Having dealt with the Chaotic Evil Eye, Cassius cast a spell to contact Trump, who was tens of thousands of li away. To his astonishment, nine distinct coordinates appeared when he tried to locate him.
Had Trump's "work clones" multiplied again?
Cassius's mouth twitched slightly, though he found it reasonable enough. After all, on top of governing the vast occupied territories of North Aethel, Trump had recently been tasked with mobilizing the army.
Soon, an ugly face radiating the heavy exhaustion of an overworked wage slave appeared before the red dragon. Beside him stood a thick stack of documents, seemingly reaching half a man's height.
As usual, Trump bowed his head with utmost deference and offered a listless greeting: "Good day, my noble and great master."
Seeing the dragonblood ogre looking utterly drained, Cassius worried he might suddenly drop dead one day. Softening his tone, he offered some consoling words: "Trump, you have worked hard these past few months.
"The empire has only just stepped into Feanso. Economy, policy, public order, intelligence, diplomacy... there are simply too many affairs to handle. Once we transition into a routine operational mode, things should ease up for you."
This concern stemmed from a dragon's care for his own property. If Trump were to suddenly drop dead, who in this vast empire could ever match his loyalty—and toil so tirelessly without complaint?
Moved by Cassius's "warm consolations and care," Trump's eyes welled with tears, though the expression only made his face look all the more hideous and bizarre.
Indeed, no matter what a hideous creature did, it only managed to look ugly in new and creative ways. Fortunately, after dealing with beings like the Lady of Fungi and the Chaotic Evil Eye—monstrosities that practically attacked people with their looks—Cassius's mental fortitude had improved considerably.
Soon, resolve returned to the dragonblood ogre's gaze. He shook his head slowly and said, "Master, this is all my duty as the Imperial Prime Minister. If anything, I should be thanking you for granting me such an opportunity..."
Toward the end, his tone grew impassioned, his throat trembling faintly: "For the empire's grand blueprint to conquer the world—no, to conquer the multiverse—I am willing to sacrifice everything, even my life!"
Seeing his vassal pump himself back up into high spirits with just a few words, Cassius nodded with great satisfaction, silently marveling that this ogre was truly a natural-born beast of burden.
Cassius then asked, "What is the state of the imperial army? When will they reach Evindeldan?"
Trump replied with confidence, "Three days. Three days will be plenty. Not much time has passed since the war, so our main forces are still stationed across North Aethel and can be redeployed with ease.
"According to the Imperial Intelligence Department, the Highland Dwarf Kingdom was severely drained by the recent war and is hollow within. Furthermore, we possess your defense maps of Evindeldan, so those dwarves pose no real threat.
"After a brief deliberation, the Imperial Senate resolved to dispatch only thirty percent of our forces to Evindeldan, leaving the remainder stationed across North Aethel so as not to provoke unrest in the occupied territories."
Cassius asked casually, "Who is leading the campaign?"
"General Dror. Grand Marshal Duoluo must oversee the North Aethel military district. Although he strongly volunteered himself this time, the Senate rejected his petition," Trump answered flatly.
"Not bad."
The red dragon gave a slight nod, venting a plume of white, sulfurous smoke, and stretched his wings.
Dror, an Imperial Marquis, a dragonblood hobgoblin, Duoluo's confidant, and a leading representative of the imperial military. Cassius was reasonably familiar with the name.
Trump drew a single document from the towering stack with practiced precision, dispelled its sealing spell, opened it, and reported, "For this special military operation, the empire is deploying sixty thousand infantry, one hundred fifty-four tanks, four hundred sixty-four wyverns, and eight thousand five hundred engineering and logistical personnel...
"At the same time, we have issued a call to arms to assemble the Starfallen Legions in North Aethel. We anticipate more than fifty thousand Starfallen arriving as reinforcements."
Hearing these arrangements, Cassius could not help but marvel inwardly. Even without the Cinder Empire committing its full might, its overwhelming scale would completely crush the Highland Dwarf Kingdom.
