novelraw Chapter 393: Saint King Allen, The Dragon Awakens
Chapter 393: Saint King Allen, The Dragon Awakens
Chapter 393: The Holy King Allen, The Dragon Awakens 8
"Lothrian warriors! With me—fight to the death!!!"
King O'Brien drew forth the ancestral royal sword "Dawnlight," its blade pointed straight ahead.
The remaining royal guards and every soldier still willing to follow their king let out a thunderous roar. Like moths diving into flame, they followed their sovereign and launched a resolute charge.
The battle instantly erupted into its most brutal, white-hot phase.
Relying on his top-tier legendary strength and a resolve to die rather than yield, O'Brien crashed left and right across the wide battlefield. Each swing of the Dawnlight royal sword carved a bloody gale, trying with personal valor to delay the kingdom’s collapse.
High above the palace, Elina rose on magic, wanting to witness with her own eyes the final showdown deciding the kingdom’s fate.
But shortly after she ascended, a vast shadow suddenly enveloped her.
Iron Dragon Gordon had returned, hovering before her.
His heart was full of struggle and contradiction, yet the emotions that had settled over him for nearly a century overcame cold reason. In the end, he could not bring himself to flee alone.He still remembered clearly the fear and unease from childhood, when he had been sent to the royal court as tribute.
He had expected imprisonment and humiliation. Instead, the first face he saw was the then-young Princess Elina, smiling at him with a warmth and surprise like sunlight.
The misery he expected never came. In its place were flowers, feasts, and the princess’s wholehearted kindness and companionship.
Over nearly a hundred years, they grew up together.
Elina poured out all her thoughts to him—her frustrations, grievances, occasional joys and hopes.
Every time he awakened from sleep, the first sight he always saw was Elina’s smiling face.
Huff!
The iron dragon stretched out his massive claw. This time it was no longer an invitation but a tenderness not to be refused. He gently lifted Elina at the waist, placed her on his broad, sturdy back, and carried her higher into the sky.
"Elina, I’ll say this one last time—when the royal city truly falls and the defenses are utterly broken, I will not hesitate to flee first. I will not die defending the city."
Gordon's voice was unusually grave. "But until that moment... I will stay with you and see out this last stretch of time."
The Crystal Princess steadied herself, looking at the dragon’s neck covered in hard scales. A complex, inscrutable light flashed in her eyes. Though many years had left wrinkles on her face, the dignity born of bloodline and upbringing, and the calm beauty tempered by storms, made her even more moving.
She leaned down and stroked Gordon’s cool scales, then suddenly smiled.
"Alright, Gordon."
"If... I mean if, in this desperate moment, a miracle allows the kingdom to turn defeat into victory."
"Then once the war ends and the dust settles, I will—just as you wish—become truly your princess."
For the dragon who had accompanied almost her entire life, Elina harbored equally deep, complicated feelings. Before, the duties and limits of being human royalty had prevented her from confronting feelings that crossed species.
But in this instant, at the life-or-death hinge where everything could be lost,
she chose to face her heart openly.
Gordon's huge body trembled ever so slightly.
Though luck seemed to favor him, he understood how slim miracles could be at this hour.
Yet even so,
he felt years of pent-up emotion instantly released upon hearing Elina’s promise in his own ears.
"Agreed."
The iron dragon bared his great maw and smiled in return.
Then he beat his broad wings and, carrying the Crystal Princess, cautiously approached the city walls.
Outside the city, the land had turned into a meat grinder.
Detached limbs, shattered weapons, and mangled armor lay mixed together, dyeing the ground a dark red. Blood gathered into trickles and pooled in depressions.
King O'Brien was like a burning meteor.
He fought with incomparable ferocity at the densest point of the enemy formation. Each slash of Dawnlight sent forth blinding golden sword radiance. Wherever it passed, enemy champions were cleaved—person and armor—into two. The terrifying, heavily armored alchemical golems were hacked to pieces, parts and magical circuits scattering.
Besides attacks from fellow-tiered legends and a few war machines designed to counter legends,
ordinary strikes could not pierce a legendary domain.
O'Brien stood like a rock amid the torrent of destruction.
Led by their king’s example, the legendary royal guards likewise fought without regard for life. Countless Lothrian soldiers found a final surge of courage and threw themselves at the enemy.
For a time, they withstood the first, fiercest assault of the coalition and even pushed back in localized areas.
O'Brien’s bloodstained figure became the brightest beacon on the battlefield and the last pillar in the hearts of all Lothrian defenders refusing to fall.
In the air, Gordon circled above the royal city with Elina aboard, shielded beneath the great magical barrier covering the capital.
