By the time they left the treasury, it was already three or four in the morning. The ancient gold dragon and the dwarven king returned together to the royal palace. Along the way, they engaged only in casual banter, bound by an unspoken understanding; neither mentioned the vital pact they had just forged.
Inside the palace, the young gold dragon Aurora had already been waiting for a long time. The dwarves, renowned for their formidable tolerance for alcohol, were clambering up from the floor in twos and threes, though their minds remained somewhat muddled.
Then, amid reluctant farewells, boisterous singing, and impassioned cheers from the dwarves, the two gold dragons beat their massive wings, leaped into the air, and soared toward the horizon.
On the broad terrace atop the royal palace, the dwarven king lifted his head and gazed long at the receding golden silhouettes, his expression turning increasingly solemn.
Dawn was breaking. The faint light of daybreak traced the silhouette of Blackrock Mountain with golden edges, cloaking the bodies of the gold dragons in a hazy luminescence as though they were melting into the sky itself.
At this sight, the dwarves seeing them off grew even more thrilled. Exuberant cheers of "Wings of Dawn!" and "Dragon of Dawn!" echoed back and forth across the heights, refusing to fade.
"Your Majesty... what troubles you?" A familiar voice sounded. Dwarven Minister Bjorn leaned heavily on his walking stick, hobbling tremulously onto the terrace and coming to a halt behind Ed.
Following the Battle of Blackrock Mountain, the dwarf, who was over three hundred years old, seemed to have aged considerably. Wrinkles carved deep lines across his face, his frame had bent further into a stoop, and even walking had become difficult.
Ed could tell that this veteran minister did not have much time left either; the furnace-fire within him, just like Ed's own, had dwindled to its dying embers.
Gazing at the empty sky where the gold dragons had vanished, the dwarven king sighed softly. "Can we truly place our trust in an ally we have known for barely a few months? Even if he is an upright, benevolent gold dragon."
"Your Majesty, it was a choice born of desperation. We have no other way out. All things considered, Lord Titus is already our best option," Bjorn replied in a raspy voice. As he spoke, the creases across his face deepened, resembling the cracked, weathered stone of Blackrock Mountain.
Ed unbuckled the warhammer from his belt and gripped it tightly, his eyes fixed on the dwarven runes carved into its steel. Then he shook his head with a bitter smile. "Bjorn, I don't know whether this decision is right. But the feeling of placing the future fate of our shield dwarf kin into another's hands... is agonizing."
Bjorn lifted his head with effort and consoled him: "Your Majesty, we have achieved our objective. With the protection of an ancient gold dragon renowned throughout the forces of good, those children will not fare poorly. Though it sounds bitter and humiliating, doing this... gives our shield dwarf clan at least a glimmer of hope for the future. Besides, our days are already numbered."
Hearing Bjorn's words, Ed let out a self-deprecating chuckle, tightening his grip on the hammer's haft as though trying to fuse the metal into his own flesh. "You have a point. We are men soon to die, so why agonize over so much? As for our clan's future, let us leave it to the children who will grow up beneath the wings of that gold dragon."
By now, the sun had fully risen. The morning light washed over the terrace of the Evindeldan royal palace, bathing the rugged faces of the two dwarves in its glow.
...
In the central reaches of the North Aethel Plains, within the temporary palace of the Cinder Emperor—a cavernous subterranean grotto—the red dragon lay lazily on the ground, greedily absorbing solar divine power into his body and exhaling a plume of scorching white smoke flecked with sparks.
Just then, he slowly pushed himself up from the ground, poking his massive head out from the cavern entrance. Sensing something stir within him, he glanced toward the west—toward the Mountain Kingdom.
"The Eye of Gruumsh..."
Cassius split his jaws into a savage grin, churning plumes of smoke rising steadily between his teeth.
Intervening in the Battle of Blackrock Mountain had only been an idle gambit, an incidental move intended to raise the fame of his "Titus" persona so he could establish a foothold among the forces of good and righteousness.
Yet this time, he had stumbled upon something extraordinary—the Eye of Gruumsh. Even Cassius had not anticipated such an unexpected windfall.
That was a piece of the physical body of a Greater Deity!
Even though the orc race was currently in decline and Gruumsh was about to slip into the ranks of Intermediate Deities, the value of this artifact remained incalculable. A complete Eye of Gruumsh would surpass even the Heart of Garyx in Cassius's possession.
Moreover, as one of the quintessential symbols of Gruumsh the One-Eyed God, that severed eye had very likely crystallized divine sparks in the domains of chaos, evil, strength, and war—all of which aligned with Cassius. If he devoured them all...
