Defeating the World with the Power of One Dragon!

New Calendar Year 344, Spring.

March 1st, two days before the Flower Bloom Festival,

in the heartland of the Theo Kingdom, far from the flames of war, this ancient holiday unfolded its quiet prelude in the way it had been handed down for generations.

At dawn, mist still clung to the hills and the winding riverbanks, and the women of the villages were already up, taking down last autumn’s carefully gathered, sun-dried petals from wooden shelves in the storeroom.

The marigolds’ orange-yellow, cornflowers’ deep blue, and pink roses’ soft blush mixed with shredded lavender and rosemary.

In clay mortars, the petals were gently ground with wooden pestles into fine fragrant powders, then carefully packed into small linen pouches sewn by hand.

Children rushed outside, barely able to contain their excitement.

They checked the colorful cloth streamers tied in advance to branches, fences, and eaves—important festival decorations that fluttered and whispered in the breeze like springtime messengers.

In Silverglow City, the Theo royal capital, preparations were grander still.

Streets had been swept clean, shop windows displayed seasonal flowers and sweets.

People left their homes and greeted each other with “May spring watch over you,” laughingly dusting colored powder on each other’s shoulders and hair, or marking a small smear on foreheads as a token blessing.

Central square.

Spring pillars decorated with newly cut peach and plum branches and silk flower replicas stood ready, awaiting the festival’s official opening.

Court emissaries performed a brief blessing ceremony, minstrels plucked lively lutes and sang songs of nature’s revival, budding love, and ancient heroes.

Amid music and floral scents, nobles in tasteful spring attire exchanged polite nods; ladies fanned themselves with delicate feather fans, murmuring praise for each other’s newest embroidery patterns.

Occasionally, someone spoke in hushed tones about the frontlines.

They showed some tension briefly, but smiles returned quickly, even growing brighter.

According to the kingdom daily’s front-page headlines, the Theo alliance had accumulated massive advantages on the frontlines, success after success, with victory seemingly imminent.

[The Red Iron Dragon Tyranny Wobbles; Civilization Will Ultimately Triumph Over Barbarism]

The eye-catching headline lent the festival extra confidence and reassurance.

Yet in border towns not yet directly touched by war, the festive atmosphere had taken on a dimmer shade.

The colored powders were visibly poorer in quality, mixed with cheaper, acrid mineral dyes and not ground finely enough.

Smiles on faces looked forced; blessings often carried barely audible sighs.

Many households hung black cloth strips at their doors to indicate family members serving in the army; some strips were worn and tattered, draping listlessly in the wind.

Tavern talk no longer centered on poetry and love, but on ever tighter rationing, the stalemate at the border, and how long the war would drag on and how many lives it would take.

Above all this, in the battlefields that both sides had fought over repeatedly until they were barely recognizable,

March 1st was just another date like any other—filled with blood, mud, and the stench of death.

Wind swept across charred plains, lifting not petals but black dust mixed with gunpowder and grit, slapping at the cracked, rough faces of soldiers in the trenches.

A festival?

That seemed like a story from another world.

Aola Kingdom heartland, Dragonback Mountains, on the highest terrace of the grand palace.

The Red Iron Dragon Emperor also knew of this spring plum holiday that humans on the Atlantis Continent had celebrated for generations.

But for long-lived dragons, human yearly rituals were as fleeting as the lives of short-lived species—hardly worth attention.

Garoth lifted his head; the metallic-scaled curve of his neck turned slowly with a faint, solid rasp.

His eyes seemed to hold revolving constellations as he stared into the sky.

Against the boundless firmament there were no longer merely faint glimmers and tiny ripples.

Countless clear trajectories crisscrossed and stacked, forming an extremely complex three-dimensional web that kept adjusting. No matter how it shifted, more and more trajectories pointed straight to the web’s center.

“Almost there….”

The Red Iron Dragon Emperor murmured to himself, his voice deep and resonant, like an echo between piled mountains.

A bright wildflower, carried by a mountain wind onto the high platform, drifted down and landed on his shoulder scales. Instantly, the heat naturally emanating from his scales seared it into ash that scattered with the breeze.

“Vira.”

He called softly, tone calm.

“Here!”

A clear, cheerful voice answered immediately.

The air shimmered as the faerie dragon Vira materialized beside the Red Iron Dragon Emperor, tiny and poised, her translucent wings fluttering rapidly.

She had apparently been watching the emperor covertly, refining her spellwork.

The Red Iron Dragon kept his gaze fixed on the sky’s net and said, “I have a mission for you.”

The faerie dragon blinked with curiosity. “What is it?”

The Red Iron Dragon slightly turned his head, pupils focusing on Vira, the corners of his mouth curving a faint line.

“You can treat it as… a rather large prank, a game that requires top-tier acting.”

“As long as you do it well and make no mistakes, after it’s over you may choose a hundred gems from my treasure vault as your reward.”

“Yay! Vira loves games, loves pranks, and loves sparkly gems!”

Vira cheered and did several excited flips in the air.

The Red Iron Dragon Emperor then spent about three minutes carefully outlining every step Vira must perform, the details to watch for, and most importantly, the precise timing.

“Heh, don’t worry! Mimicry, illusions, and the right scares are my specialties! I’ll get it done!”

The faerie dragon flapped her tiny wings, face lit with eager anticipation.

With a swoosh, she vanished from the air as if she had never been there.

Silence returned to the terrace, only the mountain wind howling.

“Sorog.”

The Red Iron Dragon summoned his blood kin brother.

“Here.”

