Defeating the World with the Power of One Dragon!

Arotala, Loki Plain.

Laria’s territory had become scorched earth.

The forests and hills he had personally cleared were almost gone, replaced by vast stretches of wasteland. Occasionally a wind blew from the north, carrying the rising and falling howls of the rage beasts like a tide, wave after wave, echoing across the open plain.

The red dragon Laria hovered over the defensive line.

His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling much faster than usual. His crimson scales were covered in claw-and-fang marks, some fresh, some old, as if he had been through one fierce battle after another.

“After this awakening I became a Legendary, I intended to expand, to build up my territory further.”

“Now I’ve been struck hard right at the start...”

“The way things have unfolded is truly unpredictable.”

Laria thought.

Decades ago he personally led his followers to open up Arotala. The territory he had taken then was thriving, everything on the rise.

Back then he busied himself with domain affairs every day, from resource distribution to defense deployments, overseeing every detail.

Then his slumber came.

On one hand, Laria was glad to have become a Legendary.

It meant his life had entered a new stage, he was no longer mundane, he had far longer life and greater power. Legendary status was a watershed; once crossed, perspective and strategy changed entirely.

But on the other hand,

while he slept he could not personally guide the territory’s development. With no dragon at the helm, things followed the orders left before his sleep and maintained the original course.

Those orders seemed thorough at the time, but time does not wait and situations do not pause. When he awoke many things had already deviated from the expected path.

That was unavoidable; every great dragon faced the same problem.

Even with many contingency plans drawn before slumber, plans always lag behind change.

“Should I ask Father or the Greenwild Kingdom for aid?”

He pondered.

If he appealed to his father, given his father’s strength resolving this trouble would be effortless; if he sought help from the Greenwild Kingdom, those dragons would not refuse either.

After several minutes of serious thought, Laria ultimately shook his head and drove the idea of asking for aid from his mind.

He was no longer a hatchling.

As a Legendary giant and an emperor’s son, Laria retained his pride and independent thinking. He did not want to forever live under his father’s shadow or seek shelter at the first sign of trouble.

Unless utterly desperate, he wanted to solve problems himself.

“All along, Father has not been relied upon.”

“I have always relied on myself. You, as an emperor’s son, might be as excellent as Father, but at most you become the one who seeks help the moment things get difficult.”

The red dragon thought silently.

Sons raised beneath the Dragon Father’s wings developed varying levels of reverence for him; their focus of admiration differed.

For example, Garcro worshipped his father’s power above all. In that red dragon’s eyes, power was everything, and because Father possessed the greatest power, Father was greatest.

Laria admired instead how his father had maneuvered through the gaps between nations, surviving with foresight and steady steps—rising alone amid chaos, beginning from the wild and eventually nearly unifying all of Arotala. That kind of wisdom and tenacity impressed him more than raw strength.

Many sages noted the Red Emperor rarely handled day-to-day kingdom management; those tasks were chiefly carried out by his kin.

Laria knew the truth.

Father simply disliked managing trivial affairs. He did not pay much attention to patient, meticulous daily matters—not because he failed to understand them, but because he had higher priorities.

Major directional decisions for the Aola Kingdom had always been anchored by Father’s will.

Sorog, the Iron Royal Duke—his iron dragon elder and Aola’s regent—often sought the emperor’s counsel when uncertain. In many ways, Sorog’s governance style had been learned from the emperor; after so many years at his side he had absorbed things outsiders could not see.

“Frontline alert: large numbers of rage beasts detected. Do we hold or retreat?”

A voice interrupted Laria’s thoughts.

The red dragon turned and a young female green dragon about fifteen or sixteen meters long came into view.

Her tail was long, her skull relatively small, and her body covered in pale green scales.

Among the chromatic dragons, green dragons’ strengths often lay in toxins and spell affinity.

By pure physiology, the average green dragon is the weakest. Sometimes they can be weaker than the despised White Scales.

But this young green dragon was different.

