Chapter 526: Dragon's War
Isdalia. On the towering Stone Pillar, within the pristine, awe-inspiring Altar of white stone, white smoke curled like ghostly fingers through the air. There, the Red Dragon lounged lazily upon a marble throne, his massive form coiled with regal indifference.
At his side stood the Ogre Magus Lanpu, his hulking frame radiating an aura of quiet power. Before him floated vast, shimmering Magical Images—each one a live projection of the Imperial Wall’s battlefronts, flickering with the chaos of war.
Kai Xiusu watched the scene unfold—the Butcher Demon being systematically slaughtered—and tilted his head with quiet amusement.
“How many Dragon Scales cultivators does the Empire still have?” he asked, his voice calm, almost detached.
Lanpu’s form flickered slightly, his thick body shimmering with unstable light. A faint glow pulsed across his skin like trapped stars.
“Master… forgive the disruption,” the Ogre murmured, his voice strained. “The True Form is currently engaged in combat on the frontline. This projection is… unstable.”
Indeed, Lanpu’s image was a mere phantom. The real Magus had already crossed into the warzone, standing firm on the battlefield, facing off against Abyssal spellcasters in a clash of arcane wills.
Kai Xiusu stared at the dying Butcher Demon, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Butcher Demon…
A true predator of the Abyss. A creature with a Challenge Rating of Gundam 16—on par with certain low-tier Legendary Entities. Even now, despite the Empire’s Domain suppressing the Chaos Strength within it, this Demon’s power remained formidable.
In the past, players had been slaughtered en masse by Vampires, crushed beneath the feet of Frost Giants, mere cannon fodder in endless wars.
Now? The most powerful players could siege and destroy such beings.
Of course, it was only possible through the backing of the Empire’s vast resources. Yet, no one could deny it—players had become an undeniable force in the world.
Kai Xiusu paused, then asked again:
“How much does it cost to cultivate a Dragon Scales cultivator?”
Lanpu’s ghostly form replied:
“Fifty thousand Golden Nael, Master. The largest expense comes from the Dragon Blood materials—but the Empire has no shortage of those. With the Technology Department still refining the process, the Mechanical Divinity’s so-called ‘Geneticists’ estimate the cost could drop below ten thousand Golden Nael soon.”
Kai Xiusu gave a slow, satisfied nod. He ran his tongue along his lips, tasting the faint ember of fire.
“Excellent. So we’ll soon be mass-producing superhuman warriors. And all it costs us… is money.”
The Empire had no lack of wealth. For years, the Empire of Ashen had thrived on war—smuggling arms, flooding markets with goods, reaping fortunes from the endless flames of conflict across the Feiansuo Continent.
Its ability to accumulate wealth was beyond the imagination of any other nation.
And how much gold lay hidden in Kai Xiusu’s own Treasure Vault?
That number had long since become legend.
Scholars speculated it was beyond mortal comprehension—so staggering, so unimaginable, that even stating it aloud would sound like madness.
Lanpu bowed low, his voice dripping with sycophantic delight.
“Master, this doesn’t even require Empire funds—only your own wealth. Those Stellarfallen selected are blessed with honor. Our plan collects two thousand Golden Nael as a Sacrificial Offering from each, as repayment for your Bestowal.”
Kai Xiusu exhaled with a soft, amused pfft, then nodded again, his eyes gleaming.
After decades of practice, the Ogre had mastered the art of exploiting players—finer, more insidious even than the Red Dragon himself. His influence had seeped into every corner of domestic life.
There were taxes, after all—Spell Tax, Rifle Ownership Tax, Dragon Blood Tax—all uniquely Empire-born.
“Pfft—” Kai Xiusu turned his head, letting out a sharp snort. A plume of scalding white smoke burst from his nostrils. He turned his gaze back to the battlefield.
“The real one still hasn’t shown up. Cowardly little homebody.”
At this moment, the war between the Empire and the Abyssal Legion had reached its boiling point.
The Empire’s artillery barrage could no longer halt the tide of demons. Brutal, powerful high-tier Demons surged forward in relentless waves.
But the Empire had no intention of yielding. It relied on pre-arranged defensive lines, holding the frontline with desperate resilience, sealing the Demon Army behind the Imperial Wall.
To the south, the wasteland was a scarred wasteland—cratered, choked with smoke, littered with corpses, shattered shrapnel, and spent bullets. The purple-black pus-blood of the Demons seeped into rock and soil, carving jagged wounds into the earth—like curses written in blood.
