Chapter 654: The Dead Warrior
Scorching gusts roared forward, carrying the acrid stench of sulfur and gunpowder, as Bren’s forehead dripped with beads of sweat. Tension, anticipation, and fear coiled tightly in his chest. He closed his left eye, gripping the steel crossbow, aiming it at the gap in the Wyvern’s left chest. His finger rested on the trigger, poised for the kill.
The Wyvern was now less than four hundred meters away—its dive would come in an instant. Bren knew this was his only chance. If he failed to strike true at the heart, this Dragon Blood Monster would end him. Death was certain.
Bren whispered under his breath, “Father God Moradin, bless me.”
He stared at the approaching Wyvern, feeling the hot wind whip against his face. His muscles tensed, every fiber of his dwarf body rigid. The hand holding the crossbow trembled. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst through his ribs.
Three hundred meters. Two hundred. One hundred.
It was close enough now. Just one breath away from his ideal range. That was Bren’s thought.
“ROOOOOOAR!”
A thunderous roar split the air. Smaug’s massive form filled Bren’s vision, growing larger with every passing second—nearly blotting out the sky.
“Dwarf,” Smaug snarled, fire and steam blasting from his jaws and nostrils. His golden eyes burned with fury. With a mighty sweep of his wings, he charged down from the heavens, his aura shaking the very earth.
“Die, you evil dragon!”
At that very moment, Bren roared back, his resolve unshakable. He slammed his finger down on the trigger.
Click.
The tension snapped.
The steel crossbow unleashed its full force. The obsidian dragon-slaying arrow tore through the air with a shriek, a high-pitched crack echoing across the battlefield as it streaked toward the Wyvern’s left chest.
“Whoosh—”
Bren’s face lit up with excitement. A deep, instinctual certainty surged through him—the gut feeling of a Legendary Warrior. This arrow will hit.
And it did.
Precisely guided by Bren’s skill, the black arrow flew straight into the gap in the Wyvern’s chest, as if it had eyes of its own.
Bren’s anticipation soared. He could already picture the arrow piercing through the scales, tearing through thick flesh, and finally driving deep into that massive, pulsing heart. The colossal beast would scream, fall from the sky, crash into the ground with a thunderous boom.
But fate had other plans.
Smaug sensed the danger instantly—but too late. He was already too close to dodge. All he could do was endure the strike.
Yet, when he saw the arrow’s target, a twisted smirk curled his lips.
“Clang—!”
A deafening clash of metal against metal rang through the sky. The black arrow struck the gap in Smaug’s chest—but instead of piercing, the tip twisted and deformed. The shaft shattered under the impact, reducing to ash in a single, explosive burst.
Bren’s face turned pale. His eyes widened in shock.
“No… this can’t be! I hit him!”
“What… in the name of Moradin… is this?!”
Too late.
Smaug had already closed the distance, his body wreathed in roaring flames. He opened his maw wide, and from his throat erupted a torrent of searing fire, a blazing inferno that engulfed the dwarf warrior.
Bren’s expression twisted into despair. “This… isn’t possible…”
The scorching gale hit him like a tsunami. In his final breath, the last thing he saw was the dazzling, hellish light of the dragon’s flame.
“BOOM—!”
Smaug unleashed his full power at point-blank range. The dragon fire erupted in a wave, swallowing the dwarf whole—and igniting the entire arrow tower in a blazing inferno.
Yet the Dragon Leader remembered Kai Xiusu’s teachings: Never let the enemy escape. Finish them.
With that, he leapt into the sea of flames, his broad wing membranes flaring as he lunged forward, slashing through the fire with his foreclaws.
Sure enough—Bren wasn’t dead.
The dwarf warrior was aflame, his body writhing like a dying ember, crackling with each second. He let out a gut-wrenching roar.
“Monster! I’ll kill you—!”
With the last of his strength, he raised his greatsword high, swinging it with all his might toward the two-headed dragon’s head.
Smaug struck with his claw from the side, shattering the blade mid-swing. The greatsword flew apart, and Bren was sent flying backward, his body still burning.
But the Wyvern wasn’t done.
In midair, he whipped his tail—its sharp hook slicing through the air like a blade—aiming straight for the dwarf’s chest.
“SPINESSSS—!”
A sickening rip echoed through the battlefield as flesh tore open. The dwarf warrior’s powerful, sturdy body was impaled, blood spraying in all directions.
Smaug’s movements were fluid, relentless—precise, efficient. He followed the principle of eradicating the root, leaving no room for rebellion.
His master, Emperor Kai Xiusu of the Ember Empire, had taught him: Never underestimate the small. These creatures are nothing, but they can be dangerous if given even a sliver of hope.
Even in death, Bren’s face remained frozen in disbelief—I hit him… how could it have no effect?
Smaug lowered his head, staring at the gap in his chest—the very spot where the black arrow had struck. A wave of relief washed over him. His admiration for Kai Xiusu deepened.
Had the arrow struck anywhere else, it might have pierced his heart. But the dwarf had chosen the wrong target.
Smaug looked up, eyes filled with reverence.
“Master… you are truly wise. So brilliant. Thank you for the Mithril Armor.”
In truth, this was Kai Xiusu’s playful trick—the man had deliberately left a scale missing from the Wyvern’s chest, a flaw to mimic the memory of Smaug from the legends. But as compensation, he’d ordered Empire artisans to embed a full plate of Mithril Armor into the gap, painted black so it looked seamless.
Kai Xiusu had once declared, “Why wait for the enemy to find our weakness? Let’s give them a fake one instead.”
Fate, it seemed, had smiled upon that whimsical design.
And now, it had saved Smaug’s life—defeating a Legendary-Level enemy.
