Defeating the World with the Power of One Dragon!

Year 547 of the New Calendar.

The emperor’s son, the red dragon Garcro, awakened from slumber and broke through to the legendary rank.

Garcro’s awakening was like a signal, a beginning. It meant the new generation of Aolan dragons would gradually step onto the legendary stage, stand on their own, and become the kingdom’s backbone.

And so, three more years flashed by.

Summer, Year 550 of the New Calendar.

The Rhen Plateau entered the rainy season.

The sky piled up with lead-gray clouds, pressing low against the ridges.

Lightning tore the clouds at intervals, thunder rolled among the mountains, and raindrops struck densely, pattering on leaves, running down slopes to form trickling streams and pooling into murky puddles. The surface of the water broke into countless ripples under the rain.

The whole plateau was shrouded in a curtain of rain, the mountain outlines blurred, like distant peaks bleeding into an ink wash painting.

Through that downpour, a group of figures moved slowly forward.

They wore dark cloaks, each cloak etched with concealment runes that flashed now and then as rain swept over them, faint lights vanishing the next instant. Their boots sank into the muddy ground with soft sounds, completely swallowed by the rain.

Leading the group were Varta, Farrel’s Crown of Three Aspects, and Aphra, Latona’s Crown of Magic.

Behind them stood four other crown-level figures.

Two came from Farrel and two from Latona—each the top combatant of their respective kingdom, all with illustrious reputations.

Behind them were legends beneath the crown level.

Every one of them radiated a grave presence and sharp gazes; clearly they were handpicked veterans, not novices who had just crossed the threshold into legend.

An assembly like this could topple a kingdom in any age.

They had been walking in the rain for three days.

Because there were many legends gathered, their combined aura produced a powerful energy field that would draw the attention of Aola’s satellites.

So they did not fly fast. They concealed their aura and approached on foot, one careful step at a time, inching toward the sleeping place of the Red Emperor while rain washed away their footprints and wind howled to erase their presence.

Even so, everyone’s nerves were taut.

They all knew this mission could not afford a single mistake.

Varta walked at the front, steady-footed, his gaze scanning the terrain.

In his memory were all the details given by Eastern Alliance spellcasters, each fact memorized.

But the real guide was Aphra.

She cradled a dark-red orb in her hands.

On close inspection, it was composed of many layered fragments of scales set together, and faint light shimmered in the crevices. Every so often, the glow would flicker slightly, as if responding to something.

“How much farther?” Elvy asked aloud.

Aphra stared at the dragon-scale orb and answered in a low voice a moment later, “Very near. Your senses tell you I’m behind, but the sleeping place is far, over seventy leagues away.”

“These fragments are restless; they’re sensing their original body’s aura.”

“Approximately where is it sleeping?”

Varta asked, sweeping his gaze over the surrounding slopes.

Aphra lifted her head and said, “It should be underground.”

“He buried himself deep beneath the rock. That’s a common way for great dragons to sleep—find a hidden place, tunnel through the strata, bury themselves, seal the entrance. Hidden, quiet, undisturbed.”

“A dragon like the Red Emperor tends to choose the thickest rock layers, depths that may exceed a thousand meters.”

Varta nodded and asked no more.

The group continued.

The rain grew heavier, the light dimmer, until it was hard to tell day from dusk.

The leaden clouds seemed about to collapse; occasional lightning struck distant ridgelines, its flash quickly doused by rain, leaving scorched marks and rising white smoke.

Finally, Aphra stopped.

She stood still, her gaze fixed on a completely ordinary hill ahead.

The hill was low, with a gentle slope, covered in low shrubs and weeds. Rainwater slid down its face and gathered at the bottom into a muddy stream. There was nothing to distinguish it from any other hill—no abnormalities.

But Aphra knew: beneath this mound.

Beneath deep layers of rock slept the dragon that made Atlan tremble.

The dragon-scale orb in her hand glowed so brightly now that it was almost blinding; each fragment trembled and hummed, as if trying to break free and fly toward the beast below.

“This is it,” she whispered.

The sound was almost swallowed by the rain, yet it made everyone stop.

