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Chapter 826: The Gold Dragon's Ambition
"Gorazdra is dead! The Blue Dragon Sect is destroyed! Gorazdra is dead! The Blue Dragon Sect is destroyed!"
A thunderous wave of triumphant roars erupted from the Allied Forces’ frontline position, surging like a relentless flood across the vast battlefield. From humans and dragons to dragonborn and even the vile descendants of dragons, every creature turned their gaze skyward—toward the towering, severely wounded red dragon hovering above the yellow sands, its bones and entrails exposed, its body ravaged by fire and fury. Eyes flickered with shock, fear, or begrudging awe.
Beneath the beast, ash rained like snow, scattered wreckage littered the desert, and among the scorched dunes, a few deep blue scales—charred and gleaming—still clung to the earth.
To mortal eyes, Gorazdra—the thunder tyrant who ruled the desert—had met her end. She had fallen beneath the terrifying breath of the Red Dragon Emperor, leaving no intact corpse behind. Even when the Five-Colored Dragon Queen herself intervened, she could not stop the execution. The might displayed was absolute.
Was this Red Dragon Emperor truly invincible?
With Gorazdra’s death, the Dragon Worship Cult collapsed into chaos. Even the fearless descendants of the Blue Dragon scattered in panic, their ranks dissolving into a full-scale rout.
"This can't be!"
"Gorazdra-sama is not dead! She is an immortal quasi-god!"
A monstrous evil dragon priest, his scales jagged and glowing with crackling electricity, screamed in frenzy, his body writhing with power. He brandished a dragon-headed scepter, unleashing bolts of lightning that struck indiscriminately—friends and foes alike. The other dragonborn in their deep blue robes were reduced to charcoal, their bodies twitching with violent electric currents.
But before the storm could rage on, a torrent of golden-red flame descended from the heavens. The priest was consumed in an instant—reduced to ash.
Misha hovered in the dark clouds, her dragon wings flapping gently, her voice cold and cutting through the battlefield like a blade:
"King Kai Xiusu commands—eliminate every damned cultist, every evil dragon descendant! Leave no survivors!"
"Kill—!"
"Chase them down! Annihilate them! Spare none!"
The Empire’s soldiers plunged into a frenzy. They pursued the remnants of the Dragon Worship Church with unrelenting fury, driven by instinct and desperation. Every soldier knew this was a golden opportunity—one that would vanish in a heartbeat if they hesitated. Let even a single enemy escape, and the glory, the battle merit, would slip through their fingers.
And the players? They were beyond rational thought. Some even used human cannons to launch themselves into the fray, chasing the fleeing cultists. The moment Misha’s words echoed, their quest panels flashed with a new war mission: Clear the Battlefield, its rewards far more generous than any they’d seen before.
Dozens of shells detonated along the enemy’s retreat route, blasting cultists and dragonborn into the air. Bullets rained down like a storm, tearing through the enemy ranks, leaving behind a forest of bullet holes.
Others leapt into the thick of battle, charging headfirst into the densest clusters of cultists, swinging chain saw swords and power blades in a merciless, no-holds-barred massacre.
Even the Seleucus soldiers—especially those born of the land—fought with terrifying ferocity. They roared, they bellowed, they pursued without mercy.
"For Seleucus!"
Adrian roared, his avatar blazing with solar wings. He raised his longsword high, and a blinding beam of light split the sky, cleaving through multiple evil dragonborn in a single, devastating stroke.
"For... those who fell,"
Liam whispered, his voice heavy with grief. His gaze fixed on the retreating dragon army, as if seeing the fallen soldiers of battle—those who had died in silence, in fire, in darkness. From a bamboo quiver at his back, he drew several sharp iron arrows, drew his bow with practiced precision, and loosed them in a storm of fire and steel. Each arrow pierced a cultist’s chest in rapid succession.
Even soldiers on the ground charged recklessly, leaping onto the backs of storm lizards, screaming with wild delight:
"The Blue Dragon Sect is dead! The Blue Dragon Sect is dead!"
