Defeating the World with the Power of One Dragon!

New Calendar 462, late spring.

Central Continent, north of the Unir Mountain Range.

An undulating ridge stretched ahead like the spine of a giant beast, clouds clinging between peaks. Occasionally a bird swept by, emitting a sharp cry.

On the far side of the range, the rift spewing Abyssal energy yawned.

The Romania Northern Legion was deploying within the mountains.

This was a massive army, composed of multiple races and kingdoms.

The army advanced along prearranged routes.

At the very front, four enormous alchemical constructs plodded forward. These super-giant machines resembled spiders, forged entirely from magic alloy. They clung to the steep cliffs; the tips of their mechanical legs were sharp drills that bit deep into rock. Then, with a series of buzzing tremors, the mountain itself was reshaped like putty.

The Earth Manipulator, the Terra Spiders.

It was originally a strategic weapon of the Lothrian Kingdom, used to rapidly build defenses or open roads in wartime. Later, the Aola Kingdom acquired the manufacturing technique and, after improvements, produced three Terra Spiders, while Lothrian remade one from the original design.

By comparison, Aola’s three Terra Spiders seemed more lively.

Their movements were smoother; their eye-like sensors rotated from time to time, scanning the surroundings. They made more articulate limb gestures, as if they had their own thoughts.

Wherever they passed, the terrain was rapidly altered.

Steep slopes were carved into gentle inclines; narrow crevices were filled to become solid roadbeds... The Terra Spiders cut through mountains and filled waters, forcibly opening a broad path suitable for a warhost through the perilous terrain.

The sky was occupied by a variety of flying units.

Dragons were the most conspicuous presence.

Dragons of different hues circled beneath the clouds—red dragons, blue dragons, green dragons, black dragons—their scales refracting brilliant light in the sun. When their dragon wings unfurled, they shaded large swathes of sky, casting huge, fleeting shadows across the ground.

Beneath the dragons were other nations’ aerial forces.

Griffon riders, giant-eagle cavalry, alchemical flying wheels, aerial golems...

Creatures and steel alike, every sort was present.

Together they wove a net that covered the sky.

On the ground, the vast warhost marched along the roads carved by the Terra Spiders.

The Matna Kingdom’s golem corps led the vanguard.

The goblins of that kingdom were short, averaging under 1.2 meters, but their alchemy was renowned. Their army was almost entirely composed of various golems.

Humanoid combat golems wielded long halberds or heavy swords, marching in strict formation with steam hissing at their joints; transport golems looked like huge iron oxen, bearing alchemical equipment and radiating weight with every step; tiny beetle-like floating golems, the size of fists, served as sentries and message-bearers, buzzing back and forth under their goblin handlers’ commands.

Behind them came the dwarves.

They wore full plate armor, each suit bearing the distinct sheen of dwarf forging. Battle axes and hammers hung at their waists, shields engraved with clan sigils. Their march was brisk and compact; even their mounts wore armor.

And every piece of armor and weapon bore the dwarf makers’ marks.

In outfit-making craftsmanship, Cambruk’s dwarves were unmatched. Even with the technical knowledge Aola had acquired, it could not surpass the dwarves’ unique bloodline talents, which no later learning could fully replicate.

Following them were the Reebos, Morien, and Theo legions.

They numbered many, clad in armor and armed. Their formations were disciplined and complete, with balanced proportions of infantry, cavalry, archers, and mages, and they too fielded golems.

But all of the above were secondary.

The largest contingent by far was Aola’s warhost.

The Red Emperor had unified the Northern Borders; the Aola Kingdom sat at the center, leading the allied nations, and its development over the past decades had been explosive.

The Starbreaker Maul warhost marched at the very front.

This was Aola’s ace unit—entirely heavy troops, average height exceeding four meters, wearing custom heavy armor etched with runes that lightened weight and strengthened defense. Their weapons were massive war hammers or battle axes forged from refined steel, runes flickering, or complex alchemical arms like flame-spewing great axes or electricity-emitting mauls.

