Chapter 652: Siege and the Two-Headed Dragon
Gazing at the smug Dragon-Scaled Cultivator, the Dwarves erupted in fury, brandishing war hammers and axes as they roared curses into the air:
"Damned! That Home brute is too arrogant!"
"His mouth reeks worse than an Ogre’s!"
"Dragon's Favored—meet your end!"
A Dwarf warrior, face twisted with rage, raised his war hammer high and leapt into the air—leap-and-smash, the eternal romance of the warrior’s heart.
But the Dragon-Scaled Cultivator had already anticipated the ambush. His muscles tensed like steel cables, fully prepared. Thanks to the Empire’s genetic enhancements, his reflexes were as swift as a hummingbird’s—able to sense danger within 0.2 milliseconds.
"Haaah—!"
With a guttural roar, the Dwarf warrior descended with crushing force, aiming to smash the Cultivator’s skull from behind.
Let no one forget—this was a Dwarf-forged, heavy war hammer. A single hit could shatter even the toughest dragon scales.
Yet the Cultivator didn’t turn. Instead, he raised his Chain Saw Sword, the blade tip already locked onto the warrior’s chest.
The Dwarf’s eyes widened in horror. He twisted mid-air, trying to dodge—but it was too late.
"Spines—!"
The Chain Saw Sword plunged forward without mercy, its sharpened tip piercing through the Dwarf’s chest like a spear, driving him clean through. The warrior’s body was impaled, hanging limp from the Cultivator’s hand.
Then, the serrated edge of the blade spun at blinding speed, tearing open the Dwarf’s flesh in a brutal, meat-chopping frenzy. Blood sprayed in all directions. Skin, muscle, and bone were sliced apart. Brain matter, organs, and intestines burst out in a gory cascade.
"Damn… that’s disgusting," the Cultivator spat, shaking his hand violently.
The corpse was then severed into multiple pieces and flung aside like a discarded rag, collapsing in a twisted heap on the ground—no longer human, only a mangled ruin beyond recognition.
"Tyr!"
"You—how dare you treat a fearless warrior like this!"
The Dwarves’ voices trembled with rage and shock.
The Cultivator wiped blood from his face with a careless swipe, then grinned again—cold, mocking, and utterly indifferent.
"Want revenge? Then come and kill me. Hahahaha!"
Witnessing the massacre of their kin and the desecration of the corpse, the Dwarves’ eyes burned with fury. They wanted nothing less than to rip the monster to pieces.
A Dwarf commander raised his war hammer and bellowed:
"Comrades! Attack together—crush his skull!"
"Kill the monster!"
"Die!"
At the call to arms, the Dwarf warriors formed a tight formation, surrounding the Cultivator from all sides—preparing to lay siege.
"Come on… come on…" the Cultivator whispered, loading his ammunition with deliberate calm. He was waiting for them to gather—perfect for testing his new experimental rounds.
Now that they were clustered, the Cultivator’s lips curled into a feral smile.
His right arm lifted, the Experience Points-Losive Rifle—its barrel as wide as a cannon’s muzzle—aimed directly at the enemy.
"Bang!"
The gunshot echoed across the city wall. The specially designed bullet detonated mid-air before striking any target, bursting into a storm of shotgun pellets.
Those Dwarves standing too close were torn apart by the explosive hail. Metal Storm Fragmentation Shells—designed specifically to obliterate lightly armored masses—exploded just before impact, spraying the battlefield with deadly shrapnel. Short-range explosive effect replaced the traditional high-yield detonator. The Diamond Core bullet was replaced with a shattering outer shell.
This ammunition was exclusive to the Empire’s Military Faction—custom-tuned for the Dragon-Scaled Cultivators to mow down enemy formations like wheat before a scythe.
And now, in combat, its effectiveness was undeniable.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Thanks to Imperial engineering, the massive rifle could fire in rapid succession—continuous, relentless.
Laughing wildly, the Cultivator spun in place, firing in all directions with steady trigger pulls, cutting down Dwarves in waves.
Even more terrifying, he pulled two metal spheres from his Dimensional Sack. As they rose into the air, they glowed, unfolded, and transformed into floating turrets—pouring forth a torrent of bullets like a storm of fire.