Their blades struck the lizards’ tough scales again and again, sparks flying, the blades chipping and cracking. One soldier was thrown into the air by a bolt of lightning from the enraged creature, his body smoking, yet even as he crashed into the sand, his face remained twisted in a rictus of ecstatic joy. His last breath gasped out, barely audible:
"Father... did you see it? The Blue Dragon Sect is dead..."
Countless such scenes unfolded across the battlefield—scenes of vengeance, of fury, of long-buried pain finally unleashed.
These soldiers had once lost their homes to dragon-born devastation. Their friends and family had been taken by cultists. All that remained of their lives had been consumed in the cruel war waged by the Dragon Worship Cult.
Now—revenge had come.
They wanted to peel the skin from their bones, to crush their marrow, to tear their flesh apart. And now, with the enemy broken and fleeing, how could they possibly spare them?
Soon, the dragon cultists were driven to the edge of the Great Rift, packed tightly in their thousands—like a flood held back by a dam. Many slipped, fell, and died in the abyss below.
"Roar!"
"Scum, get out of the way!"
"Let me through! I am of pure blood! I am the noblest dragonborn!"
They scrambled over the bridge, desperate to cross and escape the relentless pursuit. But their hopes were shattered.
"Boom!"
"Boom! Boom!"
From the cliffs above, Empire engineers triggered hidden explosives. The bridge—burdened by tens of thousands of cultists—collapsed in an instant. Screams filled the air as bodies plummeted into the canyon below, their cries swallowed by the abyss. The chasm seemed to fill with the falling.
Above, the sky was no longer just a battlefield—it belonged to the dragons. Gold, silver, copper—metal dragons surged forward, dominating the air. They roared, clashed, and unleashed fire, frost, and elemental fury upon the Five-Colored Dragons.
And after witnessing Gorazdra’s death, the Five-Colored Dragons were terrified. They flailed their wings wildly, fleeing in disarray, their pride shattered.
"Hurry up!"
"Damned golden crawler, move!"
"Filthy five-colored devils—offspring of Tiamat! You don’t get to escape!"
"You will pay for your crimes!"
Dragon roars—high, low, furious, panicked—crashed through the sky like thunder.
The Five-Colored Dragons were cunning, and they knew better than to throw their lives away. Even the most loyal Blue and Green Dragons understood: they were no match for the Red Dragon Emperor. There was no glory in dying uselessly. They had already done enough harm. Continuing would be suicide.
"We won,"
the Ancient Gold Dragon Dionysius murmured, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth—a smile only the victor could wear.
But his gaze shifted. His eyes swept over the battlefield—the ruined landscape, the scorched earth, the broken mountains. He stared at the Red Dragon Emperor, standing at the center of the devastation.
Dionysius looked around, then let out a quiet, awed exclamation:
"Unbelievable power. Just the aftermath of these two dragons’ battle has killed thousands of innocents, and left an entire nation in ruins."
His gaze then fell upon the severely wounded Red Dragon Emperor.
The beast stood within a crater spanning over a kilometer wide. Ash, molten lava, and crystallized sand covered the ground. Crimson scales were torn, wings tattered. A massive wound split open his chest, exposing bloodied organs and white bone—his body a wreck.
To any ordinary dragon, this would be a death sentence. Yet the Red Dragon Emperor’s flesh moved. Visible to the naked eye, the wound stitched itself together, steam erupting from his body like a furnace. His massive claw still gripped a broken horn—one that pulsed with a violent, electric energy, emitting crackling arcs like spines of raw destruction.
Dionysius froze. His pupils contracted into needles. His smile vanished. A cold, sharp warning flared in his eyes.
"Horn of Tiamat."
He whispered it, his mind racing. The implications surged through him like wildfire.
This Red Dragon Emperor already wielded godlike power. If he mastered the Horn of Tiamat fully… what would he become?
