Free Web NovelYear 556 of the New Calendar.
Faced with the tyranny of the Lord of Thunder, people chose to endure in that first year.
The rule of the Helmod Dragonflight had lasted a long time on this land. For the vast majority of the short-lived races, they had almost forgotten what life without great dragons looming overhead felt like.
Moreover, dragon rule was not benevolent, but it was at least within a barely tolerable range.
Regular tribute, occasional plundering, localized enslavement,
these heavy costs pressed down on everyone, but they had not yet completely broken anyone’s backbone.
However, when the Storm Dragon carried out the will of the deities and established temples across the land, everything changed.
The blood tax.
That word spread through the west like a plague.
Every month, every kingdom had to deliver a certain number of living people to the temples.
Those taken away never returned. No one knew what the temples did to them, only their silent disappearances.
“Endure,” the elders said, “this is dragon rule, just wait it out.”
“Endure,” the merchants said, “as long as business can continue, as long as we can live, there’s hope.”
“Endure,” the nobles said, “rebellion only brings harsher suppression; we’ve seen it too many times.”
So people endured.
They watched neighbors dragged out at night, relatives’ wrists chained and pulled toward the temples, familiar faces dwindling day by day.
They bowed their heads, pretended not to see, and went on with their lives.
But endurance never bought mercy.
Year 557 of the New Calendar.
The blood tax quota kept rising.
The temple servants grew greedier; their sights expanded beyond commoners to minor nobles, merchants, even families of certain officials.
Those once assumed safe discovered
that status and wealth could not protect their loved ones from being taken.
Wooden stakes hung with corpses rose across the land, weathering sun and wind—those who tried to resist or flee made into grisly examples by the temples.
Crows circled overhead; their cries became the most frequent music of the land.
Despair quietly bred like mold in the deepest places of people’s hearts.
A common soldier from a vassal kingdom sat alone in an empty house after his family was forcibly taken by temple servants.
He sat there all night.
At dawn he stepped outside, gripped a battle knife, and walked toward the nearest temple outpost.
He caused no damage.
As he approached the temple, servants and lackeys swarmed him and brutally killed him.
But it was only a beginning.
People began to realize a truth: endurance did not buy survival, only a slower death. If death was inevitable, there was still a difference between dying standing and dying kneeling.
Year 558 of the New Calendar.
When despair reaches its extreme, rebellion follows.
At first it was sporadic disturbances: a village refused to pay the blood tax and blocked temple servants at the border; an extraordinary in one town gathered comrades and, under cover of night, attacked the guards of a temple outpost.
These uprisings were quickly crushed.
Dragon fire turned villages to ash; lightning reduced assembled supernaturals to charred corpses. The Helmod Dragonflight used the most direct methods to tell everyone that rebellion meant death.
But fire could not burn away despair, and lightning could not shatter rage.
That year, the first organized large-scale uprising broke out in Silverfrost City in the west.
Its leader was a legendary knight named Seth.
He had served his kingdom for years and was exiled for refusing an order to massacre civilians. Wandering and adventuring, he heard of the suffering in the western kingdoms and chose to return home, gathering like-minded men.
“We do not fight for victory.”
“We fight for dignity. Even if we die, we will die standing.”
His slogan spread through the city-state, reached those hesitating whether to stand up.
The uprising lasted a month.
The Lord of Thunder did not intervene personally.
He sent his kin; Silverfrost City burned all night beneath dragon flame.
Walls collapsed, houses became ruins.
Seth was nailed to a remnant wall; his followers either died in battle or were captured and became the temple’s new sacrifices.
But the uprising was like a seed planted deep in western soil.
Year 559 of the New Calendar.
The blood tax quota rose again.
The Lord of Thunder declared this increase explicit revenge for the Silverfrost uprising—he wanted everyone to see the cost of resistance.
Yet no matter how cruel the suppression, it could not extinguish the lit flame.
After Silverfrost’s failure, more underground organizations formed.
They learned from Seth’s mistakes and avoided open confrontations. With tacit support from some western kingdoms, they moved into the shadows.
Secret contacts, intelligence networks, stockpiling supplies.
They learned to survive under dragons’ noses, maintaining cohesion under pressure.
In this dark and turbulent era, human resilience and potential were sparked like never before.