With each thunderous blast, Dwarves fell like wheat beneath a scythe.
But the Dwarves were stubborn. They were fearless. They did not fear death on the battlefield.
Even as their comrades were torn apart, they pressed forward—stepping over fallen bodies, charging through the rain of shotgun pellets and bullets.
Yet, when they reached the Cultivator, they faced only the blood-soaked, spinning Chain Saw Sword. One glance—just one—and they were split in two.
Dwarves at a distance fired hand crossbows and arrows, but the Cultivator was armored in thick, scale-like plates and reinforced bone—nearly impenetrable.
Arrows struck his body with a sharp clink, then bounced off like pebbles.
"For Aivendeldan!" A Dwarf’s eyes blazed red as he charged from behind, war hammer raised.
The Cultivator turned. Raised his rifle.
"Bang!"
The sheer force sent the Dwarf flying backward, slamming into the city wall with a sickening thud. His body was riddled with bullet holes, blood gushing from every wound.
"Aivendeldan… never…" he gasped, slumped on the ground, but never finished—his voice cut off by death.
"Finished."
The Cultivator blew away the smoke from his rifle’s muzzle, wiped his face again, and chuckled with grim satisfaction.
Around him, the ground was piled high with Dwarf corpses. The air reeked of gunpowder and blood. The city wall itself was stained crimson, a pool of red spreading across the stone.
In mere moments, he had slaughtered nearly a hundred Dwarf warriors—and this carnage was unfolding at multiple points along the Aivendeldan Wall.
Drool had deployed over a dozen Dragon-Scaled Cultivators via Dragon Horde, sending them to the front lines to tear open the enemy’s defenses and draw fire—while the main force could storm the walls.
But the results were far better than expected. These Cultivators were like thrown bombs—shattering the Dwarf defenses with devastating precision.
As the ultimate product of the Ashen Empire’s fusion of genetic engineering and arcane technology—each costing 90,000 gold coins on average—the Dragon-Scaled Cultivators were both offensive and defensive powerhouses, nearly unstoppable.
By Imperial standards, their Challenge Rating hovered between 12 and 14—borderline Minor Boss tier.
Yet, they were not invincible. In sheer numbers and quality, they still fell far short of the Sacred Fedran’s Divine Descendant Army—though, for now, that remained true.
"Boom!"
A deep rumble shook the earth. Dust flew as jagged rock spikes erupted from the ground—like a longsword thrusting upward—impaling one Dragon-Scaled Cultivator from below, lifting him into the air.
"Ghah!" The Cultivator screamed, pinned to the spike, his molten, corrosive dragon blood oozing down the stone.
On the wall’s peak, the King of the Dwarves—Aid—stood with one arm raised, war hammer in hand, his eyes blazing with fury as he locked onto another Cultivator slaughtering Dwarves below.
Another thunderous crack—Aid leapt high into the air, soaring nearly a hundred meters before descending with a mighty swing. His war hammer smashed down like a falling mountain, reducing the second Cultivator to a bloody pulp.
Surveying the battlefield, Aid roared:
"All of you—Aivendeldan stands at the edge of annihilation! We must give everything!"
"Aid, Your Majesty!"
"Hail the mighty Mountain Lord!"
The Dwarves’ morale soared at the sight of two Cultivators slain in moments. They chanted in unison, a thunderous wave of defiance.
Meanwhile, in the Southwest Sector of Aivendeldan, another legendary warrior—Bren Farrel—stepped forward and impaled a Dragon-Scaled Cultivator through the chest with a single, precise thrust.
Under Aid’s command, the Dwarves’ elite surged forth—Rune Warriors with superhuman strength, Death-Defying Warmaniacs, and masterful Combat Masters all joining the fray.
But even the strongest could not match the tide of the Ashen Empire’s relentless offensive.
Armored engineering vehicles followed behind tanks, rolling toward the base of the wall. The Dwarves launched rolling stones and burning barrels—but their efforts barely made a dent.
The Empire’s cannons, however, were uncannily precise. They descended from above, destroying hidden trap mechanisms with surgical accuracy, leaving the Dwarves helpless.
"Wrrrrrr—!"