The reply came immediately—short, steady, like struck steel: the iron dragon Sorog.

“All fronts prepare according to final plan and wait for my order. Then launch full counterattacks.”

The Red Iron Dragon Emperor’s will was like molten rock—searing and resolute. “Today, no expense spared. Let every border burn; let the land burn. I want Theo commanders to be forced to use the satellite frequently within twenty-four hours of the battle starting.”

“All prepared.”

Sorog’s mental transmission carried restrained excitement. “Legions have reached the frontlines, awaiting the flames!”

The next day passed quietly as spring winds swept across.

March 2nd, dusk.

Ashen Plain, eastern sector of the Impregnable Wall’s defenses.

The weather was unusually bleak, as if a violent spring storm brewed on the horizon.

Thick, leaden clouds sagged low, almost within reach, dimming the evening light. The air smelled of earth and damp cold.

Suddenly.

Rend!

The heavy clouds were torn apart by a brutal force!

A huge figure, pure white as a glacier, burst through the cloud ceiling. When its wings unfurled, they did not only whip up gale but a freezing wind that could chill the sky itself. Moisture in the air instantly crystallized into countless sharp ice particles that glittered like cold stars in the dusk.

Legendary ancient dragon, the White Dragon Beskarl!

A large charred scar still marred the left wing membrane, not fully healed—dark and savage against the white wing—but it did nothing to diminish his dragon might.

“Insignificant human ants, witness the end of wind and snow!”

He let out an ear-splitting roar; dragon-speech, laced with cold, swept over the battlefield.

Without probing, the ancient dragon dove, targeting the most solid segment of the defensive barrier.

Theo soldiers along the defense line had just sounded shrill alarms when Beskarl’s chest swelled like a bellows, an ice-blue glow lighting his chest and surging like a reverse glacier up into his gaping throat.

“Dodge! It’s dragon breath—scatter now!!!”

The seasoned commander’s hoarse warning had barely finished when—

Boom—!!!

Not an explosion but a release of extreme cold and scouring force!

A transcendental dragon breath—frost breath—unleashed. Frosty breath with a destructive blue sheen swept down like a divine glacial river, mercilessly blasting the barrier of stone, steel, and layered enchantments.

Instantly, unimaginably low temperatures struck.

Steel-cast gun emplacements cracked in spiderweb fissures, the protective runes dimmed, flickered, then shattered; flesh-and-blood soldiers, whether rushing or standing, were consumed by cold and frozen into statues before the subsequent shockwave shattered them to powder.

A wide band of frost-death was ripped into the supposedly unbreakable defense line, tearing apart fortifications, lives, and weapons into silence.

But this was only the beginning.

Beskarl did not relent. His massive body moved with surprising agility. He beat his wings and carved a vicious arc through the air; breath after breath spewed forth, targeting magi towers and heavy alchemical batteries behind the lines that were just beginning to hum with charge.

Whoosh—boom! Bang bang!

Alchemical shells streaked through his airspace, their flame tails trailing, but upon nearing him they hit a layer of invisible yet unbreakably cold field, sputtering sparks and fragments without inflicting real damage.

One dragon alone but as if a legion, smashing through defenses!

The sheer might of a legendary dragon could crush even the most hardened human fighters’ resolve, even if only a white dragon.

“Legendary unit incoming! Eastern sector taking catastrophic damage! Request highest-level reinforcement! Repeat, White Dragon Beskarl is destroying our bulwarks—need legendary interception now!”

Command channels overflowed with frantic, pitch-strained shouts from officers.

Almost simultaneously with Beskarl’s assault on the eastern sector,

on the Ashen Plain’s western sector the earth began to tremble.

Not from dense bombardment nor natural quake, but from tens of thousands of heavy feet stomping in sync—a dull roar that made hearts resonate.

On the horizon a tide of dark forms surged—the Aola mixed-legions pouring out of Ironwall Fortress!

Ogre heavy-armored formations marched like moving steel walls; lizardfolk units scoured the flanks like coiling serpents ready to strike; frost giants wrapped in heavy chains and runes bore bulky siege engines; flying units—flying dragons, griffons, hawk-beasts—blotted the sky like a storm cloud.

At the very front moved a dark crimson colossus, advancing like a walking volcano:

the Aola war commander, the Gluttonous Ogre Karu!

His wounds had already healed. Four arms raised high, the glow of the Oath of Ten Thousand Armies' Command faintly flickered on his chest emblem, binding his presence with the legion behind him; his aura had reached the legendary tier, even stronger than before.

“You scum of Theo! Can you smell death?”

“This time, Uncle Karu will crush you and your walls into dust!”

Karu’s roar rolled across the plain like thunder, heard clearly by the defenders.

He lashed an arm forward. “Aola warriors! The Emperor watches us! Crush them! For Aola! For the great Ignas!”

“Raaaar!!!”

A cataclysmic battle cry erupted from the Aola ranks and the charge surged.

A flood of black and dark-red steel with annihilating force slammed into the western sector.

Theo defenders were battle-hardened veterans after three years of meatgrinder war; commanders were well used to Aola’s brutal pressure.

“Golem corps, hold the front! Heavy infantry square, stabilize formation! Mage companies prepare mass spells! Alchemical battery arrays—target enemy vanguard and dense concentrations, three rapid volleys!”

Commands transmitted through sound-runes flew to all parts of the defenses.

Boom boom boom—!!!

Over two hundred heavy alchemical batteries at the rear thundered simultaneously; their muzzles spat meters-long flares.

