Free Web NovelThree days later, at dawn.
But dawn did not arrive on schedule.
The sky above the Blackrock Wasteland was shrouded in a thick cloud of dust, as if the breath of some colossal beast had frozen over the heavens, blocking the morning light completely.
Those were the ashes raised when the Red Iron Dragon’s power swept the land, and they still hadn’t fully settled.
In the northern wasteland, the great corps had already formed their lines, prepared for battle.
The largest and most elite was the Nausil Empire’s legion.
A silver-white formation stretched through the dimness like a sword drawn to perfection, silently pointing south.
Elven warriors wore moon-patterned armor, ranks tight, spears standing like a forest, bowstrings half-drawn.
Every face was hidden behind faceplates, revealing only cold, piercing eyes.
Their armor had been carefully polished and shone like countless silent mirrors reflecting the blood and fire to come.
Between the phalanxes stood war-trees so massive they could not be ignored.
These trees were outfitted with endless magical armaments; runic arrays were embedded in their trunks, and magical turrets dangled from branch tips. They were magical lifeforms shaped by Nausil’s nature magic, born specifically for war.
The entire legion radiated a solemn, dignified aura.
The elves believed war itself was an art, and art required solemnity, restraint, and the coolest mind in the fiercest moment.
They did not roar or shout; they stood in silence like a forest awaiting a storm.
Allied corps were deployed on both wings and the rear.
Elite forces of the Greenwild Kingdom hid in the flank shadows; giants bore heavy Tower Shields and shoulder hammers, each step shaking the earth. Mixed human and dwarf phalanxes held the center’s flank and rear.
The presence of legendary warriors acted like lighthouses, guiding soldiers at key points in the formation.
There was no noisy clamor.
Among the great corps, only that calm before the storm remained.
Solemn as a funeral, dignified as a rite.
Aelarian rode a silver war-stag, her handsome, icy face set in seriousness.
Her gaze swept the legion; her eyes reflected countless silent figures, committing each face to memory.
“For Arotala.”
She drew the sword at her waist and raised it to the sky.
“For Arotala!”
Thalamond and Vilrain shouted as well, the Solar Grand Knight’s sword clanging against his breastplate; Vilrain’s staff shone silver at the tip, her voice carrying across the legion.
At this moment, the will of Mandate formed an invisible bond, linking everyone’s resolve.
The elven warriors felt that connection.
They straightened their spines, gripped their weapons tighter, and felt a burning heat surge in their chests.
Then they marched south.
Toot!
A far-reaching, desolate horn sounded.
As the march began, Nausil’s elven warriors were no longer mute; they sang their familiar battle song.
Beneath the faceplates there were no faces,
In moon-patterned armor there were no names.
We are the silver river,
Flowing silently through the blaze,
Until the darkness is forever lit.
Do not ask which forest we came from,
Do not ask our mothers’ names,
Just remember, where the spears stand, there is home.
The song began as a few low voices, then spread like wildfire; more and more joined until countless voices became a single soaring wave, straight into the sky.
There was pathos, pride, resolute determination, and not an ounce of hesitation.
It bound the legion’s will into one.
Allied corps outside Nausil felt it too; morale surged. Some soldiers could not understand elven lyrics, but the melody itself fired their blood.
Soon after, in the middle of the Blackrock Wasteland.
This ground showed the cracks and scorched scars of countless tramples; the surface was littered with gravel and ash that crunched underfoot.
When Nausil’s formation advanced here, they stopped.
Because on the other side waited another ocean.
Unlike the elves’ ordered solemnity, the orc ranks resembled a surging sea of dark green.
War banners whipped in the blood-scented wind, skulls dripping with painted blood; the flags snapped wildly. Orc fighters packed together, heavy breaths combining into a beastly roar, the hot, bloody stench drifting far away.
They had no elven order.
Orcs never pursued order.
But they had fanaticism and... numbers.
Orc numbers far exceeded the elves’.
They were overall stronger than most humanoid races and bred beyond human speed.
War for orcs was not disaster but harvest—a season to reap glory.
Each orc warrior spent his life waiting for this day.
Waiting for a real war to swing a weapon, to sever an enemy’s head, to prove his worth.
At the orc legion’s front stood three figures.
Crimson War Chieftain Barom stood on the left, one hand gripping a blood-red battle-axe; on the right, Skull-Crushing War Chieftain Kilrog had his war hammer slung on his shoulder.
Both had war paint on their skin.
Red-and-black stripes stretched from forehead to chest in the orc tradition.
Between them stood Sarthoa.
The Bloodskull chieftain, the Mandate Shaman.
The old Shaman was not wearing her usual fur robe today; she donned a war-garment woven from countless tiny bone shards, each piece from past Bloodskull war chieftains, carrying the remnants of their fierce will.
Sarthoa looked northward, watching the silver line approach slowly.
The elves had chosen to attack.
And that was exactly what the orcs wanted.
They would never retreat; to them, retreat was weakness, and the weak deserved to be trampled.
“They’re coming.”
Barom said quietly.
Kilrog revealed a cruel smile and licked his cracked lips, “Let them come.”
The great Shaman did not turn her head.
Her rune-covered right hand raised the staff, the bone-war-garment rustling; then the staff’s butt tapped the ground.
Thud.
A visible blood-red ripple spread from the staff’s tip, carrying primitive, savage power, sweeping through the orc legion.
Every orc who felt that ripple emitted a low growl.
Growls rose and fell like the tide, wave over wave, their warlust igniting like gunpowder through the dark-green sea.
“For the great Bag!”
“For Kantum! For the Bloodskull tribe!”
Countless voices converged into the sky, shaking the dust clouds. Fine ash fell from the layer above.
Then the orc ranks advanced.
The earth trembled under their stamping, the tremors traveling through the ground so elves could clearly feel them.
At that moment.
At the elven front, under the watch of several Mandates, a massive dark figure rose into the air.
The Red Iron Dragon did not wait for orders.
His silhouette lifted from the legion’s formation; his wingspan obscured a large swath of sky. Wing membranes bore burning patterns, glowing like two searing iron plates in the dim.
