Chapter 715: Zaril
Within the City of August, the Thracians let out wails of despair, fleeing in panic—never before had they witnessed such a sight. The soldiers of the Ember Empire stood firm in their garrison, coldly observing the flames from afar, making no move to intervene. Likewise, the devils present showed remarkable restraint, wisely refraining from provoking the Empire’s forces.
Tirena spread her wings and soared into the sky, raising her divine Longsword high. A radiant golden light burst forth from the blade, and she roared with fury:
“Devil! Return to Hell! This is not your domain!”
Swish—
She brought the sword down, and a dozen streaks of sacred light plunged into the city, engulfing dozens of devils in blinding flames. Screaming in agony, they were reduced to ash, their wails fading into silence.
In Tirena’s pale golden eyes, the sunwheel turned slowly. Deep within, sorrow, regret, and self-reproach swirled like storm clouds.
King Aragon…
In a fleeting moment, the image of Aragon I appeared before her—a towering, radiant silhouette wrapped in divine light. She was once again ten years younger, half-kneeling before the throne in the Holy City. The old Emperor had placed the sacred sword upon her shoulders, commanding her to guard the second prince with her life.
At that time, she had accepted without hesitation, swearing an unbreakable oath to protect Prince Wilhelm at all costs.
But now… she had failed.
She had watched, helpless, as the King fell into darkness. She had seen him murdered by the Red Dragon. And she had done nothing.
Tirena knew—she should never have let Wilhelm go unchecked. She should never have allowed him to tread the path of corruption, to make a soul-pact with those cunning devils, leading to this final, tragic end.
Now, she sought atonement.
“For Thrace, for Sacred Fedran—eliminate these sinners from Hell!”
With a cry, she swung her Longsword again. A blade of light, stretching dozens of meters, shot forth, cleaving through a hundred devils in one sweeping strike.
“Damned Angel!”
“Kill that inconvenient obstacle! She’s a Divine Noble Duke!”
Hundreds of Hell Puppets unfurled their obsidian wings, descending like a suffocating storm cloud, surrounding Tirena’s regiment. These so-called “Holy Guard,” once defenders of the realm, now served Hell’s will, slaughtering rebels with merciless precision.
“Kill him!”
The Holy Guard’s chieftain raised his Longsword, pointing it at the Angelic Divine Offspring.
In an instant, hundreds of Hell Puppets surged forward, coordinating their attacks from all directions—each strike aimed at the heart, the throat, the vital points.
“It was you who destroyed Prince Wilhelm! You lured him into Hell!”
Tirena’s eyes flared with divine fire. She unleashed every ounce of her Sun God power—burning through her own body in the process.
Boom!
Light beams pierced through the dark clouds. Above, a colossal fireball erupted, consuming everything within a hundred meters in an instant.
Deyef watched from below as Tirena Duke—along with hundreds of Holy Guards—vanished in a final, blazing explosion.
He exhaled softly, then turned toward the enemy.
“Die!”
Deyef raised his Longsword, leapt high, and cleaved a small devil wielding a steel trident in two. The creature shrieked once before dissolving into ash.
But then, several massive Kunna Demons emerged from the shadows—towering, muscular, their spines dripping with blood, chained like war beasts. They surrounded the warrior, their voices a gravelly, mocking laugh.
“Hahahaha! Struggle all you want, mortal. Your King has already sacrificed this city to Hell!”
“This place will be our soul pasture! You—all of you—will become Zaril’s private property!”
“Not just August… the entire Thrace Kingdom will fall into Hell!”
The Kunna Demon spread his wings wide, basking in the terror and trembling of the people below.
“No—this is August! The City of Dawn! The first light of morning! You will not defile it!”
Deyef shook his head, grief etched into his face. In his eyes, a resolve born of desperation burned—a will to die, not to surrender.
He would not stand by and watch his homeland—his radiant, sacred City of Dawn—be turned into a pasture for demons. He would not let his family, his friends, be devoured as sustenance for these monsters.
But as he stared at the cracked sky, the ravaged city, and the relentless army of devils, despair crept in.
