https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-661-A-World-in-Turmoil-The-Mourning-of-the-Gold-Dragon/13677526/
Chapter 662: Elves and Ogres
Deep within the High Forest, the Serenia Royal Court.
A crisp birdcall echoed through the dawn-lit air.
A bird with pristine white wings swooped over the shimmering lake at sunrise, darting through the thick canopy before landing lightly upon the palace grounds. It carried a message from the North.
On a window ledge deep within the royal chambers, the Elven Queen, crowned and regal, extended her slender arm. The bird alighted upon her delicate fingers, and with a gentle motion, she removed the letter from its beak.
Catherine gently patted the bird’s wings and smiled warmly. “Thank you. Return now—tell the Lute Players’ Alliance I thank them.”
With a powerful beat of its wings, the bird soared into the sky, vanishing into the vast blue expanse in an instant—leaving only a few flawless, untouched feathers drifting down like snowflakes.
Only then did Catherine open the letter. Her eyes scanned the contents, and her expression shifted in an instant. A gasp escaped her lips. Her violet eyes widened with astonishment—and then, a flicker of panic.
She raised her head, gazing northward, whispering, “This… this can’t be possible.”
At the door, a half-elf general in gleaming light armor strode in swiftly, her posture sharp, her voice laced with concern. “Your Majesty! What has happened?”
Catherine turned, her voice steady but grave. “Ria. You’ve arrived just in time. The Lute Players’ Alliance has sent the latest intelligence: the High Mountain Kingdom has fallen.”
Ria’s eyes widened. “What? Who did this?”
Catherine sighed. “Who else? The Empire of Ashen. They claimed it was to eliminate the threat of the Ogres. A laughable excuse.”
Ria frowned. “And what of the Mountain Lord Aid?”
Catherine’s voice dropped. “He died in the siege. Sacrificed himself. It’s said he was killed by a Dragon’s Favored.”
Ria inhaled sharply. She knew the Mountain Lord’s strength—legendary, near the peak of mortal power. Even she would have struggled to defeat him. And yet, a single follower of that Red Dragon had ended him?
The implications were staggering. The Empire of Ashen was far stronger than anyone had imagined.
“And that’s not all,” Catherine continued. “After Lord Aid’s death, the Guardian Deity of the Shield Dwarves, Dumason, descended into the Material Plane. The Emperor of the Ashen Flame was summoned as well. A battle of titanic scale erupted.”
She paused, her expression heavy. “In the end, Dumason withdrew from this world. And Aivendeldan was conquered by the Empire of Ashen.”
She handed the letter to Ria.
“This… this is unbelievable.”
Ria took it, scanning the text frantically. After confirming the details were accurate, she spoke in a low, solemn tone: “Unbelievable.”
It was a Deity!
Even a mere manifestation of divine power possessed majesty and strength beyond mortal comprehension. To defy divine authority was to invite annihilation. Yet that Red Dragon had driven one down!
For the first time, a doubt stirred deep within Ria’s heart.
A dragon born only decades ago—how could it wield power capable of challenging a Deity?
Perhaps… perhaps the Red Dragon she remembered—Lawful Neutral, ancient, wise—had already died long ago in the wilds of the forest. And the Emperor of the Ashen Flame… was not a young dragon at all.
He was an authentic, ancient evil, born of forgotten ages.
Catherine let out a wry smile, shaking her head. She walked to the window, resting her chin on her hand, her gaze distant. “Yes… it’s truly unbelievable. The Dwarf kingdoms, bound to us by sacred alliance for thousands of years… gone in mere days. It feels like a cruel joke.”
Ria stood straight, her voice firm. “Your Majesty, I told you—this world has grown unstable. To hide in our forests like ostriches is impossible.”
Catherine nodded slowly. “You’re right, Ria. You’ve come here not just to inform me… but to urge me to act. To start the coup.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty.” Ria’s voice trembled with urgency. “After the annihilation of the High Mountain Kingdom, the time has come. If we delay, the senile elders of the Senate of Elders will lead the Moon Elves into the Abyss. The High Mountain Kingdom is gone. Who will be the next prey of that greedy dragon? When the disaster finally strikes Serenia, it will be too late.”
Catherine looked at her, her hands gripping the silver crescent pendant at her chest. Her pale violet eyes burned with unwavering resolve.
“By the goddess Shaqani of the Moonlight, we’ve waited long enough. It’s time the old guard’s rule ends.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Ria dropped to one knee, her voice thick with emotion. “The Lute Players’ Alliance will send over a hundred supernatural beings—three Legendary-level warriors as relief forces. The Silver Moon Followers Legion is ready. Every member is utterly loyal to you. On the Holy Day, we can storm the Sacred Tree at any moment. And Lord Talafelan Luo of the Arcane Hermitage has promised to send twenty silver-robed mages.”
Catherine nodded. “One more thing, Ria. Do you still know the ancient Gold Dragon—Titus, known as the ‘Wings of Dawn’?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Titus is a just and noble warrior.”
“Invite him as well.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
This was no mere coup.
It was war.
A war we must win.
And a powerful Gold Dragon could be our greatest ally.
On the day of the Holy Day, the dark clouds shrouding Serenia will break. The sacred moonlight will once again fall upon the earth.
Catherine lifted her gaze, staring toward the towering, magnificent Sacred Tree in the distance. Her violet eyes shimmered with a light not seen before—a light of destiny.
The age of upheaval was upon them.
And she would lead Serenia, lead her people—the Elves—through this world of war and flame, and find a new path, a light meant for them.
But the Elven Queen could never have guessed… that her casual words would be the very door that invited the wolf into the fold.
---
Ugo Great Plain.
