Dragon!Satoru Gojo .ᐟ

Slowly, almost reverently, his steps guide him to the edge of the river, the serenity of the flowing water quieting the usual storm that brews in his mind. When you live for centuries, some days feel unbearably heavy—today is one of those. Decades upon decades of solitude, of reigning over his people, changing fates, shedding identities, watching the same sun rise and fall over a thousand different skies… it all begins to wear on even the strongest spirit.

Loneliness has been his only eternal companion.

The long days in the palace stretch endlessly. Petitions. Judgments. Rituals. Countless scrolls, policies, lawmaking—so much reading. When did his life become so stagnant? How long has he been trapped in the rhythm of duty? When will something, anything, break through the monotony and remind him what it feels like to feel?

Love, he learned long ago, was a luxury meant for others. Once—many, many years past—he dared to entertain the foolish hope of affection. A maiden with eyes like morning dew and freckles scattered like golden stars across her cheeks. She had been gentle, so heartbreakingly alive. And then, far too soon, she was gone. Time took her like it takes all mortals. So he shut the doors. Around his kingdom. Around his heart.

His long, white-scaled tail sways behind him with each step, trailing quietly over the grass as he crouches to dip his hand into the crystal-clear water. The cold is sharp and pure, curling around his fingers with a gentle welcome. If only he could become like the river—serene, with a single purpose: to flow, to reach the ocean, to disappear into the horizon. No burdens.

With a tired sigh, he kicks off his handcrafted pair of geta, letting them fall into the soft earth. A shiver of delight escapes him as the cool river laps at his ankles. The chill seeps into his bones, numbing the ache he doesn’t speak of. If he could only dissolve into the current, just for a while—if he could wash away the weight of eternity from his shoulders, he would.

Lifting the hem of his black silk kimono, Satoru steps further into the shallow waters, eyes fluttering closed as the river kisses his calves. A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. Perhaps... perhaps soon he’ll host a festival near the riverbank—no, by the lake. His people would enjoy that. The sound of laughter, music carried on the wind, lights reflecting on the water. It would be a gift—for them, and maybe, selfishly, for him too.

There’s something about the water that strips away the burdens of time. A temporary cleansing. The river purifies; it reminds him that even a life as long as his is still capable of peace.

But just as the breath of calm settles over him, the creeping shadow of responsibility returns. It always does. The cloud of melancholy, of restless centuries, begins to roll back in... until a sharp crack breaks the silence. He stiffens— holding his breath.

It came from the forest—just beyond the tree line. Thick with old growth, ancient trunks, and tangled foliage. His instincts flare. Eyes narrowing, he straightens, body tense.

“Who’s there?” he calls out, voice even, but laced with quiet authority. He steps forward, crossing the water in smooth, deliberate strides. “Show yourself.”

His heart drums once—twice—then surges with adrenaline. Visitors are rare. Merchants never arrive unannounced. Whatever—or whoever—this is, it is unexpected. And Satoru has lived far too long to dismiss surprises. The branches shift. A silhouette emerges, stumbling from the undergrowth.

Trembling. Wounded. A demihuman.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. His long legs carry him forward in a blur, and in an instant, the stranger is in his arms. Fragile. Bleeding. He feels a foreign surge in his chest—something he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in lifetimes: protectiveness. A ruler’s instinct, perhaps. Or… something deeper.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle, careful not to alarm them. “You’re in good hands now. Just breathe. Tell me what happened—tell me what you need.”

With practiced strength, Satoru carries them out of the trees and back toward the stone path. The village isn’t far now. Faces appear at windows. Demihumans peer from doorways, eyes wide with shock and curiosity. Their ruler, the ancient White Dragon, the one who never shows emotion— holding someone so delicately, so fiercely.

The palace comes into view, tall and imposing, but right now, all Satoru sees is shelter. Safety. Urgency— and for the first time in years, Satoru’s heart beats with a purpose not born of duty—but of connection. Something is changing. The waters have shifted. Something, or someone, has finally arrived to disturb the stillness.

“We’re almost there,” he breathes, gaze flicking down to the battered figure in his arms. His voice softens. “Don’t worry. You’re safe now. I’ll make sure of it.”