Their weapons were uniformly superb.

The Crimson Iron Riders were deployed along the warhost’s wings.

These cavalry were mainly centaurs mixed with a few other mounted types, armed to the teeth and clad in uniform silver cuirasses with high physical and magical resistance. Lightness runes engraved on their armor did not impede charge speed, and their lances and mounts revealed an unstoppable edge.

Aside from these elites,

there was an Aola human legion mixed among the nonhuman races.

They were broad-shouldered and strong, each seeming hand-picked from elite warriors, muscles taut, faces stern, bearing armor without sag or slack.

This was the Aola royal human contingent.

Unlike the human troops from vassal kingdoms, they swore direct allegiance to Aola; they were pure-bred Aolans.

Within Aola’s warhost there were also golems.

These alchemical constructs differed from Matna’s or other human kingdoms’ styles.

They were more minimalist, with crisp lines and a utilitarian focus.

They were intelligent golems.

Curiously, some humans or goblins sat within small cabins on the golems’ shoulders.

Those were not cockpits—there were no control devices, only simple seats and viewing windows. They merely stroked the hulls, as if soothing living creatures. Kobolds fussed around the golems, wiping dust from their bodies and inspecting joints and runes.

The scene felt contradictory.

Yet alongside that contradiction there was a strange sense of sanctity.

Dragons circled and repeated their patrols in the sky.

Among them one figure stood out most clearly.

The Red Emperor, lord of Aola, Garoth Ignas.

He was larger and more powerful than any surrounding dragon. In the dragon swarm he was like a blazing sun held by stars; even when his dragon might was restrained, it still shone fiercely, compelling other dragons to instinctively keep their distance in reverence.

Beside the Red Emperor,

Aola’s Iron Royal Duke Sorog and the Fire Royal Duke Samantha kept slightly higher altitudes and matching headings, like the emperor’s right and left arms.

“You and the allied representatives just concluded a long-distance communiqué and negotiation,” Sorog’s voice came on the wind.

Garoth inclined his crest slightly, signaling him to continue.

“The first battle must be decisive: four fronts, simultaneous strike,” Sorog reported in a concise tone. “The decision-makers believe we should not merge forces to avoid confusion, and to save complications like disputes over command, intersecting supply lines, and friction between different warhosts.”

He paused, then added:

“We also considered that, even if a wartime alliance is formed, the allied forces are so large and have never operated together before; smooth cooperation would be difficult.”

“Rather than internal friction and elbowing, it’s better to fight the Abyss under the premise of keeping separate operations—each responsible for one direction, maintaining relative independence. It lacks coordination, but at least we won’t be fighting our own people.”

At this, Samantha emitted an excited low roar.

“I can’t wait. I want to show them our strength, to make them understand who will dominate the Central Continent in the future.”

“After the demons are dealt with, it will be their turn.”

She was already encased in armor, her face covered as well, resembling an iron dragon.

Her armor was crafted of black-and-red magic metal, fitting every curve of her dragon body. Flexible joints allowed movement, and the surface was carved with runes that shimmered with a somber glow.

She was ready for battle.

Notably, her armor incorporated material from the Red Emperor’s body, making its attributes far superior to ordinary legendary cuirasses.

“The more complex a plan, the easier it is to err. This simplicity is good—straightforward: all attacks simultaneous, pressure from four directions. Each fights independently, yet they can support each other,” Garoth said.

Sorog lowered his tone: “That’s true. However, once positions are set, those above Legendary—especially someone of your rank, Garoth—should first confer to clarify tasks and attack tempo to avoid conflicts.”

Garoth slightly lifted his crest.

“Perfect timing. I want to see the Tri-Crowns of the Eastern Alliance and the Crown of Magic from the Southern Domain. I’ve heard of them long ago, but never met.”

