The news that the Empire had defeated the Abyssal legion and that the Cinder Emperor had slain a demon lord had already spread across the world, sending shockwaves throughout the Feanso Continent.
The tremors caused by this revelation were even more staggering than those from his victory over Oszedro, the "Silver Wings."
No matter how formidable a wyrm silver dragon was, he was still merely the Grand Elder of Clan Melvold, an esteemed figure of the lawful good alignment. A demon lord, however, was an entity capable of threatening the entire Material Plane—yet it had been slain by that red dragon single-handedly.
Did this not prove that the Cinder Emperor possessed the power to wipe out a nation with ease, or even endanger the entire Material Plane?
Magical recordings of the terrifying battle that had leveled Anstica also found their way into the hands of leadership across various factions, inspiring profound shock and terror.
Two dragons over a hundred meters in length tangled in lethal struggle. The clash of those primordial behemoths shook the heavens, collapsed mountain peaks, and tore the earth asunder.
In the Third Age, an era where the gods were separated from mortals, no one had ever witnessed a battle of such catastrophic magnitude. It made viewers doubt their own eyes.
Could it be an illusion?
Or perhaps archival imagery preserved from ancient times?
Yet everyone who had witnessed the conflict with their own eyes—those whose minds were indelibly burned with that cataclysmic spectacle—gave the same answer: no.
This was real. It had taken place in the Third Age, right upon the Great Anzetta Waste.
***
In the eastern reaches of the Feanso Continent, deep within the High Forest.
The air was filled with a delicate floral fragrance and the scent of damp earth. Dense emerald canopies shimmered with lush luster, dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves.
Exquisite white architecture lay nestled deep within the woods, cradled by towering ancient trees and adorned with graceful reliefs. This was the Therenia Royal Court, the ten-thousand-year-old capital of the Elven Kingdom.
On a windowsill deep inside the court, a beautiful elven woman looked out into the distance.
Her pale blonde hair cascaded past her shoulders, and her sheer robe woven from blades of grass did little to conceal her graceful figure. Her eyes, clear as water, were clouded with worry.
The golden circlet atop her head, glistening with drops of dew, and the hint of violet within her irises revealed her identity.
She was the nominal ruler of Therenia, the seventeenth queen since the kingdom's founding: Catherine Moonchaser.
The elven queen gazed up at the azure sky above the High Forest, muttering softly to herself.
"The three kingdoms remain locked in endless war, the Abyssal demons stir relentlessly, and an incomparably mighty dragon has risen with startling speed in the north... What a mad era."
Catherine lowered her gaze and let out a self-deprecating chuckle. "And yet... I am nothing more than a canary kept in a cage. What right do I have to concern myself with such things?"
Decades ago, backed by the Fadlan Empire, the Council of Elders had sidelined the young elven queen and seized complete control over Therenia's governance.
They championed the "ancient and noble traditions of the elves," isolating Therenia from the outside world.
They barred the Elven Kingdom from meddling in the world's conflicts and forbade the queen from accessing the arcane knowledge handed down by her ancestors.
Colluding with humans, these elders had even secretly gifted beautiful elven maidens to Fadlan nobles to serve as their playthings.
The renowned half-elf paladin, Rhea the "Twilight Blade," was the bastard child born of such a union between an elven woman and a Fadlan noble.
"Your Majesty, you need not demean yourself. This state of affairs is coming to an end, and the Elven Kingdom will soon return to your rule."
A cool, composed female voice came from behind Catherine. Dressed in dark-gold light armor with a longsword in hand, the half-elf paladin strode forward.
"Rhea, you've returned?" Catherine spun around quickly, an irrepressible joy illuminating her delicate face.
Rhea stepped forward and dropped to one knee before Catherine, saying in a low, steady voice, "Yes, Queen Catherine. The Fadlan Empire has collapsed, and those old men on the Council have lost their backing. The time has come to overthrow their corrupt rule."
"Rise first, Rhea." Catherine stepped forward to help the returning half-elf paladin to her feet.
She turned back toward the Moon-Glow Sacred Tree—the symbol of supreme elven authority, currently occupied by the Council of Elders.
"You are right. Therenia must not languish like this. Nor should it... remain in the clutches of that scum. I will restore the Elven Kingdom to the civilized, glorious realm it once was."
This queen, long seen by the elders as an easily manipulated canary and known for her gentle, tender nature, now held a resolve in her limpid eyes that had never been seen before.
