Orlando found a clerical job in Silverport City.
Former member of the Royal Dragon Slaying Team, now a manual translator.
He translated “This equipment uses high-strength alloy steel” into “This thing is sturdy, buy it.”
Soaked in the work smell every day.
His desk was on the 17th floor.
Outside the window were chimneys and the port.
Ostrians were good at mechanics, but clueless about magic—hard to even find a proper mage.
The first manual he wrote got rejected by the boss.
“Is this a military briefing?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Rewrite!”
He was assigned to proofreading for three months.
Didn’t quit—for an undocumented person to find an office job was already a stroke of luck.
The reason he could write was all thanks to that old dragon.
During two years in Skyreach City, Astrid filled his schedule with lessons.
When he threw a tantrum, she smiled and changed teachers.
“We have plenty of time.”
So he learned.
And actually did pretty well.
“Damn old dragon.”
The person he knew best in the office was the cat-eared girl across from him, Liya.
Gray hair, amber eyes, spoke as softly as a mosquito, walked silently.
Often scared him so much his chair almost tipped over.
She was afraid of everyone, but could exchange a few words with him, the other misfit.
Three months salary barely covered rent and food.
At the end of the month, a few silver coins left for parts.
That day at 4:30 PM, the boss threw a stack of drafts at him.
“To the printer tomorrow. Overtime. Dinner on the company.”
Orlando looked at the drafts, then at Liya—her ears were flattened, expression like she was writing her last will.
“Just get it done.”
He typed, she proofread, working in sync.
The sky outside went from gray to orange to black.
The bell rang.
At 8:30, Liya looked up at him—his face was gray, lips white, forehead sweating.
Her ears twitched.
“Maybe… you go back first?”
“What about you?”
“I’ll handle the rest. It’s not much.”
Orlando wanted to say no, but his stomach churned—like dragon blood rattling a cage.
He needed three times the normal person’s meal to maintain human form.
He only had a sandwich for lunch today.
If he transformed into Olivia here, and Liya saw… his mind conjured an image of her ears flying off in fright, the whole building screaming.
If this got out, he probably wouldn’t survive the rest of his life.
“Okay.”
He stood up, chair scraping loudly.
Liya flinched back a step.
“Thanks.”
He grabbed his coat and left.
The corridor’s motion-sensor lights lit up one by one.
He suppressed the rowdy mob inside him clamoring to “transform back,” and took the stairs down from the 17th floor.
By the first floor, his legs were going weak.
Stomach twisting as if squeezed.
Pushing open the glass door, a cold wind hit him.
He shivered and headed for his rental.
By the third street, his fingers began to shrink—knuckles shortening, nails getting smaller, calluses fading.
“It’s over.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and quickened his pace, but his legs got weaker.
Pants bunching at the knees.
He didn’t dare run—the more agitated the bloodline, the faster the transformation.
Turning into an alley, his height shrank to about 5’3″.
Coat hanging to his knees, sleeves too long, boots loose.
He dragged his feet.
His hair started turning silver-white from the roots, like someone poured a can of silver paint on his head.
He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, coming away with sweat and a few silver hairs.
“Old dragon…”
At the rental door, she realized the door was a head taller than her.
On tiptoe, she couldn’t reach the doorknob.
Jumped once, missed.
Jumped again, fingertips touched the edge but couldn’t turn it.
She wore a coat as big as a tent.
Pants pooling at her feet.
Boots long lost, barefoot on the stone floor.
Silver hair reached her waist, like a standing blanket.
“Open… open the door…”
A childish voice with a sobbing tone.
She jumped again.
Fingers slipped.
Forehead banged against the door—a dull thud like candy hitting wood.
She crouched down, curling into a ball.
Silver hair spreading on the ground.
Then she stood up and slammed her shoulder into the door—it opened.
She stumbled in, knee hitting a table leg.
Ignoring the pain, she first closed the door, locked it, and drew the curtains.
Then she leaned against the door panel, gasping.
Two shirt buttons popped off—the two mounds on her chest suddenly swelled, directly bursting his clothes open.
She fished out a clean top from the cabinet.
For her small frame, it was like a dress.
She rolled the sleeves three times to reveal her fingers.
Climbing onto the bed, she wrapped herself in the blanket, curling into a tiny ball.
Silver hair spread on the pillow like a nightlight.
Her stomach growled.
There was bread and jam in the kitchen, but she’d have to walk the entire dark hallway.
With her current leg length, she might fall asleep halfway.
Forget it, sleep.
For a young dragon, nothing is more important than sleeping.
Curled up in the blanket like a candy wrapped in silver foil.
She wondered how Liya was doing.
The girl kindly helped her, and she just dumped the work on her.
But there was no choice.
She couldn’t even reach the doorknob now.
And how could she go out looking like this?
“Liya, you worked hard tonight… it’s all my fault for being useless…”
After saying that, she froze—she was the one who killed the silver dragon guard, the empire’s youngest dragon-slaying gun designer.
Now reduced to a little girl shrinking in bed blaming herself because she starved too much.
This must be the “dragon life.”
How tall is that door? im only 5 4 to 5 5 and ive NEVER had to stand on tiptoe or even stretch to reach a door handle
How short does the author think 5 3 is? Also, where are they putting door handles? At the top of doors or something ?