Varta walked to her side and stared at that unremarkable hill.

He watched for a long time, trying to spot any hint of something hidden, but found nothing.

If not for Aphra’s spell-based tracing, even if they had passed this spot a hundred times, they would not have sensed that the lord of the North slept beneath their feet.

“Are you certain?” he asked, caution threaded through his voice.

Not doubting Aphra’s skill, but any uncertainty now could doom the whole plan.

Aphra raised the orb slightly.

Its light flared, brighter than before, as if straining to break free, and pointed straight downwards.

Aphra replied with conviction, “Deep below. These fragments come from his body and share the same source as his aura. The reaction cannot be wrong.”

“They’re almost cheering now—guiding me to him.”

Varta inhaled deeply, eyes sweeping the area once more before looking back to Aphra.

“Then it’s on you,” he said.

He knew the real trial had only just begun. Finding the sleeping site was only the first step. The crux was how to deliver a fatal blow without waking the dragon.

Aphra nodded.

She tilted her head up to the rolling clouds, as if calculating.

Her expression turned solemn. What she was about to attempt—even for a crown-level spellcaster—would be an enormous test.

“I must construct a magic array here,” she said. “Once formed, it will cover this area, unleash the Mandate’s might, pierce the earth, and strike the sleeping dragon.”

“The Mandate’s might?” one of Farrel’s crown-levels murmured, moved.

Aphra glanced at him and said quietly, “Don’t forget my vocation. Given the same preparation time, I too can bring down a Sky City like the Red Emperor did. Spellcasters’ strength has never been in direct melee.”

Her tone was calm, but the confidence beneath her words lifted everyone’s spirits.

Spellcasters differ from other professions in stark advantages and disadvantages.

Their weakness is fragility and the long preparation time their powerful spells require. In sudden combat they can be caught off guard, and even lower-ranked foes can kill them.

History has examples of this.

Their advantage is the staggering effect of their spells.

Given the right materials and time, a spellcaster can unleash power far beyond their rank.

Aphra paused, then continued, “There are two issues now.”

“First, constructing this array takes time.”

“I must concentrate without interruption. Moreover, my casting will cause massive disturbance to the surrounding environment. With my elemental control, I can avoid waking the dragon until the strike falls, but the waking Aolan legends will surely notice.”

Her voice turned heavy at the second point. “The current storm and thunder will mask us for now, but the changes will intensify and become obvious. Aola’s legends aren’t blind; they will discover and come to investigate.”

“If they approach too near and find us, they will stop at nothing to prevent what we do.”

“And if fighting breaks out too close...”

Varta took up the thought with a sharp look, “The fallout will wake the Red Emperor.”

“Exactly,” Aphra nodded. “If he awakens early, my spell may fail.”

Rain hammered their cloaks, thunder rolled on the horizon, and lightning occasionally illumined their faces—each contorted with seriousness.

After a moment, Varta spoke.

“We discussed this before. Stick to the plan: intercept Aola’s legends at a distance.”

Aphra bowed her head slightly. “The farther the better; at least a hundred li away. That keeps the battle’s shockwaves from being too strong. Only after the Red Emperor is grievously wounded should we engage fully. That gives us a better chance.”

Varta scanned the ranks behind him; two crown-levels stepped forward.

One was Farrel’s War Crown, Arcane Knight Kohn.

A hulking figure, muscles rippling, with a scar running from his left eyebrow to his mouth—the souvenir of a youthful fight with a ferocious beast. He gripped the shaft of a war hammer whose head shimmered with faint light.

The other was Latona’s Guardian Crown, Watch Paladin Cecilia.

Tall and lithe, she wore silver-gray heavy armor etched with dense defensive runes. Her aura was as steady as a mountain; rain slid off her as if the drops did not dare cling.

“We’ll handle the perimeter,” Kohn said in a booming voice.

He cracked his shoulders, joints popping, then grinned. “You focus on your work. The perimeter is on us. Me and the other legends will hold back Aola’s monsters.”

The lesser legends cheered agreement.

These were battle-hardened veterans who knew such moments demanded resolve, not hesitation.

