Before they realized it, the group had reached the end of the road. Directly ahead stood the main hall forged of iron.
This palace was completely at odds with the traditional architecture of the Northlands nobility. Void of noble opulence, it was instead steeped in a raw, direct aesthetic of violence, imparting immense visual impact and crushing pressure. Before its gates, ordinary mortals were left trembling, acutely aware of their own insignificance.
Fried turned to observe the carefully selected boys, only to find Anthony drifting off again.
"Everyone, focus."
"The one you are about to meet is the sole ruler of this land."
In truth, he thought quite highly of the boy named Anthony.
Just seven months ago, under the assault of the tiefling army, the Carven family led by Count Brandon had been thoroughly wiped out. When the tieflings pursued Count Brandon's second son, Solly Carven, the baron was found dead in the basement of his manor, his clothes in disarray.
A sharpened wooden stake had been driven deep into his throat.
And discovered beside the corpse was a boy of merely thirteen.
He had been stripped to the waist, clutching a broken wooden club tightly in his hands, his body trembling from sheer tension. Blood smeared his delicate face, and a resolve far beyond his years shone in his eyes—that was who Anthony had been.
Fried had to admit to a hint of personal bias, which had drawn extra attention to Anthony.
Because Tariq, the "White Lion Knight" who had once treated him like an elder brother, had similarly slain a monstrous, beastly director to rescue him from an orphanage. That memory was etched so deeply into his bones that he remembered it clearly even now, and Anthony's plight had undoubtedly stirred those echoes of the past.
Fortunately, Anthony had not disappointed him. Through desperate, life-risking training, he had emerged as the most outstanding boy in the selection.
*Still, what does any of this have to do with me?*
*It's just... fulfilling an assignment.*
Fried let out an imperceptible chuckle at the thought.
With a heavy rumble, the massive gates of the main hall slowly swung open before them.
"Follow me."
Fried led the way at the front, and the boys fell in behind him, carefully forming a neat column.
Fried sank to one knee before the dais and said with deep reverence, "Master, in accordance with your instructions, I have found candidates who meet the requirements to receive your great gift. I hope they meet with your satisfaction."
As he knelt, the boys behind him followed their prior instruction, dropping to their knees in unison and bowing their heads.
Anthony's breath came in ragged gasps. He thought he caught the scent of sulfur.
The air inside the hall was far hotter and drier than outside, causing bead after bead of sweat to stream down his forehead. Yet he remained pinned to his knees, not daring to move a muscle.
"Very good. Lift your heads."
A voice full of majesty rang from above, echoing through the cavernous palace.
Anthony cautiously raised his head, finally beholding once more the towering silhouette carved into his memory. The massive, powerful dragon coiled languidly atop the iron throne, ripples like flowing magma coursing across his scales.
Upon that ferocious draconic head, golden slitted pupils radiated authority, and sweeping horns swept back like a crown.
He was the absolute symbol of strength, the existence that had shattered the old order of the Northlands, the founder of the kingdom's new order—the Lord of Cinders, Cassius.
Anthony's heart thumped madly against his ribs. He had never been so close to this mighty entity before. The realization that he was about to obtain formidable power and supreme glory, to completely overcome his humiliating past, set his heart ablaze with fiery ambition and eager anticipation.
The voice from above sounded once more.
"What is your name?"
Feeling the weight of an appraising gaze from the dais, Anthony's heart leaped into his throat. A thrill of disbelief ran through his mind: *Is he... is he speaking to me?*
The humiliation of his past had buried a deep sense of inferiority within his heart, leaving him scarcely able to believe he had caught His Majesty's attention.
He hastily lowered his head and answered, "Your Majesty, my name is Anthony."
"Oh? You're Anthony?"
A note of surprise tinged Cassius's voice.
He knew of Anthony's ordeal. The kingdom's cultural propaganda department had turned the story into a textbook example of "Northlands nobles brutalizing commoners, the Kingdom's order liberating commoners." It had appeared on leaflets distributed across the Northlands nations, serving as a powerful weapon in the war for public opinion.
Yet Anthony himself clearly had no idea.
The boy was overwhelmed with wild joy, feeling thoroughly flattered: *He actually knows who I am!*
He had never imagined that someone as lowly and worthless as himself—treated as little more than cattle under the old order of the Northlands—could be remembered by His Majesty. The other boys around him looked on in burning envy.
Such was the nature of grace bestowed from high above. When the gulf in status and power was vast enough, the slightest gesture from a superior was received as a supreme blessing. Cassius, for his part, was well accustomed to it.
If a few casual words could win unwavering loyalty, why wouldn't he say them?
After a few token inquiries and words of praise, Cassius yawned and commanded:
"Fried, begin the ceremony."
"Yes, Master."
Fried rose, stepped forward, and faced the boys, solemnly reciting the oath:
"Quench the enemy's fire of hope. Rule with an iron fist. The Dragon Lord above all."
The boys echoed the oath in clear, ringing voices.
Anthony felt a surge of emotion. Following the steps he had rehearsed countless times in his mind, he knelt upon the floor and spoke every word with absolute conviction:
"Quench the enemy's fire of hope! Rule with an iron fist! The Dragon Lord above all!"
"Very good."
Feeling the power of the pact take hold, Cassius said softly.
The magma-like patterns on his scales rippled, releasing tiny sparks of glowing motes.
Now possessing the bloodline of a progenitor dragon, he had long surpassed the primitive method of granting boons through drops of blood. With only a negligible fraction of his power, he could release motes of bloodline fire infused with magical essence to bestow the violent bloodline of a red dragon upon mortal beings.
The dancing sparks entered the boys' bodies.
They transformed mortal blood into dragon blood teeming with elemental power, rushing wildly through their veins.
Though mentally prepared, the moment the dragon blood took hold, Anthony clamped his teeth together so hard they threatened to shatter. Around him, he could hear his companions screaming in agony, unable to bear the pain.
Hot—it was agonizingly hot!
It felt as if his body had been plunged into molten lava, threatening to ignite into flames.
Anthony curled up on the ground in torment, thrashing back and forth. His skin flushed crimson, venting scalding white steam.
In an instant, Anthony seemed thrown back to that unforgettable afternoon. Baron Solly materialized before his eyes once more, reaching out toward his younger self with grasping, demonic claws.
*But... I need this power!*
*So what if I become a monster? So what if I become a dragon's servant? At least no one will ever treat me like cattle to vent their lust on...*
*I want to be a real human being!*
He roared in his heart.
This time, Anthony was not violated as he had been in reality. Instead, he breathed out roaring flames, reducing that abhorrent beast to ashes.
Beneath his skin, faint scales emerged. A ridge of scale-horns sprouted along his spine, and his previously gaunt frame hungrily absorbed the surrounding energy, growing visibly sturdier and stronger.
When the smoke cleared, Anthony could still be recognized as human, but he now bore distinct draconic traits.
And the same was true for the other eleven boys.
Without exception, all twelve who received the blessing had successfully transformed into Dragon Oath Paladins.
However, except for Anthony, none of their minds could withstand the tremendous surge of power or master their newly forged draconic vessels; they had fallen unconscious, lying insensible on the floor.
Anthony alone pushed himself up with scale-covered arms, slowly rising before dropping back onto one knee.
His lips parted slightly.
"Dragon Lord..."
At this moment, he was finally reborn, bidding a permanent farewell to the boy who had once curled in a dark corner.
Chapter 227