Defeating the World with the Power of One Dragon!

"The four Map Kings in the northwest of the wilderness—aside from that eyestalker—are somewhat similar to the Wild Beast Lords I once subjugated in the convergence lands."

Garoth sorted through the information in his mind.

Judged merely by species and their classification as ferocious beasts and magical creatures, these Map Kings seemed no different from the Wild Beast Lords he had once dominated.

But that was only the surface.

In reality, without exception, those Map Kings were powerful beings possessing high intelligence.

Beneath them they each commanded sizable, disciplined legions—far from lone wolves with no backing.

The strength of each individual and the total force they could mobilize far exceeded those bestial lords in the convergence lands who controlled territory by instinct alone.

However, intelligence also meant the possibility of communication and negotiation.

That, in turn, meant the chance to conquer them and convert them into loyal followers.

"In the convergence lands, I killed more than a dozen Wild Beast Lords, and in the end only three chose to submit."

"The situation with these Map Kings in the northwest might be different."

"The probability of successfully bringing them under my banner should theoretically be higher."

Garoth analyzed silently.

The Molten Iron Tribe had already reached a ceiling in the convergence lands; it had hit its limit. But migrating into the Ser Wilderness—a much broader stage—changed everything.

Given the tribe's current size,

not to mention seizing control of the entire wilderness, even fully dominating only the northwest would be beyond easy reach.

As subsequent conquests and expansion continued, the tribe's core subordinate forces that could be rapidly mobilized would be continually stretched thin.

By then, conquering territory through the dragons' military might might not be difficult, but effectively governing the newly captured, vast lands would turn into a thorny problem.

For example, when the Molten Iron Tribe took over the convergence lands, its scale ballooned, but when deciding on a large-scale push into the wilderness, the tribe still had to leave part of its precious forces behind to guard and govern the convergence lands, preventing it from being left unattended.

Similarly,

as dragon banners were planted on one territory after another, more forward outposts, watchposts, and strongholds needed to be established, and strategic points like Tempering Heights would require garrisons...

A tribe's power, not infinite to begin with, would be further divided and diluted.

"During expansion, absorbing and subjugating new powerful forces as followers is a necessary strategy."

Garoth's thick, red-iron tail flicked, slapping the ground as he thought.

"Otherwise, the dragonkin and the tribe's forces will be worn down by repeated wars and dragged down by an ever-growing domain, making all the effort not worth the cost."

His ultimate goal was to wield the kind of power that a single dragon could use to sweep the world clean—one day to truly act without restraint and do as he pleased.

But in the present phase, the importance of territory and followers was obvious.

On a pure martial level, Garoth didn't strictly need them; ironically, they needed his protection to survive and grow.

Yet the resources Garoth needed to grow rapidly depended on the collection and supply that a large territory and follower system provided.

Without them, every trivial task would fall to Garoth himself, wasting his endless time and energy and preventing him from focusing on his own cultivation and strengthening.

"These Map Kings are potentially dangerous enemies, but they are also ready-made targets for conversion into followers."

Garoth pondered for a moment, and the first clear target formed in his mind.

The Map King closest to the Ximu Domain was the one that held Echo Rift—the Lion King.

This lord of lions had claimed Echo Rift and its surrounding vast regions as his domain, ruling vast numbers and many types of lion-like ferocious beasts and magical creatures, establishing a strictly hierarchical lion-kingdom.

Scouts reported that the Lion King's forces were still expanding.

It was not satisfied with its current territory and intended to turn even larger tracts of land into its pride's hunting grounds.

Garoth slowly closed his massive eyes and began to rest and restore his body.

Once his condition returned to peak, and the tribe's forces had taken a short breather, he would personally lead the dragonkin and his elite subordinate army to strike into Echo Rift and attack the Lion King's domain.

On one hand, he wanted to accurately measure the true caliber of the other Map Kings;

on the other, he would attempt to subjugate the entire pride, adding a powerful new force to the Molten Iron Tribe.

Why bring the dragonkin and followers instead of going to duel alone?

The reason was simple: caution.

For now, Garoth himself was only a newly minted Map King, on equal footing in reputation with the others—there was no clear superiority.

