Defeating the World with the Power of One Dragon!

The first rays of dawn pierced through the clouds.

Led by the Grand Artificer and four goblin elders, the alchemical legion surged across the land like a steel tide.

As one of the four major tribes that had fought their way out from among the numerous clans of the convergence lands, their profound foundation was fully displayed during wartime.

The vanguard array consisted of the most numerous Flesh Ripper golems, each step shaking the earth, followed by elite golems like Steel Rippers and Earth Furies, though fewer in number.

In addition, there were mechanical beasts carrying massive heavy artillery, advancing step by step with heavy footfalls.

Grand Artificer Scott stood atop one of the mechanical beasts.

He was the highest-level alchemist of the Gold Fang Tribe, whose alchemical attainments, while not top-tier even in the southern Federation, still earned him considerable praise.

He was now over two hundred years old.

Among goblins with an average lifespan of eighty, he was absolutely considered an old monster.

However, his appearance showed no traces of time's erosion, still looking like a goblin in his prime.

And unlike the exaggerated facial expressions of other goblins, Scott's expression remained as calm as a mask, this abnormal composure combined with his long life making him a 'legend' in the eyes of the tribe's people.

When Scott was born, the Gold Fang Tribe had already discovered the black oil field and obtained the resources for ascension, but still lacked foundational strength, having to develop carefully, hiding and concealing their progress. At that time, the Gold Fang Clan was like a beggar holding gold, both ecstatic about the sudden windfall and terrified of powerful neighbors.

Unlike other goblins.

After gradually understanding this world, Scott became obsessed with alchemy.

He wanted to know the composition of stones, why metals could move, what the essence of this world was... He had too many questions, too much curiosity.

Thirst for exploration and desire for knowledge.

Coupled with excellent talent.

Scott unsurprisingly became an alchemist. His level increased rapidly, and he acted decisively, immediately putting ideas into practice whenever he had them. Given enough time and materials, he could even handcraft mecha, quickly becoming the leader of the Gold Fang Clan at that time.

After discovering a broader world, he had thought that if he had been born in the goblin kingdom of the Lothrian Federation, he might have had a wider future.

Becoming a true legend wasn't impossible.

But Scott ultimately did not abandon the Gold Fang Clan.

Leading a weak clan from the convergence lands to develop and grow, step by step toward glory, was also a legendary feat. He was determined to lead the Gold Fang Clan through thorns and brambles.

At that time, the Gold Fang Clan was weak, not daring to reveal the existence of black oil, not even daring to extract it.

As a high-level alchemist, Scott could handcraft mecha, but it took a long time and couldn't be mass-produced, unable to become the Gold Fang Clan's true backbone.

So, Scott went all in, forcefully crushing the heads of all resisters. 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

He almost exhausted the entire Gold Fang Clan's savings to purchase yellowed mecha blueprints and an old, rusty Flesh Ripper from merchants.

He studied day and night, gradually completely analyzing the Flesh Ripper's structure.

After another year, the first Flesh Ripper assembly line was built under his leadership.

From then on.

The workshop's furnaces never went out again.

The Gold Fang Clan finally had reliable armament.

Slowly.

One mecha golem after another was created.

Under Scott's careful guidance and instruction, goblin alchemists emerged like bamboo shoots after rain.

The Gold Fang Clan gradually developed into the Gold Fang Tribe, and even their natural enemies, the serpentfolk, gradually stopped rashly hunting and devouring goblins.

As for Scott, he had originally reached the end of his lifespan, critically ill and aged.

But after a period of secluded cultivation, he came back to life, rejuvenated to his prime appearance. The specific details of how remained unknown to other goblins.

The tribe's alchemists whispered among themselves.

Some said he had transformed himself into a perfect humanoid construct, while others claimed to have seen him drink a longevity potion refined from black oil, but all speculation ended under Scott's icy gaze.

At this moment.

Bathed in strands of morning light, Scott gazed toward the gradually approaching southwestern border, his face still expressionless.

As time gradually passed.

The legion crossed the border.

The Molten Iron Tribe's border outposts bore the brunt first.

An outpost guarded by many gnolls and kobolds first tasted the alchemical legion's wrath. The mecha golems' artillery fire shattered the watchtowers, chainswords tearing apart fragile flesh and blood.

The steel tide crushed the forward outposts, steadily advancing toward the Fertile Plains.

Along the way, the alchemical legion suffered many harassment attacks from the Molten Iron Tribe, but these assaults were insignificant to them. All attacking monsters were shattered by mecha golems and alchemical heavy artillery.

Steel crushed the broken bodies into bloody mud.