“We’ll hold them!”

“Let them taste the East Alliance and Southern Domain’s power!”

“Even if the Red Emperor himself appears, we’ll delay him!”

Varta raised a hand to quiet them, then spoke gravely, “Do not underestimate them. Aola’s legends, though sometimes lower-ranked, can fight beyond their grade—don’t measure them by ordinary rank.”

Cecilia nodded once. “We don’t need to win, just hold the line.”

“Hold and buy time. That’s our only objective.”

Varta looked at them and nodded slowly. “Then we leave it to you.”

“Remember: delay them, don’t throw away your lives. After this spell falls and the Red Emperor is wounded, we regroup and finish the rest.”

Kohn swung about, clapped his massive hand. “It’s rare to see a crown-level spell. This trip will be worth it!”

“Let’s move! Give the Crown of Magic room to perform!”

The legends set off under Kohn and Cecilia, their steps muffled by mud and swallowed by rain as they vanished into the downpour.

Varta returned his gaze to Aphra. “It’s in your hands.”

Aphra’s expression had settled into the focused calm of a spellcaster.

She faced the other crown-levels. “Keep yourselves at full strength. Waste no power.”

“When my spell lands and the Red Emperor is gravely wounded, then you strike. That will be the real battle—one that decides life or death.”

The other two crown-levels nodded.

Rhen’s Steel Crown, Kahn—the sanda monk—had a body like forged steel, every muscle a potential explosion of force; he could tear steel with bare hands.

Latona’s Secret Dance Crown, Celine—the sharpshooter ranger—had eyes like a hawk, able to pierce the rain and see enemies a thousand li away.

Once Aphra completed her spell, they and the Crown of Three Aspects would strike the heavily wounded Red Emperor, giving him no breathing room.

“Begin.”

Varta said in a low voice.

Aphra inhaled deeply and raised her right hand.

Her palm opened, and a tiny illusory magic tower rose from it.

It was palm-sized, crystalline as if carved from clear crystal, seven tiers stacked with different runes flickering on each level. At its apex sat a pale-blue gem emitting a faint glow.

Aphra lifted the little tower, and it hovered above her palm.

Then it solidified and grew, as if materializing from another dimension into the Material Plane. The tower’s body became denser, runes flowed, and light spread outward.

Soon it became a true giant tower.

The top gem flared into a dazzling blue light like a miniature star. Rain hitting the tower evaporated instantly into mist, forming a hazy halo around its base.

Aphra leapt lightly and landed atop the tower.

Her robe snapped in the wind, her long hair streaming. Rain that fell near her turned to vapor, wrapping her in a soft aura—an impressive figure.

She looked down at Varta and nodded.

The tower flickered, dematerialized, then reappeared moments later among the clouds.

Aphra’s chant rose, and endless runes flowed across the tower’s surface, each rune coming alive.

At first, nothing else happened.

But soon the clouds above began to rotate.

Those leaden, heavy clouds that had only rolled slowly now turned, gradually circling around the tower where Aphra stood.

The clouds were stirred, drawn, and torn, forming a massive vortex.

The vortex centered on the tower’s apex.

Dark clouds were pulled in and joined the rotation, enlarging the whirlpool.

Lightning grew more frequent.

What had been occasional lightning now struck repeatedly, bolt after bolt.

Thunder grew deafening.

Continuous explosive booms followed one another with almost no pause. The ground trembled; rain hitting the earth bounced into a fine mist.

The downpour intensified.

Dense raindrops became a torrential deluge, as if the sky had been punctured and all its waters poured downward.

As Aphra warned, the celestial signs changed dramatically.

“This premonition and sense of oppression... a crown-level forbidden spell, comparable to the Mandate’s might,” Varta whispered, eyes fixed on the sky’s vortex.

He had seen many spellcasters, but such grand omens were rare.

This was not mere elemental manipulation, but the shaping of celestial phenomena, a mastery over nature itself.

Meanwhile, in the Red Emperor Capital.

Amid the rain, a violet-scaled figure stood in the storm.

Tall and graceful, his body sheened with amethyst scales that shimmered faintly in the downpour.