A towering ladder, stretching over thirty meters high, unfolded from one of the vehicles and locked onto the city wall. Imperial infantry began scaling it in waves, pressing forward without pause.
The Dragon-Scaled Cultivators had already drawn the Dwarves’ fire, carving a bloody path. Now, the infantry’s task was simple: take control of the outer wall, then seize Aivendeldan.
Meanwhile, the sky above Aivendeldan was claimed by an Ember Dragon Swarm. Wyverns and Flame Wyverns flapped their wings, breathing torrents of fire. Some dived down, snatching Dwarves into the air before dropping them—crushing them against the ground.
The Dwarves fought back, raining arrows into the sky. Several Two-Headed Dragons fell, crashing from the heavens.
"Retake our frontline! This is our ancestors’ wall—no enemy shall claim it!" Bren roared, raising his greatsword as he led the charge.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Imperial rifles fired—but Bren caught the bullets with his greatsword, using it as a shield. In a flash, he lunged forward, sweeping his blade in a brutal arc.
"Shhhhk!"
Blood sprayed. Three soldiers were severed at the waist. The Dwarves behind him roared with renewed fury, charging forward with a cry of "For Aivendeldan!"
But the Imperial infantry did not panic. Under orders, they reorganized—spacing out, forming staggered lines, allowing fire from multiple angles.
"Bang!"
One by one, Dwarves fell—shot down, lifeless, collapsing into the blood-soaked ground.
Yet even as they lay dying, the Dwarves clung to their enemies’ legs with desperate strength, biting with their teeth in a final, defiant act.
"Brrrrrrr—"
A piercing horn blast echoed. A fresh wave of Dwarf Goat Cavalry surged into the Imperial formation—charging with war hammers and horse swords, shouting war cries—only to be torn apart by a storm of rifle fire.
Now, the Aivendeldan Wall had become a true meat grinder. The battle raged over every turret, back and forth—Imperial soldiers killing Dwarves, reclaiming the front lines; Dwarves, led by heroes like Bren, fighting back with sheer will, reclaiming the ground again and again.
Blood soaked into the bricks and stones, turning the wall crimson.
But the attrition warfare was clearly devastating for the Dwarves. The Ashen Empire had brought 60,000 infantry. Before the battle, Aivendeldan had fewer than 10,000 Dwarves.
Now, after the baptism of fire and blood, their numbers had dwindled to barely six thousand.
If this continued, Aivendeldan would become a dead city.
"Kin! With me—charge! Retake that turret!" Bren roared, sword raised, leading the charge.
His armor was bloodstained, cracked, and torn—riddled with bullet holes. This was not his first charge. He had fought again and again.
But the Imperial infantry—small, frail, armed only with weapons—did not falter. They did not retreat. Even as comrades fell beside them, they stood firm.
"Monsters…" Bren growled through clenched teeth.
"For Aivendeldan!"
With a raw, hoarse scream, he raised his greatsword high—swinging with all his might.
Then—instinct flared.
A shadow fell over him.
The sky darkened. A wave of searing heat blasted toward him.
"Boom!"
A massive claw came down from above. Bren dropped instantly, rolling frantically—barely avoiding the strike.
Panting, he turned—his eyes locking onto the monstrous Wyvern perched atop the city tower.
Twenty meters long. Towering over him. Its pale golden eyes gleamed with predatory hunger. A thin stream of dragon saliva dripped from its jaws.
This was the Wyvern Chieftain—Smaug.
Gripping his greatsword, Bren’s heart sank. Even by his estimate, this beast was larger than any Wyvern he’d ever seen—radiating a power so immense it rivaled even a true Red Dragon.
"Arooo—!"
Smaug lifted his head, stretched his neck, and let out a long, thunderous roar that shook the very air. Then, he lowered his head, gathering a crimson flame in his maw.
Bren’s face paled. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted with every ounce of strength—he knew what was coming.
"Boom!"
The world exploded in flame.
A torrent of dragon fire engulfed the city wall. Smaug soared through the sea of fire, wings beating the air, roaring with a voice like thunder:
"I am fire. I am death!"
But in truth, this was not the Wyvern’s will.
It was merely executing Kai Xiusu’s quest—satisfying the Emperor’s trivial, mischievous whim.
(End of Chapter)
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