Endgame

Clutching her scepter, Ingrid Garces stood tensely upon the battlefield, her curvaceous body bundled in pure white robes trembling in the biting wind. "Amaunator above..." Ingrid whispered the name of her deity, trying to draw a sliver of solace from it. Surrounding her were four towering suits of glittering golden armor—spirit guardians summoned through her divine spell, Pious Guard, capable of holding back armies tens of thousands strong. Yet these guardians failed to bring her even the slightest sense of security, for Ingrid knew that the terrifying red dragon could return at any moment. Suddenly, as if sensing something, terror flooded Ingrid's face, and she reflexively looked up. The surrounding space rippled violently. *Rrrrip—* A pair of claws tore through space like shredded paper, carving out a dreadful fissure bordered by raging flames. Immediately after, the red dragon's massive, hideous head thrust through. His pale golden pupils looked down upon her, seemingly tinged with the faintest hint of a smirk. A nearly tangible draconic aura flooded the area. His colossal shadow blotted out the sunlight falling upon her, making Ingrid instinctively yearn to flee, yet she remained paralyzed under the crushing pressure, unable to budge an inch. Cassius spread his wings and spoke: "That companion of yours survived my grasp. Only... he and the faction behind him paid quite a price." "And what price can you pay?" "I... I..." Ingrid was at a loss for words, but in the end she stammered timidly, "I am an honorary bishop of the Fadlan Imperial Church. The Empire should..." The legendary cleric did not fabricate any lies about being a "Chosen," for she had witnessed firsthand how Dex Flamegold died because of a lie. The red dragon loathed those who deceived him. Cassius adopted an exaggerated tone of surprise. "The Empire?" "Don't you know yet?" "Your old emperor is dead. Your Fadlan Empire has shattered into hundreds of pieces. I'm afraid your beloved deity is so overwhelmed right now that he can barely keep his head above water—who would care about a mere honorary bishop?" "Wh-what?" Ingrid felt as though struck by lightning. Her mouth hung open and she froze in place, barely able to keep a steady grip on the scepter of the Sun God. She had grown up in the capital of the Fadlan Empire from childhood. At eight years old, her extraordinary affinity led her to be chosen as a cleric of the Church of Amaunator, and by twenty-five, she had risen to become a legendary cleric and an honorary bishop. Throughout that journey, the empire had always been her stalwart pillar of support, shielding her from every storm. And now, facing this seemingly invincible foe before her, she no longer had the empire's shelter behind her. She was plunged into a desperate plight, confronted with the choice of death. "I... I never wanted to provoke you." "Can you let me go?" Ingrid felt only sheer grievance, a slight sob creeping into her voice. She chose to speak the truth in her heart and begged for mercy right then and there. Cassius lowered his head and chuckled: "I know. You were the only one in this party who maintained your sanity. But that doesn't count for much." "I repeat my question—what price can you pay?" As the red dragon leaned closer, Ingrid could feel the scorching air rolling over her, along with the stench of sulfur. Perhaps in the very next moment, the dragon would open his jaws and devour her whole. "I... I..." In that moment, Ingrid thought of submission. Yet she was already a legendary cleric; if she lightly altered her faith to submit to an actual entity, divine punishment was all too likely. Cassius raised his head again and said placidly: "Thirty years—I want you to stay in my kingdom for thirty years. Your divine magic can serve the Fadlan Empire, so naturally it can serve the Kingdom of Cinders." He paused, an ambitious smile spreading across his face. "Besides, my kingdom does not reject any faith. Even Fadlanians and devotees of Amaunator may become citizens of the realm." "Perhaps... in the near future, you will be able to return to your homeland openly—not as a captive, but as a bishop of the church subordinate to my kingdom." "This..." Ingrid's expression changed dramatically. She caught the implication beneath Cassius's words. That was the Fadlan Empire, which had dominated the Feanso Continent for a millennium, possessing magical might far exceeding Anzeta's—and yet this red dragon actually coveted such a colossus! Yet right now, her life rested entirely in his hands, and the chance of survival was fleeting. She bit her lip, complex emotions churning in her lovely golden eyes, but she made her choice. "Greetings... Your Majesty Cassius." Supporting herself with the scepter against the ground, Ingrid performed the standard etiquette for an audience with a king. The moment she lowered her head, a storm of guilt, chagrin, and turmoil washed over Ingrid. She was a prodigy raised from childhood in the Imperial Church, a cleric devoted for life to Amaunator—yet here she was, pledging service to a kingdom ruled by a dragon! Still, she told herself again and again in her heart: *At least I survived, didn't I?* "Very good." "Ingrid, as a legendary Light Cleric, you must know spells to control the weather, yes?" "Yes, Your Majesty." "Then make this sky bright again." So spoke Cassius. After such a prolonged battle, even he felt a touch of weariness, and he had no desire to cast the spell himself. ... After that protracted battle, the land had become scarred and devastated beyond recognition. Across the pockmarked wasteland lay scattered shrapnel, heaps of corpses piled high like hills, rivers of flowing blood, scorched and resolidified lava, and melting icebergs on the verge of collapsing. The broad Inaki and Auril Rivers were dyed crimson with blood, severed limbs and broken torsos occasionally drifting along their surfaces. It was already dusk, and the sky grew dim. Even the sunset glow gradually faded, soon to dissolve into the curtain of night, while the bone-chilling wind continued to howl. *Whoosh—* The mood of the coalition army was just as dark and hopeless as the twilight sky, filled above all with sheer dread. An oppressive gloom hung over the entire coalition. A dead silence reigned within their formations; not a single soul dared look in the direction of the distant red dragon. These Northern nobles had witnessed with their own eyes how this legendary "Lord of Cinders" defeated the wyrm silver dragon in whom they had placed all their hopes, and slaughtered one after another the legendary adventurers hired at exorbitant expense. Even Grand Duke Leo, the "hero" who had stepped forward, was nowhere to be found. "I drift upon the northern wind..." From somewhere unknown, a bleak and mournful song echoed across the battlefield. It was the Song of the Northlands, said to be a ballad passed down from when the Scanians fled to Anzeta. In later years, whenever white dragons or frost giants invaded and cast the people into displacement, the resilient folk of the Northlands would always sing this song. "The snow covers my corpse, my beloved cannot recognize my face..." Viscount Luton began humming along as well. Gazing across the ruined, desolate earth, sorrow was etched across his face. He knew that the Northlands—or rather, the Northern United Kingdom—was on the verge of doom. That enemy was simply insurmountable. Nothing human power could ever contend against. The red dragon was unmistakably the incarnation of a natural catastrophe, a scourge of fate, divine chastisement from the gods against their decadent rule. Suddenly, Viscount Luton looked up toward the sky, his mouth hanging agape in a daze, and the Northern nobles steeped in grief did the same. For the sky had turned bright once more.