Chapter 688: Kai Xiusu's Threat
In the short span of months, the situation on the northern reaches of the Feanso Continent had undergone a whirlwind of change—so sudden and devastating that it left countless people stunned, disbelieving. First, the Northern Aethel Duchy fell to the Empire. Then, the millennia-old High Mountain Dwarf Kingdom, a bastion of heritage, was utterly annihilated. Finally, even the Ogres of the Ugo Great Plain were slaughtered to near extinction.
With the Ugo Great Plain now fully incorporated into the Empire’s territory, the Ashen Flame Empire had effectively seized control of nearly all of Feanso’s north—the lands north of the Radiant Mountain Range. Only a handful of small nations and the mighty Thrace Kingdom remained, trembling beneath the Empire’s terrifying majesty, overwhelmed and broken.
In the Empire’s conquests, Divine Nobles of Fadalan had blown themselves to pieces in desperation. Masters from the Silver Heaven had fallen from the skies. Even Divine Manifestations had been slain. Each battle tore the heavens asunder, cracked the earth, and shook the very fabric of the Material Plane. Yet, in every one of these cataclysmic clashes, there was only one victor—Emperor of the Ashen Flame, Kai Xiusu.
Kai Xiusu. The name echoed through secret letters between nations, flickered in magical visions, and chilled the blood of kings and generals alike. It appeared in newspapers, in the lamenting ballads of minstrels, and in the fearful tales mothers told their children to keep them quiet at night.
History, it seemed, had a cruel tendency to repeat itself. To the people of Feanso, the Red Dragon was now the embodiment of pure evil—a merciless tyrant, a master of enslavement, the iron fist ruling the north.
In the Empire’s propaganda, the Red Dragon was said to have cruelly enslaved the northern populace. Cunning, deceitful half-dragons and goblinoid overseers whipped the humans beneath the cold winds, forcing them to forge firearms. Even children barely past childhood were dragged into the ranks, made cannon fodder for the Empire’s endless conquests.
Minstrels painted the conquests even more grotesquely, layering them with blood and horror. Rumors spread that every time the Empire conquered a land, it demanded the sacrifice of a thousand fresh, tender children—devoured in ritual, their pure souls offered to the Emperor. It was said this was the secret behind the Imperial Army’s invincibility, the reason the Red Dragon Emperor could defy even the gods.
Others whispered that the Empire’s weapons were so cheap yet so powerful because the brutal people imprisoned the spiritual souls of human artisans inside barrels. Every gunshot, they claimed, was the scream of an innocent soul in torment.
Numerous justice advocates rose up, demanding that all powers cease purchasing the Empire’s weapons. They warned: every rifle bought was a payment to the Ashen Flame, fueling its expansion.
But the world turned a deaf ear. Nations were trapped in an arms race. Every time the Empire upgraded its gear, they scrambled to buy it—afraid that without it, they would be crushed in the next war.
The Duchy of Wilson was a small kingdom nestled near the Blackstone Mountains, its terrain dominated by hills and valleys—hence its nickname, Land of Hills. Seventy years ago, the legendary Holy Knight Sed Wilson had drawn the Sword in the Stone from the rock, slaying a monstrous giant over thirty meters tall. In reward, the Emperor of Fadalan ennobled him as Duke, and the city was renamed City of the Sword in the Stone.
Time had passed. The Wilson Duke was long dead in battle, and the fabled Sword had vanished without a trace.
Now, the Duchy’s position was perilous. To the south lay the mighty Thrace Kingdom. To the north loomed the ever-advancing Empire of Ashen. Caught between two colossi, the Duchy lived in constant fear of being crushed.
Inside the City of the Sword in the Stone, cold winds howled through the streets, carrying only the crisp echo of guards’ footsteps and the silence of shuttered homes. In a secluded stone cottage on the edge of town, a middle-aged man and woman sat across from each other, their faces etched with exhaustion and dread. The news of the Empire’s conquests—Northern Aether, the annihilation of the High Mountain Kingdom—had spread like wildfire.
