Defeating the World with the Power of One Dragon!

Time slipped by quietly amid the unceasing flames of war across the Romanian nations.

Winter yielded to spring, the ice and snow melted, yet the ferocity of the battles on the plains did not cool much with the rising temperatures.

New Calendar 346, early February.

In the capital of Reebos, fine snow drifted across the sky.

The flakes were tiny and melted on contact, leaving only damp traces on rooftops and streets. Thin frost formed on the spires and arched windows of the palace complex, flashing white in the dim light.

The atmosphere inside the palace was colder than the weather outside.

Ever since Quine Heights fell the year before last, the Lothrian Kingdom had advanced like a juggernaut, pressing forward with unstoppable momentum.

They revealed the deep reserves befitting a former center of the Federation.

Disciplined legions, excellent equipment, hard-won combat experience, and soaring morale—one victory after another had pushed the confidence of the Lothrian forces to its peak, while Reebos retreated step by step, losing vast swathes of territory and several key strategic positions.

After repeated defeats, the mood inside Reebos had grown extremely grave.

Panic had begun to appear among the populace. Merchants hoarded supplies, some civilians in remote towns started migrating inland. In the court, the debate between hawks and doves grew louder, but no amount of argument could change the unfavorable situation at the front.

At this moment, inside the palace Council Hall,

King Anto Kroan of Reebos sat on the throne like a silent iron statue.

He appeared to be in his fifties, though age alone did not capture his nature, for he was himself a legendary figure who lived within the palace and was not inclined toward battlefield command.

The king’s features were stern and well-defined, his short dark-gray hair combed precisely. Now, a pair of gray eyes, set deep in their sockets, stared at the battle reports spread across the long table before him.

One by one, the reports showed a string of defeats.

“January 15th, the defense line east of Iron Valley was breached. The Third Legion suffered over fifty percent casualties and retreated thirty miles.”

“January 22nd, the Blackwater River ford fell; the enemy established a bridgehead.”

“January 28th, flanking harassment forces ambushed, suffering severe losses.”

...

Reading these reports, King Anto’s face showed no expression, only his breathing sounded somewhat oppressed.

“Your Majesty,” a general in heavy armor rose from his seat, “Lothrian rides the momentum of great victories, their morale is soaring, and their spearhead is nearly irresistible.”

“We must make a decision.”

“I recommend issuing an emergency dispatch to our two main knight orders, ordering them to abandon their original harassment plans and return to reinforce immediately.”

“We need to rebuild the defensive line outside Iron Valley.”

“The terrain there is narrow, easy to defend and hard to attack; perhaps it can stall the enemy’s advance.”

At these words, a shadow of gloom and agitation flickered in Anto’s eyes.

If the Iron Valley line fell, and Lothrian broke through the subsequent defenses, they would strike straight for the capital with no sanctuary left.

But the general was right—this was the best among bad options.

“What about news from Sax and Cambruk?” Anto did not answer the general directly. Instead he turned to the foreign minister.

A civil-official-dressed minister rose: “Your Majesty, warfare across the nations has reached a white-hot stage. They are currently preoccupied and unable to spare troops to help us.”

Anto’s fingers tightened until his knuckles blanched.

Among the nations, only Aola and Theo are presently free from war.

That was because Aola had already won; after a series of tit-for-tat negotiations, the conflict had essentially reached its end. The Theo Kingdom would likely not rise to counterattack.

Lothrian’s outreach to Aola had proven decisive at a critical moment.

That wilderness nation—Aola—so privately ridiculed by many as a land of barbarians had become the pivotal chess piece in the war!

Damn it, if not for Aola’s complete restraint and, one might say, the crushing of Theo’s legions, Reebos—who could have gained Theo’s support—ought to have held the upper hand against Lothrian.

Reality, however, proved otherwise. The Red Emperor’s deeds were simply incredible.

He had only recently become a legendary, his tier low, yet he could not be treated as an ordinary legendary. The other legendaries under his kingdom were few, but not insignificant.

The fall of Quine Heights was triggered in part by support from the Fang of Aola.

“When Aola first rose, I should have spared no expense to court them.”