As a "staunch ally" and "eternal friend" of the shield dwarves, Cassius knew the kingdom's internal state better than anyone.
After Zerol led the elderly, the weak, women, and children to migrate, fewer than thirty thousand dwarves remained in Evindeldan. Even at its peak, its population could not match the size of the imperial army being deployed.
And the finely crafted weapons the dwarves took such pride in were practically nothing before the empire's iron deluge.
Whether in numbers, quality, or equipment, the empire held an undeniable, crushing advantage.
The only factor worthy of attention was the Highland Dwarf Kingdom's top-tier combat power—the renowned Lord of the High Mountains, the legendary dwarven fighter Ade.
Trump soon addressed this point as well: "Based on the information you provided and the intelligence gathered by our department, Gruumsh recently launched an assault against the dwarven pantheon. The dwarven deities likely have no spare attention for the Material Plane.
"However, Ade Klein remains a near-demigod legendary dwarven fighter and must not be underestimated. Therefore, Misha will accompany the army, ready to step in at any moment to suppress their high-tier forces.
"Of course, should any dwarven deity descend, Misha, as your warlock, can summon your advent to Evindeldan at a moment's notice to ensure the empire's absolute victory."
"A thorough plan. Proceed as arranged. I expect you to take Evindeldan as swiftly as possible, then push toward the Ugo Grassland to thoroughly crush the Red Blood Tribe."
Cassius nodded once more, braced himself on his thick forelimbs, slowly stood, and smiled. "Though... right now, I almost wish the dwarven deities would show up."
***
Traveling northeast from North Aethel meant traveling upstream along the Courtney River through a broad, long river valley known as the Metal Road.
Merchants once bought ores, precious metals, and masterwork weapons from the dwarves here, ferrying them downriver to sell in the former Fadlan Empire.
Now, this Metal Road served as a temporary military corridor for the Cinder Empire.
The ground rumbled, the mountains roared, and the river trembled. Thick smoke hung over the valley, startling flocks of birds into frantic flight.
The empire's steam tanks led the vanguard, advancing in tight formations like migrating herds of beasts. Their engines unleashed muffled, bestial growls, crushing everything in their path without mercy.
Wyverns flapped their wings in chaotic formation across the sky, shrieking hoarsely as they cast a dense, blotchy canopy of shadows over the ground.
Surrounded by the flock, the wyvern alpha, Smaug, beat his broad wings, raising his head in a ferocious roar to command the swarm.
"Roar—!"
A potent wave of draconic presence rolled forth, sending beasts and birds across the surrounding hills fleeing in panic.
After receiving multiple infusions of dragon blood, Smaug's body now measured twenty-five meters in length, rivaling an adult or even an old red dragon!
Altered by progenitor dragon blood, he was covered in hard crimson scales, his appearance nearly indistinguishable from that of a true red dragon. Except for having only two legs, even dragon scholars would find it hard to tell the difference.
Out of pure personal amusement, Cassius had explicitly ordered the wyvern alpha Smaug to join this campaign.
Dwarves, a lonely mountain, a golden hoard, Smaug... Now that was the proper arrangement Cassius was familiar with.
Behind the tank battalions and wyvern legions marched the imperial infantry at double-time. These elite soldiers had only recently left the battlefields; their arms were top-tier, and their morale soared sky-high.
Fully twenty percent of these infantrymen bore draconic bloodlines to varying degrees. Scattered scales frequently emerged on their skin, granting them vitality and a thirst for battle far beyond ordinary mortals.
Bringing up the rear were the baggage trains and engineering corps. The massive steam locomotives packed with ammunition and rations, along with engineering vehicles hauling iron bridge spans, exuded an immense sense of pressure all their own.
The imperial army advanced with thunderous momentum, making no effort to conceal its march, terrorizing every power in the vicinity.
Before such an imposing array, no one dared stand in their way. Even the brave and selfless Harpers only dared shadow them from the surrounding mountains, quietly gathering intelligence to discern the army's destination.