Unlike ordinary greens, her scales bore many red-lotus-like patterns, as if flames had been branded onto green armor. Her form could not be called delicate; the muscles beneath thick scales were clearly defined, every muscle line visible and powerful.

Not as mighty as the red dragon Laria, but overall athletic and robust—clearly well-conditioned.

“Tarlensa, compared to last time, how much larger is the rage tide?”

Laria looked at the green dragon and asked.

Tarlensa Ignas was his eldest daughter; her mother was a green dragon from the Greenwild Kingdom.

Among his children she was the oldest and the calmest. When Laria was busy she could coordinate some of the domain’s defenses.

When he was in Arotala Laria had no mate.

One reason was he lacked the mind or time for such matters; another was his taste—though muscular females were common, he preferred the slender and elegant.

But Aola dragons, male or female, took pride in robust forms; few females were slim. Most had swelling muscles and thick scales, lacking delicate beauty in his view.

In Arotala, a young female green dragon handled communications with the Greenwild Kingdom. Over time the two grew close and produced three offspring, all of whom inherited their father’s red-lotus markings.

The gifts from the Red Emperor seemed stably heritable, passing down generation to generation.

Among them, Tarlensa was the most outstanding overall.

She had been born on the Arotala Continent, but raised amid Aola citizens and influenced by the Dragon Father; her behavior conformed to standard Aola dragon ways.

“Almost double the scale compared to last time.”

The green dragon said softly.

“The formation time of the rage tide is shortening, yet its scale keeps growing... Father, this is not good for us.”

In Arotala, rage beasts were ferocious magical creatures infected by the Fury Curse.

They possessed little intelligence to begin with; once infected their minds were consumed in a short time. The curse burned away their remaining reason, leaving only primal killing instinct.

At first the rage beasts fought among themselves. Under the Fury Curse’s effect they'd attack any moving creature, even their own kind.

But as their numbers swelled and powerful rage leaders emerged, their behavior became unified.

They no longer attacked each other; instead they turned their claws and fangs toward uninfected life.

It seemed the curse itself carried an expansionary will. Or someone was influencing and guiding it.

Researchers were perplexed. The Fury Curse did not behave like a simple magical plague; it seemed driven by an unseen hand, with a direction guiding the tide.

Once a rage tide formed, it meant at least one Legendary leader was inside. The larger the scale, the more and higher-tier Legendaries it contained.

“The tide is swelling like an avalanching snowball.”

Laria’s eyes sharpened. He said in a low voice, “If we retreat now, the next defensive line will face an even larger tide. Then we will lose the chance to choose where to fight.”

The young green dragon nodded gravely.

“Father, you’re right.”

“My thoughts are the same as yours.”

Despite her youth, after living long on Arotala she knew the tide’s patterns. If they retreated each time, the tide would only grow until unstoppable.

The red dragon’s faceplate did not change expression.

He gazed toward the distant sky; his scales gleamed like burning clouds in the sunset and he said,

“Send out my orders. All Aolan dragons and the people beneath our wings, prepare for battle.”

He paused, voice solemn.

“Fight for the Emperor’s glory.”

The green dragon assumed a solemn expression, straightened her neck, and repeated, “Fight for the Emperor’s glory!”

Born on Arotala, she had not truly seen her red-iron grandfather, but she knew the legends and stories of the emperor and took pride in them.

In her mind the grandfather was a near-mythic figure, the spiritual pillar of all Aolan dragons.

Tarlensa then spread her wings and turned to leave.

Time slipped by in the dimming light.

The dusk sun hung high but softened, no longer harsh as at noon. The distant horizon took on a grayish tone, layered like ink-wash painting in the afterglow.

Soon, at the frontline stronghold,

Laria circled in the air.

His wings spread, casting a slowly moving shadow on the ground.

Beneath his wings were warriors who had followed him from Atlan to Arotala, including the first-generation pioneers who crossed the sea with him and those born here—Aola citizens who had never seen Atlan.