He flew across the barren no-man’s land between the two armies and headed straight for the orc host.
This was open ground, scattered with stones and withered grass—an area of death no one wanted to cross alone.
But dragons did not care.
In his Ember-Annihilating Form, the sun inside his chest flared brighter, light spilling through scale gaps like a star ready to explode, eager to cast away the gloom.
“He’s risen.”
“Let him go. Hopefully he isn’t showing off.”
Elves exchanged brief words and the army pressed on.
Meanwhile, Crimson War Chieftain Barom was the first to notice the figure in the sky.
“It’s the Scarlet Emperor Cangxing.”
He looked up, pupils contracting slightly, “Be careful of his dragonqi bombs.”
Before he could finish, he already showed doubt: “No... he looks completely different from last time. He’s changed a lot, like... more dangerous.”
Sarthoa tilted her head and looked at the dark dragon. Her withered face gave no ripple, but her fingers tightened on the staff.
“Unless an Immortal comes in person, no one can break the formation I erected.”
“It will hold until the two armies clash, then the dragon’s ranged advantage will vanish and he won’t dare breathe freely in melee.”
As soon as she spoke, she lifted the staff higher.
The skull at the staff’s top blazed like a torch; crimson fire flared in its eye sockets.
“Children of the Bloodskull!”
The old Shaman’s voice became impossibly loud, overwhelming the battlefield’s clamor. “Give me your fury!”
“Give your blood to the war flag!”
“Give your bones to the earth!”
“Give your souls to the great Bag!”
She began reciting prayers, syllables ancient and rough like stones striking stones.
Every orc warrior in the legion raised their heads at once.
Their eyes simultaneously turned blood-red, but without chaos; instead a fanatical light appeared.
Countless orcs’ faith and fighting spirit were channeled by the Mandate sorceress, condensed into substance.
They rose like reverse rain, converging, intertwining, coiling in the air, then swelling suddenly.
Giant spectral skulls formed above the legion.
Their faces were coarse, fangs protruding—definitely orc skulls.
Some were house-sized, some wheel-sized, countless pressed together, layer upon layer forming a grim, terrifying dome.
Faith, fanaticism, and warlust made manifest.
They circled, howled, and roared, forming a skull-cloud above the legion.
This was the old Shaman’s military spell:
The Bloodskull Wall.
It could swallow any ranged attack.
Arrows, spells, even dragon breath—if they touched the Bloodskull Wall, those skull phantoms would consume and digest them into nothing.
Sarthoa was confident.
At the same time.
The dark Red Iron Dragon hovered.
He paused midair, wings slowly folding, creating a stable platform.
He lowered his gaze to the tiny figures below, pupils vertical and devoid of scorn or anger. Then he raised his head and opened his jaws.
His Abyssal Breath Lungs powered up at maximum.
A visible vortex of energy formed around his snout; elements in the air were ruthlessly torn free and funneled into his expanding chest like an invisible hand stuffing everything in.
Light patterns in his scale gaps blazed brighter, shifting from gold-red to white heat.
It felt as if a genuine star inside him had reached the end of its life and was about to erupt in brilliance.
Then he breathed.
The Incinerating Breath!
A searing torrent poured forth, its diameter several times larger than the dragon’s head.
It shot straight as a column, moving beyond the eye’s capacity to follow, as if the breath had crossed the sky the instant his jaws opened.
There was no process—only the result.
It slammed into the Bloodskull Wall.
Boom!
The wasteland trembled.
The ground rippled like water; stones leapt more than a man’s height. Soldiers in both armies bent to their knees simultaneously.
The Bloodskull Wall shuddered violently.
Skull phantoms twisted, screamed, and dissolved in the flames like snow in boiling water.
But more skulls surged up.
They blazed like moths to the flame, filling gaps, swallowing the fire, digesting the heat. One dissipated, ten replaced it; ten vanished, a hundred followed.
Even so, a giant dent formed on the wall’s surface.
Like a face punched hard, it slowly tried to reclaim shape but could not keep pace with the collapse. The speed of destruction outstripped the wall’s ability to consume.
Sarthoa’s expression flickered.
The Bloodskull Wall, forged from countless warriors’ will and faith, should have been unbreakable—something even Mandate beings would admire.
Yet the Scarlet Emperor’s breath exceeded all expectations.
It was powerful enough to shake the wall’s foundations.
Fissures appeared across the surface.
They spider-webbed outward from the impact, crackling in fine, grinding sounds.
Below, orc fighters’ faces shone red from the heat; the air temperature spiked; inhalation brought nothing but scorching breath. Even eyelashes began to curl.
At that moment.
The dragon stopped breathing.
Sarthoa exhaled long, a forced smile at her lips.
“This breath is some kind of burst skill—terrible in power but not lasting,” she thought.
But as if anticipating her thought.
In the sky, the dark Red Iron Dragon inhaled again.
This time his motion differed.
Dragon qi gathered in slits along his neck scales, then burst outward.
Two new heads grew from his neck sides, wide muzzles and coarse faceplates like the main head, angled differently.
Six eyes opened at once.
And that was not all.
Starlight State!
With thunderous flames igniting, the dragon’s body and aura swelled; lightning slithered across him and flames erupted from scale gaps, wrapping him in a searing halo.
Despite the Material Plane’s invisible suppression, he reached a hundred meters in size.
The next instant.
Three pairs of vertical pupils lit.
Three huge mouths opened.
Three Incinerating Breaths rose simultaneously.
They cleaved the sky from different angles, each carrying the will to annihilate, then struck the Bloodskull Wall in intersecting blows.
Cracks spread from the three impact points.
They expanded outward and connected into an impenetrable web of fissures. Countless orc skull phantoms dissolved in the flames, turning into drifting light fragments.
Staggering!
The fissures were too deep.
Residual breath shocks radiated like burning blades, slicing into the barrier. The wall finally failed; threads of flame pierced the formation and fell into the orc ranks.
In an instant.
Orc warriors hit by the aftershock turned into charred husks.
