novelraw Chapter 436: Conferment of Titles, Ashes of Pleasure, Hidden Dangers
Chapter 436: Conferment of Titles, Ashes of Pleasure, Hidden Dangers
The echoes of the coronation still reverberated through the heavens and earth, the fervent waves of cheering yet to fully subside.
The Red Iron Dragon stood erect at the center of the coronation dais, overlooking the newborn kingdom. His imperial gaze swept across the dragons, followers, and various heads of clans standing solemnly below.
For a large kingdom to operate effectively, it needed a clear, efficient, and loyal governance structure as its backbone.
Garoth aimed to pursue the ultimate in personal strength, to explore the secrets of evolution, and he did not want to be bogged down by tedious state affairs.
For him, the most important thing was to free himself from daily trifles and focus on enhancing his own power.
Now, the grand ceremony was concluded.
It was time to grant concrete authority and responsibility to those trustworthy lieutenants.
“Solog Igneous!”
Garoth’s voice sounded again, steady and majestic.
Iron Dragon Sorog immediately stepped forward. His massive iron-gray form bowed slightly, then prostrated himself before the Red Iron Dragon Emperor with a posture of utmost respect, his voice resonant as a bell: “Present!”Garoth declared in a deep voice, “I appoint you Regent of the Aola Kingdom, Prince of War!”
“When I am absent or inconvenient to rule, all military and political affairs of the kingdom shall be decided by you! Command all the kingdom’s legions, wield authority over external campaigns and internal defense. With your iron wings and sharp claws, guard the kingdom’s borders and allow no failure!”
This was trust bordering on entrusting the nation’s foundation—without reservation, almost all of the kingdom’s most important powers handed over.
Sorog’s consistent composure, loyalty, and outstanding ability had earned him this heavy responsibility.
The Iron Dragon’s eyes blazed with fervent and resolute light. He lowered his head to the ground and swore in a sonorous oath: “I obey the royal decree!”
“I will defend the kingdom’s honor with my life and soul! Your will shall be where our claws strike and where iron wings fly!”
His years of following and unwavering loyalty were rewarded in this moment.
Years ago, when he was still a Young Dragon, Garoth had promised him he would not monopolize glory.
Years later, in this place of coronation, Garoth fulfilled that promise.
“Samantha Igneous!”
The red dragon Samantha flared her crimson-scaled chest proudly and strode forward with bold steps.
She too lowered her head before the Red Iron Dragon Emperor and knelt, her lithe body bowed.
“I appoint you Chief Alchemist and Industrial Governor of the kingdom! Oversee all alchemy workshops, golem foundries, rune forges, and weapons research centers within the realm... You are responsible for the kingdom’s entire alchemical industrial system, all war materiel and civilian infrastructure development and production! The kingdom’s future war engines and daily needs of the people rest upon you!”
“As you wish, my brother, Your Majesty! I will set Aola’s industrial fires blazing across the North!”
Samantha replied with overflowing confidence.
Next came the investiture of other core lords and special members.
Iron Dragon Leticia, Blue Dragon Zoraya, Gold Dragon Alberto; Phoenix Ankhia, Amethyst Dragon Lion Tilnus, Holy Spirit Deer Rushi... each of them received lordships granting a degree of autonomy within the kingdom’s territories.
It was both honor and responsibility.
Earlier, the stiff but bold Gold Dragon Nasha and the mischievous faerie dragon Vira were, as requested, given the posts of “liaison officer” and “kingdom inspector” respectively.
Such positions were largely symbolic conveniences, though they did carry some substantive authority.
Following that, the official confirmations were given to clan heads who served as pillars of the kingdom.
Gluttonous Ogre Karu was appointed Legion Commander and War Marshal, commanding all ogres, large followers, and giant beast units—serving as the kingdom’s foremost assault vanguard and unstoppable line-breaker.
Centaur Elvy was appointed Ranger General and Plains Custodian, commanding all centaur tribes, some wolf cavalry and light cavalry units, responsible for patrol, vigilance, and rapid response across the broad plains, and ensuring the smooth flow of key trade routes.