"By your will," Rhea replied, gripping her silver sword with resonant conviction.
"Oh, Rhea."
"What is it?"
Catherine drew a crystal orb from her robes. Within it played the magical recording of two mountain-sized dragons locked in mortal combat—the duel between Cassius the "Cinder Emperor" and the Abyssal dragon.
Pointing a slender finger at the dragon in the image, Catherine asked softly, "Do you know of this Cinder Emperor?"
Rhea nodded slightly. "Of course, Your Majesty. I saw the footage at the headquarters of the Harpers. I must admit... that red dragon is extraordinarily powerful, to an unbelievable degree. He is not a being anyone can face head-on."
Catherine grew curious. "Is there any chance we could work with him?"
"Forgive my bluntness, Your Majesty, but in my experience, seeking an alliance with a red dragon is nothing short of asking a tiger for its hide. Not to mention the historical grievances between dragons and elves. Do you know what sits near the very top of a red dragon's menu? Elves. Preferably young elven maidens."
Rhea blinked playfully. Catherine gasped in fright, prompting the half-elf to chuckle softly. Rather than monarch and subject, their relationship was more like that of close friends.
Still, regarding the outside world and the enigmatic north, the elven queen—trapped inside the court for so long—had far too many questions. Catherine repeatedly questioned Rhea about the state of affairs across Feanso, and the half-elf paladin answered every inquiry with tireless patience.
"By the way, didn't you travel through the Great Anzetta Waste for a time? It's said... you even killed a red dragon, and everyone calls you a dragon-slaying hero."
Rhea shook her head with a rueful smile, a hint of helplessness showing on her handsome, resolute face. "Your Majesty, if I had faced a red dragon like that back then, I wouldn't be standing here today. This Cinder Emperor rose far too quickly—so quickly that he doesn't resemble a dragon at all. Many draconic scholars suspect he is a progenitor dragon sealed beneath underground ruins, dormant for tens of thousands of years, entirely different from the female dragon I encountered, and..."
Rhea suddenly broke off. Turning her head, she stared intently at the magical projection inside the crystal orb.
Faint metallic lusters gleamed across the colossal red dragon's scales, as though interwoven with gold—just like the peculiar wyrmling she had encountered years ago.
Rhea's heart sank instantly. Fine beads of sweat pricked her forehead, dampening her silvery-white hair.
She recalled the words she had spoken a decade ago when sparing that wyrmling: *"Perhaps mercy may be shown to ordinary foes."*
Back then, Rhea had hoped that this peculiar, lawful neutral red dragon would not bring calamity to the world—vowing that if he did, she would strike him down with her own hands.
*Impossible.*
*That is absolutely impossible,* Rhea thought to herself.
*What a ridiculous notion. A wyrmling growing into a behemoth surpassing a great wyrm in a mere ten years, becoming the emperor who rules Anzeta?*
*To call something this preposterous a legend wouldn't do it justice—it was sheer fantasy! Even mythology contains no plot so absurd!*
Yet the stirrings of fate resonated in the half-elf's mind, making her tremble as though plunged into an abyss of ice. Rhea linked the timeline of this red dragon's emergence recorded by the Harpers with those unmistakably identical traits shared with the odd wyrmling.
In an instant, she realized that this tale, which sounded like the babblings of a child, was very likely the truth!
"That explains everything..."
Rhea's brow knitted tightly as she muttered under her breath, so softly only she could hear.
*So that's it. This answers the doubts of the draconic scholars and the perplexity of the Harpers.*
*That dragon, larger even than a great wyrm red dragon, isn't a sealed progenitor dragon, nor a scion of Tiamat. He has a clear developmental trajectory!*
*He is very likely the strange wyrmling I let go ten years ago.*
"What is it, Rhea? Did you recall something about that red dragon?"
"No, Your Majesty. I was just... thinking over our plan to reclaim the Moon-Glow Sacred Tree."
The half-elf stood resting her hand on her sword, looking into the distance. A faint glimmer flickered in her beautiful eyes, concealing whatever thoughts ran through her mind.
Rhea pressed her lips together.
Some things were choices she had made, and she alone would bear the consequences. The innocent, determined queen before her shouldn't be dragged into the trouble she had wrought. Once she helped Catherine overthrow the Council of Elders, she would likely have to leave Therenia to face certain... destined matters.
***
In the Kingdom of Thrace, within the magnificent palace of the "City of Sunrise."