Their skin carbonized and split under intense heat; whole bodies collapsed like burned charcoal, shattering into ash that the hot wind swept up into the dust cloud, indistinguishable from everything else.
The legion faltered.
Fear passed from one orc eye to another, from one heartbeat to the next.
The Bloodskull Wall was more than defense.
It was the physicalized faith and morale of the army.
When it wavered, every orc linked by the formation felt a soul-deep pain and dread.
Their faith was violently torn; morale spilled like a breached dam. Dark-red cinders from the breath flowed through the ranks, radiating chaos and death.
A vicious cycle.
The shakier the formation, the weaker the soldiers’ augmentations; the weaker the augmentations, the more terrified they were before cataclysmic breath; the more terrified, the more the formation collapsed.
Worse, exhaustion seemed absent from this dragon.
Terrifying breath continued without pause, endless and unflagging, as if it would never drain.
If it could not be stopped, there was no point in continuing the war.
Skull-Crushing War Chieftain looked to Crimson War Chieftain.
Kilrog had once mocked Barom’s restraint.
He thought a war chieftain should never back down before an enemy, even a dragon.
Now standing there and feeling the pressure, he understood. He roared: “We can’t let him continue! Break him!”
Two figures shot up simultaneously toward the three-headed dragon.
Barom and Kilrog, the two chieftains, bore an unyielding charge toward the Red Iron Dragon.
The great Shaman’s staff swished, casting spells that strengthened the two chieftains.
Blood-red light shot from the staff’s top, cloaking them and swelling their auras; muscles bulged, veins stood out, strength rising beyond prior limits.
In Nausil’s corps, three Mandate elves’ gazes tightened at once.
They instantly realized the battle’s fulcrum.
The Scarlet Emperor Cangxing wasn’t mindless bravado.
In his current form, his breath could shatter any barrier.
What they needed to do was not watch or force the legion into a headlong clash. The best option was to support the Red Iron Dragon and fight around this “destroyer cannon.”
Aelarian, Thalamond, and Vilrain exchanged looks.
Without words the strategy shifted.
“In the name of Nausil, victory is assured!”
The Solar Grand Knight raised his sword.
Above the Nausil legion, silver-white light like a tide gathered toward him.
It was thousands of elven warriors’ trust and reliance, turned into tangible light and poured into Thalamond’s body.
The Sun Elf donned a coronation-like halo, becoming a burning star that surged at Barom and Kilrog with terrifying speed, the knight’s shield held before him.
At the same time, Vilrain crossed her hands.
Arcane patterns spread from her left arm across her body like vines, leaving dense silver tracery on her skin.
Her gaze turned deep and vacant.
It was as if her sight pierced reality and landed on a more fundamental layer.
Countless invisible threads of arcane power sparked outward.
They could not be seen or touched but were real. Fine yet strong as spider silk, they wound around the two orc chieftains’ bodies, wills, and spirits...
Weaken, retard, curse.
Her arcana wasn’t flashy like a breath or spell; most wouldn’t know what happened.
But like a bone-sister, it silently seeped into the chieftains, making their movements unknowingly sluggish and heavy.
At the same time, some arcane threads bolstered the Solar Grand Knight.
But Sarthoa proved stronger. Her staff swung again and red light washed the chieftains, dispelling some of the curse.
Vilrain’s weakening had limited effect.
Under the Shaman’s augment, the chieftains still grew stronger. Their speed and strength were trimmed, but their baselines were massive; even after subtraction they were terrifying.
Aelarian did not move.
She simply took down Moon’s Lament from her back.
Nocked an arrow and drew full.
The bowstring hummed low.
An arrow-gleam formed around her, a loop of twisted light; tiny moon-white motes danced along the shaft with soft snaps.
The Silver-White Arrow did not shoot, but its edge was already set.
The two chieftains’ scalps prickled.
They dared not ignore the arrow.
They felt a strong sense of danger: if they slipped, the arrow would cross the distance and pierce their skulls.
That momentary distraction and restraint.
The Solar Knight slotted between them.
Shield parried the axe blow.
The knight’s sword clashed with Kilrog’s hammer, an ear-splitting thunder.
With Mandate aid, the knight held his own one-on-two without falling behind.
Meanwhile, as the Mandates entered the fray, many legends on both sides could no longer restrain themselves.
Orc legendary generals roared into the air.
They were progressively more hulking, bodies tattooed with war paint, weapons various and brutal, a coarse, violent aura.
Elves, dwarves, humans, dragons, giants—legendary power clashed above the battlefield.
Between sky and earth, legendary auras collided with thunder.
The battlefield split into layers.
Below, two great legions had not yet fully engaged.
Dark green and silver-white surged like angry currents, closing with unstoppable force.
The earth trembled; air filled with killing intent. Elven spears pointed forward in a blade, orcs beat their chests in deafening screams.
Above, centered on the Red Iron Dragon in Ember-Annihilating Form, many legends circled him in a more dangerous clash, a storm of energy where spells and blood mixed, where blades met scales.
The overture to the great battle had fully begun.
At the same time.
High in the vast sky, the three-headed dragon paused its breath.
The Bloodskull Wall bore dents and cracks.
Like bark fissures, cracks radiated from impact points, dense and spidered.
The great chieftain’s face was stern; wrinkles seemed carved deeper, as if another cut had been scored into them.
She saw the dragon had stopped breathing but did not relax. Her staff stood steady as she amplified the chieftains and tried to maintain the Bloodskull Wall.
On an imperial battlefield, non-legendary soldiers didn’t matter much by themselves.
But their legionary formation mattered a great deal.
For legends, even Mandates, are amplified by their troops. A Mandate bolstered by a legion’s will is a different force from one fighting alone.
So war splits into layers.
Whichever layer gains advantage radiates into others toward comprehensive victory. If formations break, legends face more pressure; if legends fall, the formations lose shelter.
If the legion were annihilated by the Red Iron Dragon, the legends’ battle would become one-sided.
“This barrier is shaky, but it still holds.”
Garoth Ignas watched with faint amusement, locking onto the sage who formed the Bloodskull Wall.
