Defeating the World with the Power of One Dragon!

Chapter 154: Pegasus and Elf

The pine resin in the brazier crackled as the scout charged into the White Mane Clan's tent, bringing with him a gust of cold wind and hooves still caked with the hardened mud of the borderlands. The three-meter-tall creature—human from the waist up, horse below—panted heavily.

"An iron dragon! There's an iron dragon at the gray magnetite vein we just discovered!" the centaur scout reported.

Iron dragon Sorog wasn't the only one who had noticed the gray magnetite. In fact, the White Mane Clan's centaurs had discovered the gray magnetite deposit half a month earlier. However, due to internal clan issues, they hadn't begun mining operations, only stationing scouts to monitor the iron ore's condition. That's how they discovered the iron dragon's presence.

"How large is the iron dragon?"

"Nearly thirteen meters—not fully grown, probably a young adult or juvenile dragon."

"Is it still at the gray magnetite site?"

"No, it's left already. But it dug up some ore and discovered the vein—it will definitely return."

After this exchange, the White Mane Clan's shaman slowly rose from the shadows. The elderly centaur wrapped in a raven-feather cloak frowned deeply, his emaciated right hand gripping a bone staff embedded with frost giant teeth. The three bells hanging from the staff's head trembled silently.

To the shaman, this was an omen of approaching danger.

"This iron dragon is no chance encounter. It will bring peril to our clan," the old centaur said gravely.By the brazier, Ironhoof—leader of the charge battalion—abruptly stood up. The nearly four-meter-tall centaur colossus was clad in heavy chainmail, his dark brown mane interlaced with bone necklaces that clacked ominously with each movement. When he rose, he knocked over the brazier, scattering burning pine resin across his iron-gray hooves without so much as a flinch.

He hefted his battle spear, its chipped blade bearing witness to countless battles. "Thirty heavy arrow squads plus my charge battalion," he grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. "We'll ambush it near the gray magnetite vein. When it returns, we'll turn its skull into a drinking vessel!"

Just a young dragon—in their eyes, merely a slightly more dangerous beast. The borderland and tundra clans were generally more formidable than those of the Ser Wilderness. The White Mane Clan had once repelled white dragons that sought to conquer them, and the fallen dragons' scales still hung in their camp as trophies.

They knew iron dragons were stronger than white dragons. But the white dragon they'd defeated had been far larger than the iron dragon their scout had seen.

On the other side of the tent, Silvermane meticulously cleaned the mud from his hooves. As leader of the hunting party, his body exuded rare scents of pine tar and amber. His silvery-white mane flowed smoothly, and his steel-shod hooves sparked against the ground with each step.

"Why waste warriors' lives?" He glanced at Ironhoof and said leisurely, "First track the iron dragon's movement patterns, then set traps—or use poison. Direct confrontation is the stupidest choice."

Ironhoof glared coldly at Silvermane. "A centaur's glory lies in spearpoint and arrowhead, in frontal charges. Underhanded methods would shame our ancestors."

Silvermane retorted, "Don't confuse recklessness with honor."

It had been a year since the White Mane Clan's last chieftain died, yet no successor had been chosen. The two centaurs codenamed Ironhoof and Silvermane were strong candidates, constantly at odds with each other.

The delay in mining the gray magnetite was primarily due to their dispute over ownership rights. However, there were actually three candidates.

Elvy flapped her massive wings—which grew from her equine back—as she rose from her seated position. This half-elf hybrid female was more slender than other centaurs, her snow-white wings gleaming like pearls in the firelight, her mane and skin pure white with a subtle glow. When she spread her wings, the entire tent darkened as if all light converged upon her.

After taking a swig of strong liquor and hanging the flask at her waist, a flush colored Elvy's elven-perfect features, though her gaze remained clear and bright. "Fools. Are killing and poison all you can think of?" she said. "You want to hunt it without even knowing how many minions it has or why it's here? Your rashness will only bring disaster to our clan."

Ironhoof and Silvermane exchanged glances before simultaneously turning their hostility toward Elvy.

Ironhoof sneered, "Half-breed. Your diluted blood makes you indecisive."

Silvermane was gentler but no less disdainful: "A young dragon couldn't possibly gather powerful minions. Your worries are unnecessary—your elven blood makes you timid."

In ancient history, centaurs had built magnificent kingdoms. They galloped across wilderness and tundra, drinking deeply and reveling in the wind's caress. Over time, their kingdoms collapsed, fragmenting into ordinary monster clans. Yet they never forgot their former glory and took pride in pure bloodlines.

As a winged pegasus variant, Elvy should have commanded her clan's respect. Instead, her elven heritage and delicate features—so unlike typical centaur ruggedness—earned her discrimination. Her mother had been a White Mane warrior; her father, an elven ranger passing through the borderlands. The centaur mare had longed to see the ranger's world, while he admired her bold sincerity. Their love produced Elvy—what should have been a beautiful cross-species tale.

But Elvy's pegasus wings made her different from birth, and her arrival cost her mother's life. Her grieving elven father later left the clan, leaving young Elvy behind.

Though born under scornful gazes, Elvy overcame prejudice through talent and will. Now the White Mane's guard captain, she too vied for chieftainship—much to Ironhoof and Silvermane's chagrin. They often united against her.

She'd proven her excellence, yet the centaurs' obsession with pure bloodlines disadvantaged her in the competition.

"Your lust for the chieftain's seat has addled your minds," Elvy countered bluntly. "You've lost reason and calm, thinking only of self-aggrandizement while forgetting the clan's future matters most."

Meanwhile, the old centaur's gaze shifted continuously. As a shaman who'd outlived two chieftains, his prestige in the White Mane Clan made his opinion pivotal for the succession.

"Enough." His eyes cleared as he thumped his staff, speaking hoarsely: "Danger and opportunity coexist. I sense this iron dragon's appearance is crucial for our clan—perhaps a pivotal turning point."

Shamans spent lifetimes listening to nature's whispers. The closer they approached life's end, the sharper their intuition became. From the moment the scout brought news, the old centaur had felt something extraordinary—as though standing at a precipice yet floating among clouds.

"What do you suggest we do?" Elvy asked him.

The shaman studied the three candidates before answering slowly, "I'm old now, my thoughts unclear. The earth and wind belong to young centaurs like you—your ideas matter more than mine." He paused. "Whoever handles the iron dragon situation properly will earn my support."

Pine resin in the brazier burst into sparks, illuminating three very different expressions. This marked the first time the revered shaman had openly declared his support—which would likely decide the next chieftain.

The iron dragon's arrival would become their proving ground for leadership.

PS: Henceforth, intelligent beings will be referred to as he/she, while non-intelligent beasts or semi-intelligent creatures like Rampage Bears will be called "it."