Ministers lining both sides of the dais glanced at one another before lowering their heads in silence. The atmosphere in the hall grew stiflingly thick.
From atop the golden throne—crafted in imitation of the one in the City of Sunburst—came a deep, magnetic male voice:
"Speak, gentlemen. Tell me your thoughts."
The man was clad in opulent silver armor, his skin unblemished and fair. A faint white halo veiled him, blurring his flawless features.
Most striking of all were his six broad, snowy wings unfolding from his back, making him look like an angel descended to earth.
This was the third son of Aragorn I, a leading contender for the throne of the Fadlan Empire, ruler of the Kingdom of Thrace, and commander of the Aasimar Legion—Wilhelm Aragorn, revered as the "King of Angels."
At this moment, the angelic king rested his head on his hand, looking down with an ashen face at the magical projection in the center of the hall.
Within the imagery, two hundred-meter dragons tore into each other in violent combat, tearing the world apart.
"Have you all been frightened out of your wits by him? Can it be that in all of my vast Kingdom of Thrace, there are only cowards who dare not face a dragon?"
Surveying the panicked expressions of his ministers, Wilhelm's voice finally betrayed a hint of anger.
"..."
Not a single person in the hall dared raise their head at the king's second question.
After all, that dragon was far too terrifying, far beyond the power of mortals to withstand. If someone bragged before the king and ended up being sent north, they would have to face a hundred-meter red dragon.
Meanwhile, the angel-blooded warriors who were normally so proud and fearless were still locked in combat on the southern front, brawling with Cassander's titan-blooded host.
Seeing that no one spoke, Wilhelm turned his gaze toward a man cowering in the corner.
"Duke Luton, you fled from that red dragon. What special insight do you have?"
Called out by Wilhelm, Luton—ennobled as the Duke of the Northlands—stepped forward, trembling violently, and collapsed to his knees with a loud thud.
Tears and snot streaming down his face, he pleaded, "Your Majesty, we cannot fight him! That red dragon... he—he's practically a demon! No, he is viler than any demon! He will kill us all!"
Seeing the recording had frightened Luton half to death long before this. He recalled the hellish scene when the red dragon had descended years ago, the guillotine dripping with blood—nightmares that had haunted him countless times. And when he considered all the "righteous exposés" condemning the red dragon that he had published in various treatises over the years, Duke Luton's legs shook uncontrollably. A dark, wet patch spread across his luxurious trousers, filling the grand hall with a foul stench.
"A coward, as expected." Wilhelm looked down at him with disgust and gave a casual wave. "Guards, Duke Luton's affliction has flared up again. Drag him away."
Two silver-armored soldiers immediately stepped forward and hauled the shivering Duke Luton away.
Even as he was dragged out, Luton wailed hysterically, "Your Majesty, we cannot fight him!"
Wilhelm, already in a foul mood, looked even darker after this pathetic farce. He called upon another man.
"Duke Sahisai, you served as an envoy to the Cinder Empire. What is your view on this matter?"
The minister of foreign affairs, draped in sumptuous robes and holding a scepter, stepped out of the crowd. He came to the foot of the dais, bowing his head in thought.
After a long pause, Sahisai spoke with utmost deference: "Your Majesty, he is merely a greedy, shortsighted red dragon, no matter how immense his strength may be. I concede that the Cinder Emperor is powerful enough to shift the balance of the world, but what he cares about is nothing more than the treasure in his hoard. The fact that the Cinder Empire sold us their most advanced weaponry proves this beyond doubt. For the sake of coin, that red dragon cares about nothing else. Therefore, we have no reason to fear him at all. We can even turn him into our ally—all we need do is sate his voracious appetite."
"Oh?" Wilhelm nodded slightly, rubbing his chin as if weighing Sahisai's words.
The other ministers chimed in to voice their agreement. A method that resolved the problem without having to confront that terrifying dragon was undeniably ideal.
Seeing the king deep in thought, Sahisai pressed his advantage: "Your Majesty, if you grant me ten million gold coins, I am confident I can placate that dragon in the north."
Suddenly, an anxious voice rang out from the crowd: "No, Your Majesty! That emperor is by no means as simple as Duke Sahisai makes him out to be!"
Everyone turned their heads, their gazes converging on the speaker.
The one who had spoken was another diplomat of Thrace—Sahisai's subordinate, Dayev.
Chapter 550