novelraw Chapter 302: The Dust Settles
Chapter 302: The Dust Settles
Before the Flower Knight lost consciousness, he begged Garoth to stop the war. But Garoth’s heart remained unmoved, and he gave no order to cease fighting.
The red iron dragon dropped the human knight onto the ground in front of him, then toyed with the body like a plaything.
After confirming the knight was deeply unconscious and utterly unresponsive, Garoth slowly lifted his heavy claw and gently pressed it down on the human’s frail torso.
Just in case—if that shell of a body showed the slightest sign of movement, Garoth’s claw would instantly stomp down with crushing force, pulverizing it to nothing.
Soon after, Garoth lowered his massive head; the battlefield stained with blood and fire reflected in his eyes.
Human warriors and the dragon followers were still locked in ferocious combat—roars, clashing steel, and bursting spells filled the air, tearing the night into tatters.
Perhaps due to the Albert family’s years of brainwashing and harsh military discipline, even though the count’s elite private army had been utterly suppressed, suffering heavy casualties with their defenses collapsing, there was still no sign of complete collapse.
Those human soldiers, clad in battered armor, fought like cornered beasts—hysterical shouts erupting from desperation, crying out for the family’s illusory honor, throwing themselves forward in hopeless, self-sacrificing charges.
Garoth understood clearly.
In such circumstances, if he ordered a ceasefire, the followers—bound by absolute reverence and loyalty—would almost all immediately stand down.But the enemy?
Garoth could nearly guarantee that these soldiers, brainwashed by family honor, would not stop; they were far more likely to seize that momentary respite to launch an even fiercer counterattack.
He could accept followers dying in the crucible of blood and fire, because the battlefield itself was the harshest forge—those who survived this hell would be tempered into far stronger, more resilient warriors.
A calm, flat sea never breeds truly nimble, fearless sailors. A greenhouse will never produce flowers tough enough to endure storms.
The Molten Iron Tribe’s elite forces, the tribe’s pride, were born and raised through countless life-and-death clashes like these.
However.
Not even ten Flower Knights kneeling and pleading before him would make Garoth sacrifice the lives of his loyal followers for the sake of an enemy’s insignificant lives.
Mercy should never come at the cost of betraying one’s own kin.
As time passed, under the red iron dragon’s quiet gaze, the clamor and roars on the battlefield finally began to wane.
A dull, massive impact suddenly ripped through the air.
Taking advantage of the brief moment when General Wolfbar had barely withstood iron dragon Sorog’s heavy claw strike, red dragon Samantha—like a predator that had waited for the perfect instant—launched a fatal pounce from behind.
She converted her enormous, hard, and unbearably heavy body into a weapon, slamming it into General Wolfbar’s rune-armored back.
Outnumbered, the powerful Runic Knight was overmatched; he had no time to turn, nor to raise his rune-inscribed shield to block.
The sheer unstoppable force shattered his balance and slammed his strong body to the ground.
He struggled in humiliation, barely rolling over, when darkness filled his vision.
Three massive shadows descended from the sky at once.
Three thunderous impacts, like hammers striking the earth’s heart, detonated in succession.
The hard ground trembled violently; thick dust billowed up like an explosion, instantly swallowing the area.
Through the dust came the grating sounds of metal twisting and runes wailing.
When a gust of wind carrying the scent of gunpowder swept by and blew the dust aside, iron dragon Sorog’s giant claw was seen clamping down like a vise on a ragged, near-dead figure—faint as a guttering candle.
General Wolfbar’s proud rune armor lay shattered; his Runic Greatsword and sturdy shield had been flung away and could not be found. Each rune that had once glowed on his body had collapsed and flickered out like snuffed candles.
The bulk he had swollen into through secret arts had withered fast, shrinking back into the fragile form of an ordinary human.
Elsewhere the outcome had been decided as well.
The Ice Deer Lord’s summoned cold-blade storm, countless flying ice shards, sliced through the protective mage’s barrier.
Before that mage could weave another spell for self-preservation, a hundred-fast shadow cleaved through the battlefield.
The White Tiger Lord leapt in with a shriek that ripped the air; claws flashing with cold light pinned the terrified protector’s trembling body precisely.
Almost simultaneously, the alchemist skilled with firearms met her end.
The Giant Snake Lord, its vast body armored in solid scales, bore down on the alchemist’s dense barrage—bullets rang off the scales, leaving mere white marks. Like a ruinous landslide, that relentless onslaught closed in.
The enormous, chilled snake tail whipped out like the most nimble steel cable, instantly wrapping and binding the alchemist tight.
The surrounding human mid-level leaders—armored commanders, cavalry captains, and the like—were equally desperate, trapped in a nightmare.
They were beset by rampaging ogres, swift centaur warriors, bloodthirsty giant wolves... each strike felt futile.
Within seconds, there was no doubt about the outcome.
The protector under the White Tiger’s claws could not move; the alchemist bound by the snake was pale as death; and in Sorog’s grasp lay General Wolfbar, barely clinging to life. All the senior commanders of the Albert family’s elite private army were captured—none escaped.
Only at that moment, seeing every leader defeated and seized, did the last sliver of morale in the remaining human soldiers collapse entirely and shatter.
On the battlefield’s edge, Garoth seized this decisive instant.
He thrust his head high, horns rising rugged and sharp, his chest swelling as he unleashed a titanic dragon roar that pierced the clouds—an authoritative cry declaring victory and the end.
The sonic wave, carrying the Dragon Lord’s will, rippled invisibly across the chaotic field.