The spherical magic circle, its runes flowing with radiance, blocked the alchemical cannon fire and destructive spells that constantly pounded the walls. Each hit sprayed countless tiny ripples of energy.
The city streets were packed with terrified or resolute civilians, a tangle of complex faces.
The clamor of war remained deafening.
The situation seemed to be locked in a temporary stalemate. The Lothrian garrison’s tenacity defied belief, but every clear-eyed observer knew this was only a dying glow.
The coalition outnumbered and outclassed them decisively.
Fresh reserves were poured into the field like tides, tightening like an iron noose, slowly and inexorably compressing the defenders' already narrow survival space.
Just then, as O'Brien had just repelled a coalition legend and cleaved a massive war automaton in two, a momentary dip in his magical energy appeared.
Abruptly, something changed!
A Lothrian legend trailing behind O'Brien—the deputy head of the Court Mages—rose in sudden rebellion.
The legendary curse mage brandished his staff and shot forth a twisted chain of howling shades. Not aimed at the enemy, the chain instead wrapped around King O'Brien.
A soul chain!
This vile forbidden spell did not target flesh but bound the target's soul, the magical energy flowing within, and the very legendary domain that sustained it!
O'Brien’s towering frame froze!
The glow of his domain dimmed, crawling with agonized faces, and his sword arm lagged with deadly hesitation.
"Mavi?! You...!"
O'Brien’s voice was a mix of shock and fury.
Sput!
A muffled sound of blade piercing flesh and armor followed!
The two-handed greatsword that symbolized the highest honor of the Lothrian royal knights, now imbued with an unstoppable domain trait, drove fiercely into O'Brien’s back!
The wielder was the commander of the Royal Knights, long trusted by the king and famed for steadfast loyalty.
"For a new era! Forgive me, Your Majesty!"
The Royal Knights' commander growled. His normally resolute face was warped by the despairing finality of his betrayal.
Sput!
The sound of the blade finally piercing the king’s legendary armor and resilient body cut through the clamorous battlefield.
Bloodied sword tip emerged from his chest.
O'Brien convulsed violently, the question on his lips transforming into a gush of hot blood.
"Traitors!"
"Protect the king!"
The royal guards and other legends around, enraged, struck back, driving the two betrayers back with furious attacks.
Someone quickly poured the highest-grade healing potion into the king’s mouth, barely stabilizing his rapidly bleeding life force, but it could not reverse the fact that he was grievously wounded.
"I never expected... that in the end it would be you two who betrayed me."
O'Brien spat blood, his face ashen, yet his expression was remarkably steady. His gaze remained sharp, locked onto the two traitorous legends.
The Royal Knights' commander was an old veteran legend who had personally taught the young O'Brien swordplay; the other legend, curse mage Mavi, had once been the magic tutor for many princes and princesses.
"A good bird chooses a fine tree, wise ministers choose a worthy lord."
Mavi, the female curse mage, said softly, "Your Majesty, you slew your brother to seize the throne. Your rule was never legitimate."
"Now that Lothrian falters and you stubbornly refuse all peace offers, dragging the kingdom into ruin... we can only find another path."
Seeing their king mortally wounded, the coalition erupted with thunderous cheers, morale surging.
The betrayers’ faces showed smug relief and triumph.
In the air, Gordon’s expression shifted violently. The instinct to flee surged again.
But seeing the bloodless face and resolute gaze of Elina on his back, he could not harden his heart. He continued circling the skies while taking a deep breath, preparing to forcefully carry her away.
"Gordon, leave now—get out of here at once!"
"I will keep my vow and perish with the kingdom!"
The Crystal Princess began gathering all her magical energy, preparing to cast the strongest and final spell of her life, to take as many enemies with her as possible.
Yet, in the kingdom’s darkest, most hopeless instant,
the gravely wounded O'Brien suddenly smiled.
He stared at the two traitors, his gaze sweeping slowly over the coalition legends who had been arrogant just moments before and were now tensely poised. His voice was low but clear, reaching every powerful ear: "You think you have won?"
"Fools. If I were you, I would start praying right now and then... run like hell."
!
An indescribable, tremendous aura erupted without warning from the deepest heart of Valdo Palace.
Deep inside the palace, the Lothrian Holy Stele—regarded as the kingdom’s symbol and worn by the marks of ages—shattered with a roar.
A pure, warm, and majestic brilliance burst forth and shot into the heavens.
The clouds of war and death that had gathered over the city were like melting snow, instantly driven away. The entire world was bathed in that radiant light.
At the center of the light, a figure slowly walked out.