Among the rebels,
within a few short years, many who had been stuck at a level-twenty cap for years burst through to the legendary tier like bamboo after rain.
They spread across the west, striking at temple outposts.
The Lord of Thunder’s followers were exhausted.
Those not yet legendary raised their levels far faster than in peaceful times.
The pressure of death, the drive of rage, the instinct to survive... like a grindstone, these factors sharpened human potential layer by layer.
In the same years,
Aola’s Claw, Shadow Commander, the werewolf Russell, and his entire division became impossibly busy.
Weapons, gold coins, scrolls, intelligence...
A vast flow of resources funneled into the west via secret channels; those transporting them never explained much and vanished into the night after deliveries.
At first the rebel forces eyed these mysterious aids with great suspicion.
They suspected traps and hidden costs they could not see.
But time proved everything.
The aid carried no conditions—no demands for loyalty, no expectation of repayment—simply support for the rebellion.
Year 560 of the New Calendar.
The west turned into a quagmire.
The Helmod Dragonflight found itself trapped in an endless cycle.
Suppress one revolt, another rose; stamp out an underground cell, two more filled its place.
Dragons, though mighty, were few in number.
Lamorein could personally destroy any city, even erase a kingdom from the map, but he could not be everywhere at once. His flight could crush any open uprising, but could not track every hidden rebel cell.
Worse, rebellion evolved.
At first it was frontal military clashes, then guerrilla warfare, later sabotage, assassination, infiltration... rebels learned how to open new paths where none seemed possible.
Humans shone brightest in this evolution.
Their lives were short, their bodies fragile.
An adult human with no supernatural enhancement could not seriously threaten a hatchling dragon.
Yet humans had advantages dragons could not match.
Otherwise humankind would not be the most widely present intelligent race across worlds.
The Lord of Thunder’s orders were clear.
Continue suppression.
Time slowly reached Year 564 of the New Calendar.
The western Atlan entered a stalemate.
The Helmod Dragonflight still controlled major cities and transport routes, but their hold visibly weakened. Rebel organizations controlled wide swathes of villages and mountains, building secret stronghold networks where dragons’ sight could not easily reach.
Neither side could decisively defeat the other, creating a fragile balance.
Collecting the blood tax became harder.
Temple servants were frequently ambushed during missions; temple agents were assassinated one after another. Lamorein had to divert more forces to maintain existing control rather than expand.
Thus,
his lackeys were firmly constrained to the west, unable to step out.
At the same time, in the Red Emperor Capital,
Garoth stood atop the dragon court, quietly overlooking the boundless sea of clouds below. Strong winds blew, producing a soft humming as they passed his scales.
A voice came from his side.
“Eight years.”
“Lamorein has been trapped in this suppression-rebellion cycle for eight full years.”
“My dear brother, your strategy has bogged the Helmod Dragonflight down in the mire; your minions are confined to the west, unable to take a single step outward. When you said eight years ago this would happen, I didn’t fully believe you.”
the Iron Dragon marveled.
Before this, Gordon had not expected that Lamorein, a Mandate Storm Dragon, would be unable to crush rebels far weaker than him.
By logic, Lamorein’s power tier should not have been stalled so long.
Time proved Garoth’s brother’s foresight.
The Helmod Dragonflight’s strength was being continuously worn down by endless uprisings.
Lamorein was fearsome; the aura of a Mandate Storm Dragon terrified any enemy, but he could not rule vast lands alone.
Meanwhile, the Red Iron Dragon pondered another thought.
“Under Lamorein’s brutal tyranny, many rebels have rapidly broken through to the legendary tier.”
Thinking further, Reinhardt was also born in turbulent times. Although Theo was not as miserable as the current western kingdoms, his kingdom was under gloom and longing for hope.
“When dragons declined, elves and giants had their shining era.”
“Now... could it be humanity’s time?”
He suspected that if Lamorein’s tyranny lasted longer, another Reinhardt-like prodigy might appear.
The Red Iron Dragon did not dwell long on this.
Hearing Gordon, he let out a low chuckle.
“Killing and ruling.”
“These are two completely different things.”
He gazed at the cloud-covered distant sky and said, “With Lamorein’s current strength, so long as no equal opposes him, he can slaughter all rebels and turn the land to scorched earth.”
“That he could do.”
“But how would a dead land provide blood tax?”
