At the pinnacle of the high tower in the heart of Black Wings, Shalayna Jaezred, the current matriarch of House Jaezred, stared fixedly at the white torrent surging across the crystal ball, her expression grave beyond measure.
Seated around the table were more than a dozen female drow bearing various expressions. They were the elders of House Jaezred and the true rulers of this city.
Among the drow, females had always reigned supreme, while males were fit only to be slaves used to indulge their desires.
"Courtship" was a female prerogative; they chose their mates as one might select animals to keep, discarding and replacing them at will.
At this moment, however, with peril looming on their threshold, these drow had no leisure for lust.
"By Lolth, what in the world are those?" Shalayna asked through gritted teeth.
With her words, a thin veil of black mist drifted through the tower.
As a scion of shadow dragons, Shalayna possessed not only the pointed ears of a drow elf, but also black scales that often surfaced across her face, along with the ability to weave shadow magic.
"According to the scouts we sent out... they are undead skeletons. They must have come from Dragonshadow City."
"Could it be Mortifer? No, we confirmed long ago that he is dead through and through."
"Wasn't Dragonshadow City destroyed by that red dragon long ago?"
The drow murmured in agitated discussion.
Yet Shalayna said in a low, heavy voice, "It is the Cinder Empire—the empire spoken of in legends whose emperor is the 'World-Burning Dragon.'"
"That surface empire?"
"Dammit!"
"Th-that red dragon..."
"Those greedy bastards live on the surface! Why are they meddling in the Underdark's affairs?!"
The drow fell into instant disarray, some terrified, some furious, others seething with resentment.
"Skeletal behirs."
"Greater wights."
Shalayna stared at the images inside the crystal ball, her slender fingers trembling uncontrollably.
"All high-ranking undead. An army like this could never be cobbled together on a whim. This can mean only one thing—"
By the end, her throat was quivering.
"They have set their sights on House Jaezred. Whatever the reason... they intend to destroy us utterly."
The interior of the tower fell dead silent.
Thud, thud...
Suddenly, dull thuds sounded from atop the city walls, accompanied by the scraping and grinding of bone against bone, mingled with the wails and shrieks of drow soldiers.
Boom!
Dozens of colossal behir skeletons smashed through the ramparts and poured into the city, followed by thousands upon thousands of undead skeletons.
The behir skeletons even coiled upward along the black high tower, wrapping tightly around its exterior.
Perched atop a massive behir skull, the wight looked down upon the panicked drow, once again parting his lips in a twisted smile.
"The hunt has begun."
...
Isdalia, capital of the Cinder Empire.
Dong—
The loud, resonant chime of bells rang across the city, waking the slumbering populace to begin their bustling day.
Within a handsome estate in the inner city, George slowly opened his eyes and let out a yawn.
He first washed up before the mirror, donned his army service dress uniform, and finally pinned on the bronze medal signifying his rank as an Imperial Baron.
"Tsk, tsk. It really feels like a dream... A genuine dragonblood noble."
Straightening his collar, George looked into the mirror at the slitted golden pupils that symbolized "noble lineage," nodding in satisfaction.
Having received the dragon's grace, he now possessed the essence of magic as a human, far closer to a true dragon than those mongrel dragonbeasts.
Yet George hadn't traded for the far more conspicuous half-dragon elixir like some of his more radical colleagues—he still preferred himself as he was.
Out of habit, George walked into the parlor, clasped his hands before the red dragon statuette perched atop the main shrine, closed his eyes, and bowed deeply.
"Good day, Your Majesty Cassius."
"May you grant me victory in every battle and crown me in glory."
George's prayer was deeply earnest, straight from the heart.
Placing a statuette of His Majesty the Emperor in the parlor and paying daily homage had become a widespread trend throughout the empire—most prominent of all in the military.
Even the poorest reservists would commission the best local blacksmith to cast a small figurine of fine brass to keep in their rented rooms.
"Venerate His Majesty, for He shall bring you endless victory."
"Praise His Majesty, for He shall bring you eternal glory."
The origins of these two sayings were impossible to trace, yet countless officers and soldiers across the empire believed them implicitly.
Having finished his devotion, George placed three gold dinars before the statuette—currency said to have been designed by His Majesty himself.
Only then did George slip into his Imperial Army greatcoat, put on his service cap, and open the front door.
The moment he stepped outside, a warm greeting sounded from up the road.
"Good day, Baron George."
"Good day, Baron Grace."
George turned his head. It was his current neighbor, Baron Grace Pallid, an ordinary human soldier who had likewise won honors during the Northlands War.
With similar backgrounds and shared race, the two naturally enjoyed a close friendship.
Dressed alike in uniform, the two dragonblood nobles greeted each other before walking together toward the station a hundred meters away.
"You're out early."
"Heh, I hear Marshal Duoluo has been cracking down hard on military discipline lately. Several slack officers were stripped of their commissions. One can't afford to be late."
"Tsk. Those fellows in the provost department don't know the first thing about fighting a war. They only know how to throw their weight around inside our own ranks."
Flanking the street stood rows of similarly styled Western-style residences, each with its own garden.
In Isdalia, where every square inch of land was worth its weight in gold, owning a house like this was unquestionably an immense privilege.
This was Isdalia's inner city. Only military officers, government officials, and prominent merchants were qualified to reside here, and a great many of the residents were dragonblood nobles.
George, however, was merely a lowly baron, living on the outermost fringe of the inner city, separated from the outer city by only a single wall.
Toot—
A steam locomotive chugged smoothly into view and pulled up to the platform, venting puffs of white steam.
This train differed somewhat from the standard ones: its flanks were embossed with emblems of rifles and cannons, and its interior was far more luxurious.
This was an official military express, reserved solely for transporting officers and soldiers; civilians were strictly barred.
"Good day, my lords."
"Thank you for your service to the Empire."
The inspector at the carriage door glanced at the medals on their chests, hastily nodding in respect before bowing slightly to usher them aboard.
Chug-chug—
The train sped along with a rhythmic roar, the whistle atop it trailing plumes of smoke.
Beyond the window, crowds came and went: diligent laborers, shouting newsboys, and those scurrying Starfallen darting here and there.
Diverse buildings lined the avenues, while in the distance stood immense factories whose towering smokestacks belched rolling black clouds.
George sat quietly by the window, resting his chin on his hand in thoughtful contemplation as the scenery swept rapidly past.
It was all too fast. Everything was changing too quickly—faster even than the shifting view outside the glass.
A few years ago, this land had been an untamed wilderness, and George himself nothing more than a wretched serf, treated no better than livestock.
Now, with the turning of the tides, a grand, majestic metropolis had risen from the earth, and he had become a respected "man of standing."
"It really feels like a dream..." George couldn't help but marvel once more.
Gazing at the buildings, a surge of burning passion welled within his heart—an overwhelming urge to give his all for this commonwealth.
Perhaps this was what the Isdalia Times had called the "Imperial Dream."
So George thought to himself.
Chapter 470