All Aola warriors were battle-ready.

Centaurs readied their bowstrings, spears pointed forward, torsos leaning, muscles taut, ready to charge. Ogres lifted heavy shields; their massive bodies shoulder to shoulder formed a wall, each shield hiding a poised fighter. Lizardfolk, gnolls, and many others stood with sharp claws...

Laria lifted his head and looked toward the distance.

On the horizon a dark mass moved.

A tide of rage beasts.

Countless rage beasts had sensed this gathering of life and were pouring toward this direction. Some resembled wolves, bears, or leopards; others were twisted beyond recognition.

Species and forms varied.

What they shared was that the Fury Curse had warped them into monstrous shapes.

Muscles bulged beneath skin as if something swelled inside. Veins snaked over the surface like serpents, blue-black tracks visible. Eyes glowed blood-red, pupils showing only madness and killing intent, no trace of reason.

A tide of flesh and blood swept the land.

Where the rage beasts passed the ground thudded, and a brutal aura struck at the nerves.

Closer.

Closer still.

Laria stretched his wings to the limit; the membranes taut like two giant banners in the twilight.

He raised his head and let out a dragon roar that rang across the battlefield.

“Aolan people, die with me in battle!”

Countless roars followed, merging into a deafening wave.

“For Aola!”

“For the great His Majesty Ignas!”

Chants rose from each corner of the line.

Laria moved faster than sound.

He led the charge, flying to the frontline.

Wings folded, his body shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow. Wind screamed past his ears, dusk fading behind him.

Whoosh!

Laria inhaled deeply; his chest swelled.

Flame coalesced in his throat, temperature rising, heat intensifying. The air around him began to refract; sight blurred from the heat.

When the first rage beast entered range, the red dragon opened his mouth.

Dragon Breath poured forth, a fan-shaped wall of fire that engulfed the frontmost beasts. They didn’t have time to scream; flames wrapped them, they rolled and writhed, and were soon charred black. The air filled with the stench of burning flesh.

The flaming trench cut forward of the defense.

But that trench would not hold long.

More rage beasts circled around the walls and attacked from different directions. They feared neither death nor flame; they only knew to rush forward and tear apart any living obstruction.

Huff! Huff!

Aolan dragons took to the sky.

Among them were Laria’s offspring and the other dragons who had come with him at the beginning. They rose from different directions, wingtips carving arcs in the twilight.

They did not recklessly dive into the tide.

The dragons circled, sometimes stooping to scour the ground with breath and combining various quasi-spell skills to strike the tide hard.

The centaurs began firing.

Arrows fell like rain into the beast swarm, each shot aimed at vital points—eye sockets, throats, hearts.

Some struck beasts fell, convulsing as blood gushed from wounds.

But more beasts stepped over fallen comrades and kept coming.

Soon the lines closed.

Laria streaked through the air as spells rolled in his throat.

Black clouds covered the setting sun; the sky dimmed as if night came early.

Crackle!

Bolt after bolt of lightning plunged into the densest parts of the herd.

The lightning burst and splintered, turning into silver arcs that leapt and multiplied—ten became a hundred—soon countless silver snakes bounced and shuttled through the beasts, turning many into blackened corpses.

Struck beasts stiffened, fur rising and then sagging as they fell.

Whoosh!

A nova of flame detonated around him; a scorching ring spread, turning approaching avian rage beasts to ash. Feathers that were not easily ignited became instant fireballs and fell from the sky when touched by flame.

Laria cast without cease.

His specialization lay in plastic-energy school, with an emphasis on thunder and fire. He loved brute, direct destructive power and disliked those roundabout control spells.

Fire, lightning—

Huge destructive plastic-energy spells smashed into the swarm one after another.

Each spell opened a blank space in the tide.

Around Laria’s region it was as if a tidal surge hit a reef; no matter the strength of the waves, the reef held firm.

Led by him, the Aolan warriors stood against the seemingly endless assault.