The Aola Kingdom did not govern through sheer oppression.
Years ago, Sorog once suggested a direct suppression approach like Lamorein’s because of an Iron Dragon’s instincts.
Garoth rejected that proposal outright.
To Garoth, that method was too inefficient.
Extreme pressure encourages slack and internal consumption and rebellion—these factors continuously erode a realm’s strength.
Aola’s current ruling method followed another route: an ideal-state model.
This route required a ruler whom all subjects recognized and worshipped, a leader whom people genuinely believed acted for their good.
The advantage: while Garoth existed, the kingdom would be incredibly cohesive and nearly invincible.
The drawback: if this supreme emperor fell for any reason, no successor could inherit his prestige. The kingdom would fracture and vanish in short order.
Garoth knew the risk well.
He could bear it.
“Lamorein may believe in dragon supremacy, but he is not stupid.”
Garoth withdrew his gaze from the distance and considered.
“Logically, he understands disguise; he could employ other methods to collect the blood tax rather than relying solely on brutal tyranny. That approach is far too inefficient.”
“Is he courting the favor of the Dragon Queen?”
“According to legacy descriptions, the Dragon Queen likes to make people obey through fear and despair—she’s a thorough evil deity who delights in others’ suffering. Lamorein could be her apostle; currying favor could grant him more blessing, so such cruelty is reasonable.”
The great dragon lifted his jaw and sank into thought.
Then Gordon’s voice interrupted.
The Iron Dragon blinked and curiously asked, “Brother, if you were in Lamorein’s position, how would you collect the blood tax?”
He added, “Same objective, same need for living victims—how would you do it?”
Garoth considered.
The blood tax...
“First, the name must change.”
He paused, then said slowly, “Names are the first mask of rule. ‘Blood tax’ is too blunt and naked; the words themselves carry the stench of blood. That honesty is foolish—it breeds fear, and fear breeds rebellion. You must rename the same thing so that people don’t think of blood and death when they hear it.”
He turned to Gordon.
“If it were me, I would call it...Grace.”
“Grace?” Gordon tilted his head.
“Yes, favor from above,” Garoth said. “Being chosen is not punishment but an honor.”
“You must make people believe those taken are chosen, receiving some kind of blessing. The name alone can change the perceived nature of the act, at least for ordinary minds.”
“But that is only the beginning; the method must change too.”
He continued, “Lamorein’s biggest problem is that he made the process ugly and brutal. He let people clearly see chains and whips, blood and screams.”
“If it were me, I would turn it into flowers; ritualize and sanctify the sacrifice.”
Hearing this, Gordon had dawning understanding.
He nodded and followed the line of thought: “For example, priests could deliver notices and invitations days in advance.”
“Priests should preferably be of the same local race.”
“Seeing someone like themselves carry out the process reduces resistance.”
“Have them wear holy, clean robes and tell the chosen they will receive honor and favor—this isn’t capture, it’s an invitation.”
“Then the removal process would no longer involve chains and whips—use flower chariots and hymns.”
Gordon grasped the concept at once and elaborated with keen interest: “Those chosen will don the finest clothes provided by the temple, clean and dignified. They sit in a carriage decorated with flowers and silk, slowly parading through the city.”
“Priests scatter petals along the street.”
“Bards sing paeans, praising the chosen’s devotion and the benefit they bring to all.”
“In the end, people remember flowers, banners, and hymns; some might even covet being chosen themselves.”
The Red Iron Dragon nodded softly in approval.
But then he added, “That won’t be enough.”
“Flowers and hymns handle ordinary folk. Those with insight—the wise who understand power—will still see this as looting wrapped in beauty.”
Gordon was silent for a moment, his large head lowered in thought.
“You can establish a recommendation system.”
He concluded.
“Each region selects a representative—most reputable elders or nobles. They have the right to recommend chosen ones and the power to exempt certain families.”
“Ultimately, make the oppressed participate in their own oppression and fragment them.”
“Let the oppressed check each other, spend energy on internal jockeying rather than uniting against the real oppressor.”
Garoth looked sideways, clearly approving.
“Gordon, you are wiser than before.”
“It seems your years maintaining the realm have taught you governance.”
he said.
The Iron Dragon swayed his tail, scales whispering. “Ruling is an art, and I have much to learn.”
“All because of your guidance, brother.”