The cacophony was endless: the shrieks of Demons, the thunderous booms of artillery, the battle cries of Imperial soldiers—all merging into a brutal symphony of war across the vast battlefield.
---
Holt Mountains.
The range wasn’t particularly high. Cross it, and you’d reach the northern plains—the heart of the Empire.
“Roar—!”
A swarm of Dragon Vein Beasts descended like a storm, wings flapping like dark clouds, their cries harsh and chaotic.
Normally, such a sight wouldn’t be uncommon within the Empire. After all, the Empire of Ashen was known as the Dragon’s Realm, home to tens of thousands of Wyverns, Dragon Beasts, and other Monsters.
But these were different.
These were Abyssal Drakes—descendants of the Wyvern lineage, yet tainted by the Purgatory blood of the Abyss. Their scales were a deep, unnatural crimson, their wings broad and bat-like, their necks serpentine, their claws razor-sharp.
A monstrous fusion—born of the most corrupt and vile breeding experiment in Abyssal history. A blend of Demons, Wyverns, and the blood of the Red Dragon itself.
They roamed the Abyssal wilderness, hunting both Demons and intruders with equal ferocity.
“Roar—!”
Their roar echoed through the mountains, shaking the trees, sending beasts fleeing in terror. Their cries were more chaotic, more oppressive than any ordinary Wyvern—infused with the despair of the Abyss.
They flapped their wings, spewing black-red Abyssal flames that reduced living things to ash.
And atop the lead Abyssal Drake, a crimson humanoid—dressed in black armor—sat astride, his long, forked tongue lolling from his mouth, horns curving from his brow like obsidian scythes. His eyes burned crimson, as if lit from within by eternal flames.
“I’m back.”
“I’ll make you pay.”
His name was Lichten Moor. Once a member of the Northwind Eagle Guard, he had barely survived the fall of his nation. Captured by a Revenant Demon, he was reborn in the Abyss.
Years of bloodshed in the Blood War had forged him—his hatred unbroken, his memories of the Duchy of Lakanman’s destruction etched into his soul.
And that rage had granted him power.
Now, Lichten was the Chieftain of the Abyssal Drake Army, commanding dozens of Elite Demon Cavalry and hundreds of Abyssal Drakes.
His mission: cross the Holt Mountains, strike deep into the Empire’s heart, and exploit the enemy’s rear lines—using speed and surprise, just as he had done before in Avernus, where he’d seized a Hell Devil’s fortress.
He believed this tactic would work on the Empire, too.
Lichten raised his bloodstained longsword—carved from a skull bone—high into the air.
“Brothers! We’ve endured countless wars in the Blood War! We’ve slaughtered countless Devils! And now, our enemy is nothing but a weak Material Realm nation! Let fire and blood cleanse them! Let them feel the might of the Abyss!”
“FOR THE ABYSS!”
A roar echoed from the sky.
But then—another sound answered.
Deeper. Heavier.
From the other side of the mountain, a wave of Wyverns and Flame Wyverns erupted into the air. They spread their wings, forming a crimson cloud that blotted out half the sky—facing off against the Abyssal Drake Army.
Among the Empire’s forces: Crimson Scale Conquerors riding Wyverns, Flame Wyverns wreathed in fire, and even an Ancestral Wyvern—its aura rivaling that of a True Dragon.
The power of this army matched the Abyssal Drake force, line for line.
Lichten recognized them instantly.
The Dragon Riders who had destroyed his old unit. The ones who had forced him to flee in disgrace.
The memory burned in his mind.
“Crimson Scale Conquerors…” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. His forked tongue hung limp, drooling thick, sticky saliva.
Then, his expression shifted—twisted into a manic grin.
“Perfect… perfect! Now I can finally revenge myself!”
He laughed, wild and unhinged, his face contorted in ecstasy. “I’ll make them feel the same agony I felt—watching my comrades die, watching my home burn!”
His helmet-covered face gleamed with bloodlust.
“Charge! Kill them! Let them taste the fear we felt in the Blood War!”
“Face the Abyss!”
“Devour these pathetic flies!”
The Demons roared in frenzy, brandishing bloodied blades, spears, and hammers. The Abyssal Drakes let out ear-splitting, spine-chilling roars.
And with good reason.
The Abyssal Drakes were massive—far larger than ordinary Wyverns. Most reached nearly fifteen meters in length. Their Chieftain was over twenty meters long—larger than many true Dragons.
Compared to them, the Empire’s Wyverns—most under ten meters—seemed almost delicate.