After the war with the Empire, August had become a shattered remnant. And now, even Tirena—once a Divine Noble Duke of immense power—had fallen beneath the siege of hellish hordes.
What chance did a mere warrior like him have against an army from Hell?
How could he save this city? How could he protect its people?
Only a miracle could save August now.
A miracle?
Deyef turned, glancing toward the distant, towering figure of the Red Dragon bathed in golden light—the sun itself.
Perhaps…
Maybe the Emperor of the Ashen Flame… is the miracle we’ve been waiting for.
The Thrace soldiers, locked in battle with the Demon Army, suddenly froze—each of them staring upward, their vertical pupils reflecting the sky’s unnatural transformation: leaden clouds torn open by golden cracks, as if a thousand suns struggled to break through.
Boom—
The rift in the Material Plane split open with a deafening roar. The sky twisted into a swirling vortex of sulfur-yellow, and the Ashen Wasteland poured forth from the tear, filling the air with the stench of molten iron.
A crushing aura of intimidation descended. Within a hundred-mile radius, every living being trembled—not just in body, but in soul. Fear, raw and primal, surged from the depths of their spirit.
It was the fear of Hell—the innate terror of those who dare to defy the Gods and the Evil Order.
“Amanata above…”
“That power… what is that?”
“God help us…”
“The End… this is the Finality of the End! The punishment for our disrespect!”
Under the gaze of millions, Zaril emerged from the vortex.
She stood over fifteen feet tall, her burning wings blotting out half the battlefield. Each feather was etched with ancient holy texts, blackened by Hellfire, trailing embers like falling stars. Her armor, forged from molten black iron, cracked open to reveal flowing magma beneath. Her face retained the dignity of an angel—but her eyes were twin boiling crimson fireballs. The gaze from her helm’s fissures could make even the most savage barbarian tremble and shrink in fear.
Boom—
Her molten lava Greatsword struck the ground, melting the stone into a churning lake of fire.
Behind her, a hundred Purgatory dragon-beasts roared, spewing black smoke. Fallen Paladins, chained and broken, knelt at her feet, chanting blasphemous hymns. Three colossal dragons dragged a massive War Chariot forged from Hell Meteor Iron, carrying Zaril above the wasteland.
Their forms were monstrous—devilish, with jagged bone spines jutting from their heads and shoulders, eyes burning with sickly yellow flames. Their scales shimmered with molten lava, shifting colors, radiating the stench of sulfur—the ancient sigil of tyranny, the rule of the strong over the weak.
“Thracians… abandon your futile resistance.”
The Angelic Divine Offspring clashed with the devils, their rage ignited. They screamed back, defiant:
“No! We are the people of Fadalan—children of the sun! We will never submit to Hell!”
Zaril’s voice rang like a funeral bell:
“Mortal resistance? Just kindling. Throw yourselves into my furnace—your deaths will light Hell’s victory.”
Before she finished speaking, the rift in the sky exploded open.
Six blazing chains—like black dragons descending from the heavens—swept through the air, tearing through dozens of Angelic Divine Offspring.
Wings burned in midair. Limbs scattered. Golden blood rained down like fireflies.
Zaril smiled—her lips curling into a mad, twisted grin.
For her, the Blood War was not a war. It was war. She was its living embodiment—Order and Chaos entwined. Every fire, every scream on the battlefield, fed her coronation.
“You’ve finally come, Zaril. I’ve been waiting.”
High above, Kai Xiusu, Emperor of the Ashen Flame, stared down from the heavens. He gave a single, slow nod. Flames surged in his eyes.
Zaril looked up at the Red Dragon, her crimson gaze narrowing—her pupils sharp with danger.
“Emperor of the Ashen Flame… if you value your life, take your army and leave. Leave August. Leave Thrace Kingdom.”
“This land bears the mark of Avernus. It belongs to the Nine Hells. It is the Soul Pasture of the Great Demon.”
Kai Xiusu’s expression flickered with surprise. He tilted his head, intrigued.
“You’re not the one who made a pact with Wilhelm? To claim Thrace in exchange for my death?”
“Wilhelm?”
Zaril laughed—dry, mocking.
“What a hopeless fool.”