For powerful beings worthy of being his peers, Garoth believed they deserved proper respect.

If the opponent were a concealed heavyweight brimming with trump cards, and he charged in alone only to find them reinforced by supporting armies and trapped, the risk of a humiliating defeat in the gutter wasn't zero.

Garoth did not want to storm in full of bravado only to return featherless.

The sky darkened as he contemplated.

Perched in Needleleaf Valley, his physical strength and the damage left by Crimson Lotus Form and curses were visibly recovering.

Time then passed at a steady pace.

The smell of gunpowder in the Ser Wilderness thickened; Map Kings revealed their claws and edges one by one, and regions were already wreathed in smoke and conflict.

Even human principalities and kingdoms' strongholds were continuously attacked by various wilderness forces or powerful creatures.

But forget regular sweeping missions to clear wilderness creatures; the Federation's control had sharply weakened, so these garrisons now scrambled for survival, most adopting conservative bunker-style defense.

During this turmoil,

many small and mid-sized wilderness monster clans sought to survive by actively pledging fealty to rising and famous new powers.

The Molten Iron Tribe naturally became one of those attractive options.

Almost daily, clans from different races trekked to the Ximu Domain or other tribe strongpoints to swear loyalty to the dragonkin in exchange for protection.

Some time later,

deep in the underground undead lair,

black dragon Seraphina and green dragon Ludwig stood bathed respectively in the deep stench of death and the vibrant breath of nature—a sharp contrast.

Their chests heaved in heavy, rapid breaths.

Once-lustrous scales were now crisscrossed with wounds—deep claw gouges, corrosive marks, some injuries revealing bone, dragonblood slowly seeping out.

Clearly, to clear and suppress this lich's leftover lair, the two great dragons had just gone through an intense and dangerous battle and paid a heavy price.

Around them lay the broken, immobile corpses of undead creatures, and several of the Molten Iron Tribe's elite followers—wounded but still standing.

"These undead... finally cleaned out."

Ludwig the Green Dragon baring his teeth, his wounds sending waves of pain as if corroded by negative energy.

He sniffed the thick deathly aura that made him queasy and couldn't help but look to the equally battered black dragon at his side.

"Seraphina, tell me... why did the leader specifically send me to help you deal with this damned place?"

He said, "This concentrated negative energy is basically my natural weakness; by rights, I should be managing a thriving forest or valley stronghold."

Ludwig favored stealth and strategy, preferring to hide in the shadows rather than lead charges.

He rarely showed himself before the leader.

Thus he found it odd that the leader had assigned him this task.

He scrutinized the black dragon, strongly suspecting Seraphina had recommended him behind the leader's back.

Under Ludwig's searching gaze, Seraphina nodded calmly and admitted it outright.

"It was my suggestion to the leader."

She met his eyes, which widened instantaneously, and spoke plainly, a hint of pride in her tone: "I told the leader that the lair's dense negative energy would be excellent training and refinement for you, helping you better understand the other side of life."

"Besides, converting this place into a Dragon-Forge Modification ritual site will also require your assistance."

Ludwig... for a moment, was at a loss for words.

"Everything I said is true."

The black dragon flicked her tail and even lightly tapped Ludwig's shoulder with its tip, grinning: "The leader trusted you with this important duty largely because of my suggestion. But we're companions—you don't need to thank me too much."

Ludwig rolled his great eyes and knocked Seraphina's tail aside.

"Thanks a lot!"

He spat the words through gritted teeth.

"Mm, as I said, no need to thank me."

Seraphina somehow missed the sarcasm and nodded earnestly, emitting a few crisp, pleased chuckles. Her nature leaned toward gloom, but seeing Ludwig in this helpless, exasperated state always lifted her spirits in an inexplicable way.

"Hmph, verbal thanks aren't as tangible as action."

A sly glint crossed Ludwig's eyes. He suddenly extended a foreclaw and slammed it down near one of Seraphina's wounds on her back!

The next moment, vibrant, life-filled emerald natural magical energy poured into Seraphina's body.

—!

The moment this energetic vitality touched the negative-energy-soaked scales and flesh of the black dragon, it reacted violently, like cold water thrown into boiling oil—there was a sizzling burning sound and wisps of white smoke.