Those of kin who received this clear command understood immediately.
Iron dragon Sorog clutched his prisoners and spiraled upward; the heavy, cold sound of steel colliding echoed across the battlefield, drowning out all groans and laments.
“Kneel and live! Stand and die!”
These eight words struck each surviving human soldier like a hammer blow.
Hearing them, the majority—already drained of will to resist—dropped their weapons to save their lives, their knees smashing into the blood-soaked earth as they bowed their heads deeply.
A few stubborn men, brainwashed by family honor into one last desperate fight, met their fated ends. The cold blades fell without mercy; warm blood spattered, heads rolled, and crimson streams ran across the ground, reeking with iron tang as they pooled into gaudy dark-red rivulets.
Garoth counted the prisoners with a steady gaze and tallied roughly several dozen.
Their survival until the end was no accident. They were the true elite within that private army—the backbone, battle-hardened veterans—and a few surviving mid-level leaders by fortune.
Leaving these men alive had never been because of the Flower Knight’s feeble plea.
Garoth had planned the aftermath before he even sent his troops to fight.
He knew well that living, valuable prisoners often mattered more than cold corpses.
Especially among the prisoners were three high-value targets: the Runic Knight, the alchemist, and the protective mage.
Raising such top-tier specialists must have cost the Albert family generations of real wealth and countless resources. The family’s former marquis had once been a general; their foundation was far deeper than that of an ordinary count.
If not, they could never have produced such a powerful private force.
“Now, at this moment, they finally have the qualification to negotiate,” Garoth thought inwardly.
He knew better than anyone that the bargaining at the negotiation table never hinged on rhetoric, but on the chips in hand and the strength behind them. The Molten Iron Tribe had proven its might with a decisive victory.
From now on, the Albert family would lie sleepless on a bed of thorns.
It’s worth stressing that Garoth was naturally suspicious and insecure. He instinctively leaned toward annihilating all enemies to eradicate future threats.
Indeed, the Albert family’s deep roots lay in the south; their influence was tangled and widespread, and the Molten Iron Tribe could not uproot them instantly from the Ser Wilderness.
He could tolerate the Albert family’s temporary existence on the map.
But with Garoth’s temperament, once he accumulated enough power or found an effective way to launch a fatal strike across geographic limits, he would not hesitate to wipe this repeated antagonist off the face of the earth—root and stem.
Not long after, the clamorous battlefield fell utterly silent, leaving only the acrid stench of blood and gunpowder.
Whether prisoners or cold corpses, the alchemical armors and finely made weapons that had once shimmered on the Albert private army were stripped meticulously by the tribe’s warriors—looted clean.
The battlefield was efficiently cleared by the tribe; all valuable materials were collected and cataloged, while worthless wreckage was gathered for disposal.
Several dozen dejected, numb prisoners were bound and, under the threat of the tribe warriors’ sharp blades, marched back toward Ximu Town.
When several giant dragons spread their wings and swept over Ximu Town like a cloud that darkened the sky, and when those captured private soldiers—as well as mountains of bloodstained armor and broken weapons—were displayed before the townsfolk, the people truly understood the terrifying power of the Molten Iron Tribe.
The people who had eked out a living in the chaotic stretch of the Serpentine Earth Rift knew of the feud between the Molten Iron Tribe and the Albert family. They also knew: once the Molten Iron Tribe reclaimed the Serpentine Earth Rift—sooner or later—it would invite the Albert family’s retaliation.
Now that expected retaliation had met with an undeniable, crushing defeat.
The tribe, which had disappeared for more than twenty years, had returned with even greater edge and might than before.
The young green dragon that usually lived in Ximu Town and handled daily affairs now looked feeble compared to the massive dragons that had just flown overhead and radiated deep dragon might. The townspeople realized that the young dragon was likely a trivial member of this vast dragon host—not their core strength.
How vast was the true dragon force? What they had seen on this land was probably only the tip of the iceberg—merely a single scale or claw, far from revealing their full power.
Overwhelmed by shock, awe, and the mixed relief of having a powerful protector, the townspeople watched time pass. Days slipped by.
Because human armor and weapons are built to human proportions and structures, they did not fit the tribe’s towering followers; forcing them on would be counterproductive. Melting them down and re-forging would consume the tribe blacksmiths’ precious time and effort.
After weighing the options, the Molten Iron Tribe made a decision.
So the bloodthirsty adventurers in Ximu Town were overjoyed to discover that, in the town square, sets of armor glowing faintly with alchemical runes, rows of finely forged, cold-steel spears, and rune-etched battle knives—high-quality equipment—were openly priced and placed on stalls for sale.
Although most of these items bore nicks and battle damage from the savage fighting, prices were adjusted according to the degree of damage, making them particularly affordable.
And the adventurers snapping up gear were only a small part of the buyers. The major purchasers were the trading caravans that passed through the Serpentine Earth Rift.
With tensions rising across the Federation and conflicts bubbling, quality weapons and armor were scarce and hot commodities—never a fear of no buyers.
Thus, adventurers and merchants each obtained the weapons or profits they needed, and the Molten Iron Tribe reaped wealth and resources.
Those gleaming coins would not be hoarded by Garoth for mere admiration. They would roll like a snowball—through continued trade, they would continuously convert into the tribe’s urgently needed strategic resources: funding durable alchemy workshops to rise from the ground, erecting defensive fortifications to hold key points, building watchtowers that would pierce the sky on defensive lines... enabling the Molten Iron Tribe to sink deep, immovable roots into this reclaimed, treacherous land.