Roar!

A violent, maddened lion’s roar sounded; the soundwave rolled outward, jolting eardrums.

A Legendary rage-lion leader with blood-red eyes fixed its gaze on Laria.

Its body burned with bloody frenzied flame, flesh swelling, muscles slithering like serpents, bones creaking inside.

It lunged at Laria with terrifying speed like a dark-red lightning bolt.

Laria showed no fear.

He beat his wings and climbed; spells rolled swiftly and precisely in his throat. Casting amidst battle demanded strong focus—any distraction wasted all previous effort.

In a blink, the thundercloud spell gathered above the lion.

Gray-black masses churned like boiling broth, light flickering within, thunder muttering. Then thick bolts of heaven struck nearly simultaneously, tearing the dusk sky and hammering the lion.

The lion sidestepped but the lightning was faster.

Its reflexes were sharp, but not sharp enough; lightning hit its left shoulder. Upon contact the electricity exploded, spraying flesh and exposing bone that then burst into deeper fissures, charring and cracking into blackened crevices flashing with residual sparks.

The power was astonishing.

This was due to one of Laria’s traits—

He cultivated both martial and arcane arts.

With red-dragon blood he revered strength but pursued spells too; his physical strikes carried extra magical damage, and his spell damage scaled with his strength.

The lion howled in pain and fury. The Fury Curse made it stronger when injured—more dangerous.

They were almost within biting range.

Laria tilted his wings and arced his body, avoiding the lion’s charge by a half-step.

As he turned his head, Dragon Breath spat, a scorching column aimed at the lion’s face.

The lion twisted in midair; the flame grazed its jaw, burning through half a lip and exposing pale gums. The sizzle of meat being seared was audible.

The wound was grievous.

Yet Legendary beasts did not retreat from such wounds; they grew madder.

The Fury Curse surged inside, pain turned to power, anger to speed.

It lunged to bite Laria’s neck, maw dripping saliva and blood.

Laria did not seem to like close quarters.

But he was not avoiding melee; he waited for the moment.

A thunderwave condensed in his claw, air compressing and vibrating at the talon tips with a low hum. He slammed downward; the shockwave pushed the lion back. Its body tumbled twice in the air before stabilizing.

Then heaven-fire bolts struck consecutively.

Electricity and flame danced across the lion, carving a net of charred scars. The beast smoked, flesh rent open.

Despite magical assault, it seemed badly wounded yet moved faster, enraged into even greater ferocity.

The lion charged through the spells and roared.

Seeing this, Laria did not retreat.

“Time to finish in close combat,” he thought.

Weaken the enemy with spells, then quickly crush it in melee—Laria’s favored method.

Scanning the lion’s wounds, he advanced.

His left wing swept, the wingtip cutting wind and deflecting the lion’s trajectory. The lion’s body skewed; balance lost.

Laria used the spin momentum; his tail snapped like a steel whip, striking the lion’s lower back with crushing force.

Boom!

Thunder-fire flared, running along the red dragon’s tail scales.

The lion uttered a mixed whine and roar; its spine twisted out of place.

It struggled and turned its head, trying to bite Laria’s neck.

Laria’s claws shot out; one gripped the lion’s lower jaw, another clamped its upper palate. His forearms bulged and veins throbbed beneath scales as he forced the huge maw open.

From deep in the lion’s throat came a muffled low howl as the claws pierced tongue and palate. Blood streamed down Laria’s forearms, dripping onto his scales.

Simultaneously, the red-lotus patterns on his armor flared.

They spread from neck to tail tip, from shoulder blades across the wing membranes. Crimson veins pulsed like lava in his bloodlines, turning his scales into branding-iron red and causing heat waves to roll off him, warping the air.

The cursed blood that had just splashed on him vaporized instantly, turning into a thread of red steam.

At the same moment Laria’s strength erupted; muscles swelled, his claws tightened, each talon curling inward with crushing pressure.

