The desolate caws of crows echoed across the sky.
The flock gathered into a dark cloud, circling above the plaza outside the castle.
These feathered beasts were waiting for their dinner to arrive.
Upon the blood-soaked plaza stood an executioner wearing a black leather hood, his bare torso covered in bizarre, blood-drawn sigils—tattoos praising malice and cruelty, the handiwork of devils from Hell.
Ragged slaves were brought before the executioner one after another.
Gouging eyes, severing tongues, stripping bone from flesh, severing hamstrings and tendons... The executioner indulged every whim, inflicting all manner of torture upon the slaves.
Their agonizing screams served as the finest background music, only stoking his frenzy and driving him to ever more savage abandon.
Most of the slaves died in shrieking torment, their blood seeping into the ground to feed a dread magic circle, while their tormented souls were devoured by the blood-red devilish phantoms hovering overhead.
This was the sacrificial rite the Cerberus family had been conducting for days.
There were many lords of the Nine Hells, and the Cerberus family revered Tiamat, the Dragon Queen of Avernus, the first layer of Hell.
Tiamat's true form was a colossal chromatic dragon. Legend told that she bore five heads, and rumors held that all five chromatic varieties of dragons across the world were her descendants.
However, because the Cerberus family had merely cowered and eked out a miserable survival in the City of Alchemy, Tiamat had held them in contempt. They were completely unworthy of displaying the Hell Lord's five-headed dragon sigil and had been forced to use the shameful three-headed hound as a substitute.
Only now did they dare boldly hoist Tiamat's five-headed dragon emblem once more.
For the times had changed.
While the Alchemists' Council still stood, the family had never dared conduct such open and brazen sacrifices, even if the City of Alchemy had been one of the very few realms that tolerated hellish cults.
Yet the moment the City of Alchemy abruptly fell to ruin, the Cerberus family knew that the turning point in their destiny had arrived.
Anyone could foresee that with the destruction of the City of Alchemy, the entire realm would descend into turmoil, inevitably sparking massive warfare. And war was the breeding ground of anguish and torment—the greatest gift one could offer to Hell.
Throngs of slaves were sacrificed to open the Gate of Hell for the hell lord and summon monstrous fiends to this world.
Having accomplished all this, the Cerberus family could finally hold their heads high, having reclaimed Tiamat's favor.
Even so, they knew full well that their family faced a grave crisis. Their plan to intercept and butcher the elven delegation had failed, the Gate of Hell had been destroyed, and a horde of cannon fodder had perished in vain. Failing to prevent the peace talks meant that the chaos in the City of Alchemy might draw to a close sooner than expected, and on top of that, they would have to face the elves' retribution.
Thus, the Cerberus family had no choice but to stake everything on one desperate gamble, ramping up the scale of their sacrifices.
Taking advantage of the chaos, they had captured a great many prisoners, intending to sacrifice them all in one fell swoop.
This brutal slaughter had already dragged on for two days, yet the results seemed underwhelming.
Though Tiamat was a hell lord, she was not the sort of fiend obsessed purely with torture and petty sadism. She was the Dragon Queen, the Mother of Dragons, and what she truly craved was power and dominion.
The family's previous exploits—expanding territory, plundering populations, and instigating wars to reap profits—were all actions she favored, and her boons to them had been generous in return.
Yet after the assassination attempt failed, the Cerberus family had resorted merely to these bloody, crude sacrifices, and Tiamat's interest had waned.
Although tormented souls were hard currency in Hell, such primitive, brutal butchery did little to kindle the evil Dragon Queen's intrigue.
Still, the Cerberus family had no alternatives. They had to exhaust every possible avenue to bolster their might and brace for the retaliation that was sure to come.
This was by no means a desperate, blind flailing. The Cerberus family had produced a prodigy who stood on the very threshold of becoming a legend. Tiamat's previous blessings had all been funneled into him, leaving him just one step shy of the breakthrough. If this sacrifice succeeded, he would finally ascend to legendary status.
A single legend might not halt an elven army, but one was more than enough to shield the family's core elite and allow them to start anew elsewhere.
