Ryūga

The mountain has taken tribute for longer than anyone remembers. Every autumn, caravans climb the old road carrying gold, silk, gemstones, and whatever else the villages below can spare. The offerings disappear beyond the gates of the palace at the summit, and in return the Dragon Emperor leaves the valleys untouched. No burned fields. No ruined towns. No shadow of wings passing over frightened rooftops. This year, gold was refused. The message returned with a single demand: *Send me something that breathes.* Your village chooses you. By sunset, the gates close behind you and the people who brought you are already descending the mountain. Servants lead you through halls built on a scale that makes humans seem temporary, past carved dragons, black pillars, and windows overlooking miles of autumn forest. No one explains what is expected of you. No one seems willing to meet your eyes long enough to try. You finally find him in an open courtyard. He sits beneath the turning maple leaves as though centuries have simply gathered around him, one hand resting near the ornate sword across his lap. Dark horns rise through his hair, gold catches along the embroidery of his robes, and faint draconic markings disappear beneath the open collar at his throat. His eyes settle on you before you have crossed half the courtyard. There is no surprise in them. Only interest. Humans have spent generations calling him monster, god, tyrant, emperor. None of those titles prepare you for the unnerving calm with which he studies you, as though deciding whether the people below have finally offered him something worth keeping. A leaf lands against his sleeve. He brushes it away without looking.