Iseramas, an Amethyst Dragon.

He stared toward the distant sky, his expression hardening into a stillness like frozen crystal.

The weather there... was wrong.

He had seen many storms on the Rhen Plateau, but never like this—and all anomalies were focused in one direction.

Clouds rotating, furious lightning and rain—apocalyptic.

“Someone is casting a spell! And it’s a large-scale array.”

His mind tightened.

Worse, the celestial changes pointed straight to the emperor’s sleeping site.

Iseramas’s thoughts moved like lightning; he grasped the gravity of the situation instantly.

Enemies had found the emperor’s slumber and intended to strike while he slept.

Buzz!

His twin eyes flared bright.

“Gordon, Rhen Plateau. Anomaly near His Majesty’s sleeping area,” the Amethyst Dragon’s low whisper sounded directly in the Iron Dragon prince’s mind, sending his observations along.

“Protect the palace. I’ll call the kingdom’s legends and head there immediately.”

Gordon’s quick reply came.

At the Dragon Court’s higher tiers, the Iron Dragon’s gaze pierced the rainy veil toward the storm.

He drew forth a dragon-scale communication device and ignited it.

Light flashed, and his voice echoed to every corner.

“Aola’s legends! Someone dares harm our king! They’ve found the emperor’s sleeping place. Show your strength for the great Red Emperor! For our king! For Aola’s glory!”

“Destination: the emperor’s sleeping place! Depart!”

At his command, wings beat and figures shot skyward. Dozens of silhouettes tore through the rain like meteors toward that direction.

A great battle was about to erupt in the storm.

The magic tower stood among the clouds, runes flowing like a pouring river of stars.

Aphra stood atop it, solemn, her chant audible even under the thunder.

Her voice was long and resonant, surrounded by layers of magical halos—each layer representing a completed spell sequence.

The sky’s vortex deepened, thunder danced relentlessly within the clouds.

It felt as though the whole world shuddered for the coming Mandate’s might.

Out in the rain, dozens of figures closed in rapidly while other figures formed battle lines.

“Stop the spellcasters!”

“By any means necessary, interrupt her casting!”

Gordon roared, locking his gaze on the Crown of Magic in the clouds.

At the same time, two gazes fixed on the Iron Dragon.

The War Crown and Guardian Crown simultaneously targeted the Iron Dragon prince.

They knew this iron dragon was a blood relative of the Red Emperor; though not top-ranked, killing him would crush Aola’s legends’ morale.

“Take him first,” Kohn and Cecilia exchanged looks, murderous intent flashing.

Instantly they surged without hesitation, their figures slicing through the rain toward the Iron Dragon.

Gordon, only an ordinary legend, though naturally resilient, would have little chance against two crown-levels pinning him. He would likely die in moments.

“You really think so little of me?”

Gordon’s breathing grew heavy, his heart pounding like a drum, yet he did not flee.

He stared at the two crown-level humans, his heavy faceplate unreadable and his eyes devoid of fear.

Suddenly, two massive pillars of light descended from the sky.

One pure white, one blood-red.

They pierced the heavy clouds with an authority that felt celestial, plummeting toward the two crown-level humans. Where the light struck, rain vaporized and air burst; the ground began to crack.

“Dodge!”

Kohn reacted instantly, twisting midair, planting a foot on nothing as the air shattered into a white ring. He skidded sideways, barely grazing the edge of a pillar.

Cecilia likewise evaded, her figure leaving afterimages in the rain. Her shield rose, and with recoil she avoided the column’s strike.

Boom!

The light erupted, the shockwave ripping the rain curtain, vaporizing countless drops into mist as stone shattered and dust rose.

From the light columns emerged two presences.

On the left stood a humanoid figure of modest size, formed entirely from pure energy, radiating a white brilliance. Its features were blurred save for a pair of clear eyes, yet it carried a serene, regal aura, like royalty.

On the right loomed an enormous energy-formed dragon, its body over a hundred meters long, covered in dark-red scales, claws sharp as blades. Though it did not open its mouth, the air around it trembled with the sounds of warfare and battle cries.