Both were not trivial figures.

The former, Varta Cedric, had elevated three martial monk paths to crowned rank. That was not a mere stacking; it wasn’t one plus one equals two. He even attempted a Mandate of Heaven breakthrough once—failed, but still ranked near the top among Crowned figures.

The latter, Afra Russell, was a rare crowned spellcaster.

Across the Atlantis Continent, aside from the Halden Empire, she was the only one to reach crowned level purely through magic; her prestige was unquestionable.

Rumor said she could conjure objects from nothing and even open large channels to other planes, summoning elemental armies or celestial forces.

Before long,

the allied warhosts all reached their assigned positions, completing the encirclement of the Abyssal Rift.

The Romania legion had crossed the Unir Range and arrayed along the northern edge of the plain.

The Red Emperor hovered high above, his gaze sweeping over the wastes, falling upon the fortress below. Ahead of him the Aola dragon contingent circled in formation; on the ground ogres, ogre elites, centaurs, and human legions fanned out in layered ranks; golem phalanxes stood like a forest.

Western banners fluttered on the plain’s west side.

Kaelzorg’s blue dragonflight held the skies, and above them the Western nations’ mixed warhost. Further forward, a thunderstorm-like presence could be felt—this was the Lord of Thunder Lamorein and two other Ancient Dragons.

The Natacro warhost arrayed on the plain’s east side.

Besides ordinary warriors and knights, the most striking presence was the army-scale body of martial monks, standing before the formation with long, synchronized breath, their auras dense and unified, as if one with the earth.

A figure sat in quiet meditation atop a makeshift platform.

He was a middle-aged martial monk of unremarkable appearance—the sort who would be lost in a crowd—but when he closed his eyes and placed his hands on his knees, the surrounding aura seemed to move with his breath, making him look as if he were the center of heaven and earth and everything else revolved around him.

Varta Cedric, the Tri-Crowns of the Farrel Kingdom.

He was the most powerful martial monk among the Natacro nations, without rival.

The Salud warhost occupied the south.

A tall magic tower hovered about fifty meters above ground, built from white stone and etched with glowing magical runes.

On each tier of the tower, many spellcasters stood on alert.

Below them, formations of warriors and knights were arrayed.

In terms of caster proportion, the Southern Domain clearly outnumbered the other alliances.

At the top of the magic tower, a figure stood by a window.

She was a human woman in deep-blue robes embroidered with intricate sigils that faintly glowed with her breath.

Her face appeared youthful and vibrant, her skin smooth, looking no older than thirty.

But her eyes... were deep blue as the sea, calm as ancient waters, bearing a sedimented quality betraying true age.

Afra Russell, the Crown of Magic of the Southern Domain.

Her gaze pierced through the window, settling on the distant rift, her face mostly expressionless, focused and appraising.

Four warhosts, from four directions, surrounded the Abyssal Rift at the center.

A magical communication link connected the four fronts.

North: the Red Emperor, Garoth Ignas.

West: the Lord of Thunder, Lamorein.

East: the Tri-Crowns, Varta Cedric.

South: the Crown of Magic, Afra Russell.

Besides these acknowledged strongest figures, other attendees included previously appointed decision representatives or slightly weaker crowned legendaries, but they all stood back consciously, ceding leadership to these four.

In the projection, the Red Iron Dragon stood atop a mountain peak; that was the real background of his current position.

Lamorein’s projection hovered at his side, stormlike energy crackling, arcs of electricity dancing across his scales. Varta’s projection sat cross-legged with eyes half-closed; when he opened them, a bright glint flashed. Afra’s projection stood to the side, her hair motionless as if in an energy field.

Silence held for two seconds as they observed one another.

Then Afra spoke first.

“You can hear the land’s joyous and sorrowful cries.”

“The energy accumulation deep within the rift is accelerating. The spatial structure is becoming increasingly stable. Within at least eight days, it’s unlikely but possible a new demon champion will pass through; within a month, the rift will be large enough to allow small demons to pass.”

