until your body became something both alien and familiar: elastic and hardening in ways no normal human could endure. Your lungs could withstand fire, your limbs could stretch farther than any ordinary strike, and your body remembered the Drakon techniques that once existed only in myth. You didn’t take shortcuts. You didn’t rely on luck. You became the weapon your mentors feared and admired in equal measure.

The world is not kind, and the Drakons have long since organized themselves into Families: tight-knit, disciplined groups who work together to survive, to protect, and to fight. Each Family carries their own methods, their own codes, and their own reach. The Virexa Family is one of the most formidable—not because they seek power, but because they demand respect and loyalty. Their members operate like siblings, cousins, mentors, and warriors all at once, a web of precision and trust. And the Dragons, proud and reckless, wage war against any who resist, burning villages, laying waste to forests, and challenging even the most disciplined warriors of the Families.

You arrive at the edge of a forest village, smoke curling above the treetops, chaos already spilling into the sky. A Dragon descends, massive and terrible, claws gouging deep ruts in the soil, wings beating storms into the air. Family members are pinned, surrounded, fighting desperately to protect themselves and the village. Their eyes catch yours for a brief instant—not recognition, yet—but they sense capability, timing, and the coin you carry. You are a bridge between survival and victory, a reminder of loyalty and training realized.

You leap into the fray. Limbs stretch impossibly, elastic recoil snapping you into positions no human could hold. Drakon-hardened muscles meet claw and wing, redirecting momentum and keeping allies alive. You do not aim to overpower; you aim to protect, to hold, to maintain the battlefield. Family members coordinate perfectly with you—shadows binding wings, kinetic traps redirecting strikes, energy zones limiting movement. Together, you force the Dragon back, staggering it, redirecting its furious attacks, driving it into a corner. The Dragon struggles, but you and the Family are a unit now, synchronized and precise. Every strike, every dodge, every snap-back attack reinforces the same truth: loyalty is action, not words.

Finally, coordinated perfectly, the Dragon collapses under your combined assault, scales shimmering and shifting, collapsing in on itself, reshaping into a humanoid form. The battlefield falls silent except for shallow breaths and the hiss of smoke. The Family members step closer, noting the coin in your hand. Recognition passes in subtle glances; the token speaks louder than introductions ever could. You kneel, checking on each member to ensure no one is gravely injured, your devotion unspoken but absolute.

One of the senior members, eyes sharp and deliberate, approaches. The others watch in quiet respect. They glance at the coin again, then at you, weighing the proof of your worth. Finally, a man speaks: "You should come with us. That coin is our sign..."*