Fragmentation rounds, incendiary shells, and concussion charges carved lethal parabolic arcs, raining steel and fire down onto the Aola charging ranks.

Instantly, bursts of blood, torn armor, and churned earth exploded like fireworks.

The wave’s front bucked and grew chaotic.

Yet Aola pressed on through the barrage. Ogres raised tower shields almost as tall as themselves, their shields’ defensive runes lighting up and linking into a wall; lizardfolk slipped and surged through shell craters and broken ground; flying units rolled and dove to disrupt anti-air targeting.

Karu at the front advanced directly, taking no evasive moves—giant strides forward while alchemical shells detonated around him.

Scorching blasts and sharp fragments peppered him like rain, sparking fireworks, leaving only shallow scorches and charring on scale layers; only rarely did a heavy weapon pierce deeply, and even then it was barely consequential.

He laughed and swung his four arms, smashing incoming shells within reach into fragments.

“Ha! Still hungry, Theo? Tickling Uncle Karu, are ya?!”

Suddenly an enormous explosion tore beneath his feet.

A violent magical shock ripped the ground open and energy erupted from below.

Even Karu’s massive frame rocked; one of his legs sank into the crater.

“Damn magical mine…”

Karu glanced at the pit; a flash of murderous light flickered in his giant eyes.

He did not run. Instead he crouched, driving his four muscular arms into the ground. Violent dragon-qi surged like an earth-dragon thrashing underground.

“Rise!!!”

With a roar that shook the plains, the ground before him was heaved up by an insufferable force—meters of earth, buried magical charges, even a short wall built into the terrain were launched like a tsunami of soil and rock toward a section of the western defenses.

“Scatter! Move out—”

Commanders’ voices were cut off.

The landslide buried forward positions; many soldiers were crushed, buried, or scattered.

“KILL THEM ALL! LEAVE NONE!!!”

Karu laughed and hauled his leg from the pit; four arms swung and threw several heavy golems that tried to plug the gap like toys, tearing them apart.

The legion roared bloodlust.

They surged forward like a breached flood under their commander, closer and closer to the Theo wall.

When both east and west sectors suffered such fierce sudden blows simultaneously, it would be logical for Theo to dispatch legendary forces immediately to intercept.

However…

Almost at the same time Beskarl tore the clouds and Karu raised the earthwave,

at Ironwall Fortress on the dusk-lit border,

the falling sun dyed the last cloud dark crimson, blending with baked brown stains at the fortress base, giving off a heavy scent of rust and death.

Rrrip!

The thick low clouds tore open!

A forty-meter-long crimson silhouette streaked across the sky like a meteor, then hovered and landed with force on the fortress’ highest tower.

The great dragon lifted its proud head, neck thick and powerful.

Then it slowly spread its wings, each easily over a hundred meters wide. Membranes glowed as if soaked in blood or glowing charcoal under the sunset.

The Red Iron Dragon Emperor’s vast dragon might spread from him like a physical tsunami.

Inside and outside the fortress, every Aola soldier looked up.

They saw their emperor—the single sun over the wasteland—standing atop the fortress, wings unfurled, head high, gazing south toward the Impregnable Wall of the Theo Kingdom.

“Rooo—!”

The Red Iron Dragon Emperor bellowed, a roar that cracked the heavens!

The dragon shout swept a scorching gust over the fortress; banners flapped and soldiers felt a burning twinge under their armor—not an attack but the after-wave of his breath.

“It’s His Majesty Ignas!”

“Great Emperor! Sole ruler of wasteland and mountains!”

“Loyalty! Loyalty! Loyalty!!”

After a brief silence, fanatic shouts exploded like wildfire throughout the fortress.

Soldiers beat their breastplates and raised weapons; faces flushed with excitement and their eyes burned with ferocious battle intent.

The emperor judged the front with his presence—what could inspire more?

The Emperor beat his wings and rose, circling low above the main tower.

His imposing form in the dusk looked like a burning meteor; dragon might pressed like a threat about to strike the Impregnable Wall.

“Guh…this is exhausting for a dragon.”

Unknown to all, the emperor secretly complained inwardly.

Maintaining that display was no small feat, yet outwardly he remained stern and dignified, his indifferent gaze locked on the Impregnable Wall.

War did not only blaze on the Ashen Plain.

Across the long border between Aola and Theo, ten strategic points both sides contested flared almost simultaneously.

Greenvale—Theo’s carefully built irrigation and essential farm territories—was struck by a long-planned assault led personally by the Amethyst Dragon Lion lord and his elite lion-beast forces.

The dragon-lion spewed scorching amethyst breath, melting stone levees and sending muddy floodwaters roaring across farmlands and roads, isolating Theo defenders on several high grounds.

Normann Pass—strategically treacherous, one man can hold it—its thick walls shuddered under the Yaqi Serpentine Leopards’ frenzied charges.

Theo defenders used terrain and a ring of magic towers to pour attack back, but distress calls from comm-crystals grew more frantic.

Drywind Hills—open country favorable to air forces—saw the Golden-Plumed Griffon lord’s full air fleet launch a saturation air raid unseen since war’s start.

Huge griffons with razor talons darkened moonlight like death clouds, not only diving to shred soldiers but raining alchemical incendiaries and magic mines, turning hillside fortifications into continuous conflagrations.

Steel Ridge’s rugged terrain favored defense, but a golden figure tore through it, felling defenders like reaped stalks.

The Gold Dragon Alberto, wrapped in the double glows of the Oath of Conquest and the Crown Oath, reached unprecedented peaks in strength, speed, defense, and presence.