He wore an ancient yet immaculate white royal robe, his face as young as a youth, black hair falling over his shoulders. His eyes were so deep they seemed to hold the whole starry sky, inspiring awe and preventing direct gaze.
At the instant this figure appeared,
every legend on the field—Lothrian and coalition alike—turned pale, their expressions freezing in unison.
This man was the strongest in Lothrian history.
A top-tier legend, revered as the Holy King—Allen Lothrian.
He descended at the center of the battlefield, his gaze calm as still water. He scanned the surrounding mountains of corpses and rivers of blood, finally fixing those eyes on the two traitors frozen where they stood.
"Betrayal of oaths, regicide and treason."
The Holy King's voice was not loud, yet it sounded like a decree, leaving no room for doubt.
The two traitors went white with terror.
As they tried to beg or flee,
hum!
An invisible, powerful domain expanded and engulfed them. Their own domains surfaced across their bodies, but seemed crushed under an immense pressure and began to fracture.
"Receive the punishment of ten thousand blade lacerations!"
The Holy King's words fell like final judgment.
In an instant, countless blades manifested and filled every inch around the traitors.
These light swords seemed alive, gathering into two torrents of death that tore through the traitors’ bodies again and again like a funnel.
They opened their mouths, faces contorted by unbearable pain, and emitted piercing howls.
But inside the Holy King's domain, even their screams were stripped away. They could only watch as their flesh and souls were cut and torn by blades, dying in excruciating torment.
Silence!
A deathly stillness draped the battlefield.
Both Lothrian defenders and coalition soldiers stood like statues, mouths agape, staring at the scene.
The fierce war stalled for a brief moment.
While punishing the traitors, Holy King Allen slowly raised his head and surveyed the blood-soaked field.
His gaze walked over the endless waves of coalition soldiers outside the city, beyond visible horizon, and across the previously arrogant legends whose expressions had tightened.
His look was calm—no wrath, no murderous intent, not even a ripple.
Only aloofness and dignity.
Then his domain expanded again—so vast it defied the usual limits of a legend’s domain.
Centered on the Holy King,
Lothrian soldiers felt a warm, strengthening breath flow into them, soothing pain and fear. The coalition troops felt as if struck head-on by an immense, invisible force—soldiers collapsed in droves, pressed down and unable to rise. Tight formations crumbled.
Huge alchemical golems lost control, standing frozen or colliding with each other.
Even legends hovering in the sky were struck as if by lightning; their domains cracked and movement became difficult.
Panic spread through the coalition like a plague at unheard-of speed.
All battle lust, all greed, all ambition melted into primal fear before this returning Holy King.
"I founded the Federation with my own hands."
The Holy King's voice sounded again without emotional tremor, yet it rolled like a bell across heaven and earth, his phrasing carrying ancient cadence.
"It aimed to gather nations, set aside petty views, repel foreign foes, and share peace."
He paused briefly, his steady gaze seeming to bear heavy weight and making every enemy he passed feel their soul shiver.
"But centuries have passed, hearts have changed. Some of you cling to selfish desire, some to short-sightedness, some to cowardice. You have forgotten the original purpose of unity and abandoned the vow of coexistence, causing war to flare again across the land."
As he spoke, his voice rose a notch.
"In that case, a forced union only creates a marriage of discord, wasting energy and squandering the land’s vital essence I cherish!"
"Today, I will personally end this hollow alliance!"
"The Federation is dissolved from this day forth!"
Those words stunned everyone.
Both Lothrian defenders and coalition soldiers could not believe their ears.
Dissolve the Federation? That meant the Holy King was willingly relinquishing the legal unifying authority over the southern nations, giving up the position that stood above the other kings.
What he said next shook them to the core.
"As for you coalition forces, who set foot on my land, violated my borders, and slaughtered my people—you ought rightly to be exterminated as an example!"
The sentence flashed like lightning, making every enemy feel as if plunged into an ice pit, gasping for breath.
"But!" The Holy King shifted tone yet remained majestic and overwhelming, "Slaughter is not my wish, hatred is not the path to lasting peace."
"I pity your troops, many driven by the ambitions of the few above them—fathers, mothers, wives and children at home anxiously waiting, innocents suffering this war."
"I pity the creatures of the continent, who should not drain their blood and vital essence over transient conflicts and political scheming, causing pain to kin and joy to enemies."
"Therefore, today, in the name of Holy King Allen Lothrian, I pardon your transgression."
"Lay down your arms, take your wounded and your dead, and return to your borders."
"From this day forward, Lothrian and the other nations shall no longer be bound by the alliance. Each will go its own way, do not interfere with one another. Remember today’s lesson—do not commit more unrighteous acts, drawing war and calamity upon the people."
