https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-828-Faria-s-Offering-of-Submission/13677763/
Chapter 827: Contradiction and Conflict
"Pff!"
Under the overwhelming pressure, the Ancient Gold Dragon felt a metallic tang flood his throat. Blood sprayed thin and sharp, his bones groaning as if on the verge of shattering. He forced himself to lift his head, voice ragged and strained.
"You misunderstand, my lord. As allies, I only meant to express concern—concern for your wounds."
"Concern for my wounds?" Kai Xiusu grinned, revealing blood-stained fangs, his laughter cold. "Does concern require you to vanish into invisibility? To cast a Divine Spell upon yourself? Do you truly regard me as a fool like the White Dragon?"
Dionysius locked eyes with the Red Dragon Emperor, spitting blood, his lips curling into a bitter, broken smile. "King Kai Xiusu... forgive me for speaking plainly. You cannot control the corruption of this evil Divinity. You already possess such immense power—why persist in seeking the might of a Greed Deity? Once Tiamat's Divine Influence takes hold, your strength may turn against you, even bring ruin to the Material Realm. Believe me. The Great Lord of the Northern Wind is far more fit to guard this broken horn. If I may return it to the Divine Realm..."
Kai Xiusu took a step forward, driving his foot hard into the Ancient Gold Dragon’s shoulder. A cruel, furious laugh escaped him. "So this is how allies treat one another? Attempting to ambush an ally, seize spoils of war? I must have overestimated your Metal Dragon honor!"
"Crack!"
"Roar!"
A sharp, sickening sound echoed as the dragon’s shoulder blade shattered. Flesh beneath his scales was crushed and torn, warm Dragon Blood spurting from the gaps between his scales.
"Mercy for subordinates!"
"King Kai Xiusu, spare Dionysius! He does not deserve death!"
The Metal Dragons flapped their wings in disarray, crying out desperately—but dared not approach. Fear of provoking the wrath of the Red Dragon Emperor held them back.
Meanwhile, Misha, Dolo, and the other Imperial Elite glared at the Metal Dragons with open hostility, bellowing in fury:
"You dared to ambush His Majesty?! Who gave you the right?!"
"Metal Dragons—this is how you repay your saviors? Without King Kai Xiusu, you would all be dead!"
"They are enemies!"
In an instant, millions of Imperial soldiers halted. Hundreds of cannon muzzles, rifle barrels, all turned toward the Metal Dragons, eyes blazing with fury.
Though the Metal Dragons knew they were in the wrong, they let out threatening roars, using them as a shield—defending themselves against the storm of bullets and artillery fire.
Dionysius whispered weakly, "King Kai Xiusu... I am the Envoy of King Bahamut. You cannot—"
"Spines—!"
A sharp, crystalline sound split the sky. The Red Dragon Emperor twisted violently, tearing open the Ancient Gold Dragon’s wings with a brutal, tearing force. Flesh ripped apart mid-air, flying in jagged fragments.
Dionysius shrieked—a piercing, soul-wrenching cry—before collapsing into unconsciousness from the agony. Blood gushed from the horrific wound, pooling into a small lake.
Even for an Ancient Gold Dragon, such a wound would take centuries to heal. And even then, his wings would never regain their former grace.
Kai Xiusu glanced once, then turned away, his voice icy with warning:
"I should have killed him. But for the sake of King Bahamut’s recent aid, I spared him. Yet his treachery is enough to ignite war between the Empire and the Metal Dragon race!"
"You are lucky. You’ve escaped war this time."
With a powerful sweep of his vast Dragon Wing, the Red Dragon Emperor launched into the air, stirring up a hurricane of yellow sand.
"Metal Dragons. This is only a warning. Stay out of our way. Do not block the Empire’s path. Otherwise—no matter who stands before us, even if Bahamut himself descended from the heavens—he will be crushed beneath the wheels of history."
His deep, thunderous voice echoed across the sky, sending shivers through the souls of the onlookers. The Gold, Silver, and Copper Dragons trembled in fear, their faces pale with dread.
