The pain was blinding.
His head throbbed as if it might split apart.
Every nerve burned; every bone cried out in agony.
Marcus woke, struggling out of the dark haze, his consciousness torn into ragged fragments by the searing pain.
He gasped, instantly coughing violently.
His first breath pulled in sulfurous, acrid fumes, choking charcoal dust, and the sweet, metallic tang of rust and dried blood.
He pushed himself up, staring into a dead, silent ruin.
The sky was a sickly, dark purple, heavy with motionless clouds.
There was no sun, no moon—only a chilling twilight hanging over the land.
Twisted black ruins jutted into the sky, their smooth surfaces reflecting dull light—the result of rock melted by extreme heat and swiftly cooled.
Obsidian-textured ground lay beneath his feet, crunching sharply with every step.
Where was he?
His last memory was sitting at home, watching the series finale of *Game of Thrones*.
Daenerys assassinated by Jon Snow.
He had been furious.
He felt the Dragon Queen’s end was deeply unfair.
He felt the dragons in that world were pitifully weak, unable to hold a candle to his favorite monster from *Monster Hunter*—Valstrax.
Valstrax, an Elder Dragon.
Supersonic dashes, clad in silver armor, wings that doubled as engines and deadly weapons, diving from high altitude to tear through the atmosphere and slam into the ground in a streak of crimson.
*That* was what a dragon was supposed to be.
Now, what was going on?
Confused and uneasy, Marcus tried to stand, but his hand brushed against something cold and hard.
He looked down, his pupils contracting.
An egg.
A half-meter-tall giant egg, entirely metallic silver.
The shell was etched with intricate, precise patterns that glinted cold under the dark purple twilight.
It was a Valstrax egg.
His heart pounded wildly.
The moment he reached out and touched the shell again, a stream of information pierced his mind without warning.
Vast, cold, and utterly irresistible.
There was no sound, no language, only pure, overwhelming force of will.
[Human.] Marcus’s thoughts ground to a halt.
[Your whining is loud.] There was no emotion in the message, only absolute, supreme indifference looking down on all living things.
[You think the dragons of that world are weak.
You think the human named Daenerys received an unfair end.
You think you can do better.] [Interesting.] The word “Interesting” sent a chill straight to the depths of Marcus’s soul.
[In endless boredom, your wild claims offer a ripple of amusement.
Very well.
I shall grant your wish.] [This is Valyria, the remnant of magic and fire.
Before you lies the germ of what you hold dear—a Valstrax egg imbued with supersonic speed and explosive power.] [Go then, human.
This is my gift.
Use your knowledge and will to prove your words.
Or die and turn to dust.] [Entertain me.] The information stream receded, leaving behind knowledge about this world and the egg.
The Dragon God’s gift granted him total comprehension of all spoken and written languages in this world, alongside detailed information about the egg.
It was no longer a pure Valstrax; when the Dragon God created it, mutations had occurred.
It resembled a branch of the legendary metallic dragon species, relying on consuming metal and energy-dense materials to grow and evolve.
Marcus slumped onto the ground, panting heavily, cold sweat soaking his clothes.
The Dragon God Bahamut?
He understood now.
He had transmigrated.
Driven by the whim of a bored Dragon God, he had been thrown into the world of *Game of Thrones*, with the ultimate hell-difficulty start: the Ruins of Valyria.
A dead zone.
He, Marcus—twenty-eight years old, PhD in mechanical engineering, veteran gamer—was now a plaything in a colosseum, meant solely for a god’s amusement.
Rage and indignation flared for a second before being smothered by ice-cold composure.
As a researcher, his greatest weapon was a brain that maintained logical thought under any amount of pressure.
He began to analyze.
Bad news: trapped in a desperate, lethal environment, entirely unarmed.
Good news: he possessed a Valstrax egg, the sole variable and his greatest trump card.
“Interesting…” Marcus gritted through his teeth, fire igniting in his eyes.
He was no one’s plaything.
If Bahamut, a high-and-mighty god, wanted to play, then Marcus—a mere ant in the god’s eyes—would give him one hell of a surprise.
He struggled to his feet.
Not far away, behind the obsidian ruins, came a sickening, grating crunch.
Marcus froze.
He peeked around the wreckage and saw several strange, humanoid figures shuffling toward him.
Instead of running, he forced himself to stay calm.
Stone Men.
Overriding his survival instinct, his mind raced.
No weapons, no cover.
His only reliance was the cold, giant egg beside him.
*Hum—* The egg seemed to sense the danger, giving him a warning.
The intricate patterns across its shell began to glow, and a low hum vibrated from within.
Alerted by his movement, the Stone Men uttered meaningless snarls and closed in with stiff steps.
Their petrified nails were long and sharp, gleaming with a cold edge.
Marcus’s logical analysis left him with a single imperative: run.
He scooped up the dragon egg, deciding to retreat.
But in his panic, he failed to watch his footing and tripped over a pile of loose stone.
He scrambled backward on hands and knees, but he was far too slow to outrun the tireless monsters.
One of the Stone Men lunged straight at him.