The staff officers of the Imperial Ministry of War had timed it with absolute precision. In three days, no more and no less, this terrifying force arrived swiftly at the Gavin Basin south of Blackrock Mountain.
By now, the imperial soldiers could clearly see the majestic fortress built into the mountainside ahead—Evindeldan.
The banners of the Cinder Empire snapped in the wind. The imperial soldiers gathered in tight ranks, and the rousing hymn to Cassius, the Song of Triumph, echoed over the plains, ringing toward the clouds.
In the sky, hundreds of wyverns circled incessantly, craning their necks to roar in unison, creating an awe-inspiring spectacle.
Dror, the dragonblood hobgoblin general, stood atop the tank dubbed the *Emperor's Wrath*, surveying the army he had led here with soaring ambition.
In truth, even he had never imagined receiving such an opportunity—to lead an army in a campaign of this magnitude, a privilege that should have belonged to Grand Marshal Duoluo.
Dror had started as an ordinary hobgoblin chieftain, following Duoluo back when the latter was merely a warlord. Soon after, Dror joined the Cinder Nest, rising steadily in rank with every conquest.
Now, Dror was an Imperial Marquis and an army general, effectively the military's second-in-command. Aside from the supreme Emperor and the three dukes, this hobgoblin had climbed as high as any mortal could.
Yet a new opportunity had presented itself.
When the Senate announced the resolution appointing him to lead the march on Evindeldan, Dror had felt his heart hammering against his ribs, his whole body trembling—more nervous than he had ever been, even when facing near death in battle.
The reason was simple: this was the golden opportunity for Dror to take the final step, advancing from general to marshal, and from marquis to duke.
Though Duoluo's expression had soured, Dror had firmly accepted the scepter symbolizing supreme military authority from Trump's hands.
Now, the hobgoblin general looked up at the sky, as if once more beholding the towering, majestic figure of the red dragon.
He had to fight this battle, and he had to fight it brilliantly. He had to prove his worth to the Emperor and earn the great red dragon's boon!
At the thought, Dror could not help clenching his fists, the crimson scales on the back of his hands gleaming brightly.
Dror lowered his head and surveyed the sea of impassioned imperial soldiers before him. He opened his mouth, his voice carried to the ears of tens of thousands through magical amplification.
"Soldiers! Subjects of the Cinder Emperor! Today, we stand assembled by the Emperor's supreme decree to fight for our shared purpose—the great blueprint of the empire!"
Countless eyes snapped to the dragonblood hobgoblin. Dror savored the feeling of being admired and revered.
Drawing the golden saber at his waist, Dror pointed the gleaming blade toward the distant dwarven fortress, roaring fiercely, "That fortress, Evindeldan, is the empire's next conquest!
"They call it the 'City That Never Falls'! For millennia, it has weathered countless sieges without crumbling. Neither savage orc hordes nor the mighty Fadlan Empire could ever bring those dwarves to their knees!"
Dror paused, his voice climbing to a fever pitch: "Yet we are different!
"Look upon your scale-clad bodies! Look upon the weapons in your hands! We are the army of the Cinder Empire, the subjects of the great red dragon!
"With iron and artillery, we shall show the dwarves the Emperor's supreme will, and force those stubborn wretches to yield completely!"
Finally, Dror raised his saber, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Long live the Cinder Empire! Long live the great red dragon!"
"Long live the Cinder Empire!"
"Long live the Emperor!"
Artillery fired in unison, wyverns roared, and the ground trembled violently.
Pride and fervor shone on the faces of every imperial soldier. They brandished their weapons wildly, their roars rising like a tidal wave.
The sound echoed across the Gavin Basin and rolled through the entire Blackrock Mountain range, striking terror even into the dwarves of Evindeldan.
Atop the dwarven royal palace, Ade snapped his head toward the distant roar. His expression turned deadly solemn, yet carried a hint of grim satisfaction.
He reached out, gripping his heavy warhammer, and murmured, "They are finally here... Cinder Empire, let me see what this army that conquered North Aethel like lightning is truly made of!"
Chapter 642