He extended beyond dragon breath—claws, tail, and full-body charges became lethal weapons, ripping open gaps in the lines.

Palmer Highlands, Shadowwood, Oxidation Gorge, Dragonfang Pass—these four strategic points also reported unprecedented ferocity: sheer momentum, swelling troop numbers, and the frequent appearance of high-tier figures.

If one could gaze from extreme height over the entire frontier, ten main fronts would look like fuses ignited simultaneously—blazes, smoke, and battle cries erupting all at once.

Aola Kingdom launched a comprehensive, ferocious counterattack early this March dusk.

Meanwhile, in a hidden command center within the Theo Kingdom’s command.

Despite earlier heavy strikes, Theo’s command structure had rapidly rebuilt under Rodrigo’s iron hand; the new underground command center was more secretive, sturdier, and outfitted with layered defenses, including subterranean measures against burrower worms.

Now the command hall boiled.

In the huge main chamber dozens of holographic screens of magical energy floated, continuously showing live feeds from the ten critical sites.

Each screen displayed burning positions, intersecting spells and alchemical beams, fierce combat figures, and flashing casualty and equipment loss tallies.

Panic messages flooded channels, nearly drowning the communication officers’ ears.

They raised volume and repeated key data at lightning speed.

“Eastern sector breached! White Dragon Beskarl is advancing toward the second bulwark! Conventional forces can’t stop him! Repeat—legendary unit needed!”

“Western sector breached by Gluttonous Ogre Karu! Gap exceeds eighty meters and is widening! Third Corps suffered heavy losses—emergency reinforcement and legendary interception requested!”

“Greenvale main dyke melted! Flooding southeast! Fourth Corps split among three high grounds—supply lines cut!”

“Multiple structural cracks on Normann Pass eastern wall! The Yaqi Serpentine Leopard attacks ferocious! Magic tower energy reserves danger-level—request energy and engineering aid!”

“Shadowwood perimeter assaulted by Crimson Iron Riders! Heavy fighting!”

“Drywind Hills anti-air half destroyed! Golden-Plumed Griffon group launching another diving bombing run!”

...

General Rodrigo stood at the central curved command podium, posture still stiff as a pine.

His left arm hung a bit awkwardly.

Though the Severed Arm had been regrown with Holy Rain support, the new limb still required time to regain full strength and dexterity; it could not yet be used freely.

Yet Rodrigo’s eyes remained keen as a hawk, sweeping screens in quick, orderly scans and processing enormous amounts of data.

“Report Sky Eye satellite full-range reconnaissance.”

His voice was steady, calm amid chaos, providing a measure of composure.

“Yes! Sky Eye’s reconnaissance arrays fully activated—highest scanning mode!”

“Detected Aola full-line offensive; all lord units confirmed present!”

The intelligence officer’s words came rapid-fire. “Over Ironwall Fortress airspace…detected high-energy reaction! Spectrum analysis, energy signature, mass projection…99.7% match! It’s the Red Iron Dragon Emperor! He’s circling over Ironwall, staring at us!”

Air in the command hall seemed to freeze for a moment.

Almost every officer involuntarily held their breath or drew it shallowly.

The Red Iron Dragon Emperor!

Would this mighty dragon-emperor finally personally enter this decisive clash?

Rodrigo’s gaze locked on the Ironwall Fortress feed.

Though distant, high-precision imagery from the magical satellite clearly revealed the dark crimson silhouette circling above the fortress, its dragon might even warping surrounding air into a distortion halo on screen.

“What is his aim?”

Rodrigo’s new adjutant, a young commander with a resolute face, could not help but whisper, “Direct strike on the Impregnable Wall?”

“No.” Rodrigo shook his head.

“He waits—for us to show a weakness, for us to dispatch legendaries to aid everywhere, then…he will personally rend our defenses and strike the command center or more vital targets.”

He knew that tactic well.

Catch the leader first—the apex form of decapitation strike.

Force the opponent to split forces with a full-line assault, then use top-tier power to pierce the core.

Dragons who trust their strength favor such plans.

“What should we do? Every front needs support, especially east and west. Only legendaries can hold the ancient white dragon and the Gluttonous Ogre. Even with army-magic boosts, our general officers can’t match them,” cried a senior officer.

Rodrigo fell silent for two seconds.

More urgent reports streamed in during those two seconds.

He finally spoke: “Execute the Third Contingency Plan—notify all waiting legendaries.”

“General Balor to the west to block the Gluttonous Ogre; Lady Roxanne, Lord Aivem, and Lord Spencer to the east to jointly handle the legendary white dragon; the remaining four legendaries hold the core and be ready to respond to the Red Iron Dragon’s strike.”

“And other fronts…activate Sky Eye support.”

“For the most critical fronts, deploy rapid-response units and Holy Rain; for secondary fronts, provide tactical guidance and limited firepower support.”

“But Commander, Sky Eye’s strategic arrays have been used too frequently…”

“I know the cost,” Rodrigo cut off his adjutant. “But if we do not use it now and the defenses fully break, the cost will be the loss of the entire war. Execute the order!”

“Yes!”

Orders were relayed immediately.

The high-orbit magical satellite began adjustments—orbit tuning, energy convergence, rune arrays lighting in sequence.

March 2nd, night, on besieged borderfronts.

Ashen Plain, eastern sector.

White Dragon Beskarl had just smashed a tower’s ruined base flat with his muscular tail, sending ice shards and rubble flying.

Suddenly he felt three powerful auras dropping from the sky.