They were among the last independent realms in the north.
Rene sighed deeply, his rough thumb rubbing over the wooden table. “Ailin… how much longer can this go on?”
The woman set down her needlework, shaking her head. The flickering light of the kerosene lamp cast sharp shadows across her tired face. “I don’t know. The nobles are terrified too. They won’t let us leave the city.”
Rene stared out the window, his gaze heavy with fear. “They say the Empire kills a thousand children every time they conquer a place. I… I’m afraid.”
Suddenly, a sharp cry pierced the silence. The girl, just returned from the cellar, staggered back, her face pale, her thin, malnourished body trembling violently. She nearly collapsed.
“Elli!” The woman sprang up, wrapping her in a blanket, cradling her close. Her voice trembled with regret. “I told you not to talk about this in the house! You know how scared she gets!”
The man looked at his unconscious daughter, his face grim. “But we can’t keep hiding it forever. One day, those brutal Empire soldiers will come for us.”
The woman sighed. “What can we do? Thrace’s border is tightly guarded. Everywhere else… is already under the Empire’s rule.”
Rene turned back to the window. His gaze hardened. His throat moved as he spoke. “This city… it’s a prison now. We have to escape. For Elli.”
Such conversations happened over and over in the City of the Sword in the Stone. The people were gripped by terror. They wanted only one thing—flee south, to Thrace Kingdom.
High on the northern slope of the mountain, where the wind howled like a dying beast, stood a grand fortress shrouded in oppressive stillness before a storm. The ancestral home of the Wilson family—the Sed Castle, named after their legendary ancestor.
The heavy oak gate groaned in the cold wind. The gilded heraldry of the Sword in the Stone on the back of a golden chair faded in the candlelight. In the vast hall, Duke Ile Wilson sat at the far end of a long table, hands folded under his chin, his expression grave.
“Lord,” the Captain of the Guard knelt on the carpet, his voice cut short by the crackling of pine resin in the fireplace. “The northern watchtower has lit its beacon. Our scouts have detected traces of the Empire’s Dragon Riders.”
“So it’s finally come,” Ile muttered, teeth clenched. But his trembling fingers betrayed the fear beneath. “Damned Empire scum!”
He looked up, voice strained. “Where is Thrace? That king promised us support—his army would come!”
The Captain shook his head, solemn. “Our messengers were turned back at the border. I fear… His Majesty Wilhelm has abandoned us. He won’t risk angering the Empire of Ashen.”
“W-what?” Ile’s face paled. He leaned back, fingers clutching his family ring. “He’s… he’s the son of the Sun Emperor. A king with divine blood. How could he fear a red dragon?”
The old steward, his hair white as snow, sighed. “Three great kingdoms are still at war. If Thrace provokes the Empire, it would face pressure from both north and south. That stingy, shrewd king won’t risk it. And besides… Emperor of the Ashen Flame—no, the evil dragon of the north—has already proven his might through countless conquests. No one in the Material Plane dares claim they can defeat him.”
Ile was sweating now, trembling, nearly collapsing in his seat. “Then… what do we do?”
Silence hung in the air for a moment before the steward replied, “Surrender to the red dragon. Submit to the Empire’s watch. Or…”
The Captain picked up the thread, his voice low and grim. “Fight to the death. Share the fate of the City of the Sword in the Stone. Share the fate of the Wilson Duchy.”
“No!” Ile shot to his feet, whirling toward the portrait on the wall—his grandfather, Sed Wilson, the founder of the Duchy.
The portrait showed a man with a finely trimmed mustache, armored in ancient plate, gripping a massive greatsword. He looked strong, confident, heroic.
But now, the sword—symbol of clan glory—was gone. And Ile? Just a hollow, broken noble, a shadow of his ancestor’s greatness.
Gathering what little courage he had, he straightened his back. “This… this is my family’s legacy. The Wilsons have always been heroes—since we slew the giant. How could we bow to some evil dragon?”