According to known intel, she was a level-39 top-tier sorceress, matched to Dragon Kings—a top legend beneath Saints and Immortals.
Yet gaps remained.
Sarthoa wasn’t dragonkin.
Dragons, aside from confronting twilight, grow stronger with age; scales thicken, breath intensifies—no senility. The old Bloodskull Shaman was now frail, unable to exert full force.
Even so, the Bloodskull Wall remained tough.
It had withstood Garoth’s first Incinerating Breath without collapsing quickly.
But that was only temporary.
“If one breath can’t destroy it, then two.”
Garoth lifted his head slightly, chest expanding; he inhaled deeply. Residual ember-energy in the air was absorbed, replenishing the spent reserves.
His chest rose and fell.
It wasn’t exhaustion but like a beast catching its breath after swallowing prey.
The air around him warped; embers’ dark-red motes formed a dim halo, turning the sky into an apocalyptic dusk.
In less than a minute he could unleash another breath.
With the current cracked, dented Barrier, another blast would utterly shatter it—those phantoms could not hold. One more breath and nothing would remain.
And in the gap while the Red Iron Dragon recovered, a figure suddenly burst up from the rear of the orc legion.
He was unremarkable at first glance—a burly humanoid cloaked in heavy fabric, blending with orc warriors.
But as his feet left the ground,
the cloak tore from internal force, fabric turning to dust in the violent energy release, revealing his true form.
Dark silver scales shimmered with a cold blue luster; each scale looked like polished metal with razor edges.
A thick tail trailed behind, drawing an arc in the air.
An antlered crest ran from his brow back like an ancient crown, emphasizing his face between dragon and man.
As he rose, his size swelled.
Dragon features intensified with his bulk: human outline washed out; arms grew thicker and longer; claws sprang from fingertips; back arched; tail lengthened.
Within blinks he became a full-fledged great dragon:
An Ancient Chrome Dragon.
Dark silver scales cloaked him like ice on a deep-winter lake. His wings were vast; frost clustered on the wing bones and fell as the wings beat. A ring of dense, cold flame roiled around his neck like a lion’s mane, whitening the air.
The Deep Freeze Tyrant, Claudia.
His eyes locked on the dark figure in the heavens; his pupils narrowed to vertical slits.
“Red and iron hybrid.”
“...Smells like seared iron.”
Gazing at the Red Iron Dragon, the Deep Freeze Tyrant could not help curl his tongue, saliva dribbling, fangs sticky.
An instinctive desire stirred.
He wanted to eat that dragon—chew and swallow it, make it part of himself.
Throat of Devouring World—Flesh Tier.
Each time you devour a sufficiently strong foe in battle, you permanently gain some of their traits or resistances. Growth through eating the powerful.
When Claudia became a Mandate, some features evolved into Throat of Devouring World.
Flesh Tier was its primary effect.
Whoosh!
Claudia beat his wings ferociously.
Countless cold gusts spread like a storm from him, freezing vapor into snowflakes that instantaneously turned to ice, leaving white streaks across the sky like a tear.
He surged toward the Red Iron Dragon.
“Deep Freeze Tyrant?!”
“Orcs actually allied with such a mad dragon.”
Before more thought could form, the Arcane Sage raised an arm etched in arcane runes; markings from wrist to shoulder flared in unison.
Countless slender moon-white chains materialized, each link inscribed with a minified binding incantation.
They wrapped around the chrome dragon’s limbs, wings, neck, and tail.
Then tightened.
Binding incantations activated all at once; silver light flowed over the chains, aiming to lock his movement utterly.
But... they were too fragile.
The Ancient Chrome Dragon kept beating his wings, surging forward; the chains creaked and rubbed against scales with gritty sounds.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Chains began to snap, link by link, unable to stall his charge.
A gluttonous body.
You never stop feeding; your metabolism, power ceiling, and energy reserves exceed normal dragons. Your body is always ready for the next meal.
Vilrain’s brow tightened.
Her right arm rose to cast another secret art.
But because the previous spell was violently ripped apart, she suffered backlash; a few runes on her arm dimmed and couldn’t immediately cast again.
Still, the moment the chains distracted him was enough for another attack to land.
“Hah!”
Thalamond let out a low war cry.
The Solar Grand Knight temporarily freed himself from his entanglement with the two orc chieftains.
Aelarian’s arrow-edge sharpened and locked onto a skull, forcing Barom to retreat half a step, while Kilrog was hurled upward by the Knight’s shield.
In that less-than-a-second gap, Thalamond spun and raised his sword overhead.
Sunfire burned along the blade.
White light condensing on the blade formed a giant horizontal sword-beam across the sky.
The beam’s edge was sharp beyond sight, as if it had cut a seam in space. A line at the center burned retina-searingly bright.
Thalamond swung.
The blade-beam leapt from the sword, tore the air, and aimed straight for the chrome dragon’s head.
Claudia did not dodge.
He opened his maw; each fang gleamed with deep light.
The inside of his mouth was an unfathomable blue, resembling a void rather than a biological cavity—an empty, sightless depth.
As the sword-beam approached, it shrank in size; space was being warped and compressed.
Snap!
The dragon’s jaws slammed shut. Teeth met with a heavy metallic sound. The compressed beam was instantly shattered between his fangs.
Shards of light streamed through the gaps like crushed blossoms.
His throat reversed the energy and swallowed, a satisfied gurgle in his chest.
Throat of Devouring World—Law-Eating.
When starved, you can bite flames and lightning; when fangs or mouth touch energy, you compress, solidify, and chew it down.
Throat of Devouring World—All Things Edible.
You can devour matter and energy—flesh, metal, curses, magic—everything becomes food.
Flesh Tier, Law-Eating, All-Things-Edible—
Together these formed the core of the Deep Freeze Tyrant Claudia’s devouring trait.
“Tastes similar to the elves—slightly sweet but not filling.”
The chrome dragon licked his lips, light from the shattered blade still clinging to his fangs and swallowed.
His gaze never left the dark Red Iron Dragon.