Dionysius dared to imagine: the fusion of Gorazdra’s thunderbolt and Kai Xiusu’s fire—what kind of being would emerge? A force beyond comprehension.
And if, in the future, the Ashen Empire clashed with the Metal Dragon Race… or if Kai Xiusu turned as cruel and tyrannical as any other red dragon—would any of them be able to stop him?
The thought took root. A dangerous, bold idea.
What if… we take the horn now? While he is weak? Seize it. Hand it over to King Bahamut. That way, the threat to the world is neutralized.
Did Dionysius have selfish motives? No. He was not driven by greed. He sought only to protect the world, to eliminate future risks.
He knew the cost. This act was perilous—fate could end him in an instant. But once the idea formed, it refused to die.
He stared at the Red Dragon Emperor, muscles tensed, heart pounding. The weight of destiny pressed upon him.
Perhaps… it is time to sacrifice for King Bahamut. For the peace of the Prime Material Plane.
After long hesitation, Dionysius clenched his teeth. He spread his golden wings, summoning a hurricane of yellow sand, and launched himself into the air—flying straight toward the wounded emperor.
Far away, the Red Dragon stood, wings tattered, his body wrapped in thick white smoke. The massive form flickered in the haze, rising and falling with each heavy breath. Around him, scorching gales rippled with every exhalation, and molten magma pulsed from the earth in rhythm with his breath.
I can do it, Dionysius thought. I am strong. He is wounded. If I act swiftly, I can seize the horn.
Yet doubt gnawed at him. In all his millennia, he had never faced an enemy so terrifying.
He forced his mind calm. He prepared spells—Energy Defense, Advanced Monster Binding, Extreme Speed Enhancement—and reached into his pouch for the divine amulet and ring bestowed by Bahamut. Ready to crush them, to teleport into the Divine Realm if needed.
He drew a deep breath.
This is it. For the peace of the world.
In that instant, light erupted from his body—spells and divine magic flaring in radiant brilliance. The Ancient Gold Dragon moved like lightning, a golden afterimage flashing through the air, then vanishing into stealth as he dove toward the Red Dragon Emperor.
His goal: the horn in the emperor’s claw—the sacred Horn of Tiamat.
The world blurred around him. Everything slowed. Heat waves roared. The aura of intimidation pressed down like a mountain. His heart pounded.
He pierced through the thick steam, closing the distance—just a hundred meters from the wounded red dragon.
Tense. Nervous. But beneath it all—a flicker of excitement, of anticipation.
If he succeeded, if he returned the divine horn to Heaven’s Mountain, to Bahamut’s realm… he would be hailed as a hero. His name would shine across the divine realms, etched into history.
But then—his body froze.
The Red Dragon Emperor, in this slowed world, lifted his head at normal speed. His molten lava-like eye, glowing with pale gold vertical pupils, slowly rose—locking eyes with Dionysius across the void.
By Bahamut above… what was that gaze?
It held no fear. No anger. Only cold, unfiltered contempt—like a man staring at a buzzing fly.
Impossible.
A wave of shock and terror crashed into Dionysius’s mind. His vision blurred. His head spun. Pain lanced through his skull as if struck by a warhammer.
In that moment, the Red Dragon Emperor—calm, composed—extended his massive claw… and clenched.
Shua—
The world shattered.
Cracks tore across Dionysius’s perception. The divine spell that slowed time—cracked, collapsed.
Then came the dragon’s might.
A crushing, overwhelming aura slammed into him—spirit and soul. The sheer intimidation pressed down like a mountain, weighing him to the ground. His wings refused to lift. He crashed into the earth, unable to move, utterly helpless—like a lamb beneath a butcher’s blade.
Who could have imagined that a single gaze from the Red Dragon Emperor could reduce an Ancient Gold Dragon to this?
Kai Xiusu stepped forward, his stride steady, his presence towering. He looked down at the fallen dragon, his voice cold and sharp:
"Seems… I need a proper explanation."
(End of Chapter)
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