"Is the Emperor of the Ashen Flame threatening the entire Metal Dragon race?!"
"Dionysius-sama!"
"Hurry—treat him!"
As the Red Dragon ascended, the Metal Dragons surged forward, unleashing a cascade of Healing Spells.
With a roar that shook the heavens, the Red Dragon Emperor tore through space. In the midst of countless gazes—filled with terror, awe, and panic—he slowly vanished into the sky.
"Long live the Empire!"
"Long live the Emperor of the Ashen Flame!"
The Imperial soldiers raised their firearms, shouting in unison. Their voices thundered through the clouds, shaking the very sky.
With Gorazdra’s death, the thunderclouds that had choked the sky dissipated visibly. Sunlight, bright and golden, pierced through the clouds, bathing the shattered, ash-laden wasteland below. It was as if the land itself had been reborn from fire.
The Seleucus soldiers—now free to see the sun—burst into tears of joy. Especially those from the Tower Liro region, who had not seen a clear, unclouded sky in who knew how long.
Even the Amanata followers, hardened in their faith, could not help but whisper: "Praise be to King Kai Xiusu."
As they gazed at the lingering shadow of the dragon in the sky, a single, fragile seed of hope took root in their hearts—flickering in the darkness of despair.
On the other side, at the edge of the Lock Great Rift, countless Evil Dragon Descendants and Cultists were either falling into the Abyss or being slaughtered by the Allied Forces.
In just a few days, over a million Evil Dragon Descendants and millions of Dragon Worship Cult followers were exterminated. As the Empire’s soldiers joked, even slaughtering a million pigs would’ve taken longer.
Thus ended the cataclysmic Battle of the Locke Rift—a decisive victory for the Allied Forces, and the complete annihilation of the Blue Dragon Church.
After the war, relief forces from Serrynia, the Cassander Kingdom, and beyond began to depart. The Metal Dragon race, having narrowly avoided a new war, retreated with their severely wounded chieftain, grumbling in defeat.
The Allied Forces—composed mainly of Imperial soldiers and native Seleucus troops—easily crossed the Lock Great Rift, splitting into three columns that advanced from the north, center, and south. They marched across the Taliro Great Desert, reclaiming the lands once seized by the Blue Dragon Sect. They crushed their enemies like dry stalks, eliminating countless Evil Dragon Descendants and destroying dozens of temples.
During this campaign, the Blue Dragon Sect’s Bishop Dennis Delamond led the remnants of his forces in a desperate ambush at one temple. But the Empire had already detected the attack.
That temple became an experimental arena. Over ten thousand tons of shells rained down from the sky, reducing the entire structure to rubble. Only broken ruins and ash-covered wasteland remained—buried beneath the remains of the fallen.
To date, two of the Blue Dragon Church’s three Cults had been eradicated. Only the Southern Red Dragon Sect remained.
The Red Dragon Sect now controlled the most prosperous and fertile region of Seleucus—the Sunset Plain. They held the largest territory among the three Cults, the strongest army, and even held the former Seleucus King—once a divine offspring with a dragon’s head and human body—enslaved as a puppet of Tiamat.
Their "god," Lord of Lava Kazul, was the strongest of Tiamat’s three favored ones. His chest did not house a normal Dragon heart—instead, it beat with Tiamat’s immortal heart.
But it was still too early to declare the Blue Dragon Church dead. Besides Dennis Delamond, another original Slayer of the Blue Dragon Descendant—Quincy Vela—still lived, fighting on with stubborn resistance.
Scouring the deserts, gathering scattered remnants of the Church, he fled southward through the vast Taliro Great Desert—until he reached the Wind-Sand Ravine at the very southern edge.
Here, jagged rock formations rose like monstrous silhouettes, piled high from sandstone drifts. Narrow, winding passages carved through the rock, where gusts of yellow sand howled through cracks like the breath of some ancient beast. Strange, echoing roars echoed from deep within.
To humans, it was the Sands of Hell. But to the descendants of the Blue Dragon, raised beneath the desert’s surface, it was a sanctuary—safe, hidden, and home.