He bowed modestly but could not hide a trace of pride.
Garoth withdrew his gaze from the west and said, “I’ll head to Arotala again. As before, you handle matters here. Remember, do not relax; keep watching the Lord of Thunder.”
A few days ago, word came from Cerora.
After about eight years of deliberation, Nausil finally agreed to commission him for battle in exchange for a meteorite.
This took longer than Garoth expected.
The main reason: that battle back then did not last long.
The orcs surged forward in one push but failed to achieve decisive results and quickly revealed logistical shortcomings; the offensive faltered before it fully unfolded.
With the threat temporarily gone, Nausil’s council’s habitual slow deliberation returned.
That delay lasted eight years.
Recently, the orcs could no longer restrain themselves.
Their legions regrouped, preparing a large-scale invasion.
Also, smelling smoke and remembering Garoth’s magnificent performance in that battle, Nausil’s council finally approved the commission.
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle Aola.”
the Iron Dragon replied, then beat his wings and leapt from the high platform, his silhouette vanishing into thick clouds as he flew toward the royal city.
Garoth stayed.
He reached out a claw and touched his head.
After years of constant conditioning, he had largely returned from the Rift Form to his normal state; his attributes had grown considerably. Only horns and some spikes remained sharp and conspicuous—residual marks of the Rift Form.
Elsewhere his contours had recovered.
“Getting a meteorite saves a long accumulation of mutation value.”
Under normal conditions, accumulating enough value to trigger the next mutation takes a long period, while a meteorite can bypass that process.
“I only wonder whether the next mutation will produce an even better new form.”
This blind-box sensation raised his expectations.
Garoth naturally looked forward to the next mutated form.
He hoped for an upgrade beyond the Rift Form—though that form maximized sensitivity and speed, it still had room to improve elsewhere.
He was somewhat fond of the extreme alertness the Rift Form brought.
“If I could gradually adapt the mutation itself and make it partially controllable, perhaps by using scars left from previous mutations, I could switch between forms.”
He touched the remaining sharp spines, pondering.
At that moment Cerora’s message reached him mentally.
“Are you ready? War has already broken out here.”
she asked.
Garoth collected his thoughts and answered affirmatively: “Send the spatial coordinates.”
The demons in Atlan had been quelled, and the Lord of Thunder was bogged in the west for now.
Although risks remained, the overall situation was peaceful enough at this juncture; he could safely go to Arotala.
“Go, take the battlefield.”
“Let the orcs remember the terror of the rule of the Red Emperor.”
Cerora said with a smile and transmitted the coordinates.
Then the Red Iron Dragon extended a claw and gently slashed.
The space before him split like paper; a rift opened.
Meanwhile,
Arotala, Blackrock Wasteland.
The earth trembled.
The orc legions surged like a dark green tide from the horizon, filling the vision.
Their numbers were countless. Feet struck the ground in an unending thunder.
In front marched orc warriors.
Most stood over two meters tall, muscles knotted, dark green skin painted with war marks and totemic symbols. They wielded massive battle axes or spiked Wolf Tooth Clubs, their pupils burning with fanatic fighting spirit, roaring low through their throats.
The army looked like a horde of beasts about to pounce on prey.
Totem poles moved with the legion in key positions.
These hundred-meter wooden pillars were carved with war marks and divine symbols, siphoning battle spirit from orc warriors around them, gathering and condensing it, then radiating it back in special ways to provide myriad enhancements.
Even legendary-tier individuals gained clear boosts from them.
At a totem’s top was carved the image of a giant broken femur—a badge.
The God of Might, the Fierce Beast, the Strong One, the Bonebreaker King—these titles represented the deity called Bag, worshipped by all Kantum tribes.
All Kantum’s tribes followed his doctrine:
The strong oppress the weak; might is truth.
The weak deserve contempt and must be crushed.
Strength is eternal; do not harbor sly thoughts—loyalty to the chieftain is the only thing your mind should hold.
Under such doctrine, the Kantum Empire practiced a survival-of-the-fittest law from top to bottom. Orcs were inculcated with these beliefs from birth and naturally became part of the system as they grew.
Bag’s cult also bore a more widely circulated honorific:
Child of Ge’ush.
The orc chief god’s titles—loathed Shura, one-eyed war god, Sleepless Conqueror—belonged to the powerful evil god Ge’ush.