These two were entrusted with heavy expectations, with strong potential to breach the Legendary threshold.
Both were given real power and grave duties.
Meanwhile, the envoys in the viewing stands watched this massive investiture carefully, evaluating Aola Kingdom’s governance framework and talent reserves, feeling a growing chill in their hearts.
Aola’s most obvious shortcoming at the moment was the number of Legendaries at its top.
The Red Iron Dragon Emperor’s ability to slay a Legendary Sword Saint outright already marked him as a Legendary-level existence.
Now, his body had grown significantly larger than eight years ago. Size does not equal strength outright, but everyone was certain he had grown stronger.
For ordinary dragons, the chance to become Legendary within eight years without a prolonged slumber was astronomically small.
However, given the Emperor’s unusual traits and his history of breaking norms in growth speed, it was quite possible he truly had stepped into the Legendary realm in this short time.
Even so, the count of Legendaries openly visible in Aola was still scant.
Only... the Emperor—one.
Beneath Legendary, most of the newly invested lords were formidable beings at levels nineteen or twenty, the lowest being level eighteen—and that was still an eighteen-level dragon with a dragon template. Their actual combat power far exceeded other races of the same level.
Their core subordinate heads also included many high-level entities.
Some were near the pinnacle of mundane creatures.
These were, essentially, the kingdom’s Legendary reserve.
In this regard, though newly born, Aola’s caliber was unexpectedly high—surpassing even some small kingdoms that had developed for years.
The early-autumn wilderness carried a chill.
Marquis Marcus of the Divine Kingdom of Theo felt sweat chill his back.
The claws and muscle Aola displayed at this ceremony made him more acutely aware of the terrifying reality of this emerging dragon kingdom, and his sense of crisis spiked.
He was absolutely certain that if this kingdom were allowed to develop unimpeded in the North, his own kingdom, as its direct neighbor, would be plunged into ongoing turmoil and threat.
“Those two Legendaries—where are they? Why haven’t they acted?”
Marquis Marcus’s gaze flicked frequently and furtively across the crowd and mountain ridges, his mood heavy as lead.
Compared to eight years ago, the Red Iron Dragon Emperor had certainly grown stronger, and there were so many near-Legendary high-level beings gathered here, plus four Metal Dragons with deep backgrounds and clear stances present.
Those two mysterious Legendaries probably hesitated, unwilling to make a move today, in this place.
“If they try to act now, they might not only fail, but become pawns feeding the Emperor’s ferocity—their fall serving to augment his coronation...”
He worried inwardly, then entertained another possibility.
“Hm... or perhaps they are conducting a more careful, covert plan to ensure absolute success?”
Marquis Marcus’s thoughts oscillated, unable to calm.
The investiture continued.
Serpentfolk Priestess Narys was appointed Deputy Minister of Treasury and Trade Inspector, assisting Regent Sorog in managing the kingdom’s complex ledgers and tax systems, and overseeing internal and external trade channels to ensure the kingdom’s wealth flowed orderly and efficiently like the serpents she commanded, rather than being squandered.
Grand Artificer Scott was appointed Alchemy Director and Minister of War Industry, assisting Industrial Governor Samantha and taking charge of research, standardized production, and daily maintenance for military and civilian gear and alchemical devices.
Werewolf Russell was named Chief of Scouts and Shadow Intelligence Officer, commanding all werewolves and certain stealthy and assassination-capable followers, responsible for intelligence gathering, battlefield reconnaissance, counterespionage—serving as the kingdom’s keenest eyes and hidden deadly fangs.
Flying dragon leader Tasha was appointed Skywarden of the Citadel of Crimson Flame, commanding the attached flying dragon squadrons, responsible for aerial reconnaissance and rapid support for the capital and surrounding key areas, and for maintaining the capital’s security and order.
Rampage Bear leader Mobel was appointed Commander of the Mountain Royal Guard, commanding the powerful Rampage Bear clans, responsible for daily defense of the Dragon Court region and guarding the Great Dragon Throne—one of the Emperor’s closest shields.
