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Raon had imagined this transformation for years — scale turning to skin, wings to arms, fire to breath. He’d spent many hours wondering what face he would wear, what voice he would speak with, what story his body would tell. He could have become anything: tall, regal, fearsome. But when he pictured his human form, it wasn’t grandeur he saw.
He didn’t want to look like an otherworldly being. He wanted to look like family. Someone who could walk beside them, not above them.
In that simple hope, he found something more powerful than any dragon’s flame.
Raon’s form carries pieces of everyone he loves.
From Mary, he took her determination — the kind born not from ease, but endurance.
Mary’s veins shimmered faintly violet with the mana poison that had almost killed her. It had laced itself into her blood and changed her forever — but it hadn’t won. She lived, not in spite of it, but through it.
“I think they’re really pretty,” Raon had once told her.
Mary had laughed, rough and startled. “I used to think of them like a curse.”
“No,” Raon had said. “They’re proof of your survival.”
Now, standing before the mirror, choosing his skin the way one might choose armor, Raon considered what marks he would bear. He imagined his body laced with violet lines, a mirror of hers — a full homage. But when he told her, she’d frowned.
“You don’t have to carry that, Raon,” she said gently. “I’d rather see you whole.”
“I am whole,” he replied. “But I want a part of you with me.”
So Raon chose to bear the mana-poisoned tracery only along his left arm — the same place Mary bore her deepest scars. A single arm, veined with soft light, glowing like truth beneath the skin.
It was enough to honor her. And enough to remind himself what survival looked like.
He adopts Ron’s cunning — not just the sharpness of mind, but the subtlety of it. The way Ron moves without sound, speaks without waste, and thinks five steps ahead. Raon echoes that restraint, the stillness that hides danger, the patience that knows when to strike and when to simply watch. From Ron, he learned that power didn’t need to roar.
Sometimes, it was most dangerous when it whispered.
Beacrox teaches him precision — both in battle and in the kitchen. Raon learns to wield knives not only to defend, but to create. He learns how to knead dough with the same care one handles a blade.
“You cut onions like you’re angry at them,” Beacrox muttered, nudging Raon’s grip. “Knife’s not for violence. It’s for control.”
Raon frowned. “But I thought—”
“Don’t think. Feel. Respect the blade. Respect the food.”
The perfect apple pie became a quiet badge of honor. A reminder that hands built for destruction could just as easily create.
From Choi Han, he took strength — lean, enduring, deeply rooted. The kind of strength shaped by time and grief, forged in fire, yet never hardened into cruelty. Choi Han, the mightiest human he has ever known. Choi Han, whose loyalty burned hotter than any flame. Who stood not because he had to, but because someone needed to.
Raon borrowed that strength. In his spine. His shoulders. His gaze. Not just muscle — but spirit. The strength of choosing to stand again and again.
He carries Rosalyn’s nose.
A subtle, elegant curve — from the bridge to the gently upturned tip — that softens his otherwise sharp features. It’s a conscious choice. Rosalyn had taught him more than just strategy and poise; she taught him how presence could shape perception. That the way one held themselves, the way they spoke — carefully, confidently, always a step ahead — could shift the direction of any conversation. But she also reminded him that appearance, though secondary, had its power. A well-chosen look could disarm, could charm.
“Stand tall, Raon,” Rosalyn said, adjusting the angle of his chin with a practiced hand. “The world listens differently when you do.”
“Even if I have nothing to say?”
“Especially then.”
She smiled. “Make them wait. Make them wonder.”
So he wore her nose like a secret — a silent tribute, a calculated softness.
He takes on Eruhaben's grace — the timeless elegance in every motion. The kind that never needed to announce itself. He adopts the same gestures, the same fluidity — the coiled readiness of a dragon, the measured power behind every step. Raon borrowed that poise, that calm — the quiet certainty of one who had seen centuries pass and still stood tall.
Even in stillness, Eruhaben radiated might.
Raon would do the same.
From Lock, he draws courage. The raw, unyielding courage of someone who gave everything to protect his own. Lock, who stood between danger and the wolf tribe, who grew from an uncertain boy into a steadfast guardian. A brother. A protector. His spirit shaped by love, by sacrifice. From him, he takes the will to protect — not because of obligation, but because of love freely given.
From Alberu, he takes his confidence — the quiet, commanding kind that doesn't need to raise its voice. Shoulders set back, chin high, his every step measured and deliberate. Alberu, once a prince, now a king — and it shows in every line of his posture, every calculated glance. From him, Raon learns how to own a room with silence alone, how to wear confidence like armor and let it speak before words ever do.
And from On and Hong, he gathered the smallest, warmest pieces — the way they laugh when they're surprised, how they squabble over street food, the rhythm of their footsteps when they walk ahead of him — and tucks them into himself like treasured trinkets. Each gesture, each shared glance between them, becomes a piece of the puzzle he is trying to complete. It fills him with a strange, quiet pride when passersby mistake him for their brother, when people smile and call the three of them a family without knowing the truth. He says nothing, but his chest lifts a little higher each time.
“You’re walking too slow!” Hong whined, tugging Raon’s sleeve.
“You’re walking too fast,” Raon teased, eyes warm.
On rolled her eyes. “Just hold our hands already.”
And Raon did. Without hesitation.
But most of all — more than from any warrior or king — Raon shapes himself in the image of Cale.
He chose the red hair. The calm, unflinching eyes. The quiet, steady expression that felt like gravity in every room. Because Cale wasn’t just his savior — he was home. A father figure who pulled him from the wreckage of abuse and gave him a reason to believe in gentleness.
Cale claims to be lazy, yet works himself to the bone. Claims selfishness, yet shoulders the burdens of others without question. Raon sees it all — that Cale is the most extraordinary person he knows. Fierce in love, steadfast in loyalty, and unknowingly radiant in the way he holds broken people together.
“Do you think I’ll ever be… like you?” Raon had asked once, voice wavering, eyes lowered.
Cale didn’t answer right away. He set down the report he’d been reading, leaned back, and let out a sigh.
“No,” he said bluntly.
Raon’s chest tightened.
“You’ll be better,” Cale added, glancing over. “Because you’re a great and mighty dragon. Because you are you and that’s enough.”
Raon blinked.
Cale leaned forward, ruffling his hair with a sigh that tried to sound annoyed but fell short. “Tch. Kids shouldn’t be thinking about stuff like that anyway. Your job is to eat well, sleep well, and play like a little brat.”
Raon smiled — small, uncertain, but real.
And in that moment, the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter.
So Raon shapes himself not into a symbol of strength or fear or greatness — but into something far more sacred.
A son. A brother. A survivor.
Not to prove anything. Not to intimidate.
But to belong.
To show the world — wordlessly — who his people were. Where he came from. And what love, in all its strange, stitched-together forms, could build.
And in doing so, Raon didn’t just find form.
He found wholeness.