He swiveled his massive head, slit pupils narrowing as he looked up.

Under a sky woven with night and flames, three figures descended in the scattering teleporation lights, landing on a ruin some distance away.

Left, a woman in deep-blue robes inlaid with golden flame patterns—aged yet still exquisite. Red hair floated like fire. She held an archaic dark-red staff whose tip cradled a spinning, compressing, white-hot core of flame that made the surrounding air climb in temperature by its mere presence.

[Roxanne of Flameheart], Theo legendary pyromancer.

Right, a man over two meters three, like a small giant covered in heavy grey-white plate armor scratched and dented by battle. In his left hand a tower shield nearly his height bore holy runes; in his right a one-handed warhammer.

[Aivem the Iron Shield], legendary paladin of watch.

Center-forward, a slender figure that could be blown away by wind draped in shifting shadow energy, features obscured except for two narrow, sharp, ice-cold eyes that flashed from time to time. His presence flickered like someone straddling the Material Plane and the Shadow Plane.

[Spencer the Shadowblade], legendary shadow assassin, master of lethal strikes and interference.

“Evil dragon, your rampage ends here.”

Roxanne spoke calmly but with burning intensity.

The fireball atop her staff sped its spin a notch.

The staff radiated extraordinary magic—clearly a precious legendary artifact.

Beskarl’s gaze swept the three, lingering on Roxanne and her staff. He flexed his left wing; the still-healing charred wound stung—a wound from their previous encounter when the human mage had wounded him with a powerful legendary flame spell.

The white dragon bared white teeth.

“Humans, mere numbers cannot change your fragile nature.”

“Perfect. Pay for last time’s wound with your lives and wails. Struggle with all you have in my frost and snow! Don’t beg—don’t whimper—and then meet your end like true warriors!”

The three legendaries exchanged a guarded look.

Last time they’d coordinated to suppress this ancient white dragon and left it heavily injured.

But now the dragon, though not fully healed, dared to boast so brazenly—did he rely on something they did not know?

Thoughts of the Red Iron Dragon Emperor circling Ironwall rose in their minds, and caution spiked to the highest degree.

Without further words, Beskarl beat his wings and launched at the three with ice winds.

Aivem stepped forward; his massive tower shield slammed into the ground, holy runes flaring, forming a radiant wall. Spencer melted into shadows and vanished among the ruins. Roxanne raised her staff and the white-hot flameball erupted into a scorching ring that enveloped her and Aivem, rolling out toward the oncoming white dragon.

Ice and fire—the legendary clash erupted again on the eastern sector.

Ashen Plain, western sector—at Karu’s ripped breach.

Karu had grabbed a heavy rock golem trying to plug the gap and ripped it in half when a sharp spear-principle locked onto him.

He whirled inside the breach.

From the exploding light column, [Balor the Iron Spear] stepped forward.

He wielded a white spear etched with frost lines, its tip forged from supreme frost-ice that emanated heavy cold.

“You again.”

Karu spat and his giant eyes ignited with feral battle frenzy.

“Last time I didn’t fully snap your neck—my mistake. No matter, this time I’ll finish you! You’ll die here and I’ll step on your corpse to grow stronger!”

Balor’s face was half-covered by a helm, expression unreadable.

He did not answer Karu’s taunt. He simply leveled his spear, tip angled slightly down toward Karu’s chest—a poised starting stance.

“This time, I will end you here.”

His voice came through the helm.

No more words; in the next instant both vanished from place.

Boom—!!!

A violent collision of power and spear light exploded, shockwaves leveling everything nearby!

The four-armed Gluttonous Ogre and the legendary warrior entered an even more brutal duel.

Meanwhile, across other battlefronts in the Twin Ao War, Sky Eye began to manifest its power.

Greenvale, Shadowwood, Oxidation Gorge.

Golden beams precisely healed Theo soldiers’ wounds, boosted morale, and organized counterattacks.

Normann Pass, Steel Ridge.

Blue light pillars beamed in elite troops and new golems, stabilizing collapsing defenses.

Drywind Hills, Palmer Highlands, Dragonfang Pass.

Sky Eye launched orbital strikes against griffon and hawk swarms and blue dragon clusters, easing anti-air pressure.

For a time, on several fronts Theo’s defenses withstood Aola’s ferocious, well-prepared assault; some places even counterattacked.

But it was not free.

Each Sky Eye support required manifesting from dimensional seams; each manifestation left a trace in the material realm.

And those traces were being calmly observed by a pair of deep black vertical pupils.

March 2nd, midnight, Dragonback Mountains.

The true Red Iron Dragon Emperor had never left his palace.

Garoth stood on the highest terrace, gazing up at the stars.

A cold night wind hissed across his iron-hard scales.

His gaze pierced the atmosphere, penetrated clouds and false projections, and saw the increasingly distinct trajectory web.

Countless arcs crossed in deep space; every satellite jump added another line to the web.

Lines at first chaotic slowly converged toward several possible nodes; one by one the blinking nodes faded until only the true node remained.

“Found you.”

Garoth’s low voice was almost inaudible on the silent terrace.

He lowered his head, muscles in his neck tensing as his red scales parted slightly and exhaled hot, dry breath that condensed to white mist in the cold night.

Then deep magical light poured from within him, wrapping his enormous body.

Under the glow his form violently reshaped—bones reformed, muscles flowed like liquid, and dense dark red near-black feathers sprouted through scale gaps.

When the light faded, the massive terror-dragon of dozens of meters was gone from the terrace.

Garoth, now in a dark-red hawk form, flexed his new wings and adjusted to this entirely different body.