The vast grasslands were nearly swallowed by a sickly, oppressive green. Not the soft, natural hue of spring grass, but a deep, nauseating shade—like rotting moss spread across the earth.
Green mushrooms sprouted in endless, choking rows. Thick, pulsing, and ravenous, they devoured the soil’s life force, transforming every living thing they touched into nourishment for the Ogres.
Crack.
A sudden sound—like parchment tearing. From beneath the mushroom caps, the soil burst open. Thick, green hands clawed their way up, slick with mucus.
Dozens of towering, monstrous Ogres erupted from the earth. In moments, they had adapted to the world above. One by one, they raised their heads and let out a deafening, guttural roar that shook the sky.
“WAAAGH!”
Within seconds, hundreds more had risen. The speed of their birth was horrifying. And the land they emerged from—once lush and green—was now a cracked wasteland.
Driven by instinct, they surged toward the Black River, a tidal wave of fury rushing toward the valley.
“Excellent! Excellent! Hahaha! Our warriors grow stronger by the hour! The Crimson Blood Tribe has never been so mighty! Praise Father God Gwush!”
Soro stood atop a hill, laughing maniacally.
Once a quiet, reserved chieftain, he was now a nightmare made flesh. His body was massive—over six meters tall—muscles coiled like steel cables. His armor was a patchwork of rusted scrap, beast scales, and crude plates, painted in wild, chaotic colors. He wore massive iron claws on his hands.
Through some unknown force, his personality had been twisted. Once calm, now he was frenzied, bloodthirsty, utterly fearless.
And he was not alone.
Every Ogre in the valley had changed. Stronger. More aggressive. No fear of death. They were no longer mere beasts—they were living weapons.
Soro surveyed the scene. The valley teemed with Green-Skinned Ogres—so many they blurred into a single mass. The air reeked of decay, the noise a constant roar.
If this flood of Ogres surged forward now… the Dwarves would surely tremble in terror.
Soro imagined it vividly: Dwarven cities torn apart by the Beast Tide. Corpses piled high. His horde triumphant, roaring in victory through the ruins of Aivendeldan.
What a glorious day!
At last, the ancient dream of his people—thousands of years of longing—would be fulfilled. He would become the Hero of the Ogres.
Even Batu, if he were to return from death… would have to bow before him and call him Chieftain.
The thought made Soro’s lips curl into a ravenous grin. His saliva dripped from his mouth, thick and foul.
“We have grown strong. We deserve more space. The great Ghuush, our Father God, granted us the right to plunder! We are born to war. We are born to destroy the weak and claim their spoils!”
He raised his clawed hand high, roaring. “My people! Do you wish to conquer Aivendeldan? To kill every damned Dwarf?”
“YES!”
“WAAGH!”
“Finally! A fight! I’ll smash those little dwarves into meat paste!”
Suddenly, a rider on a Dire Wolf galloped toward the hill, screaming. “Chieftain! Chieftain! Aivendeldan has fallen! The High Mountain Kingdom is destroyed!”
Soro froze. His eyes widened in disbelief.
What?
They hadn’t even launched their campaign! How could Aivendeldan have fallen?
No—this wasn’t their doing. Not the Ogres.
A wave of fury surged through him.
“Who?! Who did this?! That was our land! How dare they take it before us? This is an insult! A naked humiliation to the Great Ogres!”
The messenger stammered, “I-it was… the Empire of Ashen!”
“BANG!”
Soro slammed his fist into the ground. Rock shattered. Debris flew. A massive crater split open beneath him.
“Damned, dwarf-bred dogs! Again, the Empire of Ashen! They killed our envoys! They seized what should have been ours—what belongs to the Ogres!”
Boom! Boom! Boom!
He pounded the earth again and again, the hill groaning, cracked, trembling.
The rage was unbearable.
For centuries, the Ogres had fought for Aivendeldan. Millions had died. The Valley of Glory was said to be lined with bones—so many that a river of white skulls flowed through it.
And now, a foreign empire—out of nowhere—had taken it.
How could they?
“Kill them all!”
“Seize everything!”
“Take back Aivendeldan!”
The Green-Skinned Ogres below erupted in fury. They roared, howled, screamed—many of them barely days old, barely understanding the words, but they felt the call.
War.
In just one month, the Ugo Grasslands had birthed millions of Ogres. Like locusts, they had devoured everything—plants, beasts, monsters—leaving only barren dust.
Now, all they craved was a war without limits, a slaughter without mercy. A chance to unleash the bloodlust simmering in every cell of their bodies.
Soro’s eyes burned crimson. He seized his long spear, raised it high, and bellowed:
“Since the High Mountain Kingdom is gone, our next target is the Empire of Ashen! They say their Emperor is a dragon! Then we shall behead that great crawler, hang his head as a trophy! Strip his wings to make tents! Cut off his limbs and tail—boil them into a feast! For Father God Gwush!”
“WAAGH!”
“For Father God Gwush!”
“Destroy the Empire of Ashen!”
“Hahaha! I’ll taste the flesh of a dragon—what does it even taste like?”
The news ignited the valley. The Ogres screamed, cheered, roared—like a thousand feasts in one.
Ogre spores hung thick in the air. As the numbers swelled, the crowd grew dense. Their eyes turned red, bloodshot.
Like locusts in a swarm, when enough Ogres gathered, their bodies released a cocktail of chemical toxins. Genes twisted. Minds warped.
They became wilder, more enraged, painless—pure, unstoppable biological weapons.
This was the birth of the Beast Tide—a force that would one day make even the gods tremble.
But the Ogres did not know…
They were not the conquerors.
They were the experiment.
The Empire of Ashen was testing its new weapon—on them.
(End of Chapter)
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