“ROOOOOOOOAR!”
Perched atop the burning turret, Smaug raised his tail, dangling Bren’s corpse like a trophy. He spread his wings wide and let out a long, thunderous roar that made the entire Aivendeldan tremble.
“Bren is dead!”
“That was a hero who’d slain dragons before! How could he fall like this?”
“Molradin above… what kind of monster is this?!”
On the city walls of Aivendeldan, the assault from the Ashen Empire grew fiercer. Imperial infantry poured relentless fire upon the dwarves, who struggled to keep up. And now, with Bren dead—his body hung from the dragon’s tail as war spoils—the dwarves’ spirits sank into despair.
A Legendary Dwarf Warrior—gone.
His corpse displayed like a prize.
The fortress they had sworn to defend was crumbling.
Smoke choked the air. The city walls blazed. Ruins littered the ground. Corpses of dwarves lay scattered. Artillery roared without pause. The Wyvern screamed in the sky. Ladders climbed the walls. Soldiers surged forward.
To the dwarves, it was utter despair. For a thousand years, Aivendeldan had stood as a symbol of unyielding strength. Never had they imagined their stronghold would one day face such ruin.
But now, it was real. It was happening—before their very eyes.
After a brutal siege, the Empire had seized most of the city wall. Their advance was methodical, relentless. The final assault was imminent.
The dwarves, meanwhile, were shattered. They’d lost a Legendary Warrior. Their once-thriving force of nearly ten thousand now numbered fewer than four thousand.
“We haven’t lost yet!”
Aid stood atop the city tower, raising his war hammer high, his voice thundering across the battlefield.
The King of the Dwarves stood tall, his feet stained with the blood of fallen enemies—Imperial soldiers, and even a Dragon-Scaled Cultivator, crushed beyond recognition.
For now, the dwarves still held the line—thanks to Aid’s strength alone.
“As long as one dwarf stands, as long as one can swing an iron hammer, Aivendeldan has not fallen. The High Mountain Kingdom has not died!”
With that, Aid charged into the frontlines of the Ashen Empire’s position, war hammer swinging like a gale. Stone shattered. Dust flew. In an instant, he claimed a hundred lives.
“Mountain Lord!”
“Aivendeldan Never Falls!”
The dwarves’ spirits soared. Once more, they rallied behind their king, launching a fierce counterattack.
“Forward!”
“With His Majesty!”
“Counterattack! Reclaim Aivendeldan!”
They surged forward, weapons raised, hearts ablaze.
But then—
“Dak-dak-dak-dak—!”
Machine guns spat fire from the turret’s windows, a torrent of bullets like rain. Aid could endure shells with his body—but his people could not. They had will, but not the hardened flesh of royalty, not the bloodline of kings.
One by one, the dwarves fell—cut down by the relentless rifle fire.
“Boom!”
Aid leapt high, hammer slamming into the turret wall. The structure collapsed, crushing the Imperial soldiers hiding in their bunker.
“Open fire!”
“Kill him—he’s a threat!”
Imperial soldiers fired from all angles. But Aid’s body erupted with raw strength. Bullets shattered mid-air, deflected by his aura.
Like always, he broke through. He killed every enemy inside, reclaiming the frontline position—alone.
“We won!”
With a final swing of his war hammer, he crushed the last half-dragon soldier beneath the tower. Aid turned, exhilarated.
But his smile faded.
Behind him—nothing.
No comrades. No survivors. Only corpses. His loyal guards—those who had stood with him through fire and storm—had fallen to machine guns and cannon fire.
Aid climbed to the top of the tower, surveying the battlefield. His people screamed in the flames. They struggled through smoke and ash.
Against the Empire’s rifles and cannons, the dwarves were outmatched. They died in waves. The enemy seized tower after tower with ease.
“This… shouldn’t be.”
Aid shook his head. This was not how it was supposed to end.
He had imagined Aivendeldan might fall—but not like this. He had hoped to be remembered, not as a failure, but as a legend. The dwarves’ courage, their defiance, their unyielding spirit—those stories would live on.
The High Mountain Kingdom should not fall so easily.
He knew—only two days had passed. Yet the Empire had crushed the dwarves’ defenses like dry stalks.
Their old tactics—used against ogres—were useless now. Their resistance was laughable.
To the dwarves, Aid had always been invincible—unbeatable. But even he felt lost now.
Was their rebellion even meaningful?
Then—a roar pierced the sky, shattering his thoughts.
Smaug, perched on the distant ridge, flapped his wings, sending waves of hot wind surging toward the king. His golden eyes glowed with battle fury.
Having slain the Legendary Warrior, the Wyvern felt invincible.
Now, he saw the one responsible for the Empire’s heavy losses—King Aid.
A worthy opponent.
Before the war began, Smaug had heard of him—the mighty King of the Dwarves, the noble Mountain Lord.
Now? He saw only glory.
“Mountain Lord… sounds impressive.”
Smaug licked his lips, exhaling a plume of white smoke.
If he killed this dwarf, his master would surely reward him.
Aid looked up, meeting the Wyvern’s gaze without fear. Battle fire burned in his eyes.
That’s the monster who killed Bren.
He knew Bren’s strength. He had trained with him. Fought alongside him. The dwarf had wandered far, battled dragons, even slain a full-grown Blue Dragon in the Toweri Ro Desert. He was hailed as Dwarf Hero.
The Wyvern before him—two-headed, massive, over twenty meters long—was no ordinary foe. Even Aid took him seriously.
“Come on,” Aid growled, gripping his metal war hammer. “I’ll kill you. For Bren. For every dwarf who burned in your flames.”
His eyes blazed with golden light.
(End of Chapter)
Chapter end
Report