The Gold Fang Tribe's legion broke through layer after layer of defenses, their flags appearing at the edge of the Fertile Plains.

The commotion of a large-scale legion marching was substantial. The Molten Iron Tribe's defenders had long been waiting in full formation on the Fertile Plains. Young Adult dragons and flying dragon groups circled and danced in the air, while on the ground were legions composed of centaurs, ogres, gnolls, kobolds, gray-fanged werewolves... and other creatures.

"Attack!"

The Grand Artificer coldly issued the command.

The midday sun baked the iron armor until it was hot. The Gold Fang Tribe's steel tide charged toward the Molten Iron Tribe's defenses. Steel golems advanced with orderly steps, each step shaking the ground.

Simultaneously, the voices of golem operators sounded through loudspeakers.

The goblin warriors coordinating and following around the golems also shouted together.

[The furnace is our sanctuary, the wrench our prayer staff!]

[Black oil boils in our veins, gears sing in our chests!]

[Crush those flesh bodies!]

[Only when copper rust dyes the earth red does civilization truly grow!]

The goblins' voices weren't pleasant—sharp, piercing, noisy, and not unified either. Some were sharp like steel nails scraping glass, others hoarse like grinding wheels polishing scrap metal, but they strangely intertwined into waves above the battlefield, complementing the heavy footsteps of alchemical golems and engine roars, gradually converging into an overwhelming pressure like mountains and seas.

[Gold coins! Gold coins! Paving the road to heaven!]

[Dismantle everything! Dismantle everything! Even god's ribs have price tags!]

[Today we write poetry with shells, tomorrow we smelt steel from enemy camps!]

[The Grand Artificer's smile is the dawn of a new world!]

The goblins sang loudly, their bodies trembling slightly, excitement shining in their eyes, their morale unprecedentedly high.

"Indeed not ordinary goblins anymore, to have such morale."

Garoth narrowed his eyes, thinking the Molten Iron Tribe also needed a war song.

"Fighting the Gold Fang Tribe's alchemical legion head-on, we could win, but would absolutely suffer heavy losses."

"However, we've long been prepared."

The iron dragon Sorog's voice sounded directly in Garoth's mind through mental connection.

Immediately after, the war began.

The Young Adult dragons seemed to fear the alchemical legion, not daring to land, not rashly attacking, only circling timidly in the sky, occasionally using some long-range skills with limited lethality that could basically be ignored—this included the previously fearsome red iron dragon.

Facing the morale-boosted, steadily advancing alchemical legion.

The Molten Iron warriors couldn't resist the steel onslaught, fighting while retreating. After paying the price of many gnoll and kobold lives, plus a few elites, they temporarily withdrew from their stronghold on the King's Fertile Plain. A significant portion were routed, scattering in all directions.

The King's Fertile Plain lived up to its name as a fertile and abundant land.

In the entire southwest, the Fertile Plains were the place richest in various resources.

Having captured the core territory of the southwest, the goblins—whose greed and miserliness matched dragons'—naturally wouldn't willingly surrender it again.

In the previous war, the Molten Iron Tribe had retreated in continuous defeat. Abandoning the Fertile Plains almost equaled abandoning the southwest, and they likely wouldn't make a comeback for a short time.

"Station here! Establish a stronghold."

The Grand Artificer issued the command.

Immediately, on the battlefield where smoke hadn't yet dispersed, goblin engineers were already busy like ant colonies.

Amid the roaring of steam shovels, quick-setting cement was injected into trenches like gray blood. Temporary walls grew at visible speeds. The wreckage of golems destroyed in counterattacks was rapidly disassembled and reassembled—Flesh Rippers' rotating saw blades were modified into meat-grinders on walls, Steel Rippers' torsos became watchtower foundations.

A month gradually passed.

During this time, the Molten Iron Tribe repeatedly organized counterattacks, attempting to recapture the King's Fertile Plain, but were all repelled by the goblins. Moreover, the intensity of their counterattacks gradually weakened, with fewer monsters coming each time, as if they were about to completely abandon this place.

During this period.

Because the legion contained many alchemists, the Gold Fang Tribe's stronghold had taken shape.

But this engineering effort had also exhausted the goblins considerably. Their carried provisions were stretched thin, almost depleted. However, logistical supplies were already on the way and would arrive soon—no big deal.

It was currently deep night, darkness thickening.

Grand Artificer Scott and several goblin elders were discussing the next battle plan.

Driving the Molten Iron Tribe from the Fertile Plains was only the first step. They wanted to completely eradicate them, bringing the southwest under their control.

Suddenly.

A goblin scout hurriedly entered the temporary tent.