All this occurred in a heartbeat; Vilrain’s chains had held him less than two breaths. Thalamond’s blade-beam was bitten and swallowed in an instant—these Mandates’ interceptions hadn’t truly stopped him.
Across the way.
Aelarian’s face was severe; the arrow gleamed cold as moonlight, trembling, nearly loosed.
But she held back.
That arrow could injure the chrome dragon, but only so much.
If she fired, the two chieftains would charge recklessly—Barom and Kilrog like untethered warhorses toward the Red Iron Dragon; the Solar Knight could not stop them.
Every legend has their own battle.
A Mandate dragon is hard to stop.
Now she could only trust the Scarlet Emperor utterly.
Meanwhile, the Deep Freeze Tyrant continued upward.
He cut through the melees like a winter storm, everything he passed wrapped in frost and hunger. Other legends made way for him.
He cleared the mêlée of legends and fixed his sight on the three-headed dragon.
Higher in the dome, the three-headed Incinerating dragon lowered huge heads to lock on the approaching form.
Gaze met.
At that instant, Garoth saw the other’s blatant hunger; Claudia saw in Garoth’s eyes a type of thirst too.
“Haha, you’re my kin! A true kin!”
The Deep Freeze Tyrant roared and laughed.
“Scarlet Emperor Cangxing, my kin! I will grant you my highest respect by eating you, so your flesh and I become one, to raise me to the highest step!”
Kin?
Garoth watched coolly; three pairs of vertical pupils looked coldly at the charging form.
How could he be kin with a mad dragon?
Ridiculous.
Claudia did not stop for words.
His combat experience was ample; seeing Garoth’s body and previous attacks told him that the Red Iron Dragon favored long-range annihilation.
That’s why Claudia rose now—during the inhalation gap—so that close combat would negate the ranged advantage, letting fangs and claws rule.
Garoth’s three pairs of vertical pupils locked on the charging dark-silver figure.
Claudia’s speed was terrifying; ice winds trailed like a comet.
Greed and hunger swirled in his eyes; Garoth could even see his own reflection—three heads, dark scales, burning patterns.
Garoth did not retreat.
In Ember-Annihilating Form his chest expansion and scale structure altered his center of gravity and speed; he was not particularly agile. He became heavier, forward-weighted, less nimble.
But he did not need to back away.
His final energy cycle had completed.
Light in his scale gaps climbed to white heat, like a blazing sun; his chest glowed transparent, radiating concentric rings.
He had recovered.
Normal dragons need time to recover from continuous breath; the cost is real—throat burns, lung fatigue, overheating.
But Garoth in Ember-Annihilating Form did not suffer those problems.
His body was born for this.
The three maws opened simultaneously.
Six rows of fangs.
In his throat, a new round of breath had already condensed, light rolling in his gullet.
Claudia remained composed and focused.
In his long life he had faced rival dragons.
Breath is apocalypse to ordinary beings, but dragons can cope—there is a wind-up, a brief rigid moment when aimed. If your status is sound, you can shift trajectory at the last moment and dodge.
This is dragon combat fundamentals and gave him confidence to charge head-on.
But he quickly discovered he was wrong.
Three breaths erupted at once, straight, columnar torrents.
Speed beyond belief.
One moment he saw light between fangs; the next, annihilating torrents were inches away, crossing.
Claudia startled.
He folded wings suddenly and rolled sideways in the air.
One breath grazed less than half a meter from his left wing, burning the membrane’s edge; frost evaporated into vapor as the wing’s edge charred.
The chrome dragon felt no pain—another breath followed closely.
He dove, letting a breath sweep over his back. Heat radiated through scales, a searing sting.
A third breath sealed off his dive.
This time there was no escape.
The Deep Freeze Tyrant opened his maw.
Space twisted between his fangs; Law-Eating activated.
His mouth was a bottomless hole, compressing and chewing the leading breath energy.
At the same time, a strange shade flickered in his vertical pupils.
Too hot.
Scalding.
A burning sensation spread from his tongue to his mouth, down his throat—like a flesh-body swallowing molten iron, organs burning.
This breath’s energy density far exceeded expectations.
Even his devouring ability struggled to break it down quickly.
However, the fiery pain eased his hunger; a ghoulish excitement crept over Claudia’s face. He relished the pain.
Then he accelerated.
Only in close quarters—tearing scales with fangs and claws through the chest—could the fight truly end. As he sped, the three breaths changed course.
Breath is straight and cannot bend.
It was the source that moved.
The dragon turned its neck.
His long neck moved with a flexibility disproportionate to his bulk.
The main head moved first; the muzzle’s sweep made the breath carve curved fans through the air, aiming at Claudia’s rolling body. The other two heads followed, flanking left and right.
Three blazing pillars crossed, split, and crossed again.
A nearly inescapable fire-net came into being, reflected in the Deep Freeze Tyrant’s narrowed pupils.
The breath was devastating, but one cost is direction lock.
Once breathing, recoil froze the body briefly; massive neck muscles resist large turns—hard to redirect in such moments.
But this dragon ignored those limits.
Its thick neck twisted with unusual agility, making breath walls crease through the air and block Claudia’s attempts to close in.
Too fast.
Too fast!
Claudia beat his wings fiercely, twisting in the sky like a dancer on blades, his body nearly wrung into a knotted shape, wing membranes slapping at high heat, wind and heat swirling together.
But the breath would not stop.
Garoth’s eyes showed satisfaction as he admired the chrome dragon’s forced dance.
Claudia was driven left; another breath swept from the right, scorching scales red and curling edges to reveal tender new skin.
He rolled backward; the three breaths cut the point he had occupied.
At intersecting points, air ionized into plasma; a mushroom cloud burst forth. Shockwaves shoved him off-line.
Claudia had to change direction; more breaths followed.
Every attempt to close pushed him back.
He wanted to get near Garoth, but distance widened instead of shrinking. Fangs, claws, and devouring throat needed proximity, and he could not get it.
The Red Iron Dragon’s breath duration exceeded his estimate and its follow-up speed grew.
Garoth controlled Ember-Annihilating Form more skillfully; his breath became ever faster.