Orcs howled and roared forward in the god’s name.
At the legion’s head stood a colossal warbeast, atop which the empire’s Mandate General stood, holding a massive battle axe wrapped in a blood-red aura.
“Charge!”
“For Kantum’s glory! For the Fierce Beast’s honor!”
“Crush those pointy-eared weaklings!”
The ground trembled more violently under countless orc feet, raising a huge dust wall that swept toward the elven lines with irresistible momentum.
Opposite them, the elven formation.
A stark contrast to the orc frenzy.
Elven warriors formed neat ranks, prepared and waiting. Marksmen had longbows drawn, arrows glimmering with magic. Spellcasters radiated potent magical energy, and rearline war engines were charged and ready.
Once orcs stepped into range, they would be met with fierce punishment.
But then the sky split.
Like a paper cutter slicing white paper, a colossal spatial rift suddenly opened above the battlefield with no warning. Its edges were neat and smooth; inside, an abyssal darkness stretched down beyond sight.
Then a pair of talons probed through.
They were blood-red, covered with dense scales that reflected a metallic sheen. Claws sharp as blades hooked the rift’s edge and tore outward.
The fissure instantly doubled in size.
A low dragon roar emanated from it—near and far at once—and a massive form leaped through.
Scarlet Emperor Cangxing, the Red Emperor, the Undying Dragon.
Garoth Ignas.
He appeared more majestic and imposing than eight years prior; his expanded wings shaded half the sky, casting a huge shadow across the ground.
This Scarlet Emperor from Atlan swept his gaze over the land to the dark green tide below.
His pupils narrowed into vertical slits, his face expressionless.
Boom, boom, boom.
Without a word, golden flames surged along the great dragon’s body.
Four additional gigantic arms condensed from the flames, forming, together with his original limbs, six dragon arms.
They rose in unison.
Golden flames gathered and compacted in each palm, forming dangerous spheres—miniature suns imprisoned in his claws, radiating blinding light and searing heat.
“Pray to your gods now.”
the Red Iron Dragon whispered, as his six great arms moved.
One after another, dragonqi spheres detached from his palms and fell, dragging golden trails as they were condensed, hurled, and recondensed in continuous succession.
A grand legion in battle?
Numbers meant nothing before Garoth. For destruction and annihilation he surpassed normal Mandates; with a single dragon’s power he could destroy an enormous army.
Golden trails filled the sky like a sudden meteor shower, pouring down onto the orc legion.
The Mandate General of the orc army looked up; his pupils shrank.
“Defend!”
Instantly, all the totem poles lit up.
War marks and runes flowed along the pillars; the orcs’ battle spirit was siphoned, gathered, and condensed into a massive shield above them, also amplifying allied legendaries.
The general’s blood-red aura surged, rising skyward.
Axes formed a bloody barrier as they met the dragonqi spheres, slicing and blocking them. But too many spheres fell, each immensely powerful, as if the entire sky rained fury upon them.
The Mandate domain quickly shattered.
Other legendaries dared not directly intercept; they scattered like birds and beasts. Those who reacted too slowly faced the Nine Lives of Fortune.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The first dragonqi sphere broke through the defenses and detonated.
The shield trembled violently, cracks spidering across its surface.
Second, third, fourth... spheres exploded in succession; cracks spread like spiderwebs across the shield.
Then it shattered.
Totem shields collapsed under the onslaught; runes on the pillars extinguished one by one, and the wooden columns began to crack.
Dragonqi spheres continued to fall.
Without shields, they struck directly into the orc ranks.
Rumbles.
Like countless suns rising from the earth.
The whole Blackrock Wasteland shook with continuous quakes; the ground was blasted into innumerable massive craters, each bottom burning with golden flame, turning everything it touched into ash.
Smoke and dust veiled the sky.
But the golden light still pierced through, illuminating the apocalyptic scene.
Under such horrific strikes, the orc legion could no longer press the attack. That they did not completely collapse testified to their strength.
At the elven lines behind, a deathlike silence reigned.
Those handsome, resolute elves now witnessed an onslaught like a natural catastrophe.
Most had lost their composure: eyes wide, mouths slightly open, standing in stunned shock—no usual grace, no wartime sternness.
The orcs’ first wave of attack
had not truly begun before it had already ended.