A Mandate Holy Spirit and an Aola Dragon Spirit—two crown-level equivalents—had descended.

“You think they can truly match our crown-levels?” Kohn sneered and lunged again.

His war hammer blazed as he charged like a cannonball toward the Holy Spirit.

The Spirit raised a hand.

Hum!

The Mandate domain unfurled, an invisible force instantly spreading. It enveloped the War Crown, nullifying his crown-level field and weighing every step as if a mountain rested on his shoulders.

Kohn’s speed plunged and his movements slowed.

He felt as though trudging through mire, every advance demanding enormous effort, yet he continued; the hammer’s light did not fade.

The Eastern Alliance and Southern Domain legends recognized the Spirits’ presence.

When the realm expanded, only the War Crown engaged it directly while others kept distance to avoid being suppressed.

They scattered, found opponents, and formed new lines.

On the other side, Cecilia confronted the Aola Dragon Spirit.

The blood-red dragon dropped from the sky and swatted at the Guardian Crown with a massive claw that shredded air with a shriek; rain condensed into white mist under the force.

Cecilia did not dodge.

She raised a silver shield with her left arm.

What had been a half-body shield swelled under the infusion of holy light into a wall-like bulwark, its surface erupting with complex defensive runes, each rune burning and radiating protective power.

Boom!

The dragon’s claw struck the shield; the shockwave burst. The light shield shattered, and both dragon and human were flung back.

“It’s a pity we can’t directly teleport to the spellcaster’s side.”

The Iron Dragon sighed as he scanned the fierce crown-level clashes.

He had intended to have the Sanctuary drop the Aola Dragon Spirit and Mandate Holy Spirit around the magic tower to disrupt the casting, but the enemy anticipated it. The rotating clouds carried a power that blocked teleportation.

More Aola legends arrived on the battlefield.

The Gluttonous Ogre Karu roared, towering like an iron tower, and lunged at a Farrel legend.

Centaurs like Elvy did not directly engage; she stood on a hill with bow drawn, her sharp gaze sweeping for weak points in the legend ranks.

Werewolf Russell moved through the rain like a shadow, seeking lethal openings.

High above, dragon roars drowned the thunder.

The newly legendary red dragon Garcro and the White Dragon Beskarl beat their wings and surged toward the human legends’ defensive line.

The battle erupted in full.

The Iron Dragon narrowed his focus, scanning the legends blocking him.

His opponent was a burly warrior wielding a greatsword as wide as a gate, its blade etched with war runes and emanating a steady, resolute aura—not a weak foe.

The Iron Dragon fixed on the target and lunged, wings tearing the rain.

Iron wings shredded the downpour as he accelerated like a falling meteor.

The legendary warrior planted both hands on the massive sword, its edge igniting with a gleam as the runes flared and extended into a hundred-meter arc.

He swung, the greatsword tracing a perfect curve and cleaving toward the Iron Dragon like a ferocious slash; where the blade passed, rain split and a temporary vacuum formed.

The Iron Dragon narrowed his eyes and angled his shoulder to ram.

Clang!

The sword’s edge cut into Gordon’s shoulder, spitting red-hot sparks that bathed the rain. Scales cracked into fine fissures and blood seeped out, yet the strike expended much of its force and the blade faded, leaving only a shallow wound.

The Iron Dragon’s charge did not slow; a claw struck for the human warrior.

Elsewhere, Garcro swept his gaze across the battlefield and quickly fixed on a target.

An Eastern Alliance legend in a cloak woven of feathers and leaves—plumage still fluffed in the rain, greenish dragon-light shimmering beneath—matched the look and aura of a Farrel caster.

“Not him,” the red dragon growled and raced toward his chosen mark.

He had only recently become a legend and needed a victory to prove himself.

Dragon qi surged, and an extra pair of massive arms formed on Garcro’s body.

Opposite him, a dazzling light erupted from a human form.

In an instant the human vanished and was replaced by an enormous eagle, its wingspan even greater than Garcro’s. Its feathers were cyan edged with gold, eyes sharp as blades and talons hooked like hooks.

The great eagle let out a sky-splitting cry.