...
As one by one these uniquely shaped but equally powerful clan heads accepted investiture, Aola’s governance architecture was further solidified.
These heads, each fulfilling their duties together with the upper dragon lords, formed a highly efficient, loyal governance network covering military, internal affairs, economy, intelligence, and more—ensuring the newborn kingdom could shed tribal looseness and function as a truly centralized realm.
Their existence was to let Garoth focus entirely on becoming stronger.
For Garoth, only one thing truly mattered.
—To grow stronger, continuously grow stronger!
Unlike many monarchs whose realms “exist for the nation,” Aola “exists for the King.”
It was built around the Red Iron Dragon monarch; his existence and strength were the foundation for Aola’s birth and future endurance.
“Friends!”
After the investiture, the Red Iron Dragon Emperor announced in a deep voice, “The chapter of our kingdom has turned. Future glory and prosperity will not be mine alone, but will be forged by us, by everyone present!”
“For Aola!”
“For His Majesty! For the Kingdom!”
All those invested, dragons and followers alike, answered in the most impassioned voices, the roar of sound coalescing once more.
As the sun tilted westward, this unprecedented founding ceremony slowly drew its curtain.
And Aola’s story had only just begun.
“It seems... my force was still a bit too much.”
Garoth’s eyes narrowed slightly as he pondered inwardly.
His gaze, like a flame, swept the area where the foreign delegations stood; he detected no Legendary-level presences.
By diplomatic custom, no nation would dispatch their Legendary figures to such ceremonies without prior explicit consent from the host.
Each Legendary was tantamount to a walking nuclear weapon.
A Legendary appearing rashly in another nation’s core territory would be interpreted as severe provocation—even a declaration of war.
“Are there truly no hidden Legendaries among them?”
“Or perhaps they possess extraordinarily advanced concealment techniques, and my perception hasn’t developed that specialty yet, so I failed to detect them.”
Garoth thought silently.
He had once considered not publicly announcing his ascendancy to Legendary, hoping that at today’s gathering of factions, some scheming pests might reveal themselves.
Using their lives and blood to add further renown to his newly born kingdom.
Just eight years.
Under normal circumstances, a dragon’s body might grow by certain secret arts, but it could not so quickly breakthrough to Legendary. His battle with the Bronze Dragon occurred over the boundless sea; an imperial-level magical satellite might have detected it, yet discussions within dragon domains had not spread beyond.
Even so, his kingly aura was so potent it shook the entire scene.
Potential enemies, weighing pros and cons, refrained from rash action.
No one chose to stir trouble at the moment when his dragon might was at its peak and the kingdom’s morale at its highest.
Still, it was only a casually placed bait.
Naturally it would be ideal to draw out some unwise fools, but Garoth would not be disappointed if none appeared.
Those who could step into Legendary were rarely true fools.
As for feigning weakness to lure enemies—that ran contrary to his nature and risked pushing neutral observers into opposition.
Unnoticed, night had silently fallen, like a huge curtain draping the Dragonback Mountains and the Citadel of Crimson Flame.
The day’s clamor and fervor settled, but the capital’s splendor and revelry did not dim. Instead, they transformed into the royal feasts for hosting envoys.
Under the deepening night, the whole Citadel of Crimson Flame glowed as if daylight.
Countless magical light spheres floated in the air, mixing with dragon-flame braziers on walls and towers and tens of thousands of torches, illuminating every corner of the great city in dazzling brilliance.
Laughter and music replaced the day’s solemnity.
The main banquet sat on the vast plaza in front of the Dragonback range, already arranged.
Long banquet tables draped in splendid cloth were laden with delicacies from across the wilderness: golden-roasted giant beasts, enormous flamefruits dripping amber honey, carefully brewed fiery specialty wines... aromas mingled, whetting appetites.
Dancers and musicians performed energetically, full of life.
As the feast’s sole central figure, Garoth did not attend in his true Red Iron Dragon form.
