[Short Story] The Land of the Dragon's Remains

Once, there was one who ruled the sky.

Its name is not spoken.
People simply called it the "Dragon."

It commanded the lightning, tore through the wind,
and it is said that its shadow alone could turn day into night.

One day, the sky sank.

The clouds split, the light warped,
and a colossal being slowly returned to the earth.

It was not a battle.
It was not a punishment.

The ancients said it was simply that its time had come.
The earth accepted it,

and with a great sound, silence descended.
--Thus, the dragon slept in the earth.

The sleep would eventually unravel.

The flesh tore,

the blood overflowed,
and its warmth seeped into the land.
A scent arose.

Though it was the smell of death,

it was also the harbinger of new growth.
The first to arrive were the nameless ones.

Those who feed on shadows,

those who sip at presences,
those who dwell behind the light.
Without incantations, they simply gathered,

and quietly, yet surely, began the feast.
It was not a feast of endings.

It was a feast of beginnings.

Before long, the dragon unraveled further.

Its bones became a white landscape,

its blood flowed to become rivers,
and its organs transformed into fertile soil.
Upon it, sprouts appeared.

At first, just one.

Soon, thousands.
Moss covered the ground, fungi spread,

and life connected like a web.
The wings became cliffs,

the fangs became towers,
and the hollows where its eyes once were
filled with deep water.
People call this place

--the "Land of the Dragon's Remains."

In the Land of the Dragon's Remains, there is much life.

Creatures resembling deer cross the valley of bones.

Glowing moss sways upon their antlers.
Winged beasts build nests on the cliffs of wings,

stitching through the sky as they read the currents of the wind.
Scaleless serpents swim in the rivers of blood,

harboring a faint heat within their bodies.
Small beings build cities in the gaps of the bones.

They dig the earth, weave the roots,
and mark the seasons.
Sometimes, people visit as well.

They treat this place as a holy ground,

touching the bones, pressing their foreheads to the earth,
and offering prayers.
It is said that those known as spirits

also dwell in this land.
Wind spirits live in the shadows of the wings,

water spirits roam the rivers of blood,
and the nameless ones
whisper deep within the bones every night.
Yet, not a single one of them

knows of the time when the dragon ruled the sky.
Even so, they live,

treating this place as the center of the world.

And that is fine,

the ancient voice says, mingling with the wind.
Eventually, everything cycles.

Bones crumble and become soil,

soil nurtures life,
and life changes its form once more.
The dragon did not disappear.

It simply unraveled.

Into the earth, into the wind,

into the water, and into countless lives.
In all of them,

the heartbeat of the past remains.
At night, if you listen quietly,

they say a faint resonance comes from deep within the bones.
It is a heartbeat.

The sound of a new heart,

beating deep in the forest.
Look up at the sky.

Far away, a still-young shadow circles.

That, too, will eventually fall.

And the earth will accept it,

and a new world will sprout.
--Those of a distant age tell this as a myth.

But it is a reality that continues even now.