Chapter 786: A Dragon Among Us
Green Valley Town, Great Cathedral.
Stuffed Bun, Singo, Tian Sheng Zhan Kuang, and Xia Ye Qiu Yu had gathered again after a long time—four figures once more united, their eyes alight with quiet purpose, as if plotting something momentous.
Stuffed Bun idly twirled a piece of emerald-green Dragon Scales between his fingers, eyeing Singo with a skeptical smirk. “We really gonna pull this off? Don’t go pulling a fast one and get us killed.”
Singo shot him a glance, tapping the Dragon Scales embedded in his forearm. “We’ve drunk Dragon Blood. We’re old Red Dragon loyalists now. Bloodline purity doesn’t get much higher.”
He smirked. “The Dragon Worship Church? Their cultists are all half-bloods. According to their own traditions, they’d probably kneel when they see us.”
Stuffed Bun’s lips twitched. “Yeah, but the risk is huge. What if we miss a signal? One wrong word and we’re all dead.”
“That’s why we need local guides,” Singo said, gesturing to Tian Sheng Zhan Kuang. “War狂 here’s got experience. He once infiltrated the Bronze Fortress under Zaril’s command—helped secure victory in the Hell War.”
Tian Sheng Zhan Kuang rubbed his bald head, scratching at the old scar. “It was just luck. Nothing special.”
Xia Ye Qiu Yu rolled her eyes. “Right. You assassinated a Hell General, turned the entire fortress into chaos, and dragged the former Hell Lord into the fray. So impressive.”
Stuffed Bun turned to Singo, frowning. “So… where do we start?”
Singo pulled out a meticulously prepared map—its surface etched with several bold, crimson routes. “See these? All Dragon Worship Church transport lines. They haul captured Living Flesh and Treasure of Gold and Silver to the Dragon Breeding Grounds.”
He pressed a finger onto one of the red paths, voice firm. “And this… is our chance to infiltrate Linying City. And if we’re lucky—destroy the Breeding Grounds.”
Xia Ye Qiu Yu narrowed her eyes. “So we just tag along behind their convoy?”
Tian Sheng Zhan Kuang wiped blood from his Battle Axe with a rag, voice calm. “Better to eliminate them all. No loose ends.”
Singo gave a strange, slow smile. “No. We walk in light, openly. We want them to welcome us.”
Stuffed Bun stared at that eerie grin. He knew—this was one of Singo’s traps. The kind that looked like salvation but led straight to disaster.
“Fine,” he sighed, offering a silent prayer for the cultists he hadn’t even met yet. “Whatever you say.”
Singo nodded. “Here’s how it works: Inside the Dragon Worship Church, status is determined by Dragon Blood Concentration. It’s a rigid caste system—Dragonization Level is visible in their physical traits. The highest status? A true Dragon.”
He locked eyes with Stuffed Bun. “Now, if a Dragon kills a low-level cultist? All they pay is a silver coin. And even that’s often refused. But you—”
“Me?” Stuffed Bun pointed at himself.
Singo’s grin widened, fierce and unyielding. “You can transform into a Dragonling. In their eyes, you’re a noble-born—a Brahmin by birthright!”
Stuffed Bun blinked. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. “Wait… that’s actually… true?”
Singo nodded. “So it’s settled. Stuffed Bun, remember your status. You’re the offspring of an ancient Red Dragon from the North. You’ve come under the Dragon Queen’s command—on a sacred mission. And we? We’re your loyal servants.”
Stuffed Bun rubbed his hands together, buzzing with excitement. He could already see the awe in people’s eyes when they saw him enter Linying City.
---
Ashen Marsh, on the edge.
The land was a wasteland of mud and mist. The air hung thick with the stench of decay—rotting vegetation, stagnant water, and the damp breath of the swamp. Everywhere, green and brown hues bled into one another: moss choked the ground, mushrooms sprouted in clusters, and lily pads floated on still, black water, occasionally breaking with a soft plop as bubbles rose.
A wooden walkway, bent and splintered with age, snaked through the marsh like a dying serpent. The planks were rotten, slick with moss, and groaned underfoot—each step a warning of collapse.
At the far end of the path, through the fog, a procession emerged.
Clad in long, tattered robes, the cultists bore the five-headed dragon insignia on their chests—clear markers of the Dragon Worship Church. Each wore the air of authority, their eyes sharp, their movements cold.
They dragged chains—rusted, heavy—behind them. At the end of each chain, dozens of ragged civilians stumbled forward, their faces pale, breath ragged, clothes soaked through and clinging to their skin. Fear was written in every trembling limb.
“Crack!”
The lead cultist—his rank marked by a cruel, twisted staff—whipped a woman who lagged behind. “Hurry up! If you don’t move, I’ll throw you to the crocodiles!”
The woman collapsed to her knees, sobbing. “Please… I’m sorry! Don’t leave me!”
The cultist sneered. “Next time, be smarter. The Dragon doesn’t want clumsy slaves.”
“Yes, sir,” she whispered, head bowed.
The man turned away, dismissing her.
Another cultist stepped close, voice low, only for the two of them. “Duka… are these all going to the Breeding Pool?”
Duka, the leader, turned sharply. His vertical pupils—like those of a crawling serpent—glinted with cold menace. “Lede. Is that your concern?”
Lede flinched, sweat beading on his brow. “No, sir! I meant no disrespect. I simply—”
He quickly cast a subtle Sound-Isolation Divine Spell, weaving a thin veil of black mist around them.
Duka’s voice dropped, bitter. “You’re right. They’re all for the Pool. The damned Human Duke in the North won a battle. Made Lord of the Putrid Marsh furious. Now we need more Dragon beasts—fast. So the quota falls on us.”