It might allow the red dragon to vault straight into the ranks of true demigods, though the lingering will within the Eye of Gruumsh could pose some trouble.
"Divinity..."
At that thought, raw greed filled Cassius's pale-gold vertical pupils, tiny motes of flame dancing within them. Dragon saliva as scalding as molten magma nearly dripped from the corners of his mouth.
Suddenly, the communicator inside the cavern chimed. Once Cassius granted access, a magical projection materialized before him—an ugly face, protruding tusks, and scale-covered cheeks. It was none other than the dragon-blooded ogre, Trump.
As the most fertile plain in northern Thrace, the North Aethel region spanned seven hundred thousand square kilometers, equivalent to one-fifth of the Cinder Empire's homeland.
Digesting such an enormous conquered territory was troublesome even for the present Cinder Empire.
The resistance factions across North Aethel were far more obstinate than those of the Northlands, and their combat strength was significantly greater, with no shortage of transcendent beings among them.
Furthermore, the customs, lifestyle, and culture of the Aethel people differed vastly from those of the remote Anzetans, making friction and conflict virtually inevitable.
Consequently, as Prime Minister of the Cinder Empire, Trump had recently been run ragged. He had manifested no fewer than six simulacrums to handle state affairs, running even more threads than his master.
And unlike Cassius—the Cinder Emperor who spent his days lounging, sleeping, eating, drinking, and playing the hands-off overlord—Trump fulfilled his prime ministerial duties with utmost conscientiousness. Working day and night without closing his eyes for a single moment, he fully embodied the empire's notorious "007" round-the-clock work ethic.
If he felt weary, he would down a bottle of high-grade stamina potion to restore himself to peak vigor; if he felt hungry, he would gulp down a tub of tasteless instant organic paste, settling his caloric needs for days to come.
As a wizard of transcendent intellect, the ogre had reformed his gluttonous nature, transforming into an utter workaholic.
"Good day, my exalted Master." In the magical projection, Trump bowed first, then jumped straight into his report, refusing to waste even a single second. "An orc delegation has arrived in Dragonhead City. They claim to be envoys from the Red Blood Tribe of the Ugo Steppe to the northeast, seeking an audience with Your Majesty."
"Oh?" Cassius instantly took on an intrigued expression. Shaking his head, he mused, "Tsk, speak of the devil. To think the orcs would come knocking now." The red dragon looked at the ogre and asked casually, "Trump, what is your take on this?"
Trump bowed his head at once and answered: "Master, according to our intelligence, the Red Blood Tribe gathered nearly two hundred thousand troops months ago to launch an invasion against the Mountain Dwarf Kingdom, which drew in intervention from gold dragons and elves. The Red Blood Tribe suffered catastrophic losses and fled north in disarray. Their chieftain, who reportedly enjoyed the favor of the orc god, also perished in that battle...
"Their visit to the Cinder Empire now is clearly an attempt to forge an alliance with us to exact vengeance on the Mountain Dwarf Kingdom. Blackrock Mountain is rich in resources and ore veins, and it serves as the heartland of dwarven artisans; it is indeed the empire's next target for conquest.
"However... the empire currently possesses more than enough strength to conquer the Mountain Kingdom alone. Those defeated greenskins simply lack the standing to ally with us. Furthermore, allying with a faction leaning toward chaotic evil like the Red Blood Tribe runs contrary to imperial principles."
Trump made no attempt to conceal the contempt and disdain in his tone toward the Red Blood Tribe. Having clearly thought through his arguments beforehand, his words flowed like an unbroken torrent.
The red dragon nodded slightly, seemingly well pleased with this assessment.
Cassius shared much the same view as Trump. The Cinder Empire possessed the power to conquer the Mountain Kingdom and monopolize Blackrock Mountain entirely on its own; there was no need whatsoever to let the Red Blood Tribe stick their fingers in the pie.
Just like their patron father-god, that horde of green-skinned orcs were a pack of blood-crazed lunatics.
Cassius had no desire to invite a deity of Greater Power into his sphere of influence—what if Gruumsh discovered that Cassius had stolen His eye?
What was more, the Cinder Empire had Titus—the ancient gold dragon and "faithful ally" of the dwarves—serving as an inside operative. With intimate intelligence on the Mountain Kingdom at his fingertips, there was no cause to fear any setbacks.
Observing Cassius's reaction, Trump read the room and asked, "Master, in that case, should we expel those orcs from North Aethel—or silence them all permanently?"