He used Transformation to take a dragonborn humanoid form more convenient for eating and conversing.
Even so, his body remained so tall and robust it was almost suffocating—seeming cast from black-red metal, key joints and torso covered in dense dragon scales, his face stern and majestic, eyes calm as he scanned the hall.
He sat at the most honored seat like a king, posture casual yet exuding oppression.
He treated jewels as after-dinner snacks and drank his specially prepared black oil as if it were wine.
Naturally, such an occasion contained undercurrents of diplomacy and probing.
The first to act was Marquis Butler of the Kingdom of Rybos.
After Garoth tilted back a large cup of black oil-wine, Butler, cup in hand and smiling warmly, walked over with steady steps.
He bowed low to Garoth seated above, lowering himself considerably.
“Your Majesty Emperor Ignas, please allow me, on behalf of the Kingdom of Rybos, to offer our sincerest and most enthusiastic congratulations on your coronation and the birth of the Aola Kingdom.”
He spoke earnestly and with high-spirited tone.
“Marquis Butler, I have heard Rybos’s congratulations,” Garoth inclined his head faintly, his gaze settling on the man. His tone was flat and unreadable—no hint of emotion to gauge his true thoughts.
“Your Majesty,” Butler leaned in slightly and lowered his voice, “you may not be aware: the Lothrian Kingdom appears strong, but internally bureaucratic rot and bloat run rampant, efficiency is low.”
“Their cooperation with you may be hollow politeness rather than sincere mutual benefit.”
He paused, watching Garoth’s bottomless eyes for any ripple of feeling.
Seeing no expression, he drew another breath and continued with undiminished zeal:
“However, Rybos is entirely different!”
“We appoint the worthy regardless of race or origin.”
“We possess the continent’s top engineering technology, vast resource reserves, and... a far more sincere willingness to cooperate than Lothrian.”
In such an open forum, Butler’s outsized boldness in addressing the Red Iron Dragon Emperor drew many overt and covert looks.
Furthermore, his words were hardly veiled—they were blatant courtship and an attempt to drive a wedge against Lothrian.
“I am aware of your proposal, Marquis,” Garoth said.
He neither showed interest nor refused outright. “Aola is newly founded; interactions with others must be guided solely by the kingdom’s fundamental interests.”
“As for concrete cooperation... there is plenty of time; no need to rush.”
This light, roundabout reply, lacking concrete commitment, landed on Butler like a heavy punch to a fluffy pillow—nowhere to grip.
He opened his mouth as if to add more, attempting to steer the topic toward substantive terms.
But Garoth’s gaze had already naturally shifted to other corners of the banquet, showing no intention of spending time on the matter.
Butler’s cordial smile froze.
Finally, he bowed again and retreated discreetly.
“King, it seems your political and diplomatic maneuvering is quite adept and seasoned.”
In Garoth’s mindcame Sorog’s low whisper, tinged with a hint of amusement; he too had been quietly watching the short exchange that contained subtle stratagem.
“Don’t forget, iron dragon blood runs in my veins as well.”
“Some things I dislike doing do not mean I don’t know how to do them—or can’t do them well.” Garoth’s awareness replied calmly. “Also, Sorog, between brothers there is no need for honorifics in private.”
If he truly lacked such skill, how could he have gathered so many proud dragons and powerful followers in this perilous wilderness and win their sincere submission?
Garoth had reached this position not by power alone.
Soon after, Marquis Marcus of the Divine Kingdom of Theo, cup in hand and bearing a far heavier expression than Butler’s, walked over.
The Theo Kingdom had severe past conflicts with the Molten Iron Tribe and now shared borders with the new Aola Kingdom, making their stake in resources, security, and influence particularly entangled.
“Your Majesty Emperor Ignas.”
He approached and bowed respectfully. “First, allow me to congratulate Aola Kingdom on its founding on behalf of the Theo Kingdom.”
“Looking back... there were indeed regrettable misunderstandings and frictions between our two states.”