The Captain stared at him, then asked quietly, “Lord Duke… are you willing to die for your family’s honor?”
Ile wanted to say yes. But the image of being torn apart by dragon claws, burned alive by fire—his body shook uncontrollably. His throat trembled. The words died in his mouth.
He whispered, “Can’t we just… survive? Can’t we just hold the city?”
The steward sighed, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Even the divine offspring of Fadalan’s angels couldn’t withstand the Empire’s assault. What chance do we have? Even if Sed himself were resurrected… he couldn’t stand against that dragon.”
He and the Captain had raised Ile since childhood. They knew him well—weak, cowardly, yet stubbornly proud of appearances.
And so, Ile snapped, pointing at the door. “That dragon… is he really that terrifying? We’re the Wilsons!”
SWOOSH!
A sudden, violent gust tore through the hall. The heavy oak gate burst open. The chandelier swayed, ringing with a relentless, sharp chime. Glasses on the long table shattered, scattering across the floor.
Ile, still furious a moment ago, collapsed to the ground, trembling, scrambling behind the Captain.
“Greetings, all,” boomed a thunderous voice, echoing across the entire city. Just hearing it sent shivers through the minds of countless people.
Ile dared to peek through the crack in the door. The sky darkened instantly.
“By Amanata above… is that… the Emperor of the Ashen Flame?”
The Duke’s face turned ashen. His last shred of courage shattered. Fear took over completely.
In less than a heartbeat, his eyes rolled back. He fainted—his body wet with fear.
Then, from the sky, a monstrous red dragon emerged.
Its body was larger than mountains. Its wings stretched wide, blotting out the sun, casting the entire city into shadow.
“The gods…”
“That’s the Emperor of the Ashen Flame—he’s here!”
“Damn it… he’ll burn this city to ash! How could such a dragon exist?”
Panic erupted. Wails, screams, shrieks filled the air. The Wilson guards lost all order, their own terror overwhelming them.
What kind of dragon was this?
No one could have imagined a dragon so vast it could cover an entire city with its wings.
They couldn’t fathom how many people a single maw—large enough to swallow the tallest turret—could devour. Or how terrifying the fire it could spew.
The tale of the dragon devouring a thousand children per conquest… no longer seemed like a lie.
Rene and Ailin clung to each other, wrapping their trembling daughter in a protective embrace.
“Elli… don’t be afraid,” Rene whispered, voice shaking. “We won’t let that monster up there eat you. Never.”
The Red Dragon hovered above the city, its vertical golden pupils cold and calculating. Slowly, it spread its wings and spoke.
“You should recognize me. I am the Emperor of the Ashen Flame. Co-ruler of the Anzeta Great Wasteland, the Northern Aether Plain, and the Ugo Grassland. Sovereign of the northern Feiansuo Continent.
Today, I come to announce: your land will now be part of the Ashen Flame Empire. And you—will become honored Imperial citizens.”
And not just in the City of the Sword in the Stone.
Over a dozen small nations and over a hundred cities across northern Feanso, the Red Dragon appeared in the sky. The Empire’s ultimatum was delivered.
This was no mere intimidation. The Crimson Scale Conquerors and the Dragonfly Legion had already gathered, swarming through the skies, ready to crush any rebellion.
“Lord Duke… are you alright?” The Captain approached, concerned.
Ile groaned, blinking awake. The image of the dragon still haunted him. Without thinking, he grabbed the Captain’s leg.
“Don’t let that dragon near me! He’s a monster! A nightmare!”
The Captain’s lips twitched. “Lord… the Emperor has already left. He delivered his ultimatum. He demands unconditional surrender. What are your orders?”
“Surrender! I surrender! That thing… it’s not mortal! No one can beat him!” Ile cried, desperate.
“Yes, Lord.”
The steward sighed, looking at the trembling man—the descendant of a hero. He felt sorrow… but also a strange relief.
(End of Chapter)
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