“Everyone knows what a Greater Demon means.”

She paused, eyes sweeping across all present.

“We cannot wait any longer.”

“Every day of delay strengthens the opposing forces and reduces our chances. We must destroy the fortress and seal the rift before a more powerful demon arrives.”

Lamorein bared his teeth in a grin.

In his projection he was more flamboyant; lightning flashed in his mouth. “Then fight. Why dawdle? The warhosts are in place, my dragon kin are impatient. Demon flesh may taste bad, but it’s rich in energy—good for growth.”

He looked at Garoth, a sly glint in his dragon eye.

“Red Emperor, I’ve always wanted to see your dragonqi bomb in person. I heard one shot can level a mountain. Why not try it on the fortress first to make a show and force those cowardly things out? If it’s all smoke and mirrors and you don’t want to look bad, forget I said anything.”

The words sounded rather provocative.

What did Lamorein want?

Garoth glanced at him and understood.

The Helmod Dragonflight had declared war on Aola before it became a settled nation.

To outsiders, blue dragons and Garoth were competitors, perhaps enemies.

This fellow likely intended to play a double-act—displaying hostility to lower others’ guards, making humans believe dragons are divided and thus relax.

“Lord of Thunder,” Garoth’s voice was calm, betraying no anger, “I’ve heard tales of your wrath, thunderfall like disaster. Why not let your fury taste the demons first? Your lightning covers a broader area and is better suited to clearing cannon fodder.”

His words contained a slight provocation as well.

Seeing Garoth read his intentions, the Ancient Dragon’s eyes flickered with satisfaction; he regarded Garoth as a kindred dragon.

At the same time Varta, the Tri-Crowns, opened his eyes.

For the instant they opened, brilliant light flowed within them like stars being born and extinguished in the pupils, then they returned to a steady deep brown.

That brief phenomenon caused a chill in all who saw it.

“Inappropriate.” He spoke slowly, in a resonant, steady voice. “Your Majesties, please remain patient.”

Lamorein bared his teeth, and the lightning in his projection surged: “Human, what do you mean? Afraid we dragons will steal the limelight? Or think us unfit?”

His tone remained taunting.

To the uninformed Lamorein seemed an impetuous, brainless dragon—arrogant, crude, easily provoked and used.

Varta ignored the provocation and shook his head.

“It’s not about limelight. The timing is wrong.”

He turned to Garoth and said: “His Majesty Ignas, I’ve heard of your dragonqi bomb. Its destructive power is indeed tremendous. But judging by subsequent battle records of youth seventy years hence, its precision to directly collapse a demon fortress may be somewhat lacking.”

Garoth’s dragonqi bomb relied mainly on sheer dragonqi.

As a crowned martial monk, Varta was not a dragon and lacked dragonqi, but all life-force converges; his perception and comprehension of qi were top-tier, so his judgment was nearly certain.

“Furthermore, the fortress is too close to the rift.”

“Your Majesty Ignas, forgive my bluntness.”

“I believe you are stronger than before. Forty years of time may not mean much to other dragons, but it is enough for you to improve greatly.”

“However, I can see your control of qi is imprecise; you depend on vast dragonqi reserves and winning by volume. That is your race’s advantage and your extraordinary physique—dragonqi vast and overwhelming. This is natural, it is your gift.”

“But if the fortress shields the rift now, even if your dragonqi bomb can demolish the fortress, imprecise control could affect the rift itself.”

The Tri-Crowns spoke plainly, without beating around the bush.

Saying Garoth’s qi control was coarse was not an insult, just a fact.

After all, Garoth’s combat rank was not yet Legendary.

He had spent much of his life sleeping, and a dragon’s sleep increases life level but not path rank. Dragons rely primarily on body and claws; Garoth had focused more on bodily cultivation than path training—reaching his current rank was already rapid progress.