“No—actually, even before the war truly ignited, we had opportunities to court Aola. They had just gained a foothold in the wilderness and needed allies and recognition...”

Regret swelled in Anto’s heart; this was not the first time he had felt this.

Back then, based on intelligence from diplomat Aaron and profile analyses by their experts of the Red Emperor’s character, they could have made firm judgments.

If Reebos had offered sufficient incentives, Aola might not have become a steadfast ally of Lothrian, but at least could have remained neutral in the key moments.

Yet, in the end, Reebos had looked down on Aola—the wilderness kingdom.

The Reebos nobility, including the king himself, generally regarded it as a ragtag coalition of barbarians and monsters.

Dragons were certainly powerful, but a state made up of various monsters? It sounded like a joke. If they could maintain internal stability, that would be enough—what decisive role could they play?

The result exceeded everyone’s expectations.

When news first reached Reebos that the Red Emperor had destroyed a satellite in space, Anto felt a pang of unease.

Soon after came reports of the Red Emperor becoming a blazing star breaking through passes, killing enemies amid encirclement, showing an apparent undying trait. Anto’s regret peaked.

But now, regret came too late.

Aola had steadfastly aligned with Lothrian and had struck Reebos a heavy blow on the battlefield.

“Dirik.”

Anto spoke suddenly, gazing toward a legendary standing in the corner of the hall.

The man wore a deep-blue robe. He was a shapeshifter who looked young but was likely over a hundred years old. He had taken part in the siege against the Red Emperor and was the only Reebos legendary who had seen Garoth's fighting style up close.

“If you had thrown everything at him then, was there any chance you could have killed the Red Emperor?” Anto asked.

The shapeshifter raised his head, recalling that battle. His gaze grew complicated, and finally he slowly shook his head.

“Your Majesty, the most likely result would have been my death there. The Red Emperor would have paid a heavy price, but with his bewildering resurrection ability he would likely still have achieved victory—only the process would have been more troublesome and time-consuming.”

He spoke quietly, still shaken by the memory.

Anto narrowed his eyes and changed his question: “If we had known in advance that the Red Emperor could resurrect, and assuming he could only resurrect once, with the forces you had then and thorough preparations, what would the odds have been?”

Dirik considered carefully for a few seconds.

“If the Red Emperor had no other hidden cards and we exclude the downstream effects of his subordinate legions, and if we had laid meticulous plans in advance, then we would have had about a seventy percent chance to encircle and kill him.”

He paused, adding, “But, Your Majesty, that is only a theoretical deduction.”

“I suspect he had many more skills unexercised.”

“That Shield of Theo—Rod’s judgement was correct. The Red Emperor appears arrogant but is actually extremely cautious and remarkably intelligent.”

“The fact he dared to break through alone suggests he had absolute confidence in his hand—some trump we do not know.”

Anto frowned slightly.

He trusted Dirik’s judgement. The shapeshifter was experienced and cautious; his assessments tended to match reality.

Thus the king regretted even more his failure to decisively court Aola earlier.

Finally, Anto waved his hand to halt other ministers who wanted to speak.

“Today’s meeting is adjourned. All departments will follow emergency protocols: prioritize stabilizing the rear, gather supplies, strengthen defenses of the capital and major cities. Dismissed.”

Ministers and generals exchanged looks. Some opened their mouths to speak but swallowed their words. They rose, bowed, and filed out in silence, disappearing down the corridor.

The vast Council Hall was left with Anto alone.

He sat on the throne, motionless, as if truly a statue of iron.

Outside, fine snow continued to fall silently.

After a long while, the king slowly rose.

He descended the throne steps and approached an ordinary wall on the inner side of the hall.

The wall was assembled from dark materials and hung with portrait paintings of previous kings—unremarkable at first glance.

Anto reached out and pressed several inconspicuous wooden knobs in sequence.

Third, seventh, second, fifth—the order corresponded to the founding king’s birth date.

A flash of magical light, and the wall slid inward silently, revealing a deep stone stairwell descending below.

Anto entered and the wall closed soundlessly behind him.

The stairway was not long. After about thirty steps, it ended.

