Flying at full speed, Dan and Alexander finally reached the site of the explosion.
Yet they were disappointed to find only a young man whose aura marked him as a mere apprentice—most likely the hapless owner of the ruined house.
Rather than search blindly, they chose to question the fellow directly.
He looked no more than twenty-something: short black hair, rumpled clothes, and eyes clouded by deep sorrow—the reason for which was obvious.
Dan was the first to approach, his voice firm yet kind:
"Hey, are you all right? What happened here?"
Marcelo, staring into the distance, hesitated for a moment before answering, as though groping for the right words.
"I… I'm not really sure how to explain. Everything was normal, and then an explosion hit my house. In an instant it was all rubble."
After a few more questions the men took pity on his plight and handed him a small pouch of mana crystals before departing.
Opening the pouch, he found several small mana crystals, each one radiating a soft bluish-silver light. Their slightly irregular surfaces caught the ambient glow, giving them a pulsing sheen as though, at any moment, they might unleash a magical storm. Translucent edges revealed fine fissures where mana seemed to flow in subtle, hypnotic currents—each crystal a tiny font of power.
Suddenly light flared in his hands and a summoning seal appeared; this time pale flames shimmered beneath its runes.
"What is this? I didn't try to summon anyone!" Marcelo cried.
"A seal? Before it was just a glow and a slight distortion—now this is completely different."
A small ball of black fur materialized.
The tiny creature emerged with undeniable charm. Velvety dark fur covered a compact body that radiated warmth. Large expressive eyes glittered, and dainty, slightly pointed ears twitched at every sound. With stubby, nimble legs it moved with understated grace, making it impossible not to be enchanted by its appearance.
"So cute…" Marcelo thought—yet his dread only grew. He tried to summon the brick, but nothing happened. A chill ran down his spine as the world tilted; something was terribly wrong.
If anything bad happened to his only monster, his future could be irreversibly derailed, condemning him to stay forever at the bottom of the food chain.
Brick, oh brick, don't leave me!
Marcelo was already inconsolable.
"I couldn't leave you even if I wanted to," said a feminine voice, so delicate it clashed completely with the creature's tiny form.
Snapping out of his panic, he realized the little creature was staring at him with huge shining eyes.
"You're the brick?"
The small creature replied, "Yes, I am the one you call 'brick.'"
Marcelo, still bewildered, asked, "What kind of creature are you? And why can you talk to me?"
"As for my species, I am an all-powerful dragon!"
It is only natural for every sentient being to communicate, and as intelligence grows, that communication becomes ever more refined.
Marcelo was stunned—but his horror spiked: she had just materialized and was already devouring the mana crystals that belonged to him while answering his questions! When had she snatched them?
Marcelo felt lost, for each event was more unbelievable than the last.
Yet this whole mess had broadened his mind, making him more willing to accept the strange new reality in front of him: after all, he hadn't personally witnessed the earlier episode with the Mist Dragon, so seeing a dragon grow out of a brick didn't feel quite so shocking.
Marcelo asked no more questions; he merely watched her finish devouring the crystals. There was nothing he could do to stop her, and arguing would only make things tenser.
Who, after all, was the summoned beast here, and who was the summoner? His pride was in tatters.
He watched as she crunched the crystals as though they were biscuits. When he was sure she'd polished off the last one, he asked:
"I don't know what to call you… 'Brick' sounds odd. What would you like to be called?"
The creature paused, as if pondering, then smiled and replied, "I don't care about names; anything you choose for me is fine."
"All right, then you'll be 'Brick-ette,'" Marcelo suggested.
"Oh no! I care a great deal about my name. Pick something better!" the little creature protested, her irritated expression still hopelessly adorable.
Marcelo could practically feel her desire to strangle him—but she was so tiny and seemingly innocent that he couldn't stop himself from smiling.
"How about 'Lydia'?" he offered.
"Lydia?" the little monster repeated, trying it out with a smile. The name suited her; after all, there weren't many Lydias—furry, sharp-toothed, long-clawed—who proudly called themselves dragons.
Marcelo asked, "I'm heading to the guild. Are you staying, coming with me, or should I recall you?"
Lydia thought for a moment. "I like fresh air. Carry me on your shoulders."
With a nimble hop, she landed on his shoulders, and Marcelo immediately began to sag under the weight, sweating profusely. How could something so small weigh so much?
Still, he pressed on toward the guild. In the end he nearly passed out along the way, but he preferred that to admitting she was heavy. He didn't remember where he'd heard the "rule," but he was sure women disliked being called heavy.
When Marcelo reached the guild's doors, he felt a relief he'd never confess aloud. Next time, he promised himself, he'd invent a convincing excuse.