Yet the land was harsh, its resources nearly nonexistent. The descendants survived by devouring their own kind—eating corpses of kin to recharge their energy. They fought, killed, and consumed, their bodies sustained only by the flesh of their brethren.
Now, tens of thousands of Blue Dragon Descendants gathered here. The weak and wounded had already been eaten. The survivors—hollow-eyed, starving, and feral—crouched in the shadows, their bodies barely emitting faint lightning. They waited, silent and still, their eyes gleaming with hunger.
"We have not failed!" Quincy Vela roared from atop a towering sandstone pillar. He wore a cloak stitched from dozens of human skins. His clawed hand raised a bone-blade sword, summoning churning storm clouds above.
"Boom!"
A long-absent lightning strike struck his blade. The electric current surged through his body, sending waves of ecstatic agony through him—almost a mercy.
"Roar—!"
The Blue Dragon Descendants raised their heads in unison, howling like thunder. Their faces, twisted and grotesque, lit with madness.
Once, in the heart of the Taliro Great Desert, they had been apex predators—unquestioned rulers. Now, at least in this ravine, they still held dominion. Though nothing else remained alive here.
Then—a scream.
From the horizon, a series of fiery, smoking afterimages streaked across the sky. Dark shapes, trailing flames and smoke, plummeted toward the wind-swept gorge, their white trails like the bony fingers of a reaper slowly reaching out.
The Blue Dragon Descendants lifted their heads, confused. But Quincy Vela—survivor of the Lock Great Rift war—knew what those torn-open skies meant. He had seen it before. The memory alone sent a wave of psychological trauma through him.
"Down! Now—!"
His eyes bulged. Panic flooded his face. He opened his massive, blood-filled maw and screamed—a sound that tore his very lungs. Then, like a conditioned reflex, he threw himself to the ground.
Too late.
This was no surprise attack. It was a long-planned, precision strike. Even if they buried themselves underground, it would be useless.
These were Empire’s newly developed Magitek Cruise Missiles—capable of targeting single objectives with pinpoint accuracy.
The missiles had launched from a Thrace Launch Center over a thousand kilometers away. Three of them were aimed directly at Quincy Vela, the legendary Slayer.
"Boom!"
A relentless, earth-shattering roar erupted across the sky. The missiles fell like rain, detonating with terrifying force. Flames and black smoke erupted into the heavens.
The earth trembled violently. The jagged ruins of the ravine cracked and collapsed, collapsing like a flood, burying countless Blue Dragon Descendants beneath.
"Damned Empire!" Quincy roared. The massive, powerful Slayer raised his Dragon Skull Shield, blocking the firestorm, resisting the torrent of flames. Electricity crackled along his body—proof of his full effort.
But then—three more missiles, screaming through the air, faster than any meat eye could follow.
"Boom!"
The explosion tore through the shield. The high-velocity warhead pierced straight through, detonating against Quincy’s unprotected body.
Scales shattered in a flash of light. Blood mist erupted. His dense flesh exploded into over a hundred charred, blackened chunks. Even his bones were reduced to splinters.
Blood, shards, and fragments rained down from the sky. The last hope of the Blue Dragon Sect—its final champion—was gone. His remains were scattered, smeared across the rocks like paint.
After the final explosion, the Wind-Sand Ravine was left a wasteland of rubble. Corpses littered every corner. Only a few lucky survivors remained, buried under debris, whimpering weakly.
Five kilometers away, a group of Empire military researchers in camouflage uniforms studied the ruins through optical telescopes, scribbling notes with satisfaction.
"Good. Targeting accuracy under nine meters. Magic-tracking precision is now effectively zero. Only need to test resistance against Magic-Nullification Barriers."
"Hmph. Looks like these new missiles are ready for large-scale deployment."
The most tragic irony? To the researchers, Quincy Vela—Blue Dragon Sect’s last hope, their final chance to strike back—was merely a test subject. They even complained: "Sample size too small."
(End of Chapter)
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