No leaking dragon aura, no energy flare—then he pushed off and leaped soundlessly into the sky, riding natural updrafts, climbing evenly and steadily toward higher night air.

Below, the horizon burned with war—pools of red as if the land bled.

Faint explosions, spell detonations, and the mixed din of countless beings fighting and screaming dimmed as altitude increased, eventually fading into a dull background.

He—the raptor—left the noisy killfields and flew toward the silent deep sky to hunt.

One thousand meters, fifty thousand, ten thousand...

Atmospheric density thinned with altitude and temperatures plunged to levels that would snap normal creatures’ blood mid-flight. But for Garoth the transformed body’s inherent strength far exceeded mundane limits.

Dragon-qi supplied action energy, even substituting for breathing. Tiny scales under the feathers sealed heat, resisting spacelike cold.

He maintained steady ascent, occasionally adjusting wing angles.

Twenty thousand meters, thirty thousand, fifty thousand…

The world shrank below like a model; the winding Dragon River twined like glistening threads; burning battlefields became dim, flickering spots.

Clouds spread beneath like an endless grey-white carpet as the sky shifted toward black vacuum.

Stars brightened and thickened, as if a veil had been lifted.

In this realm Sky Eye’s standard detection still functioned, but it was concentrating over ninety percent of its sensing on battles below, monitoring the ten hotspots and continuously supporting them.

A lone hawk?

Against this high-altitude backdrop he was a speck.

Sky Eye’s secondary early-warning scanned and flagged the target as “unidentified flying creature, threat level: extremely low.” Under protocol, such low-threat objects were not prioritized unless behavior turned abnormal.

Garoth showed no abnormal actions.

Eighty thousand meters, one hundred thousand…

Here, even for a planet the size of Bernardo, the edge of orbital space was reached.

Cosmic radiation bore down unfiltered; vacuum cold and pressure were lethal to mere flesh. Only beings who tread legend could perform limited bodily transit through space, and even they had to weigh energy and state maintenance constantly.

Garoth hovered in the silent void, rotating his hawk head.

He calmly calculated distances.

Based on allied-provided Sky Eye specs, Theo’s magical-satellite danger-warning radius was roughly fifty kilometers.

Once inside, even with transformation and breath concealment, high-sensitivity magic detection arrays could spot him.

He did not rush. Like the most patient hunter, he prowled outside the alert radius, gently flapping wings and fine-tuning his position relative to likely satellite jump nodes, quietly waiting.

He knew the moment would come soon.

Ground battles below demanded Sky Eye pour out its power.

On the Ashen Plain, western sector, the fighting had reached fever pitch.

The thunderous roars and energy collisions ripped fissures across the plain.

Karu’s huge body shone with dark-red furious energy as he laughed and hit with four massive arms, each blow cracking earth.

Facing him, the human legendary Balor found himself grinding.

Balor’s domain shimmered with webbed cracks. His frost spear constantly emitted biting cold, forming great ice blades along Karu’s attack arcs to slow his momentum while the spear tip darted into gaps in the ogre’s defense.

Yet results were limited.

Karu was not alone.

Behind him marched Aola’s disciplined main legions.

Countless charged Aola warriors’ fervent battle intent and fanatical belief fed the Oath of Ten Thousand Armies' Command, merging into a surging energy torrent that continuously poured into Karu’s body, lifting him firmly to the legendary tier and still slowly increasing.

Balor also received his side’s formation boosts.

But the essence of Romanic nations’ formation magics—whether for defense, offense, or speed—shared one core: the mustering warriors needed to truly become one mind. The purer, firmer, and more unified the belief, the stronger the formation’s power.

In this aspect Aola’s soldiers outperformed overwhelmingly.

They chanted “For the Emperor!” “For Aola’s glory!” “Souls to the Hall of Heroic Spirits!” Throwing aside normal fear, they charged with a disquieting fanatic zeal and self-sacrifice.

In contrast, Theo troops, though brave and determined, carried fear of death and concern for family—complex emotions that diluted the purity of collective intent the formation required.

Thus, Aola’s formation boosted Karu more than Theo’s formation could boost Balor.

Balor knew this but was helpless.

Boom!

Another plain, heavy punch—wrapped in dark-red violent dragon-qi—smacked into Balor’s spear.

Balor’s domain finally collapsed with a tearing sound.

Massive force transmitted through the spear; Balor groaned as his body pitched back like a puppet cut, coughing blood that crystallized in the cold into a red mist with fragments of entrails.

His face drained pale; his breath visibly flagging.

“Human, I said you’d die here and become my stepping stone to greater strength!”

Karu’s low roar reverberated; his giant eyes locked on Balor’s disordered aura as he strode forward.

He ignored his own scabbed, flesh-peeling wounds—battle lust overrode all.

This was the perfect moment to crush and slay the Theo legend!

At nearly the same time in the command hall,

Rodrigo’s monitor of the western sector shook violently as Balor’s distress alarm blared.

The commander’s face tightened; his eyes sharpened.

He could not sit and watch a legend fall, especially a backbone like Balor.

In a flash he made a decision.

“Ashen Plain eastern sector—launch legendary-tier orbital strike! Target: Aola war commander!”

He gave the command.

High-orbit Sky Eye received it.

The precise artifices hidden in dimensional seams began to operate. To craft a legendary-tier energy strike it must fully emerge from the seam into the material space to guide the energy.

So at an orbital point roughly sixty kilometers from Garoth’s position,

space rippled like water and tore open.