She raised her face to the Red Dragon, her voice laced with sarcasm.
“Yes, Kai Xiusu. I will kill you. But not today. Not in a thousand years. I’ll do it in three thousand—when you’re old, broken, and fading.”
“I’ll destroy your Empire… but not now. I’ll strike when it’s already crumbling—when its fall is inevitable.”
She raised a hand, summoning a scroll of parchment. Her clawed finger traced a line of faint, barely visible script.
“After all… the pact never set a deadline.”
Kai Xiusu exhaled—a soft, mocking chuckle.
“How delightfully ironic.”
He shook his head, almost pitying.
No wonder the King fell for such a trap.
That was a devil’s pact—black to the core. Exploiting loopholes like a parasite. Wilhelm gave up everything… and all he got was a worthless promise. A blank check even too hard to wipe with.
Snap.
Zaril snapped her fingers. The parchment turned to ash, vanishing into the wind.
“So, King Kai Xiusu… Avernus and the Empire could coexist in peace.”
“Peace?” Kai Xiusu smirked. “That word from your mouth is as hollow as a skull.”
Zaril’s expression darkened. She pulled her Greatsword from the ground, pointing it at the Red Dragon.
“So you want war?”
“Then I’ll bring forward the fulfillment of the pact—by thousands of years, Kai Xiusu.”
Her voice echoed from the depths of Hell—cold, cruel, and absolute.
“I welcome it.”
Kai Xiusu inclined his head slightly. Then, with a sweep of his Dragon Wing, he unleashed a scorching gale, rising into the sky.
The Red Dragon loomed above, head raised. It let out a roar so powerful it shook the heavens.
“By the name of Emperor of the Ashen Flame—August, and all of Thrace, shall belong to the Empire of Ashen!”
“We inherit the sacred lineage of Fedran. Under our rule, the people shall live beneath the sun—never under Avernus’ crimson sky!”
With Kai Xiusu’s long, echoing roar, the power of the Sun God surged into the sky, coalescing into a radiant sun of ten-thousand-zhang brilliance.
The Red Dragon poured forth every ounce of its Sun God power, the Essence of Heaven. Even the Fire Authority of the Elemental Plane trembled in resonance.
【Legendary · Sacred Day】
Under that light, the devils burned. Black smoke erupted from their bodies. They screamed, writhed, and collapsed—no longer arrogant, no longer fierce.
“Long live Emperor Kai Xiusu! Loyalty—devotion—”
“Long live the Empire!”
“Praise the Great Red Dragon! Praise the Sun!”
Now, it wasn’t just the Imperial soldiers beyond the city walls. Even the Thracians—those who had suffered under the devils’ rule—shouted in unison, their eyes wild with fervor. They had turned their enemy into their savior.
In a corner of the city, Deyef emerged from behind, severing the head of a horned demon. He turned to gaze at the Red Dragon—its mouth agape, holding the blazing sun.
“Emperor of the Ashen Flame…”
He hesitated. Then, with resolve, he pressed the Empire’s insignia to his chest, raised his Longsword, and roared:
“Long live Emperor Kai Xiusu!”
His fellow Thrace soldiers echoed the cry, their voices rising in triumph.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The Empire’s Steam Tanks, Heavy Cannons, and Airships thundered, blasting the demon army pouring from the spatial rift. Shells rained down like firestorms, reducing devils to ash that fell from the sky.
The Crimson Scale Conqueror clashed with the winged devils in the air. On the ground, rifle fire raked the battlefield. The Empire’s army slaughtered the demonic soldiers with relentless, brutal firepower.
In the face of a shared enemy, the former invaders and the invaded now fought side by side—shouting the same Emperor’s name, united in purpose.
Zaril watched the Red Dragon from afar. Her blood-red eyes boiled with fury.
“Red Dragon… you’re asking for death. I will cut off your head. Destroy your Empire. Make you feel the true might of Avernus!”
Her rage unleashed. Fiery pillars of Hellfire erupted from the cracks in the ground. The rift in the sky widened—more terrifying, more monstrous. The air screamed with the wails of souls—something ancient was about to be born.
(End of Chapter)
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