"Grand Artificer, we've discovered an Abyssal Rift!"

As they gradually gained a foothold on the Fertile Plains, goblin scouts had explored further regions and discovered the existence of an Abyssal Rift.

Except for Scott, several goblin elders simultaneously changed expressions.

An Abyssal Rift?

In the Fertile Plains?

There was actually such a hot potato here! Wait... something seemed wrong.

A goblin elder frowned, muttering: "Although we defeated the Molten Iron Tribe, thinking carefully, they collapsed too quickly, like... an orderly retreat."

"In subsequent counterattacks, they also seemed to lack determination to recapture the Fertile Plains, often making brief contact before quickly retreating."

Capable of being considered cunning and sly existences.

The goblin race was actually quite intelligent. Coming to their senses from previous victories, the goblin elders felt a chill, gradually noticing those abnormal details.

"The Molten Iron Tribe paid a bloody price."

"But the vast majority who died were those insignificant gnolls and kobolds."

Another goblin elder's breathing intensified, saying: "Centaurs, ogres, flying dragons... these elites suffered minimal casualties. The dragons ruling the Molten Iron Tribe were completely unharmed."

After a brief silence.

The goblin elders simultaneously felt a chilling crisis.

"A trap, it's a trap."

"The Molten Iron Tribe used the entire Fertile Plains as bait to set a trap!"

"Their recent attack frequency has been low, as if waiting and brewing something."

The goblin elders realized the severity of the problem belatedly: "Disaster, it's the provisions! They're waiting for our provisions to run out! Speed up the logistical supplies, send more golems to meet them!"

However.

Their reaction came a step too late.

Before the meeting party arrived, the logistical supplies first brought terrible news.

They had been attacked, and by dragons personally arriving.

On a route between the Black Iron Plains and the King's Fertile Plain, the red dragon and hundred dragons flew low, respectively spewing flame and frost, either melting or freezing the escorting mecha golems into ice sculptures. The iron dragon Sorog simultaneously tore open a golem's chest.

Soon after, the last golem also became scrap metal beneath the red iron dragon.

From the attack's start to finish, it took no more than ten minutes.

"The goblins are immersed in the illusory falsehood of having defeated us dragons."

"Little do they know, the real prey is themselves."

The iron dragon grinned.

Garoth turned to look toward the Fertile Plains direction, slowly saying: "The real decisive battle, now begins."

Simultaneously.

On the King's Fertile Plain, the Grand Artificer decisively ordered a retreat.

The goblin warriors had originally been smug about capturing the fertile territory, feeling confused and puzzled by the sudden retreat order.

But they soon understood the reason.

Not long after retreating began, monsters appeared everywhere across the mountains and plains.

They didn't immediately fight, only followed the alchemical legion closely at a certain distance, watching with menacing intent.

Until the alchemical legion withdrew from the King's Fertile Plain, the centaurs began their charge.

At this time, the goblins were scarce on provisions, with reduced rations—most were starving. Though there was plenty of black oil remaining, they could no longer squander it freely. The alchemical golems, lacking sufficient maintenance, also couldn't perform at full capacity.

The Molten Iron warriors were exactly the opposite.

They were like wolves and tigers, surging with momentum, unleashing all the ferocity they had suppressed before all at once, like a beast that had been starving for a long time, revealing its vicious fangs.

A powerful war song rose again, but not the goblin war song—this one came from the Molten Iron Tribe.

[Lava flows in our veins, flames burn between our teeth]

[What we want isn't victory—]

[If we fight! We smash skulls!]

[If we kill! We kill until blood rivers run dry!]

Realizing war songs could greatly boost morale, the Molten Iron Tribe had hastily composed one overnight.

Centaurs, ogres, gnolls... numerous monsters simultaneously shouted loudly, using roars and snarls, iron hooves trampling the earth, weapons striking shields in rhythm, weaving together into a soundwave charging straight into the night sky.

[Fight, fight for the Dragon Lord!]

[Every wound is a medal! Every drop of blood is fine wine!]

[But is this enough to satisfy?]

[Not enough!]

[Then tear open more chests! Smash more spines!]

[Until the moon hides frightened in blood clouds, until the sun dims its light!]

Different creatures, different voices, converged into the same war song. The soundwave charged into the clouds, shaking the goblins to their core.

The Molten Iron Tribe's morale soared, advancing step by step.

The alchemical legion's morale rapidly declined, constantly retreating.

This moment was exactly like that moment.

But the difference was, the alchemical legion's retreat wasn't planned in advance—it was forced by circumstances. Moreover, their mobility was inferior to the Molten Iron Tribe's.

Want to escape? Already too late.