Cassius shook his head, a faint smile reappearing on his snout. "No need. While I have little interest in collaborating with orcs, I am somewhat curious about the orcs themselves."
"Understood, Master. I will dispatch someone at once to bring them before you."
Trump's expression remained completely unperturbed. He did not ask why, choosing instead to execute the order promptly and cleanly. After all, he was a ruthless operator who conducted experiments on vampires and human wizards on a whim.
...
In Dragonhead City, North Aethel, a group of orcs swathed in worg pelts sat on chairs, nervously eyeing a female yuan-ti engaged in communication. They looked utterly out of place in their surroundings.
Seeing the yuan-ti turn around, the leading orc sprang up from his chair and asked urgently, "Did His Majesty grant us an audience?"
"Yes. Follow me," the yuan-ti answered expressionlessly.
"Wonderful! Wonderful! We can finally avenge Lord Batu!" The orc's rugged face was flushed with excitement, his massive, burly frame trembling with emotion.
His name was Nur Redmane, earned after hunting down a beast with a crimson mane. Nur was a renowned warrior within the Red Blood Tribe and a trusted confidant of the late Chieftain Batu.
Nur had come to North Aethel on the orders of Interim Chieftain Solo, leading the tribe's mightiest warriors to forge an alliance with the surging Cinder Empire and exact revenge upon the Mountain Dwarf Kingdom.
Whenever he recalled that fateful day—recalling the dwarves, elves, and gold dragons who had shamelessly besieged their chieftain—uncontrollable fury and murderous intent flared in Nur's chest.
Those shameless hypocrites who styled themselves righteous had dared to gang up on a great warrior!
From that day forth, Nur had sworn that he would avenge Lord Batu one day. He would wash Evindeldan in blood and personally sever the head of the dwarven king.
Yet reality rarely matched ambition. Following the Battle of Blackrock Mountain, the dwarven ram cavalry, the elven unicorn cavalry, and that abominable gold dragon had conducted a brutal sweep against the retreating orcs.
Countless orcs perished across the fertile grasslands north of Blackrock Mountain. The clans scattered in rout, and the Red Blood Tribe, which Batu had spent a lifetime uniting, fell apart, leaving only a few core clans intact.
Not until a few days ago—when Chieftain Solo claimed to have received Gruumsh's favor and attained immense power—were the remnants barely reunited. Though far diminished from their former glory, they remained a force not to be underestimated.
Soon afterward, news arrived that the Cinder Empire had launched a lightning conquest across North Aethel, leaving the orcs utterly astonished. An alliance with the Cinder Empire became the shared desire of the orc clans.
Recalling this, Nur clenched his fists in secret, his expression burning with resolve. *I will succeed, for Lord Batu, and for the brothers and sisters who fought and died bravely...*
Because the Cinder Empire was busy maintaining civil stability and had yet to construct a comprehensive railway network throughout North Aethel, the one assigned to receive the orcs was an imperial wizard skilled in teleportation magic.
"Mind your etiquette when you appear before His Imperial Majesty. Kneeling is the bare minimum..."
"Heh, of course, not that anyone would dare show disrespect before His Majesty anyway. What you should truly worry about is not fainting from His Majesty's aura..."
The wizard reeled off instructions while waving his staff, weaving the spell framework for a teleportation portal.
Nur turned those words over in his mind, feeling both perplexed and mildly insulted.
While he could not compare to a hero like Batu, he was still a renowned warrior of the tribe who had faced down that ancient gold dragon in battle and even planted two arrows into the beast's wing!
Was that emperor truly so fearsome that even a warrior like him would tremble, or even lose consciousness?
The orcs had not obtained magical recordings of the red dragon emperor in combat; they only knew that North Aethel had fallen to the Cinder Empire. They had no idea what the name "Cassius" truly signified.
*Whoosh—*
Space distorted, and a rather narrow portal opened before them. The wizard remarked with a touch of impatience, "All right, in you go."
"Right."
The instant his foot crossed the threshold of the portal, Nur's hair stood on end, and a violent tremor ran through his body.
"Wh-what is this...?"
The orc felt an unimaginable terror of oppressive might crash down upon him, like a towering mountain crushing his back, suffocating him.
The ambient air was scorching, like a purgatory of flame. The sweat beading on his forehead was vaporized in an instant, rising away in wisps of steam.
His heart pounded wildly against his ribs. Lifting his head with immense effort, the orc looked toward the gargantuan cavern ahead.
"Father Gruumsh above..."
In that moment, Nur finally understood the wizard's warning—and knew the man had not exaggerated in the slightest.
Chapter 632