Garoth watched him quietly, his dragon pupils showing no ripple; he said nothing, remaining oppressive in silence as he awaited the man’s next words.
Marquis Marcus inhaled deeply and continued: “Theo sincerely hopes to set aside old grievances with newly founded Aola and open a new chapter of peace and stability.”
“We are willing to negotiate candidly and deeply on northern border demarcations, bilateral trade tariff agreements, and... past unpleasant incidents, seeking solutions acceptable and beneficial to both.”
“After all, long-term peace and border stability align with both our interests.”
His posture was low, offering an olive branch for diplomacy.
Garoth’s lips curved in an unreadable smile.
He certainly understood Theo’s anxiety.
A unified and powerful dragon kingdom rapidly rising in the North changed the regional balance, and Theo felt an unprecedented threat.
“Marquis Marcus,” Garoth spoke slowly, his voice steady, “peace and development are also my wishes for Aola.”
“As for the past...”
He paused, tone indifferent, “some frictions are mere specks of dust.”
He sipped his cup lightly and continued:
“The gates of Aola will always remain open to neighbors bearing goodwill and sincerity. How one enters through that gate and whether a stable relationship can be truly built depends on Theo’s wisdom and sincerity.”
He did not explicitly reject the peace proposal, nor did he offer concrete commitments or concessions, and he showed no sign of caring about past “misunderstandings,” as if they truly were trivial dust.
Such smooth, cautious diplomacy, leaving room for maneuver, was the mark of seasoned statesmanship.
Those nearby listening found it hard to reconcile such flawless composure with the image of the fearsome Red Iron Dragon Emperor before them.
It meant he possessed not only great strength but also keen, calm intellect.
Marquis Marcus’s heart sank, realizing this dragon monarch was far tougher to handle than he had estimated.
Reason told him it was time to withdraw.
Yet the absence of the two mysterious Legendaries gnawed at him; domestic political pressure and the king’s expectations weighed on him; he had come on the mission to reconcile relationships; and to bolster his courage and drown frustration, he had drunk heavily...
All these factors frayed his temper until hot blood rose to his head.
“Your Majesty, I drink to you!”
He did not retreat. Instead he raised his cup again and looked at Garoth with burning eyes, his voice a touch louder with emotion.
“I earnestly hope you will, with magnanimity, forgive past misunderstandings and frictions!”
“I also believe your wisdom and foresight will choose what is best and most advantageous for Aola in matters concerning our two nations’ futures!”
His words sounded like a toast and flattery, but beneath the surface carried an implied threat: “Choose wisely, or...”
Nearby, Butler, who had stepped back a short distance, widened his eyes at Marcus. Was this man drunk? Had he not realized his words were barbed?
Speaking so carelessly in another’s capital, at the Emperor’s coronation banquet—if Marcus fell, Butler did not want blood spattered on him.
He quietly stepped further away.
Other envoys followed suit and retreated tactfully.
Garoth hardly glanced his way, studying the human marquis, unreadable.
He did not raise his cup in return. Instead he casually motioned to a dragonborn guard standing nearby.
“Serve wine.”
He said the two words plainly.
The guard bowed and departed briskly.
Soon the guard returned holding a coarse, heavy goblet and presented it to Marquis Marcus expressionlessly.
The liquid inside was no ordinary feast wine.
It was viscous and black, absorbing the lavish lights around it and reflecting almost nothing—like the deepest night.
A pungent, sharp odor rose—like distilled sulfur mixed with molten rock and some metallic briny tang—making nearby sensitive envoys wince and lean back.
“This is my favorite libation, Marquis. Please savor it.”
Garoth’s voice remained flat and calm.
The dragonborn guard held the cup out, eyes steady and unyielding, fixed on Marquis Marcus.
Marcus looked at the black, sticky liquid, inhaled the dizzying scent, and his facial muscles twitched.
Wine? This wasn’t wine.
It was undiluted, highly concentrated black oil!
He had no doubt that, if ignited, this cup could burn fiercely for three days.