Because it was late, only one clerk manned the reception desk and traffic was nearly nonexistent—a stark contrast to daytime crowds.
Lydia accompanied him to the counter, watching the attendant. The clerk asked for Marcelo's card, which he handed over at once. He explained why he'd come; the receptionist said she'd already received instructions, gave him the key, and noted the address of his new home.
Key in hand, Marcelo set off. This time, though, he convinced Lydia to walk, saying they could hold hands and enjoy the night air. Lydia felt deeply touched.
Marcelo wasn't gloating about fooling her, but he refused to go through that ordeal again; extraordinary problems call for extraordinary decisions.
As they walked, he asked Lydia if she remembered when she was just a brick.
Lydia stared at him as if he'd eaten dirt and called it chocolate. "Yes, I remember, but there's nothing worth recalling; I was simply motionless and silent."
Blithely, she left out ninety percent of the events that had brought disaster into Marcelo's life. After all, she couldn't blame herself—he'd always been unlucky.
Everything she'd done was for his own good: as she grew stronger, so would he, and above all, she'd be able to protect him.
Unlucky as he was, he'd been incredibly fortunate to have her at his side.
She fixed him with a look and said, "Pet my head and praise me."
Marcelo had no idea why she suddenly wanted that, but something in his subconscious urged him to comply immediately.
A few steps later Marcelo arrived at his destination, not far from guild headquarters.
As promised, the place was twice the size of his old house. Without hesitation he hurried to the door.
The new house was a sanctuary of timeless elegance. Approaching, he saw a weathered stone façade ornate with delicate carvings—classic architecture reminiscent of centuries-old manor homes. A gabled roof of well-kept clay tiles capped it, while sturdy columns framed an imposing front door whose arched lintel and polished bronze fittings lent an air of nobility.
Inside, a broad hall unfolded like a tribute to the classical. Gilt moldings and discreet historical murals lined the walls, contrasting with the gleaming hardwood floor. A richly patterned carpet guided him to the main room, where velvet sofas and period chairs invited conversation and contemplation.
Each room revealed careful, traditional touches: crystal chandeliers cast warm light, hand-carved furniture and finely framed paintings adorned the spaces. In the kitchen, antique utensils and marble counters contrasted with modern conveniences, striking a harmonious balance between past and present. Cozy alcoves and side balconies, trimmed with floral arrangements and vintage lamps, completed the setting.
Marcelo thought to himself, "I've become an aristocrat."
Lydia, equally enchanted by the house's beauty, darted through every room in search of anything that glittered. She piled the shiny objects in the bedroom she'd claimed and christened it her "treasure room"—she even carried off a few of the kitchen utensils.
"At least leave me some, please?" Marcelo asked.
He got nothing but a growl of disapproval in return.
Marcelo slipped into the quiet bedroom and shut the door with care. He set his leather boots by the bedstead and draped his coat over the back of an old chair.
Every motion felt slow, almost too heavy for muscles still throbbing from Lydia's weight.
In the rustic mirror he brushed his teeth with firm strokes, catching the fatigue in his eyelids, his shoulders still rounded from carrying her.
Undressing, he let his shirt slide off his arms in a sigh of relief and stepped under a brief stream of warm water. The heat brought life back to his aching feet; for a moment he felt whole again.
Dry and in a light T-shirt, Marcelo lit the lamp by the bed.
Its amber glow picked out the discreet gleam of Lydia's hoard in the corner. He sighed, lay down, and stretched out as though trying to sink into the mattress.
Sleep tugged at his eyes—each blink a tempting invitation.
He closed his lids, still hearing his own heartbeat and the soft purr of Lydia curled on his pillow…
Moments later he drifted off. In deep slumber he dreamed again. This time he found himself in a small, rustic room.
There he saw the same couple: the handsome youth and the captivating woman.
As they talked, they opened an old chest, and she began pulling out piles of glittering objects while he helped her.
With every new bundle of shining trinkets she produced, the young man kept that satisfied smile—his face oddly familiar to Marcelo.
He became convinced Lydia was a very poor influence on his dreams.
After a solid night's rest Marcelo awoke with the sense he'd dreamt, though the details eluded him.
He gave up trying to recall it and slipped into his morning routine: breakfast, brushing his teeth, and—at last—preparing to receive his first mission.
He and Lydia headed for guild headquarters. On the way they stopped for cheese buns—Lydia couldn't resist the smell—and then continued on.
The same thing happened eight more times until Marcelo couldn't take it anymore; he promised that once they finished the mission they could eat as much as they liked.
Only then did they reach the guild.