Moreover, even if breath was dodged, it left embers that persisted. Those embers diffused in the air and were absorbed by his scales and wing membranes during breath release, making one breath last very long.
As Claudia rolled to dodge again.
Another breath cut across from a sharp angle, sweeping his back in a broad swath.
Sizzle!
Dark-silver scales were instantly seared to Forge-Red; dense cracks appeared.
Claudia gave a muffled, angry groan; back muscles spasmed under heat, delaying him. That split-second lag let more breaths surge in.
The chrome dragon had to retreat, buying space with distance.
He was being forced further and further away.
A fury he had never known.
Claudia’s frustration turned to rage. After the retreat, he flapped wildly and charged in a straight line at the Red Iron Dragon.
This was near-suicidal.
Whoosh!
Three Incinerating Breaths surged together, closing in rapidly.
At that moment, a sly glint flashed in Claudia’s eyes.
A Winter of Famine.
He roared, and an endless cold radiated instantly from him.
This was not ordinary cold but an appetite for heat—a denial of warmth and a drain of life’s vigor.
Temperatures in the area dropped off a cliff.
Residual embers birthed by the breath turned into gray dust, then froze, falling as pale powder.
The Incinerating Breaths collided head-on with Winter of Famine.
High heat and deep cold fought; steam rolled out like a white wall, and the breath cut through.
But the breath changed in transit.
Diameter shrank, energy density dropped, color faded, and speed perceptibly slowed. Icy chill even crept along the breath, affecting Garoth himself.
Frost whitened his scales; his heat was being devoured.
Frost thickened fast from a thin layer into a thick ice shell, cracking audibly.
Claudia seized the chance.
He flew through the weakened energy gap left by the breath, scales popping and flaking in the aftershock; plates cracked and fell, exposing raw flesh.
He paid no heed.
Wings folded like scythes and sliced the air with a keening sound. His body drew a straight line in the charge.
Finally, he broke the blockade.
He closed to a hundred meters from Garoth.
For dragons, that was nearly within biting distance.
Claudia’s jaws gaped like a python.
Fangs glinted with deep light; his mouth was a deep, empty blue, a whirlpool into a void.
Law-Eating activated between his fangs.
Space twisted into a spiral, swallowing surrounding light.
Claudia’s pupils narrowed to vertical slits, reflecting the approaching head.
He could smell the other’s aura:
Flame, metal, and the scent of embers burned to their end—an intoxicating mix feeding his hunger. Saliva dripped in silver strings.
He lunged his neck forward.
Fangs stabbed toward Garoth’s throat.
But he met not scales splitting and warm blood, but a giant claw coming at his face!
Golden flame flared from Garoth’s body. Frost cracked like shattered glass; cold shards flew and the dark scorch was exposed.
Garoth’s dark claw tore through the twisted space before the chrome dragon’s fangs.
The warped space that had been twisted by Law-Eating should have swallowed anything, but Garoth’s claw ripped through, tearing the warped zone and slamming the chrome dragon’s head aside.
Crack!
A dull thud like a drum shook the air.
Claudia’s head snapped; two shattered fangs flew out, spinning and tracing silver arcs. Jaws slammed empty with a crisp snap; his skull was knocked nearly ninety degrees sideways. Neck vertebrae groaned like they might snap.
His brain hummed, vision blackened into mottled shapes.
His body lost balance and rolled helplessly.
Stunned.
Claudia’s mind blanked for a moment.
He had anticipated many possible responses from the Red Iron Dragon but never that this “glass cannon” would not retreat but charge him, breaking his Law-Eating fangs with a single claw that made his head ring.
That momentary daze led to more strikes.
Garoth gave no respite.
The main head butted forward; hard forehead and horns slammed the chrome dragon’s face; another claw clamped the mane behind Claudia’s neck and dug in, tearing flesh as he pulled down.
Claudia’s head was forced low.
Garoth beat his wings, torso twisting; his thick tail lashed and struck Claudia’s flank, shattering dark-silver scales. The chrome dragon flew off, body spinning.
Dizzy, Claudia shook his head; a more frenzied fury flared in his vertical pupils.
He bared his teeth; blood mixed with drool at his mouth’s corners.
Then he lunged again.
Faster and fiercer, like a rabid beast.
Two dragons grappled.
Claudia’s claws hooked Garoth’s chest-edge, claws digging into scale gaps and tearing. Ember-Annihilating scales are brittle; with multiple cracks, the chest scabbed.
Garoth counters with claws.
His right paw ripped Claudia’s left shoulder, wrenching off a chunk of scale and flesh.
Blood spattered and froze into ice crystals on Garoth, thanks to the chrome dragon’s cold. Left paw hammered Claudia’s belly, alternating blows, dents and flesh torn.
Claudia roared and craned his head inward, fangs biting at Garoth’s neck.
Garoth tilted his head to evade; fangs grazed the neck, shaving off a few scales. Claudia’s tail wrapped from below and bound Garoth’s hindleg, pulling him close.
Distance forced shorter.
The two dragons were nearly pressed together, claws tearing at each other’s torsos. Scale fragments flew like rain.
Fangs met fangs; claws met claws; scales bit scales.
Scale fragments rained down.
Dark-silver and dark-black scales, mixed with both bloods, fell and either burned or froze as they struck the legendary battleground below.
A fleeting opportunity.
Claudia thrust his head, jaws wide, snapping down.
Crack!
Fangs pierced the dark scales and bit into underlying flesh to the bone; Claudia shook to tear a chunk off including bone.
Pain surged and Garoth made a decision.
Even in Ember-Annihilating Form he was no weakling in melee, but facing a Mandate who specialized in close combat like the Deep Freeze Tyrant put him at a disadvantage.
This fellow’s fangs had Law-Eating effects similar to Garoth’s Spell-Extinguishing Claws.
Not to be taken lightly.
Thoughts flashed; Garoth’s right claw retracted; between his talons golden-red light coalesced swiftly.
A highly condensed dragonqi bomb formed in a blink like a miniature sun radiating heat.