There was a modest-sized secret chamber. The walls, ceiling, and floor were made of a dull, light-absorbing metal, etched with dense protective runes that blocked prophecy, scrying, and teleportation.

The furnishings inside were simple.

A square metal table, two chairs of the same material, and on the table a dark-gold crystal orb about the size of a fist—nothing else.

Anto sat at the table and did not move immediately, calming his inner turbulence.

After a few seconds, he extended his right hand and covered the orb with his palm.

The orb trembled slightly, light shining from within, growing brighter.

Anto removed his hand and watched.

The glow expanded until, about a foot above the orb, a clear projection formed, revealing the upper-body outline of a man.

The man wore dark official robes of fine silk, with intricate silver-line embroidery along the collar and cuffs. His face was clean-shaven with slightly high cheekbones, and he wore a delicate monocle perched on the bridge of his nose.

His eyes behind the lens were narrow, his gaze composed and gentle.

His background appeared to be a study, tall bookshelves faintly visible, gold-stamped titles on spines blurred.

“Anto Kroan.”

The projected man spoke first, his voice steady and courteous.

“It seems not much time has passed since our last contact. Your front appears to be in dire straits, otherwise you would not have opened this channel at this hour.”

“Minister Winston.”

Anto replied in a low voice, acknowledging the identity.

Winston was a minister of the Halden Empire in charge of diplomatic affairs, overseeing relations with neighboring nations.

Anto skipped formalities and went straight to the point: “After the fall of Quine Heights and Lothrian’s successive victories, they have now pushed to the outskirts of Iron Valley. I request more support from the Empire.”

During the First Civil War, Reebos held the upper hand largely thanks to Halden’s covert assistance.

Those secret weapons—even strategic-level tools—originated from Halden.

Minister Winston listened silently, his face expressionless. When Anto finished, he remained quiet for a moment before speaking slowly.

“Your Majesty Anto, the Empire expresses regret over the setbacks your nation faces. Wars have ebbs and flows; a temporary defeat does not determine the final outcome.”

“However, regarding the support you request, forgive my frankness—at this stage, the Empire is unlikely to meet your needs.”

Anto’s heart sank.

He controlled his tone to prevent disappointment from showing and asked, “Why?”

“Our original agreement was based on jointly containing Lothrian’s expansion and maintaining the Empire’s influence over the Romanian Plains,” Winston said.

“Now that Lothrian’s offensive is fierce, if Reebos suffers irreparable damage or is destroyed, it will be difficult to effectively check Lothrian.”

“Would a Lothrian Kingdom unified across the Romanian Plains serve the Empire’s interests?”

Winston pushed his monocle up the bridge of his nose.

“Your Majesty Anto, please understand the Empire’s strategic calculus is dynamic, not fixed.”

“One major reason we supported your nation before was the presence of that Holy King of Lothrian.”

“We cannot determine whether he is dead or alive.”

“And at the time the Lothrian Federation was sizable with high potential.”

“In the Empire’s risk assessment, the Lothrian Federation was labeled an unstable factor needing preemptive containment. Therefore the Empire was willing to invest resources to support Reebos to balance power on the plains.”

“But,” Winston’s tone shifted, “the situation has changed.”

“We can now be certain the Lothrian Holy King is dead—completely dead. He may have transformed into a holy spirit, but that transformation is irreversible, effectively announcing he can never return in human form, nor achieve Immortal status.”

“A legendary who no longer has the potential to ascend to Immortal status is a markedly reduced threat.”

Winston continued: “As for the Federation of Romanian nations, it has disintegrated during prior wars and fragmented.”

“Currently, no kingdom has the potential, prestige, or strength to reunify them. In the Empire’s overall assessment, this region has been downgraded by several tiers.”

He looked at Anto, whose expression shifted, and said: “Accordingly, the degree of support for your nation must be adjusted.”

“The Empire will not commit excessive resources to endeavors lacking meaningful returns.”

“Moreover, our vision has never been limited to this corner of the Romanian Plains.”

“The Atlantis Continent, even the entire planet Bernardo, and outer planes beyond are the true focuses of our attention, where there are greater opportunities and challenges.”