The lion’s struggle quickly weakened.

Its jawbone was being crushed; the sound of cracking bone rang out as fragments pierced tongue and gums and blood gushed from the fissures.

Laria’s mighty arms exerted outward force.

A tearing, muffled crack.

The lion’s skull was ripped in two from the mouth.

Scarlet blood and shattered brain matter spattered onto Laria’s chest scales and were vaporized by the red-lotus flame into a cloud of bloody mist.

“Hah...”

Laria exhaled, letting some of the stale air leave his chest.

He flicked his claws and tossed the lion’s carcass aside.

The massive body thudded to the ground, twitched twice, legs kicked blindly, then fell still.

Tarlensa dove in from the flank, her breath clearing a wave of beasts that tried to surge up, and landed beside Laria.

“Father!”

Her light scanned the field and then fell on the claw marks across his chest and belly.

“No harm.”

“The tide lost its leader; formation is in chaos. Push back now.”

Laria beat his wings and rose again; his dragon roar reverberated over the battlefield.

Aolan warriors’ morale surged; they charged forward roaring.

But then another roar sounded.

This time it did not come from the same direction.

From west, south, and north—roars echoed in every direction.

Laria lifted his head; his pupils contracted sharply.

Three figures were rapidly growing, radiating ferocity.

Their sizes were over ten times a normal rage beast, eyes burning blood-red like twin flames, pupils lacking any reason, holding only raw killing desire.

They burned with bloody flame—the mark of Legendary rage beasts.

Including the earlier lion, there were four Legendaries.

Laria’s expression tightened.

“So many...”

He inhaled, then spread his wings and surged toward the nearest Legendary.

It was a giant bear, larger than Laria by a noticeable margin, its body covered in dark-red chitinous armor.

Seeing Laria it bellowed and charged.

Laria did not dodge.

A huge fireball condensed beside him, surface flames rolling as it smashed toward the bear’s face.

The bear sidestepped—the movement far more agile than its size suggested. The fireball exploded behind it, incinerating ordinary beasts and sending a heatwave.

It pressed on undeterred, forepaw raised to slap Laria’s head.

Laria climbed higher and escaped the blow.

Two bolts of lightning shot out and struck the bear’s back; arcs danced over its hide with sharp snaps. The bear roared and staggered.

That instant—

Laria dove, compressing flame and lightning into his talons. One claw stabbed into the bear’s nape, the talon piercing through its neck.

He panted and had not yet withdrawn his claw.

The other two Legendary beasts were already upon him.

One was a giant wolf moving like lightning, leaving an afterimage as it snapped for his throat; the other was a giant eagle diving from high above with wings tucked, a meteorous strike aimed at his spine.

The bear’s paw came down again with wind roaring.

Outnumbered three to one, Laria’s situation spun dangerously.

In terms of combat, his wide skillset and magic-martial cultivation let him barely cope.

The real problem was the Fury Curse.

Bloodborne spread was not the primary issue.

What terrified countless strong fighters was that the Fury Curse propagated through combat itself.

Whenever one fought rage beasts, as time passed an invisible anger ignited in the hearts of nearby life.

At first it was mild irritation, suppressible by reason. But once it passed a threshold it condensed into a permanent Fury Curse—a spike lodged in the soul that could not be removed.

Laria panted and sensed something was wrong.

His vision blurred; edges ghosted faintly. His ears buzzed as if bees nested there. The world appeared veiled by a faint red gauze. His mind grew agitated, and a destructive impulse to tear everything around him sprang up.

He knew the Fury Curse was burning his reason.

“If this continues I will be infected.”

“Retreat for now!”

Laria decided.

If there were only one or two Legendary beasts, he could repel the tide. But now the situation was different.

Even if he used all his wisdom to maneuver and win, he most likely could not avoid infection by the Fury Curse.

The longer the fight, the deeper the erosion; by the battle’s end it might be too late.