A silver-white giant craft slowly protruded as if a whale surfacing—the apex of Theo’s alchemical engineering—fully revealed from the seam.

Two hundred meters long, an elegant prism shape, its surface etched with countless precise magical runes, energy conduits, and alchemical matrices reflecting starlight with pure metallic luster.

At its base a complex multi-recvoy magic array rapidly charged.

Dazzling energy condensed toward a point aimed at the Ashen Plain and the advancing Karu.

Theo’s eye had opened fully.

The instant it detached from the seam and the energy grids began charging,

the tiny hawk that had loitered in nearby space showed a hunter’s smile in its dark vertical pupils.

“Time to arrive!”

Disguise fell in an instant!

Dark-red feathers ignited into roaring flame; the small frame rapidly ballooned, stretched, and reconfigured!

Bones cracked, muscles surged, scales regrew!

This was not merely a reversion to the Red Iron Dragon’s original form, but an immediate shift into peak combat posture!

Rage! Bloodburst! Red Lotus! Fury!

Star Path Head! Star Path Arms! Star Path Armor!

A fearsome dragon over sixty meters long fully manifested in cold vacuum—blazing with flame, a tiny sun incarnate.

Compared to usual form, Garoth was now larger, muscles like braided steel, swirling with blood-red and dark-gold fury.

He had unfolded two heads and four arms.

His already vast wings now spanned over three hundred meters—like two burning banners behind him—forming a pressing blood-cross silhouette in space.

Boom!

No sound traveled in vacuum, but the energy explosion’s spatial ripples were visible.

Bloodlike flames erupted at his wing roots, and his wings tore through space, bruising the vacuum. He converted dragon-qi into thrust to propel himself and instantly became a crimson comet!

A blazing trail kilometers long streamed behind him, speed surpassing twenty kilometers per second and still accelerating wildly!

In near-unimpeded space, Garoth’s acceleration reached unimaginable rates as he rocketed toward the newly revealed silver satellite!

First second.

Sky Eye intelligence detected an anomaly.

“High-energy reaction detected rapidly approaching! Energy level: legendary! Match target: Aola Emperor!”

“Warning: target rapidly closing!”

On the ground, Rodrigo’s pupils shrank, though his face stayed composed.

Ordering the satellite back into the seam? Too slow—the Aola Emperor would not allow that chance. Rodrigo quickly weighed options and gave the order.

“Abort orbital strike! Initiate emergency defense protocol! Ready to teleport our legendaries!”

Second.

The satellite paused its strike guidance; all defensive rune arrays triggered.

Two and a half seconds.

Over three hundred composite magic shields deployed in layers—from outer physical deflection to mid-level energy absorption to inner spatial barriers—forming an almost perfect defense.

Almost simultaneously,

the fiery comet star, cloaked in flame and golden lightning, had closed to a hundred meters from the satellite.

Both heads gaped. A volcanic luminescence flickered from his belly, surging through his chest to both necks and into the open throats!

Transcendent: Destruction Dragon Breath!

Silent to the ear, two huge cross-sweeping streams of destructive energy—like godly flaming swords—cut at the multilayered shields!

Physical deflection fields violently warped and shattered!

The energy-absorption layer’s light flared and overloaded!

The dragon-breath torrent cleaved through defenses and slammed into the inner triple spatial barrier, finally halted.

Simultaneously Garoth’s great body lunged at the barrier where dragon-breath had punched a hole; his claws reached the barrier’s surface.

He reverse-jet wing energy to brake momentum; all four dragon claws rose! The death-silver runes along the claws seemed to move alive, claw tips glowed with dim light able to grasp spatial structure.

At predetermined satellite teleport nodes, dazzling light columns flared. Human forms materialized out of beams.

Four figures total, each exuding powerful legendary auras.

Four legendaries—one even beyond level 25—appeared across the satellite.

At that same moment, Garoth’s seemingly unimportant ancient ring on his wrist glowed darkly.

Ring of Despair—activated!

Space violently warped with no warning.

In a flash, the four Theo legendaries who had just materialized, together with two heroic-spirit figures that had appeared beside Garoth, were all sucked into the ring and vanished.

This was a noble spatial artifact.

The Red Iron Dragon Emperor scarcely glanced at the disappeared foes. His full attention roared toward the barrier.

Seizing the precious time while the Ring of Despair held enemies, his four claws clung to the barrier and unleashed a storm of brutal afterimages!

Claw strike! Claw strike! Again claw strike!

Time bled under a cascade of savage attacks.

Seconds later the barrier enveloping the satellite was riddled with deep black cracks, flickering with ominous light, like a fragile glass dome about to shatter.

Garoth’s right claw lifted one final time; the cold gleam at the talon tip condensed to the utmost, like a tiny star.

It fell!

Time seemed to pause that instant the claw met the barrier.

When time resumed, crash!!!!

The overwhelmed spatial barrier shattered into innumerable shimmering fragments that shot and dispersed.

Some fragments struck Garoth, tearing flesh from heavy scales and leaving wounds, but he did not slow.

He raised his right claw again and slammed it into the satellite’s armor plating.

The armor warped, tore, and detonated—massive noises fed back into Garoth’s senses.

A ten-meter-diameter hole blasted through the satellite’s side; interior structures spilled into vacuum, with sparks and leaking liquid energy spurting.

The whole satellite trembled and shifted orbit.

When Garoth withdrew his right claw from the hole, something lay in it—

a dull metal cube roughly three meters on each side.

Its surface etched with dense, complex spatial runes, many flickering due to a damaged core and chaotic energy circuits.