He stood amid endless light, his figure seeming as tall as heaven and earth, his voice reaching every field.
"If in the future any of you again violate Lothrian soil, there will be no Federation goodwill to restrain me. Then, no mercy of this day will be comparable. Wherever you hide, I will make you pay an unbearable price!"
With that, the colossal domain that had shrouded the battlefield receded like a tide.
After the brief stillness came total collapse.
The coalition that had been roaring with confidence and vowed to trample Valdo now wished their parents had given them two fewer legs!
They dropped helmets and armor, abandoned heavy equipment, and fled like startled sheep, trampling one another and never daring to glance back at the city bathed in the Holy King’s radiance.
The Holy King glanced at O'Brien and gently touched his brow.
Then his figure within the light slowly faded and finally dissolved like a mirage, as if he had never appeared.
Elsewhere,
Huff! Huff! Huff!
Iron Dragon Gordon beat his wings and landed slowly on an intact palace square.
"A miracle... really happened?"
"That legendary Holy King is actually alive!"
He muttered to himself. Seconds later, as if realizing something, he wore a look of sudden enlightenment, quickly overtaken by an inflated confidence.
"Perhaps I, Gordon Ignas, am the fated child of legend! Destined to lead the storms of an era!" The more he thought, the more it made sense. His tail swished proudly.
"Otherwise, how could I always turn danger into safety at key moments?"
"Even this desperate situation was reversed by the Holy King's return!"
"Yes, that's it! I am the chosen one!"
"Sorog, Samantha, even Garoth... maybe they owe their success and luck to basking in my aura, sharing my great fortune!"
Lost in self-adoration, Gordon puffed up like a triumphant general, towering scale-clad chest lifted high.
He shook his massive body and looked down at Elina as she dismounted, grinning widely.
He sneered playfully, "Elina, you promised me up in the air. Now that the kingdom’s crisis is resolved and the miracle has come, you can't back out."
A dragon and a princess—truly a perfect match.
From this day on, Garoth and the others should admire me for having a princess.
The Crystal Princess stared in the direction where the Holy King had vanished, her heart surging.
Hearing Gordon, she slowly turned, puzzled, tilting her head.
"What promise? Did I promise you something?"
Gordon’s proud smile froze and he was momentarily speechless, then a flash of feeling toyed-with and embarrassed flushed his face.
"Tch! Despicable, fickle human!"
He snorted two puffs of steam with sparks, ignored Elina, flew to a corner of the square, and used his wide wings to cover his head, sulking on the ground.
Meanwhile, O'Brien was escorted back to the palace by the royal guards.
Elina immediately went to him and steadied her brother.
She suppressed her excitement and urgently whispered, "Your Majesty, since our ancestor has reappeared, could we beg him to strike the coalition legends who betrayed us? They must pay for today's treachery!"
"The ancestor is magnanimous and merciful, but those invaders must not be forgiven freely."
"People say you carry your ancestor’s legacy and are favored by him. Maybe you... can try to sway his decision? At least, do not let them just walk away!"
O'Brien clenched against the pain from his wounds, his face pale, and shook his head.
He did not explain much, only weakly said, "An ancestor’s will is not ours to gauge, nor easily changed."
Elina, dissatisfied, wanted to press further: "But, Your Majesty..."
O'Brien waved a tired hand to stop her. "Later. My wounds are severe; I must rest immediately."
Elina swallowed the words on her tongue and fell silent.
Time then passed at its unhurried pace.
The decades-long Southern Federation civil war ultimately ended completely when Holy King Allen Lothrian reappeared and personally dissolved the Federation. The coalition forces withdrew in terror and hastily returned to their own borders.
They dared not act rashly and watched nervously for Lothrian’s next move.
Lothrian, as the Holy King commanded, did not pursue the invaders after reclaiming its lands.
By his mercy and compassion, the Holy King again won the admiration and reverence of countless southern people.
The coalition nations, having betrayed their words and become divided and immoral, were spurned by the public. Domestic unrest flared and their rule became unstable, while nations that had remained allied with Lothrian rejoiced with pride.
However, the wounds of war could not be healed overnight.
After sheathing arms, the southern nations slowly licked their wounds and calmed the chaos. Peace, long missed, returned.
Thus time marched on to the beginning of the new year 318.
Meanwhile, far from the southern turmoil, in the snow-covered convergence lands of the north,
after nearly thirty years of silence, at the age of ninety-eight, the Lord of Molten Iron slowly opened his eyes in a subterranean cavern and awakened from slumber.