With a powerful beat, it streaked forward as a cyan blur and dove at Garcro at terrifying speed.

The red dragon’s pupils narrowed. Before he could fully react, the eagle was upon him.

Its talons shredded the rain and aimed straight for his eyes.

Garcro twisted to avoid, but the eagle’s speed was deadly. Talons raked his skull, leaving three deep blood marks across his faceplate.

The eagle circled and arced through the rain, then struck again.

This time its beak stabbed like a spear for the red dragon’s throat at an astonishing velocity.

Garcro unleashed all four arms to seize the eagle.

But the eagle moved with unbelievable agility, flipping midair to avoid his grasp. Two talons slashed his chest, tearing deep wounds and shattering scales.

In moments, Garcro’s scales were shredded, flesh exposed and blood flowing, staining his red hide.

Yet the eagle was unscathed, circling, primed for another strike.

Clearly Garcro had chosen an opponent far above his rank and was at a disadvantage from the start.

Rain intensified, thunder grew louder.

“This is the feeling—pain...”

After fierce exchange, Garcro grinned through blood streaming down his faceplate.

His smile held a hint of madness, as if the pain were not torment but a long-missed sustenance.

He flung his wings and rocketed skyward toward the blockade’s rear; the great eagle pursued, faster still, a cyan streak in the rain.

Just as the eagle readied another attack, Garcro spread his wings to a full stop.

At that instant his arms flung outward, striking from different angles toward the eagle.

It was the first real counterattack.

The eagle’s reflexes were lightning-fast; it folded its wings and dove, evading the grasp.

“Too bad,” the red dragon murmured, then plunged after it.

Two beasts tore through the clouds in a chase, red and cyan streaking through the dense rain.

The eagle held a clear speed advantage.

Each attack found Garcro, claws shredding scales and the beak gouging wounds; blood mixed with rain and sprinkled down from the heights.

But the druid sensed something off.

Garcro did not seem to weaken from his injuries.

On the contrary, each time he was hit, his next counterstrike grew faster.

Faster reaction, faster attacks, more devious angles.

It felt as if a volcano lay within the red dragon; each drop of blood caused it to erupt more violently.

This was one of Garcro’s traits.

Bloodwar Descendant: War runs in your veins. The bloodier the fight, the more exhilarated you become; the more grievous the wounds, the stronger you become. Each bleed increases your reaction time and attack speed.

This trait resembled his father’s Unyielding Perseverance, but with subtle differences.

Alarm flared in the druid’s mind.

He realized his speed advantage was slipping away.

Rend!

Garcro’s talon struck at the eagle’s wing root; the druid’s wings beat hard and he was forced back, barely evading.

At that moment, an arrow whistled through the rain.

It tore the downpour and flew with startling speed straight for the eagle’s heart—timed perfectly as the druid had just dodged and not yet regained posture.

Suddenly a pale-blue shield materialized before the druid.

Swoosh!

The arrow hit the shield, veered off, and vanished into the gloomy clouds.

Elvy narrowed her eyes and peered through rain to a human sorcerer on the other side.

The sorcerer flicked his staff, the gem at its tip blinking faintly, poised to strike again. Seeing this, Elvy said nothing further; she nocked another arrow and swept the battlefield with her gaze.

Above, the red dragon and the great eagle tangled again.

Time flowed amid furious combat.

From Aola’s perspective, the situation looked grim.

The attackers had clearly prepared. Each legend was experienced and positioned to clamp down on key points, forming a tight blockade that kept Aolan legends from advancing.

Aola’s lords—the Amethyst Dragon Lion and others—had received word and were rushing over.

But they were either far in the Ser Wilderness or elsewhere on the central continent, not garrisoned near the Red Emperor Capital. They could not reach in time.

Too late.

In the sky, the massive vortex halted its spin.

A crushing sense of oppression descended from the firmament. All the legends looked up toward the tower’s apex.

Aphra’s figure was visible.

Her robe snapped in the gale, hair streaming in the rain, hands raised as if holding something unbearably heavy.

The dark clouds, lightning, and rain seemed to come alive, converging into form.