He truly felt trapped between a rock and a hard place.
This imperial cup was personally bestowed by the Emperor—a gesture, a probe, even a punishment.
Refuse it and you’re openly disrespecting the Emperor in front of many envoys, with dire consequences; drink it and...
It would merely hasten your downfall.
Damn the dragon! Don’t you realize two mysterious Legendaries have you in their sights? When you die, see how lofty you still appear!
Marquis Marcus lowered his head slightly to hide the flash of ferocity in his eyes, then forced a smile.
He reached out with a trembling hand and took the heavy, scalding goblet.
“Th... thank you for Your Majesty’s gift!”
He ground out the words through clenched teeth, closed his eyes, tilted the rim to his lips, and gulped a large draught.
“Cough... cough... ugh—!!”
Uncontrollable coughing and retching burst from his throat. His face flushed a liver-dark hue, veins bulging on his forehead as tears streamed.
The viscous liquid felt like scalding magma studded with tiny barbs.
Where it passed, his esophagus and stomach burned and writhed with indescribable nausea, as if his throat had been sanded. Even breathing carried a sulfuric-metallic stench.
He tried not to vomit, but his body trembled violently, barely able to stand.
Garoth watched Marcus’s wretched state calmly, as if appreciating a performance no longer concerning him: “It seems my favored vintage does not suit the Marquis’s palate.”
He spoke slowly.
Marcus’s throat felt scoured by coals; his voice was hoarse: “P-please forgive... I... cannot bear it...”
“No matter,” Garoth waved a hand as if he truly didn’t care. “Aola’s chosen path and tastes differ from the southern greenhouses’ delicacies.”
“Marquis, you will need time to acclimate.”
His words carried double meaning—both the special black oil and the cultural gulf between neighboring kingdoms.
“T... thank... you.”
Marcus forced the words through his teeth, wanting nothing more than to escape this torment.
But before he could turn, the Emperor’s calm voice, imbued with invisible weight, sounded again.
“Marquis, our wilderness holds a tradition of respecting food and not wasting resources. Aola likewise. Since you accepted the gift, finish the cup before you withdraw.”
The tone was casual, but the effect chilled Marcus as if plunged into an ice pit; his blood seemed to freeze.
At that moment, his drunkenness and bravado evaporated; he was fully sober, filled with remorse and fear.
He looked at the nearly full black cup and searched for an excuse to refuse.
Yet under Garoth’s unblinking gaze he felt an invisible hand gripping his heart, making each breath difficult.
He had no doubt that refusal now would cost him his life in the next instant.
He drew a deep breath as if inhaling his last courage, closed his eyes, and forced the viscous black liquor down in agonizing, slow gulps until the cup was empty.
The banquet fell silent; no one intervened, only coldly observed.
When the last drop slid down his throat, Marcus could no longer hold himself. The goblet clattered to the ground and he collapsed as if his bones had been pulled away, limp and barely breathing, his face waxen.
Garoth watched his misery and shook his head slightly: “If you cannot drink it, why force yourself so?”
“You are too stubborn, envoy.”
“Very well, take him away and let him rest somewhere.”
Several of Marcus’s attendants were already drenched in sweat and pale. Garoth’s words felt like a pardon; they scrambled forward, lifting their barely conscious master and quickly leaving the banquet area.
He had consumed a concentrated, specially made black-oil version reserved for Garoth.
Marquis Marcus’s life hung in the balance.
On the other side, the faerie dragon Vira lounged on Deborah’s shoulder.
She leaned close to the brass-silver dragon’s ear and whispered in a voice meant for only the two of them, giggling: “Hey, Deborah, look at Garoth—he’s good at everything he does.”
“He’s totally in character right now: unpredictable, mercurial, terrifying as a sovereign.”
“The envoys from the south probably didn’t expect a wilderness bad dragon to be so adept at being an emperor—like it’s innate.”
Deborah’s gaze remained on the Red Iron Dragon.
She smiled faintly and murmured: “This emperor image Garoth puts on will last only these few days. Sooner or later he’ll itch to drop state affairs and go back to intense training.”