He spat. “Our town’s barely holding on. People are hiding, fleeing. Now we’re taking women just to meet the numbers! What’s left for us?”
He kicked the ground. The rotten plank cracked beneath his boot—his foot sank into the mire. He snarled, rage boiling over.
With a sudden, vicious motion, he backhanded Lede across the face. A red mark bloomed instantly.
“Damned fool! Don’t you watch where you step?!”
Lede clutched his cheek, still smiling. “Forgive me, sir. We’ll be through the marsh soon. You can rest then.”
He dared not show anger. Duka was Dragonborn, one rank above him. In this Church, a bloodline like his could be killed on a whim—no one would care.
And if he dared to rebel? He’d be thrown into the Breeding Pool—consumed as nourishment.
Duka, still seething, waved him off. “Get gone.”
Ahead, the marsh thinned. They could rest soon—regain strength for the long road.
But the civilians? To the cultists, they weren’t people. They were sacrificial offerings. Consumable resources.
Three days ago, Duka had swept through the village, claiming he needed “slaves for the Dragon.” Now, he dragged them through this cursed swamp.
But the fog—thick, suffocating—thickened. And then, through the haze, figures appeared. Tall, short, standing still, blocking their path.
Lede whispered, “Sir… there’ve been rumors of Rebel Forces nearby. We should be careful.”
“Enough!” Duka snapped, drawing a Dragon Claw Scepter from his sleeve. He pointed it at the silhouettes. “Who are you? We’re a caravan bound for Linying City! We carry the Lord of the Putrid Marsh’s quest!”
The other cultists echoed, shouting. “Step aside! Or we won’t be gentle!”
But the only response was a sharp, piercing roar.
The mist parted.
And there, before them, stood a Dragon.
Crimson scales gleamed like molten fire. Golden vertical pupils, cold and calculating. Razor claws. A long, powerful tail. The stench of sulfur washed over them—faint, but unmistakable. Dragon.
Duka’s pupils shrunk to pinpricks. Cold sweat poured down his face. No… no, this can’t be.
A Red Dragon. The most powerful among the Five-colored Dragons. Though small—only the size of a horse—it was unmistakably a Dragonling. Still, its presence was overwhelming.
And worse—he had provoked it.
If this Dragon killed him, the Church wouldn’t dare complain.
Duka’s gaze darted behind the creature. Several Dragon-Kin Humanoids stood there—each more powerful than he was. A female sorceress with horns, a warrior armored in scales, a knight riding a wyvern. Their Dragonization Levels were all higher.
This young Red Dragon wasn’t just strong. It was royal.
Duka didn’t hesitate. He dropped to one knee, forehead scraping the mud. “Honored, mighty Red Dragon! We were blind! We did not mean to offend!”
Instantly, every cultist dropped to their knees. Even the civilians, trembling, fell to the ground.
Red Dragons were the most brutal, the most unpredictable. One wrong move, and they’d be snacks.
“Lowly scum,” the Red Dragon sneered, stepping forward with calm, terrifying grace. It raised a claw and pressed it hard into Duka’s skull, slamming his face into the earth. “Who gave you permission to look at me?”
The claws tore through skin. Blood welled. Duka laughed. He felt no shame. Only pride.
This was it—the true Dragon. The real one.
Stuffed Bun, in the form of the Red Dragon, stared down at him, eyes narrowed. He wanted to vomit. This guy’s a masochist.
But then he remembered—this was the plan.
“You, insignificant Human,” Stuffed Bun growled, voice dripping with contempt. “Do you even deserve to know my name? Dog Egg—execute him!”
Behind him, Singo bit back a laugh. He barely resisted the urge to punch Stuffed Bun. Instead, he lunged forward and kicked Duka square in the gut.
“Pfuh—!”
Duka flew backward, coughing blood, tumbling across the ground, nearly crashing into the civilians.
“Good work, Dog Egg,” Stuffed Bun purred, scanning the trembling cultists with oppressive eyes. “This is what happens when you defy me.”
Xia Ye Qiu Yu stepped forward, voice icy. “Our Master is the offspring of the ancient Red Dragon of the North. He comes by the Dragon Queen’s decree. From this moment on, you serve him. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!” they cried in unison.
But Duka, lying in the mud, felt a chill deeper than the swamp. This isn’t a trick. He wants to kill me.
No. I won’t die here. Not now. Not after I became Dragonborn.
He scrambled up, dragging a woman by the wrist. “Master!” he cried, shoving her forward. “This one! She pointed at you! She said you were an enemy!”
He grinned, cruel. “Let her be your meal. A fitting punishment for a traitor.”
“No! I didn’t—!” the woman screamed, tears streaming.
But no one listened.
She was already dead in their eyes.
Duka imagined her torn apart by fangs, the Dragon feasting on her blood and flesh. And when it was done… then it would forget the insult.
Then it would forgive him.
A wave of intense heat washed over the marsh.
Duka looked up—his eyes reflecting the sudden flare of flame.
“Wait… Master… you’re not—”
BOOM!
A massive fireball erupted from the sky.
It struck Duka’s head like a hammer.
His body exploded into ash. His head—gone.
Duka was dead.
The cultists stared, frozen in horror. Their minds reeled.
Then, from the distance, the Dragonborn sorceress lowered her hand. Black smoke curled from her palm.
Stuffed Bun—still in Dragon form—scanned the terrified cultists with a cold, merciless gaze.
“I don’t like it when others decide for me,” he said, voice like ice. “Understood?”
The cultists swallowed hard. They stared at the charred, headless corpse.
And they nodded.
(End of Chapter)
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