Hearing this, Anto felt burning anger surge inside him, but it was overshadowed by powerlessness.

He knew Winston spoke the truth.

To an empire as mighty as Halden, the Romanian Plains were indeed a small corner. Events here would not sustain the high-level attention of the Empire unless they involved major stakes.

Still, Anto could not accept it.

“If Lothrian wins this war, their development will certainly accelerate. Their national strength and prestige will increase, and they might even rebuild the Federation. Isn’t that a threat?”

Winston shook his head slightly.

“That is a matter for the future, Your Majesty Anto.”

“Perhaps a hundred years, perhaps a thousand, or even longer. The Empire currently has more pressing affairs to handle.”

He paused for a few seconds, weighing his words, and finally decided to reveal some information to pry Reebos loose from illusion and accept reality.

“Since you asked for an explanation...”

“I can tell you this: the Empire’s Abyssal Development Plan has recently encountered some unexpected minor issues.”

Anto’s brows knit: “Minor issues?”

His voice carried skepticism—something that could cause the Halden Empire to adjust strategic posture was unlikely to be minor.

“Yes. By the Empire’s standards, they are minor issues.”

Winston remained calm. “To resolve these issues and ensure the development plan is not disrupted, a considerable number of legendaries have been dispatched to the Abyss front, leaving them unable to attend to other matters.”

“The Empire’s main focus is currently on handling Abyssal affairs.”

That did not sound minor at all.

Anto shuddered inwardly.

He of course knew of the Empire’s ambitious Abyssal Development Plan.

It was a grand project designed to establish stable channels between the Material Plane and the Abyssal Plane, extracting limitless resources and power to compete with the Nausil Elven Empire.

The Empire had poured massive resources, top-tier elites, and countless manpower into it.

If something went wrong there...

A sudden pang of fear gripped the Reebos king; he dared not think further.

The Abyss was one of the most dangerous, most chaotic places across the multiverse—bridging countless layers of existence, crawling with demons, fiends, and unspeakable horrors.

If an Abyssal channel ran amok, the consequences would be unthinkable.

But the Halden Empire was so powerful—they should be able to handle problems, shouldn’t they? Anto thought, hoping for reassurance.

On the other side, Winston summarized: “So that is the situation.”

“Time may introduce new variables. Maybe Lothrian will make mistakes after victory, maybe new balances will arise on the plains. But at least in the foreseeable future, until the Empire fully resolves the Abyss issues, do not expect substantial Empire support.”

His words were polite but unequivocal.

Reebos must rely on itself.

Anto fell silent.

After a long moment, Winston’s voice broke the pause.

“May you and your kingdom weather this crisis.”

He inclined his head slightly; the projection blurred. “Your Majesty Anto, take care. The Empire hopes to see a resilient Reebos continue to exist on the plains, serving as an important pillar of regional stability.”

With that, the projection vanished.

The secret chamber fell into a deathly silence.

Anto sat alone on the cold metal chair and did not rise at once.

He stared at the crystal orb, his gaze hollow.

“A resilient Reebos...”

He repeated Winston’s last sentence softly, letting a bitter smile cross his lips.

The implication was painfully clear.

The Empire hoped Reebos and Lothrian would continue to exhaust each other until both were severely weakened, leaving the Empire’s long-term interests unthreatened.

Whether Reebos were utterly destroyed or merely left broken mattered little to the Empire—neither posed a threat.

But Anto felt deep exhaustion.

Not physical—an emptiness of spirit.

Two wars had drained the kingdom’s coffers and consumed countless soldiers’ lives, turning much land to scorched earth.

Before him, he could see no hope of victory.

He did not wish to continue bleeding his people dry.

Not from mercy, but because reason told him that pressing on would only strip the kingdom of its last blood with no gain.

“Defeat cannot be reversed now....

“In that case, swallow this bitter pill first. Preserve what strength remains, and wait for the future.”

The Reebos king sighed and decided to sue for peace.

Proposing negotiations now would certainly come at great cost, but it was better than waiting until Lothrian reached the capital’s walls to make that plea.