Dragon's Awakening: The Duke's Son Is Changing The Plot-Chapter 132 - 131 - Lucky son of a gun.

Hours later.

Raven hummed in satisfaction as warm fingers slowly ran through his hair, soft and deliberate, trailing down to trace the side of his face.

It was comforting—almost enough to make him drift back into sleep. Almost.

He cracked his eyes open with a lazy blink, only to see a familiar face hovering just above him.

Clara.

Her soft, golden eyes met his half-lidded red ones, and she smiled without saying a word.

He didn’t even hesitate.

Pulling her down gently by the nape, Raven pressed his lips to hers in a slow, languid kiss.

The tension in his chest faded instantly, replaced by a familiar warmth that had nothing to do with fire or corrosion.

Her lips were just as he remembered—soft, tasting faintly of something sweet. Mint and strawberries, maybe.

He had already rested enough, and although his soul had still not healed completely, he was fine.

Also, he had taken Crisaius’s advice about love life seriously. He was going to change.

He had changed.

The kiss continued for a while before they parted.

As they pulled apart, Clara gazed at him and whispered with a teasing glint in her eyes, "Good morning, Sunshine."

Raven blinked. Then he frowned faintly and turned his head toward the window.

Blazing afternoon heat shimmered outside.

"...What time is it?" He mumbled.

Clara giggled, tracing a finger along his collarbone. "Three in the afternoon."

Raven yawned and gave a lazy stretch, his spine popping audibly. "Mm... not bad."

He slept for more than five hours. That’s why he felt so relaxed.

With a quiet grunt of effort, he shifted positions, dragging her down so she lay atop him, her head resting just below his chin.

Clara raised an eyebrow. "Someone’s in a good mood."

"Of course I am," Raven murmured, brushing her hair aside and placing a soft kiss on the crook of her neck. "With you around, how could I not be?"

The sudden intimacy in his voice caught her off-guard.

For a second, Clara blinked in stunned silence—then smiled, her heartbeat fluttering. She rested against him more fully, letting herself melt into his warmth.

’Is this... a new side of him?’ She wondered quietly, closing her eyes. ’I think I like it.’

They stayed like that—nuzzled together in a blissful cocoon of quiet affection—for what felt like ages.

Then Clara’s eyes snapped open.

"Oh!" She pushed herself up slightly, propping herself on her elbows. "I almost forgot. I have something for you."

Raven opened one eye lazily.

"News?" He asked, still too comfortable to sound concerned.

Clara nodded, her smile teasing as she leaned in and pecked him on the lips. "Mmhmm. But you’ll have to stop kissing me long enough to hear it."

He grinned—just a little—and began placing lazy kisses up her neck toward her lips.

"Mmm... multitasking," he murmured between kisses. "Tell me... what is it?"

Clara giggled, her lips moving against his. "Letter. From Sinclair Gwarith."

She already knew who it was. Raven had informed her about her, his slave.

She knew all about the information-gathering organization under the Vaise family because the department she had decided to join was Information-Gathering and Assassination.

She was a working member of that group.

Everyone in the group except Raven had selected their departments.

They were only here until Raven was, and even then, they could be called to their posts anytime.

Raven, on the other hand, paused as Clara mentioned Sinclair.

He blinked, the gears in his mind turning.

Slowly, he sat up, still holding Clara close, though his demeanor had shifted into something sharper—curious and alert. His arms never left her waist as he pulled her in tighter.

"Give it," he said.

Clara, still straddling his lap, reached into a pouch and handed him the letter. "She sent a list. Status updates. Tracking efforts. All the people you asked her to watch."

Raven cracked the wax seal, his eyes scanning the contents quickly.

A list of names.

Some were crossed out—dead or simply vanished.

Others were marked with locations like cities, fortresses, and underground networks.

They were in places they were supposed to be.

But one name made him pause.

Both he and Clara noticed it.

"...Velmoria Royal Academy?" She murmured, her brow furrowed.

"That means here," Raven muttered. "Well, that’s probably not good."

The name belonged to the young leader of one of the Zaraqt Kingdom’s strongest guilds—a kingdom in the east governed not by royalty, but by guilds. Unlike other kingdoms, this one had no leader.

Now, this young leader that was in their academy was an enigma.

No records. No descriptions. No image. Not even a confirmed gender.

Just a name.

Now, for the first time, a location.

"Why would someone like that show up here?" Clara asked.

Raven narrowed his eyes, tapping the name on the page. "They’re not here for a picnic, that’s for sure, so it’s not fun."

As he processed the implications, the silence broke again—

A voice rang in Raven’s skull like a frying pan meeting temple.

"IS THIS YOUR GIRLFRIEND? BOY, YOU ARE ONE LUCKY SON OF A GUN."

He groaned.

Not because of what was said—but because he knew who said it.

’Right... I forgot. I now own a shit-talking sword.’

Dragging a hand over his face, Raven sat up straighter, eyes scanning the room.

Clara blinked. "What’s wrong?"

Raven didn’t answer right away.

His crimson eyes narrowed, darting from corner to corner, scanning the shelves, under the bed, the desk, and even the chair near the window.

There was nothing out of the ordinary—just their shared mess.