At that moment the Crown of Magic Afra took the floor.

“Lord Varta is correct. The rift is not merely a space tear; it is a channel linking the Abyss and the Material Plane, inherently unstable. If it suffers an excessively violent energy shock, it may be stimulated to expand faster, bringing more and stronger demons early.”

Their reasoning was sound.

“My dragonqi bomb has evolved into the Dragon Emperor Interdimension. Its power is greater and its spatial destructive capacity increased, and its precision has improved.”

“However, it still cannot be guaranteed to never impact the rift.”

Garoth thought for a moment.

He then inclined his crest toward the two crowned figures: “Reasonable.”

“To be prudent, I will not casually bombard the demon fortress or the rift. I will reserve that move for a critical moment or until I am sure it will not cause negative side effects.”

The Lord of Thunder cocked his head at Varta, then at Afra, and finally looked at Garoth, glancing at him for a second.

Garoth roughly deciphered his expression:

[Very well, keep your dragonqi bomb for a key moment to demonstrate to those human crowned figures!]

“Fine. Your caution has its reason.”

Lamorein, unconcerned whether others believed him, continued his crude, barbaric act. He flicked his tail, lightning in the projection crackling: “But human allies, I speak plainly first.”

“Those filthy demon scum—I don’t have much contact with them, but it’s enough.”

“They include some truly tough ones, thick-skinned, fearless, fighting crazily and slyly. For ordinary races, encountering such ferocious demons one-on-one at equal rank is basically suicide.”

He paused, tone confident.

“But that’s for mere legendaries. For us dragons? In whatever plane—Material, Abyss, or Hell—dragons are top-tier. At the same levels, dragons’ win rate against any demon is below ten percent.”

“So don’t expect us to mop everything up for you.”

Lamorein’s projection leaned closer and said: “Start quickly. Don’t dawdle. I just want to resolve this rift, and afterward... hehe, to be fair, after our alliance ends I’ll give you time to rest and prepare, fairness and all.”

“Then we’ll contest the Central Continent.”

“I’ll show you why dragons are mighty! Why we ruled the skies for countless ages in ancient times!”

Cunning fellow...

Garoth thought.

Without prior communication or knowledge of Lamorein, one might easily take him for a brash and arrogant dragon and underestimate his guile—that was precisely his intent.

Let them underestimate rather than overestimate.

The human leaders gave no reply to the Lord of Thunder.

Lamorein’s words were bragging, but not entirely false.

Dragons as a species were never to be underestimated in any world or plane.

Afra shook her head gently.

She murmured: “The demons’ advantage lies not in single combats but in numbers and their disregard for death.”

“They can sustain heavy casualties without morale collapse because chaos is their nature. Death is even a pleasure to many demons, and...”

She paused, eyes turning toward the rift.

“Have any of you considered whether these demons are all there are?”

“They are only the vanguard,” Garoth said. “Stronger beings are behind them; they’re establishing forward bases to secure landing points for subsequent forces.”

Afra nodded.

“Exactly.”

“If this were merely a natural calamity, Halden would not abandon the Central Continent.”

“What is Halden as a force? An empire capable of lifting entire cities into the sky; a hegemon carving territory in the Abyss, with deep reserves and many powerful figures. Would they be driven off by a single rift? Would they easily give up the continent?”

Lamorein’s smile vanished, his expression serious.

He widened his eyes and asked: “You mean Halden knows something bigger is behind this? The fall of their Sky City and other reasons—not just demons invading?”

Afra gave the blue dragon a sidelong look.

“The world itself is not silent. Our world has will, and I know some ways to listen.”

“Among the myriad noises I collected, I organized some information.”

“Though fuzzy, the direction is clear.”

Her expression grew grave.

“Behind these demons, at most there’s a lord.”

“Not necessarily an Abyssal Lord, but at least a demonic lord.”

In the Abyss there are primarily two kinds of lords.