He vaguely remembered that his father once encountered similar things and tamed them—that fragment was one of Father’s many legendary experiences relayed by elders.

But Laria knew he could not match his Dragon Father.

And the Fury Curse rampaged through Arotala; even Immortals feared it. Better not to tempt infection.

Whoosh!

Laria used flame to momentarily push back the Legendary assault.

He drew a deep breath and ordered,

“All Aola warriors, prepare—”

He did not finish.

Because the sky suddenly tore open.

Not a cloud split, but the firmament itself rent.

It was as if invisible giant hands outside had ripped a gap in the heavens, jagged edges like torn cloth.

A dragon crawled through the rift.

Tarlensa looked up and her eyes widened.

Massive and majestic, a body of flame and steel filled her field of vision.

That body was larger than any dragon she had seen, more imposing than any imagined being. Its scales gleamed dark-red in the dusk like cooled lava or steel heated to red-hot.

Garoth Ignas.

The Red Emperor.

“...Grandfather!”

Although seeing him in person for the first time, the green dragon recognized him instantly.

She had seen that image countless times—on murals, statues, in elders’ tales—but the impact of the real thing could not be captured by images or words.

She screamed out, not in fear but in pure excitement, like a worshiper seeing a god.

Not only her.

Almost all Aola people fell into a frenzy.

The name they had long sung and revered had become reality, right above them.

Against this, the rage beasts halted.

Those whose minds had been burned by the Fury Curse were somehow suppressed; they lowered their bodies, limbs bent, bellies almost touching the ground, emitting uneasy low growls.

The Red Emperor did not look at them.

He slowly turned his head and scanned the battlefield.

Finally his gaze fell upon Laria.

“Father, you came.”

Laria bowed his head and said.

Garoth said nothing, only withdrew his gaze.

He looked around again, pupils deep, surveying all the rage beasts.

Then the green dragon saw a sight that shook her soul.

Countless brilliant and deadly flame-flowers appeared out of thin air within the emperor’s sight, blooming on the rage beasts. Petals of fire and centers of searing heat.

The beasts barely had time to scream.

Flames licked their bodies, burned through fur, muscle, and bone, layer after layer until nothing remained.

Ordinary rage beasts were consumed quickly.

Legendary rage beasts did not fare much better.

They held out longer and struggled in the flames, but under the Red Emperor’s gaze they too were reduced to ash.

The Red Emperor watched quietly.

Those beasts that had once seemed an overwhelming threat became flying dust; the plains returned empty and smoldering.

Silence settled over the battlefield.

Only wind whimpered and the snap of lingering flames remained.

Aolan people regained their senses and roared enthusiastically.

Garoth, however, had no time to answer them.

He narrowed his eyes and, in the residual heat and on some Aola warriors, saw faint sparks.

Frenzied flame—the physical form of the Fury Curse.

The sparks were faint, like candlelight shaking in the wind, ready to go out; most were slowly dissipating.

But some had already rooted in Aola warriors’ hearts, flickering as if finding soil.

“I can sense the frenzied flame.”

Garoth extended a claw into the dusk.

Hum!

A vast sucking force flowed from his talon.

Invisible sparks swayed and then, like rivers converging, flowed toward the Red Iron Dragon’s claw.

They included those already rooted in living hearts.

Some preliminarily infected Aola warriors glowed red-eyed and jittery, as if a fire burned in their chests—then suddenly, as if gripped by an invisible hand, the agitation vanished and the redness faded.

They blinked in confusion, not understanding what had just happened, simply feeling much lighter.

At the same time,

the frenzied flame in Garoth’s claw wove into him thread by thread.

The Red Iron Dragon raised his head slightly.

A thin film of red briefly covered his pupils like a gauze, then he suppressed it entirely.

At the same time...

Garoth felt the frenzied flame in his heart grow stronger.

It fed on other frenzied flames and grew, like a living thing consuming food. In the process it burned the links within those flames that could influence him; they could no longer affect him and instead became his power.