Vira nodded in agreement: “That’s true.”
They both understood Garoth’s nature very well.
Long, feigned diplomatic niceties and petty court maneuvering were not his true liking.
He only put on a show today for the sake of the kingdom’s image.
Afterwards such daily diplomacy and governance would very likely be fully entrusted to the steady Regent Sorog,
while Garoth himself would return to obsessively pursuing the peak of his own power.
Meanwhile, beneath the surface of jovial laughter and clinking cups, every envoy clearly felt the Emperor’s style and rule.
He was confident, powerful, pragmatic, and purposeful.
Attempts to seduce with sweet words or coerce with veiled threats could not move his will.
To deal well with this rising dragon kingdom one had to offer tangible assets and genuine sincerity.
As for the marquis who’d spoken foolishly and was now life-threatened—no one cared anymore.
Relations between Theo and Aola were delicate and fraught; as conflicts of interest intensified, the two kingdoms would likely drift into deeper confrontation.
A marquis publicly issuing veiled threats at another’s coronation banquet?
That Garoth did not execute him on the spot was already the greatest restraint shown for the sake of diplomatic face with many envoys present.
Whether he lived or died from then on would make no waves.
The banquet continued in a surface warmth full of secret currents.
Garoth sat calmly at the primary seat like a king at the center of a massive spiderweb, casually sampling food and drink while quietly observing each moth’s movement, evaluating intent.
Meanwhile, a thousand miles away from the Citadel of Crimson Flame, in a secluded mountain hollow.
When Marquis Marcus fell and was carried away, the hidden magical visual link went dark.
Two gray-robed Legendaries who had been watching Marcus’s feed were located there.
They exchanged a glance and fell into a brief silence.
After a moment, the taller gray-robed one spoke first: “What an idiot. I planned to use him to observe the Red Iron Dragon Emperor more, but he sought his own death.”
This Legendary made a decision.
They would thoroughly eliminate the now-useless and potentially troublesome pawn, Marquis Marcus.
When they had first met Marcus, they had secretly planted an extremely hidden magical mark on him.
Now, as his life weakened, it was just the right moment to trigger it remotely so he would die naturally and leave no trouble behind.
Snap!
The gray-robed Legendary snapped his fingers soundlessly.
A thousand miles away, inside the Citadel, in Marcus’s chest the imperceptible magical mark silently shattered into a cold, invisible death energy that swiftly ate through his already fragile heartbeat.
He would not see the next sunrise—he would die of cardiac arrest in due course.
Marcus had thought himself clever, planning to stay clean by providing intel and letting the two mysterious Legendaries strike the Red Iron Dragon while he watched safely.
He had not imagined that bargaining with tigers would spare his own skin.
His fate was most likely to be devoured with hide and bone.
“With just the two of us, the success chance of killing that Red Iron Dragon Emperor isn’t high—we might even be killed instead,” the shorter gray-robed one murmured, voice muffled under his hood. “Should we... request reinforcements?”
The taller nodded.
“To ensure absolute success, summon two more colleagues.”
He paused, feeling that still might be insufficient, and added: “Also request allocation of that Legendary weapon, ‘Joy of Ashes.’ It grants significant damage and suppression bonuses against all fire-affiliated beings and could greatly weaken the Red Iron Dragon’s power, helping us achieve our goal!”
The other gray-robed figure agreed softly: “Indeed... this powerful dragon emperor—his strength and bloodline... will ultimately guide us toward final ascension.”
“He... belongs to us.”
At once, the two gray cloaks seemed to reach a consensus. Their bodies beneath the wide hoods subtly changed; in the shadow their pupils tightened into cold vertical slits.
“With scales for armor, breath as soul; with wit for reins, and force for chariot.”
“Gaze toward the sublime, bow not as servants; vows to bind the dragon, we shall become gods.”
A low, hoarse chant rose from them in unison,
like a curse or a prayer, echoing faintly through the deserted mountain hollow.