"Damn you, Ludwig! That hurts! What are you doing?!"

Seraphina shuddered in pain; her scales bristled as she staggered back, baring teeth and low snarling at the green dragon.

"Oh, so sorry."

Ludwig withdrew his claw at an unhurried pace, shaking his head as if apologizing without any real remorse.

"I nearly forgot—our energy attributes are natural opposites."

"Just as being in this damned place makes me uncomfortable, my life-filled natural magic is more painful to you than a blade."

Seraphina glared at Ludwig with a predator's fury and low-snarl, but she didn't press the issue.

She stifled the playfulness and grew serious and focused, stepping into the central area strewn with undead remains.

She took a deep breath of the air thick with death and decay and began circling the altar base.

Her nimble tail dipped into her still-oozing wound and used her blood to draw complex, ancient runes on the ground, constructing a massive formation.

Time crept by in silence.

Seraphina painfully tore away several of the sharpest edge scales from her own body, ripped chunks of dark-imbued flesh, and even forced out a few ribs as top-quality spell components, placing them at key nodes of the formation.

Finally, she stood at the center of the array built from her own blood, flesh, scale, and bone.

She solemnly produced a crystal box—the phylactery.

It was temporarily lent to her by the leader to control the undead lair.

She raised a foreclaw, coiled thick negative energy around it, and slowly pressed it onto the core rune of the formation.

With her other claw, she gently lifted the phylactery's lid.

In an instant,

centered on Seraphina, a pure, massive flood of negative energy surged out like a tsunami, spreading in a ring and wildly sweeping through every corner of the subterranean cavern.

Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack...

With a dense, scalp-tingling chorus of bones rubbing and flesh stirring, the once-broken, motionless undead remains on the ground began vibrating and moving violently.

Their bones seemed to reassemble as if alive; shattered flesh fused and regenerated piece by piece.

Soon the dead undead creatures staggered up from the earth once more, trembling, struggling to stand, their movements gradually regaining strength.

But unlike before:

The soul-fires rekindled in their eye sockets now bore a faint mental imprint—Seraphina's.

"Using this undead lair as the foundation and cultivating it carefully... given time, I might have a chance to surpass those two—Heriam and Kahir."

Seraphina felt the exhaustion in both body and spirit, yet couldn't help but curve the corners of her mouth into a slight smile.

She did not forget her other tasks, however.

She refocused and began to manipulate the undead via mental links.

She directed them to use the obsidian altar that had held the phylactery as the core, and ordered sweeping renovations to quickly transform the area into a site suitable for the Dragon-Forge Modification ritual.

Undead tireless and undaunted by death, the conversion work should not take long.

Meanwhile, at the Molten Iron Tribe's border where it met the Lion King's domain,

a cool wind, heavy with the wilderness' dust and metallic tang of blood, blew past patrolling sentries and guards.

This was only a small frontier outpost set up by the tribe, manned mainly by kobolds and gnolls, supplemented by ogres and werewolf guards, and a few alchemical golems.

The defensive force was relatively light—meant primarily for warning and early alert.

"The tribe just won a big battle and took Tempering Heights. I heard they're going to keep expanding outward soon."

A gnoll sentry leaned against a rough stone railing, gazing toward the distant wilderness with longing in his voice.

"It gets the blood boiling... I want to go fight for the tribe too, make a name for myself, earn rank and reward—not stay in some out-of-the-way place forever, being just a sentry who watches the scenery all day."

A nearby kobold sentry shook his head cautiously at these words.

He lowered his voice: "Come on, with your frame, if you went into one of those meat-grinder battlefields, you probably wouldn't last a charge before you turned into a pile of minced meat."

After decades of development and standardization, the Molten Iron Tribe had become more regulated in many respects.

Even the largest Steel Will warhost had gone through selection and training; not every follower reached its standards.

"Hmph! At least I'll outlive you a few days."

The gnoll snapped back.

The kobold was about to argue when his long ears suddenly twitched and his pupils constricted.

"Shh... don't shout!"

He crouched, his voice grave: "I smell... something wrong."

Almost as the words fell,

crack.

A faint brittle sound echoed.

The sky took on an eerie gray-blue; dawn had yet to come, the wind still sighed across the wild.