This was the satellite’s dimensional transfer rune array core.

Remove it and the satellite could no longer hide within dimensional seams.

At the same moment the Hall of Heroic Spirits’ light dimmed and space warped anew—four figures reappeared.

Theo’s legendaries, just freed back into space, watched as the Red Iron Dragon Emperor raised the dimensional transfer rune array and literally swallowed it, then turned and grinned at them.

Simultaneously the Hall of Heroic Spirits activated again.

Two heroic spirits reappeared, their glow dimmer but intact.

This was a top-tier pairing of the Hall and Ring of Despair.

Rather than kill, the tactic used immortal heroic spirits and the Ring to trap and delay foes—an approach the Luckbringer had never considered.

“Ignas, leave the satellite!”

The leading Theo legendary barked; his voice sounded clear in Garoth’s ears.

Garoth turned to look.

This man’s gaze was like a torch; lightly armored, sword held and a longbow slung his back; ordinary in looks but bristling with an acute edge.

Bosival, level 26 legendary, Fate Hunter—a hunter-ranger advancement.

From known intel, Garoth knew this man held the “Beast Slayer” trait—somewhat countering him.

He felt a slight danger and lacked total confidence to kill him on the spot. Besides, his objective had been achieved.

“You…”

Bosival seemed to want to say more.

Before he could finish, Garoth’s Ring of Despair glowed again.

This powerful artifact once belonging to Theo was now used on Theo’s own legendaries.

Hum!

Space twisted, and two heroic spirits and four legendaries vanished again.

Garoth inhaled deeply, shaped dragon-qi arms to seize the giant satellite, then beat his wings and rocketed back toward the planet’s surface at extreme speed.

When the Ring of Despair’s effect ended and Bosival and others reappeared in space, only Garoth’s distant silhouette remained—dragging the satellite, shrinking fast as he dove into the atmosphere.

They pursued with all their might.

But having lost the initial advantage they could not close the gap in time, and had to watch helplessly as the kingdom’s device was carried away and vanished into the horizon.

March 3rd, midnight.

Different places, utterly different scenes.

Theo capital, Silverglow City.

The annual Flower Bloom Festival reached its peak—magical fireworks blossomed into floral shapes above, mirroring real flower seas on the ground.

Streets swarmed; laughter threatened to lift rooftops.

People tossed colored powders, exchanged blessings, tasted fine foods and wine.

Headlines foretelling victory and a relatively stable rear made most forget the border fires for a while, immersed in festival joy and hope for a bright future.

Victory seemed within reach; the kingdom felt on the verge of a new prosperous era.

Ashen Plain, the front.

No festival here, only death.

Smoke, burnt earth, and blood formed a war-stench that would not leave.

The eastern sector, shredded by the white dragon’s breath, still bore unthawed ice; the western breach burned, lighting faces of combatants locked in mortal struggle.

Clashes, explosions, and dying groans rose and fell in the cold night wind, endless.

Suddenly.

The black sky split with an unexpectedly rapid brightening!

The light came from extreme heights.

At first a brightening dot like a falling star,

then its brightness and volume rapidly swelled until it became a huge fireball trailing a glorious, deadly tail.

It streaked like a space blossom and slammed down toward the Ashen Plain at unbelievable speed.

Boom!!!!

A sound beyond words and an impact that made the earth tremble.

The impact point struck open ground several kilometers in front of Ironwall Fortress.

A shockwave rolled up a tidal wave of dust. Fortress walls shook; internal buildings creaked under strain; some nearby watchtowers collapsed into ruins.

A massive impact crater opened on the plain.

Dust swirled.

One second later—whoosh! Gale blew the dust away.

A towering and majestic silhouette rose from the crater.

Under all those watching eyes the Red Iron Dragon Emperor stood vertical, wings spread behind, right claw raised high, holding an enormous metallic object several times his own size.

That was…Theo Kingdom’s magical satellite?!

The satellite’s metal shell glowed red under dragon-claw heat and atmospheric friction; damaged parts flickered with tiny sparks and smoke. Like a humble war trophy, it was held in the dragon’s claws and displayed before both armies.

A brief silence.

Soldiers on both Aola and Theo positions, on walls and in trenches, fell into stunned blankness.

What they saw defied reason and battered every assumption.

Then...

“...LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR!!!”

A cracked shout from an Aola gnoll soldier cut the silence.

Next moment, thunderous roars erupted like mountain-breaking tides across Ironwall Fortress and the frontlines.

“Long live His Majesty!!!”

“Aola forever!!!”

“Great Ignas!!! He plucked out Theo’s eye!!!”

“A miracle! This is a miracle!!!”

Soldiers smashed armor and waved weapons.

Gnolls craned necks and ogres pounded the ground with fists—eyes filled with pure adoration and fanaticism.

Their emperor had personally climbed the heavens, pulled down the enemy’s greatest weapon—the high eye that watched the battlefield and rained death and support—and hurled it to the earth before them.

This was not advantage nor victory.

This was a miracle!

Their emperor was also their god!

New Calendar Year 344, March 3rd, Flower Bloom Festival.

While Silverglow City basked in fireworks and laughter hoping for triumph, Aola used a full-line offensive as cover; the Red Iron Dragon Emperor Ignas personally transformed into hunter, slipped into the heavens, pried a strategic Theo magical satellite from orbital jaws with a single-dragon feat, and returned with the satellite like a war prize, crashing down in a meteor of fire and earth—stunning both armies.

ps: Burned it up, please vote! Vote! Hand over your votes!