The Fiery Crown Cycle: A Dragon's Rebirth

Chapter 151

"How many strong are you?"

"Roughly thirty-one thousand, all told." The goblin elder saw the look on the gnoll's face and quickly added, "We are merely the vanguard, sent to pay our respects."

Thirty-one thousand.

Garruk’s heart hammered against his ribs. The sheer scale of it was staggering. His only thought now was how to manage this horde for the Red Lord. Among the three dragons, the Red Lord possessed the greatest growth potential. If Garruk served him well, if he proved his worth... perhaps he really could be transformed into a Dragonblood kin.

A fervent light burned in his eyes.

"Leave a detachment here," Garruk commanded, gesturing to the garden patch. "Guard these plants with your lives."

These plants were vital. The Red Lord had shown a particular fondness for the small berries they bore. By pure accident, Garruk had discovered the method of propagation: dry the seeds, soak them in water, and bury them in the earth. Before, his crippled leg had limited his ability to expand the crop. But now? With a labor force of goblins?

He could turn this entire clearing into a farm for his Master.

"It shall be done," the elder replied. He stood and turned to the rank and file of elites behind him.

Gak! Kek-kek!

A series of guttural, clicking barks erupted from the elder’s throat.

Kek!

The goblin soldiers nodded in unison, snapping to attention before fanning out to form a perimeter around the garden fence.

The elder turned back to the gnoll. "It is settled, Chieftain."

Garruk flinched. Chieftain.

His expression hardened. The title felt wrong. It didn't belong to him.

"Call me Garruk," he growled low in his throat. "I have no love for that title."

"As you wish, Garruk."

"Now," Garruk said, gesturing with his chin. "Show me your clan."

"Sure."

The goblin elder took the lead, and Garruk followed, his gait uneven but determined, trailing the small creature into the depths of the forest.

***

The wind howled, tearing through the trees.

His legs were numb, burning with lactic acid, yet they kept pumping, driven by pure, primal fear.

Snap! Crash!

The noise behind him hadn't faded. The thing was still there. It was gaining on him.

Deep in the forest, a human figure clad in battered silver plate mail sprinted for his life. His right sleeve flapped uselessly at his side. Pursuing him was a nightmare made flesh—a magical beast that ran on all fours, resembling a grotesque ape with a single, curved horn jutting from its forehead. Its eyes were twin pools of crimson hate, locked onto the fleeing knight.

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Owen pushed himself harder. He couldn't keep this up. He had to kill it, or he would die tired.

His blue eyes darted frantically across the terrain. Towering ancient trees choked out the sunlight, leaving the forest floor barren of undergrowth. There was nowhere to hide, no choke points to exploit.

He ran for another hundred yards until the ground dipped. A short, steep slope.

A blind spot.

Owen burst forward, putting on a desperate burst of speed. He dove into the depression, skid to a halt, and dropped into a crouch. His left hand—his only hand—ripped the Knight Captain sword from its sheath.

Whoosh.

The sound of displaced air thundered above him.

Owen drove upward, his sword glowing with a brilliant blue mana.

Shhhk!

The blade bit deep into the magical beast's abdomen. Hot blood sprayed over Owen’s armor, sickeningly warm.

But momentum was a cruel mistress. The beast's massive bulk slammed into him with the force of a falling boulder, crushing him into the dirt.

Owen stared up into the creature's face. The red eyes were filled with pure venom. The maw opened, revealing rows of serrated teeth and exhaling a cloud of putrid, rotting breath.

Owen twisted his wrist, frantically churning the sword inside the beast's gut, but it wasn't enough. The jaws descended.

No. I cannot die here!

I haven't avenged Father. I haven't avenged Tom! I haven't asked Thea why she refused to send the Family Circle Knights!

A scream of defiance died in his throat, overwhelmed by helplessness.

Thwip!

A high-pitched whistle sliced the air.

A shaft of emerald light slammed into the magical beast's skull, piercing bone and brain in an instant. The light faded as quickly as it had appeared, taking the monster's life with it.

The massive head went limp, gravity taking over.

Thud.

The beast’s heavy, curved horn smashed directly into Owen’s forehead. Already on the brink of exhaustion, the impact was the final straw. Owen’s world went black.

High above, perched on a thick branch, a Wood Elf maiden lowered her bow. The weapon, formed of pure energy, dissolved into motes of green light and vanished.

She dropped from the tree, landing silently on the forest floor.

The Wood Elf walked over to the human.

She had saved him, yes, but now she stood over the unconscious body, indecisive. Her brow furrowed as she looked at the man trapped beneath the carcass.

Should I save him?

The High Priest had always taught that humans were a plague—evil, deceitful creatures. If she brought him back, the Priest would surely reprimand her.

Maybe... I should just leave him.

She turned on her heel and began to walk away.

One step. Two steps.

She stopped.

With a heavy sigh, she turned back. She crouched, shoving the heavy carcass off the human with surprising strength, and scooped him up into her arms.

He was frail. His body was a map of old scars, and his right arm was gone—a stump where a limb should be.

I can't just leave him to rot, she thought. I have to get him to the new settlement. The Priest can heal him.

If I’m going to save a life, I have to do it properly.

The Wood Elf groaned internally, looking down at the broken man in her arms. The Priest is going to yell at me for this. I just know it.

Resigned to her fate, she adjusted her grip and bolted into the treeline, moving with the supernatural grace of her kind.

In the clearing of the new settlement, the Wood Elf Priest watched his people work.

They were rebuilding, constructing homes from the living wood, but his mind was elsewhere. Ever since the Red Dragon had departed, he had been consumed by thoughts of the future.

His people were trapped in the amber of the past, obsessed with their former glory. But the Sequence War had ended tens of thousands of years ago. The Wood Elves hadn't risen from the ashes; they had slowly faded.

Now, in this current Epoch, his clan was likely the last of their kind.

Nostalgia was a poison. If they didn't adapt, they would go extinct.

He watched them weave branches and sing the old songs.

It is time for a change, he mused. We must evolve, or we perish.

But how? How do you change the mind of a race that lives for centuries, stubborn as the roots of an ancient oak? He knew their ignorance well—he had once shared it.

Hm?

Movement at the edge of the camp caught his eye.

It was Tiriel. She was running toward him, carrying something.

He squinted. A human? A human in plate armor?

As Tiriel drew closer, the Priest’s eyes widened slightly.

Perhaps... perhaps this is the catalyst we need.

Tiriel skidded to a halt before him, slightly out of breath.

"High Priest," she panted. "Please. Heal this human."

The surrounding elves stopped their work. Silence rippled through the clearing as they gathered around, peering at the bundle in Tiriel’s arms.

Their gazes turned cold. Disdain etched their features.

A slave race? Why should the noble High Priest waste his mana on such filth?