Without hesitation, he clutched the sun-like orb and, faster than retracting, slammed it into the chrome dragon’s chest.
Boom!
A tremendous blast exploded between them.
The white heat swallowed their pressed torsos.
Claudia’s chest scales shattered to reveal blackened muscle and broken ribs. Shockwaves burst out his back; dorsal scales flared up.
His mouth forced open and a spray of blood and flesh tore away—Garoth’s strike had ripped a huge chunk from him.
The chrome dragon flew backward, twisting in the air, wing membranes flapping wildly.
At the same time, Garoth’s golden aura flared into a savage burst. His first-stage Explosive Qi was nearly maxed.
Claudia had not recovered when dragonqi bombs inundated him.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Explosions detonated one after another. Amidst sun-like brilliance, Claudia struggled, limbs flailing to stay balanced.
He roared. Space bent within his maw as he tried to bite a path through.
Three Incinerating Breaths met him.
Boom!
Claudia barely lifted his head from the bombardment when the three breaths struck in crossfire, pinning him firmly.
He was driven irresistibly toward the earth.
His dark-silver body carved a slanted fallline, friction igniting a white-hot shockwave. Wrapped in bright fire and unable even to adjust posture, he plummeted, slammed onto the Bloodskull Wall.
The already cracked and dented wall was trying to repair.
Head phantoms re-gathered to fill gaps, attempting to mend the structure.
Until an Ancient Chrome Dragon slammed into it.
Crack!
Countless skull phantoms collided with the chrome dragon’s back at that impact and collapsed into drifting fragments.
Fissures crazily spread from the collision point like lightning. Structural nodes that had struggled under breath now broke one after another.
Sarthoa’s mouth bled.
Her hands trembled as she gripped the staff and raised it inch by inch.
The staff felt like a weight of tens of thousands of pounds; each inch her arms shook violently. The wall’s dent rose little by little, cracks slowly closing.
However.
Above, the dark Red Iron Dragon continued breathing and slowly spread his vast wings.
The wing membrane lit in dark-red, burning patterns from the wing root along veins to the tips.
The full wings looked like a lit battle standard in the dim.
One dragonqi bomb after another condensed beneath his wings.
In Ember-Annihilating Form, the Spell-Extinguishing Claws’ effect was weakened, but his wing patterns gained similar function—he could form dragonqi bombs without claws.
They hung beneath his wings like stellar suns, countless and unending.
Garoth lowered his gaze on the struggling chrome dragon and the fissured Bloodskull Wall.
Then he flicked his wings.
Dragonqi bombs beneath his wings fell like a meteor swarm, trailing dark-red tails and carving endless streaks through the sky.
It seemed as if the whole heaven was falling.
They struck together with the breaths on the chrome dragon and the wall.
The chrome dragon’s entire body was engulfed.
The Bloodskull Wall could not hold; it collapsed wholly.
Countless skull phantoms dissolved into mournful dust. The backlash flowed into every orc; many coughed blood, clutched their heads and fell on knees, some fainted outright.
Sarthoa’s withered body trembled, and she coughed blood onto her face.
She tried to chant another prayer, but spittle and blood rose in her throat; explosions of dragonqi bombs silenced her.
Like the end times.
Every bomb that hit rose a mushroom cloud.
Flare after flare bloomed in the dark-green sea—one after another without end.
Orc armor melted and stuck to their bodies; weapons liquified into iron before touching ground; bodies charred and shattered into powder, then carried aloft by hot wind.
And that was only the beginning.
The Red Iron Dragon ceased breathing and stood over the charred remnant of the chrome dragon.
“Unstoppable, unavoidable.”
“Call my name, Scarlet Emperor Cangxing! Destroyer of all things! Wretched insects, I will grant you annihilation! I will give you a blazing death!”
Pleasure shone in the dragon’s eyes as he opened his maw again.
Boom!
Three columns of divine-judgement breath shifted and crossed, cutting molten gullies into the ground.
Orc warriors struck by them vaporized without a cry—no ash left. Wherever the breath passed, no life remained; only dark-red residual explosions flowed across the surface, radiating terrible heat waves that warped the air.
Orc battle lines were shaved away layer by layer.
Sky and earth turned dark red.
Thick dust clouds were lit from below by the blasts and glowed a blood-like dome, as if the sky had sunk into a pool of blood.
Countless cinders twirled in the air.
All debris burned into tiny black particles, swept by hot winds into the sky, then fluttered down like snow.
On the other side, Nausil’s formation—elves, humans, dragons, giants—watched and felt deep dread, frozen in place.
Normally.
They should have charged to exploit the opening, shatter the enemy further, push the line, and maximize support for their legends.
But now, they dared not.
Even advancing would risk indistinguishable annihilation. Better to stay and watch this unilateral feast of destruction.
Many elves stood dazed.
They had previously sung with heroic resolve, ready to give their lives for the empire. But now... they felt as if they were irrelevant.
Sky and earth had become a stage.
Legends were supporting roles—even Mandate existences.
The true protagonist was only one.
Hung in the sky, the Scarlet Emperor Cangxing, the Aola Emperor from Atlan.
“No!”
Orc legends, furious, tore free and madly charged the Red Iron Dragon, trying to block his destruction. But dragon breath and dragonqi bombs kept raining, and the legion was being ground to dust.
However, the legion was already collapsing.
Formation buffs faded; they inevitably weakened.
Blessings left their bodies like a receding tide. Movements dulled, reactions slowed.
Conversely, Nausil saw victory without fighting: legion morale rose sharply.
Legends on their side gained stronger augmentations.
With fortunes shifting, orc legends could hardly manage both defense and offense. They were entangled by elven legends and could not break free, sustaining continuous heavy losses.
“What... what kind of monster is that...”
An orc elite looked up trembling.
Sarthoa had no words.
She leaned on her staff in the rear, her frail body about to collapse.
She had cast spell after spell to slow the catastrophe, but they were undone; she could only barely protect a fraction of warriors’ lives.
“Retreat.”
“All troops, retreat!”
Finally, the Bloodskull great chieftain accepted defeat by a single dragon and gave the order to withdraw.