At the final syllable of Aphra’s chant, the spell completed.

It condensed from clouds into a sword, forged from torrential rain and tempered by lightning into a blade.

How large was this sword? None could say.

Its hilt lost in the thick clouds, its blade as wide as a mountain ridge, its edge keen enough to cut the sky itself.

Its body was pitch-black, but laced with silvery lightning that crawled across the blade, crackling and shrieking.

Terrifying might radiated from that great sword, pressing down on the legends until they could barely breathe.

“Go,” Aphra whispered, and slowly lowered her hands.

The sword moved with her command.

It descended, at first gradually, then faster and faster. The tip ripped through the heavy clouds and cleaved the dim sky, carrying apocalyptic force as it plunged toward the earth.

Air screamed and space trembled.

Aola’s legends went nearly mad trying to break the blockade, but the attackers held firm.

Too late.

The celestial sword, slow only in appearance, struck the earth in an instant.

The ground opened as if it were water under the blade.

Rock melted, soil vaporized, and the sword sank inch by inch into the ground, penetrating deeper and deeper. In a blink, the blade had buried deep into the earth.

Seeing this, the Eastern Alliance and Southern Domain legends’ faces lit with hope; their breaths grew heavy.

Perhaps—this strike could indeed kill the sleeping Red Emperor...

But at that moment, the sword halted.

Half buried, it seemed to have struck something immovable; its downward momentum stalled, then reversed.

Slowly, inch by inch, it began to rise.

The ground cracked.

Spiderwebbing fissures radiated from the sword in all directions, widening and deepening.

Boom!

The earth collapsed.

Rock and debris shot skyward, dust billowed.

A massive shape rose from the ground.

A dragon.

A three-headed, six-armed colossus.

Its scales were somewhat desiccated from long slumber, clinging tight to its muscles and giving it a lean appearance. But the muscle striations remained clear, chiseled as if by blade, each endowed with explosive power.

The long-sleeping Red Emperor thus revealed himself to all.

A flesh-and-blood body facing the celestial blade.

Even the dragon’s size seemed small against the sword; the blade spanned heaven and earth like a ridge, while the Red Emperor, while vast, was only a boulder at its foot.

Yet he gripped the sword’s tip with his three pairs of massive claws.

No matter how the sword trembled or leaned down, it could not sink another fraction; instead it was lifted bit by bit, hoisted skyward.

What terrible force was this?

The sight stunned every legend.

Aphra’s complexion shifted.

She chanted faster, and the magic tower beneath her spun layer by layer. Each tier flared with different runes to amplify her power.

The celestial blade trembled violently, runes crawling across its surface, exuding even more dangerous energy.

But still it could not break free.

Hum!

Silver patterns on the dragon’s forearms flickered to life.

Spell-Extinguishing Claws!

He roared.

Crack, crack.

The dragon’s arm scales began to spall and split; blood seeped from the fractures, instantly igniting into rolling bloodflame. Beneath the splitting scales, sinew tightened, veins bulged—every vessel visible.

At the same time, the sword’s vibration became a shudder.

Cracks spidered from the tip up along the blade, multiplying and intersecting, covering the whole surface like porcelain about to shatter.

Finally—boom!!!

The giant sword exploded.

Countless shards scattered into the sky, becoming vast black clouds, streaks of lightning, and torrents of rain.

Aphra groaned and staggered, a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth, chalky in the face.

At once, the compressed celestial phenomena released: the whole Rhen Plateau was engulfed again—thunder rolled and rain flooded, the world plunged into chaotic tumult.

“All life and death, I decide. I give and I take as I will.”

“No prayers needed. There will be no miracles. Your lives now belong to me.”

The dragon’s voice was low, cutting through rain and thunder to fall on every ear.

In that instant, time seemed to freeze.

Rain, thunder, wind—even the legends’ heavy breaths—were swallowed by an invisible weight.

All eyes turned inevitably to that red, iron-colored dragon.

Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the Red Emperor’s form. He stood in rain and thunder and wind, six arms spread and three heads raised to the heavens, towering between earth and sky.

The heavens’ might seemed grand, yet not half as great as he.