On the northern side of the Holt Mountains, Alje, Marquis of Dragon Blood and commander of the Red Scales Garrison, sat atop the mighty Dragonvein Eagle. His gaze was cold, piercing the horizon.
Once a member of the Northwind Eagle Guard, Alje had already tasted revenge. He had watched Duke Brad die. He had seen the Empire rise from ashes. He had witnessed the Northern people grow stronger, the Tieflings freed from suffering, their lives filled with purpose.
Now, he had a new mission.
He was the Empire’s Guardian.
He had sworn to spend the rest of his life repaying the sins he had once committed.
Alje raised his Everburning Greatsword, its blade blazing with eternal flame.
“Brothers!” he thundered.
“You are the children of the Great Red Dragon! These filth from the Abyss—corrupted bloodline, tainted spawn—should not even dare stand before you! They seek to burn your cities, massacre your people, destroy your homeland!”
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
“Can you accept that?”
“NO!”
The roar shook the mountains.
Alje nodded in satisfaction, then bellowed:
“Then charge with me! Turn these Abyssal Crawlers to ash!”
The Abyssal Drake Army surged forward like a storm, dark clouds rolling across the sky, their cries deafening.
The sight electrified every soul—native and player alike. Blood surged through their veins. They stared in awe at the approaching demon horde, hearts pounding.
Then—without warning—they dove.
“FOR THE EMPIRE!”
“LONG LIVE THE EMPIRE OF ASHEN!”
“FOR KING KAI XIUSU!”
Hundreds of Wyverns and Flame Wyverns unfurled their wings at the mountain’s peak—then plunged downward.
“Roar—!”
They were a torrent of red—like a crimson flood, a waterfall of fire. Their wings tore through the air, generating intense heat and explosive hurricanes. The sky above the mountain was swallowed by fire.
Below, the dark tide of Abyssal Demons spread like ink across the earth.
The collision was imminent.
Lichten looked up at the sky—where the two-headed Dragon and the Wyverns formed an army of flame.
A cold, mocking smile spread across his face beneath his visor.
So weak…
Compared to the Abyssal Blood Pool-transformed beasts he’d known, these Wyverns were pitiful—like the past version of himself.
The once-invincible Dragonfly Legion now seemed nothing more than fragile mortal creatures.
He gripped his skull-ornamented sword, imagining the clean snap of a Wyvern’s neck.
But then—
“Dragon Roar Charge!”
Alje’s voice rang out, clear and commanding.
One hundred Dragon Riders. Nearly five hundred Wyverns and Flame Wyverns. All roared in unison.
This was the largest Dragon Roar Charge in Empire history.
Their bodies—flooded with Dragon Blood—shook in perfect resonance. The shared bloodline pulsed, linking them together, forming a wave of draconic power so immense it felt like a tidal wave.
“They’re just ignorant mortals…”
“This… this can’t be real!”
Lichten’s body trembled violently. His teeth chattered.
Above him, a phantom emerged—hundreds of meters long, a spectral Red Dragon, wreathed in flame and shadow. It filled the sky, its presence dignified, divine. Every knight knew it.
It was their Emperor. The ruler of the Empire of Ashen. The sovereign of Anzeta.
King Kai Xiusu.
The phantom spread its wings, opened its maw, and let loose a roar so deep, so heavy, it seemed to shake the very fabric of existence.
In the depths of their spiritual souls, the Abyssal Drakes felt it—the Bloodline Pressure. A force that defied Chaos. A force of Order.
They screamed in agony. Wings faltered. Bodies fell from the sky, tumbling like broken dolls.
Even Lichten felt it—a searing, soul-wrenching pain. The Phantom’s presence shattered his corrupted spirit, each pulse a hammer blow.
In this strange Empire, the Red Dragon’s existence felt… divine. A force of order that brought torment to the depths of the Abyss.
But Lichten clung to his will—his thirst for revenge.
He fought to stay upright, slashing at the Drake’s neck with his sword, screaming:
“Damn it! It’s just a Dragon! You’re children of the Abyss! Wake up! You cowards!”
But his defiance was useless.
The danger was upon him.
Swish—
A blade of fire, forged in Kai Xiusu’s will, cut through the air. It descended with the force of a falling star.
With a single, clean motion, it severed Lichten’s head.
The crimson face—still frozen in shock, eyes wide with disbelief—flew into the sky.
The visor shattered, scattering into fragments.
He had been killed—by a mere mortal from the Prime Material Plane.
And yet, even in death, his expression remained one of utter disbelief.
(End of Chapter)
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