But a predator's dangerous aura—like an invisible tide—slowly seeped into the air, making every alert sentry feel pins and needles along their spine.

"Alert!"

"Situation! Full alert!"

The lookout atop the watchtower sounded a sharp alarm.

Below, the ogres and werewolf guards gripped their weapons, muscles tensing as they scanned the direction danger might come from.

Boom—!!!

Almost at the same time, the ground violently shook beneath their feet.

A massive, rapid black shape burst forth, accompanied by a deep, drum-like boom, barreling with brutal force and smashing through the granite wall surrounding the outpost.

"Roar—!!!"

An ear-splitting, savage, powerful lion roar exploded, tearing the pre-dawn silence like thunder!

It was a colossal, magic-tainted lion whose size rivaled a giant bear. Its ivory fangs gleamed like knives in the sparse morning light, chilling to behold. Most strikingly, its mane was not ordinary tawny—rather it was an ink-dark, night-mist black that seemed to swallow light.

The magic beast—the Shadow-Mane Lion.

Its speed was astounding—like a black bolt racing the ground—and it instantly surged beneath a watchtower.

It used its bulk as a battering ram and violently struck the tower.

Crack!

The tower's base groaned under the strain and lurched wildly!

A gnoll sentry atop the tower screamed in terror and fell; midair, the Shadow-Mane Lion's claws swept across.

Swish—!

The gnoll was torn apart mid-fall, ripped into pieces; blood sprayed over the tower's remains and the ground.

Rrrrrumble—!!!

An alchemical golem activated its chest engine and swung its heavy, high-speed chainsaw-sword weapon from behind, hacking at the Shadow-Mane Lion.

But the black lion seemed to anticipate it, sinking slightly into shadow and disappearing.

The next second, it burst from the golem's shadowed flank, leapt, and with terrifying strength pinned the heavy golem to the ground; its claws tore into the metal body with a grating, sickening screech.

"Damn thing! Get off!"

An ogre guard, broad-shouldered and wielding a massive Wolf Tooth Club, roared as he plowed forward to strike the Shadow-Mane Lion.

But whoosh—!

Another gale struck from the side.

A smaller but more agile and ferocious Sabertusk Lion, with exaggerated white fangs, slammed into the ogre's waist like a cannonball.

The huge ogre was sent reeling to his knees and fell out of balance.

Before he could rise, the Sabertusk Lion leaped, its jaws capable of chewing steel, and sank them into the ogre's vulnerable throat with brutal precision.

This was only the beginning.

Flame Lions, Shadow-Flash Lions, Steelback Lions... more lion variants and magical beasts poured from the mingled gray dawn and lingering night shadows.

They were not overwhelming in sheer numbers, but each individual radiated ferocity and madness.

They were no chaotic pack: some executed frontal assaults, some struck from flanks, some targeted isolated sentries—displaying a basic coordinated battle sense.

Within a minute, before reinforcements could arrive, the small frontier outpost was turned into burning ruin and wreckage under the pride's swift, brutal onslaught.

Similar scenes unfolded almost simultaneously at other outposts along the pride's borderlands.

With low, resonant roars echoing across the wild, more pride members strode over sentry corpses and shattered outposts and pressed deeper into Molten Iron Tribe territory.

Clearly, the pride's hunger for territory had put its sights on its neighbors' lands.

Having received the final urgent messages sent back by the forward sentries with their dying breaths, the Molten Iron Tribe reacted immediately.

True elite units mustered swiftly from multiple strongholds and converged on the border where it touched the pride's lands.

Not long after,

when the first true sliver of dawn broke free from the horizon and poured into Needleleaf Valley,

the red iron dragon settled there slowly opened his eyes. The languor vanished instantly, replaced by cutting sharpness.

"The pride... dared to bare claws and fangs at me first."

"No matter. My condition has recovered to its peak—just the right time to gauge what caliber a Map King with comparable renown truly is."

Garoth had already received the reports of multiple attacks across the tribe's domains via mental link.

He rose to his towering bulk, turned the scattered morning light into countless glittering flecks beneath his scales, then beat his wings and shot skyward, heading straight for the regions now ablaze with war.