No ominous, pitch-black sword humming with cosmic arrogance.

He frowned deeper. "Clara... Did you see a sword around? Black. Normal-looking. Very punchable aura?"

Clara tilted her head and gave him a curious look. "You were alone on the bed when I came in. No sword."

"HEY. Genius. Look at your right hand, ya dimwit."

Raven paused. His gaze dropped to his hand.

He stared.

Then blinked.

Then stared again.

A tattoo.

A full-arm, intricate, wickedly detailed tattoo of a sword coiling from the back of his palm all the way to his shoulder.

It was black, elegant, and edged with thin violet outlines. Veins of gold shimmered along the blade-shaped ink like a heartbeat.

It pulsed once.

"Now THAT’S what I call an upgrade. Clean, deadly, stylish—hell, I’m a whole aesthetic package."

The sword’s voice was smug as hell, like a gangster who just bought a golden grill for his mouth and expected the world to bow.

Raven’s brow twitched.

Before he could say something scathing, Clara leaned forward, brushing her fingers lightly over his forearm.

"Oh wow... When did you get this?" She asked, wide-eyed. "It’s actually really nice."

"See?! She gets it! This one—this fine lady—you hold onto her, punk. She’s got eyes. Taste. Class. Meanwhile, YOU? You’re just a trash goblin with good hair!"

The praise for Clara was oddly sincere.

The insult for him?

Not so much.

However, he merely sighed. ’What is this now?’

"Whaddya mean, ’what do I mean’?! This’s one of my damn tricks, genius. I can shape-shift—ring and tattoo. But a ring? Please. That crap can get swiped by any sleight-of-hand chump in an alley. So I went with the tattoo route. Can’t be jacked, sticks like a curse, and hell—looks badass too. You’re welcome."

Raven hummed. ’I see.’

Clara, however, was now getting confused.

"What’s going on, Raven?" She asked.

But before he could speak, the sword spoke in his head.

"Damn, bro. She’s a whole storm wrapped in pretty, ain’t she? Bet she’s got proposals flyin’ at her like pigeons at a bread truck. And all them dudes?" The sword paused dramatically.

"Probably got better wallets, better faces, better... everything. Wouldn’t be surprised if one day she just dips with one of ’em while you out here writin’ sonnets like a broke Shakespeare."

Raven’s expression froze.

He knew the sword was joking, but his jaws tightened.

Because those words made him imagine that scenario, and that alone was enough to make Raven’s eyes turn cold.

He closed his eyes and took a breath.

Then another.

Then—

"Clara."

Clara looked up.

"Give me a minute," he said quietly.

Her expression faltered as she looked into his eyes. "Raven...?"

"Please."

Though reluctant, she nodded and slid off his lap.

With one last look, she walked to the door, closing it behind her without a word.

The room fell silent.

Raven raised his tattooed arm. "Materialize."

The moment he spoke, the tattoo shimmered, threads of light unraveling from his skin like uncoiling silk.

A second later, the sword was in his hand.

Pitch-black. Elegant. Drenched in pressure. And humming with that smug little soul.

"Listen," Raven said, voice calm. Too calm. "You can insult me all you want. Call me a goblin. Mock my hair, my skills, and my questionable life choices. That’s fine."

He opened his eyes, and they glinted with something darker—sharper.

"But there are two things you never bring in your jokes. My women. And my mother."

"What ’bout your father then—?"

Before the sword could finish its words, Raven growled. "Shut up."

The air dropped a few degrees.

The red color of Raven’s eyes flickered lightly, giving way to golden color.

"All this attitude? I let it go because I figured you were just a lost piece of steel floating in the void. Something ancient with a broken sense of humor."

He stepped forward.

The sword quivered slightly in his hand.

"But let’s not pretend anymore. You’re a sword. My sword. And without me? You’d still be rotting in that abyss, forgotten by time, babbling to the wind, never even knowing who or what you are."

His voice was razor-sharp now.

"So if all you’re going to do is mock me, criticize me, act like I’m some temporary backpack you’ve been forced to live in... then maybe you should go back."

He tossed the sword onto the bed.

It didn’t bounce.

It slumped on the sheets, vibrating with tension.

"I don’t need a shit-talking blade dragging me down while I fight wars. If you want out, say it. I’ll help."

There was silence.

No smug comeback.

No snarky quip.

Just... silence.

Then—

"...Hey... Listen, kid."

The voice had changed.

Still that gangster tone. Still cocky. But now, laced with something that sounded suspiciously like... respect.

"I run my mouth a lot, man. Can’t really help it—it’s just how I am. But the way I talk to you? That’s me tryin’ to figure you out, y’know? You’re my guy now. I gotta know how you tick, how you react... ’cause if I’m rollin’ with you, I need to understand you."

A pause.

"But I ain’t stupid. I know power when I see it. And I know something else, too."

The sword stopped floating. It settled into Raven’s hand like it belonged there.

"You didn’t need me. You chose me."

A beat.

"So... yeah. I’m sorry. I crossed a line."

Raven stared at the blade in his hand.

For the first time... it didn’t feel like a tool.

It felt like a companion.

"...Better," Raven muttered.

"Still think she’s too hot for you, though."

"...Don’t push it."

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