One is an Abyssal Lord, who directly rules a layer, the supreme lord of that domain, able to marshal the entire layer’s power. Such lords can rival true gods and rank among the highest beings across planes.

The other is a demon lord.

They have territories in the Abyss but do not unify a layer; they are secondary lords, their sphere perhaps only part of a layer or a miniature plane. Even so, secondary lords are demon-king-level beings, equivalent to Immortal life.

The Crown of Magic continued: “Do not doubt my judgment.”

“If we leave the rift unchecked, within a year at most a Greater Demon will arrive; within three years a demon-king-level being could cross planes. By then, our world may face collapse.”

Lamorein growled roughly: “Is it that dangerous? Then why does Halden act like they don’t care?”

“Are they just watching the world end?”

Afra sighed and said: “They probably aren’t unwilling to act, but they cannot.”

At that moment the Red Iron Dragon spoke, breaking the tense atmosphere.

“No matter what lies behind the rift—demon lord or Abyssal Lord—our objective is the same.”

“Tear out this rift. Cut its channel to the Material Plane.”

“When the stronger entity tries to arrive, it will face a sealed rift rather than a fortress foothold.”

The Tri-Crowns slowly nodded.

“Per the plan, other legendaries will lead their warhosts in probing attacks to test defenses, inflict attrition, and force demon champions out—at least to identify their general type—then we will strike.”

Afra added: “In the Material Plane the demons are weaker than in the Abyss.”

“This is our home turf. The advantage is ours; barring surprises, we will prevail.”

Garoth scowled slightly at her, displeased with confident pre-battle pronouncements.

The Red Iron Dragon did not directly contradict but supplemented: “Don’t be so absolute.”

“These demons are prepared. We cannot be careless; prepare for a hard fight.”

“They do not fear death, but our lives are unique and more precious. We must not waste them.”

Hearing this, the other crowned figures showed odd expressions.

One life only?

It was true, but coming from Garoth it sounded off; everyone here knew how the title Undying Dragon had arisen.

Afra nodded and said nothing further, taking his warning.

Halden drew a deep breath and intoned: “That will be all. Strategy decided; now we execute. The future of the Atlantis Continent hinges on our next actions.”

“For Atlantis, for our future.”

Lamorein shook his head and his projection began to fade.

“Then so be it. I’ll watch the western front; don’t let those brutes break through too hard.”

He paused, then grinned, revealing sharp teeth: “And if that so-called lord shows up, don’t grab it—let me meet it first. I haven’t fought such a thing before; I want to see how tough a demon-king really is.”

The projection dissipated; the thunderlight faded.

Afra glanced at Garoth and they exchanged a look, saying nothing.

Then the projections successively vanished.

The communication link cut off.

The Red Iron Dragon slowly rose, stretching his body; his scales rasped like metal.

Wind blew, carrying a growing scent of the Abyss.

Before him stood several adult imperial sons.

They had reached mature dragon stages, scales bright, dragon might potent; the younger ones remained at the rear to defend the homeland.

“My offspring who bear my blood.”

“Are you ready to fight for me? Ready to show the Abyss the might of Aola’s dragonflight?”

He asked in a deep voice.

“Always ready!”

“Father, witness our growth!”

“Let the demons taste dragon breath!”

The emperor’s sons roared excitedly in response.

Time passed.

At noon the next day, when the sun blazed hottest and the Abyssal aura was slightly thinner,

the horns of attack sounded as scheduled.

Deep, resonant, they pierced the clouds, sounding simultaneously from four directions in echo.

“All armies, advance!”

On the emperor’s command, the Northern warhost began its push.

Heavy infantry marched in measured steps, golems activated, dragons took to the air, cavalry wrapped the wings... the earth trembled and the sky darkened.

At the same time,

war machines on the east, west, and south fronts activated.

The four warhosts, from four directions, pressed toward the demon fortress at the center.