At the same time, staring at the unceasing breath and sunlike dragonqi bombs filling the sky, her expression changed.
A transformation occurred.
Wrinkles on her dried skin smoothed as if some invisible hand stroked them away, inch by inch.
Sagging muscles tightened; the dried body filled out.
Her back straightened; the feeble elder became a tall, upright woman. Her aura rose like a mountain relit.
The rejuvenated Sarthoa lifted her bone staff again.
A vast dark-red ripple erupted from the staff’s tip, laced with ancient runes.
Ripples swept outward repeatedly.
They twisted and blocked dragon breaths, enveloped dragonqi bombs, warped and reflected them.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Reflected dragonqi bombs flew back toward the sky, forming blazing fireballs that scattered the chaotic legends and even forced the Red Iron Dragon to interrupt his breath and beat his wings aside.
Barom emitted a frustrated roar, pushing the Solar Grand Knight’s sword-beam back half a step.
Then he turned and flew toward the ripple’s direction.
Other orc legends followed suit. Through the channel Sarthoa carved with her life, they began to retreat.
The dark Red Iron Dragon lowered his gaze on the rejuvenated great chieftain.
He slightly opened his maw but immediately felt danger; a hard-earned instinct warned him that if he pressed on, Sarthoa might direct all her power at him.
Fighting a top Mandate sorcerer for life was too risky.
He’d done enough destruction—no need to die for Nausil.
Garoth assessed and closed his jaws; the glow in his chest dimmed, revealing weakness. Light in his scales waned.
At that moment.
A dark-silver figure burst from the scorched ground.
The Deep Freeze Tyrant Claudia.
Earlier, he had been lying in molten rock, charred black; dark-silver scales turned coal-black, wings torn like burnt cloth, holes everywhere; bone broken, entrails exposed; eyes closed, breath gone.
Like a corpse abandoned on the field.
But he reopened his eyes.
A low gurgle rose from his throat like a ghoul crawling from a tomb.
The final banquet.
When life nears death and energy is exhausted, devouring desire magnifies; your body ignores pain; all attacks carry life extraction; your Throat of Devouring World maximizes.
“Scarlet Emperor Cangxing!”
Claudia roared, frost condensing into a thin crust that wrapped exposed organs and temporarily fixed broken bones.
He rocketed into the sky, straight toward the Red Iron Dragon.
Not dead?
Indeed, no Mandate dragon was to be underestimated.
Garoth lowered his head, watching the chrome dragon. The light in his chest flared once more; the patterns in his scales turned white-hot again.
But Claudia did not rush at him.
When approaching the orc legends, Claudia’s right wing folded sharply and he arced to a specific orc:
Crimson War Chieftain Barom.
Barom was retreating, riddled with the Solar Grand Knight’s cuts—deep to the bone, shallow tearing muscle, and also struck by the Silver-White Arrow. The arrow missed his vitals but hung in his shoulder; his condition was dire.
Claudia’s speed was lethal.
When Barom realized, Winter of Famine had already chilled him and slowed his movements.
In that breath the chrome dragon pounced.
Jaws wide, Throat of Devouring World at peak, Law-Eating spiraled into a bottomless vortex. Barom’s Mandate domain, his flesh, his body—all were sucked into the whirl.
A Mandate war chieftain vanished in one bite.
Claudia swallowed with a gurgle of satisfaction.
With that mouthful, his body visibly revived; charred scales regained luster and cracks began to close.
A Mandate chieftain’s flesh, though less than a dragon’s, was enough to revive the dying.
But it still was not enough.
Claudia glanced at the resurgent elven might and at the crumbling orc legion.
He dove into the orc ranks like a meteor.
He rolled, tore, devoured—each roll raised a rain of blood and gore as countless orcs were sucked into his maw; many were swallowed whole without chewing.
Two orc legends tried to stop him and became his meal.
“Claudia!”
An angry shout rang out.
Claudia glanced at the Bloodskull great chieftain, blood at his mouth corner. He grinned, “Sorry, Sarthoa. I said when my hunger was unbearable, your people’s flesh would do as filler.”
He said a final cutting line, then spread his wings and shot skyward.
“Scarlet Emperor Cangxing.”
“We shall meet again! Next time you will be my meal!”
The chrome dragon spat those words and, amid the chaos, vanished into the dust clouds like a speck, leaving a fading frost trace.
“The orcs are routing. We must press the advantage—how are you?”
The Solar Grand Knight came to the Red Iron Dragon’s side.
His armor spattered with orc blood; his breathing was heavy but his eyes sharp.
Garoth’s expression unchanged: “Extremely weak.”
The Sun Elf looked at him oddly.
The Red Emperor said he was extremely weak, yet the dragon bore combat wounds from Claudia but showed no sign of frailty.
Extremely weak?
He did not believe it.
Strangely, one of Garoth’s heads kept angled, a dragonqi skull preserved and its glow flickering as if locking onto something.
Thalamond said nothing further.
He nodded and gave a knight’s salute to Garoth.
“Scarlet Emperor Cangxing, Garoth Ignas, on behalf of all soldiers spared in this battle, I give you our highest respect.
“I sincerely hope you and Nausil stand together forever.”
Having spoken, he pursued the routed orc legends.
Garoth did not beat his wings; he hovered quietly.
One head watched the ebbing and chasing waves of tiny creatures.
The receding dark-green tide flowed south; the pursuing silver-white tide followed. Between them lay a scoured death zone of pits, ravines, and molten rivers, a literal purgatory.
Another head held motion, eyes like stars, steadfastly fixed on one direction.
And with that, the battle drew to a close here.
New Calendar Year 564.
The Nausil Empire legion, led by Mandates, launched a full counterattack on Kantum.
The Scarlet Emperor Cangxing aided Nausil in the Blackrock Wasteland, with the might of a single dragon creating an apocalyptic disaster. Unstoppable and unavoidable, he shattered the Bloodskull forces, severely wounded and forced back the Ancient Chrome Dragon Claudia; dragon might gleamed, renown shook Arotala.