Fleeing when outmatched was never a problem for devil-worshipers like the Cerberus family.
Yet for the captives and slaves lined up for slaughter, it was an unmitigated human tragedy.
Among the prisoners, a young boy shuffled forward with difficulty, his legs bound in heavy chains.
He was different from the other numb captives. He kept his head lowered, concealing the fury in his eyes, his lips parting and closing as he whispered prayers in the faintest murmur.
He was reciting the prayers of the Lord of the Dawn, taught to him not long ago by a paladin named Fanxing.
This boy was Geronimo.
Geronimo had truly suffered rotten luck. He had originally been chosen by Fanxing as a secret weapon against Anbaixiu. His talent had been so remarkable that even the paladin Fanxing had marveled at it, resolving to take him back as a disciple once the war ended.
Yet Anbaixiu had defied all convention. Instead of lingering in his fortress like a proper demon lord waiting for righteous heroes to vanquish him, he had personally ambushed the heroes.
Thus, Geronimo's first chance to rise above his station was snuffed out. He was reduced once more to a serf no one cared about, abandoned in the City of Alchemy and forgotten by all.
Even so, Geronimo had not given up. He had kept the teachings of the Lord of the Dawn engraved upon his heart: "Thou shalt better thyself and never yield to pride; thy flesh and spirit shall be fertile; thou shalt remain vigilant and valorous in the face of peril; thou shalt uphold justice, and find life through the embrace of death."
Inspired by these stirring words, Geronimo had gathered the serfs who had not yet surrendered to despair during the final battle of the City of Alchemy and joined the forces of the Ryan Empire.
Leading these frail mortals, Geronimo had assisted the paladins in opening the city gates, helping the trapped folk escape the City of Alchemy.
One could say that as long as Geronimo survived and reached the Ryan Empire, his future would have been limitless.
Yet his luck was truly abysmal. In that final battle, he had fallen unconscious from grave wounds, and before his comrades could tend to him, they were slain by other undead.
The fray had been utter bedlam; even the paladins suffered grievous casualties. The charge of the Headless Horseman, Gareth, had pulverized entire blocks, burying the unconscious Geronimo under the rubble.
By the time Geronimo awoke, he had been buried deep underground.
Worse still, his right arm had been crushed beneath the debris, its bones shattered.
He had crawled out using the last ounce of his strength, only to find an endless expanse of ruins. The paladins were long gone.
Helpless, Geronimo had hurriedly bandaged his arm and sought another way out. The collapse of the City of Alchemy had plunged the land into free-for-all warfare. As an injured, young serf, simply staying alive was a monumental task.
After a few days of scurrying and hiding, any thought of catching up to Ryan's army was cast to the back of his mind; surviving took precedence over all else.
In the end, Geronimo had collapsed from a scorching fever. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself locked in a cell by the Cerberus family.
Now, he was being herded toward the elevated platform, taking one agonizing step after another toward that ruthless executioner.
The prayers on Geronimo's lips never ceased. He recited everything Fanxing had taught him—words that once summoned celestial warriors woven from divine radiance. Yet no matter how fervently Geronimo prayed now, the Holy Light gave no response.
The more desperate he grew, the more scrambled his prayers became, until he accidentally bit his own tongue.
A piercing spasm of pain made him shudder. The instant he hesitated, the whip behind him cracked sharply against his flesh.
Watching the platform draw nearer and nearer, Geronimo could finally bear it no longer and cried out, "Holy Light, do you not protect your faithful?! I did everything you asked of me—was it all a lie?!"
The executioner caught the boy's words and burst into raucous laughter.
"A brat who believes in the Holy Light? I'll make sure your death is all the more agonizing."
Grabbing Geronimo by the hair with one hand, the executioner dragged his small frame onto the platform. He picked up a flaying knife and grinned at him. "Little rat, you revere the Holy Light, do you? Let's peel the skin from your back first and give you a pair of angel's wings."
Before Geronimo could even struggle, excruciating agony flared across his back. The razor-sharp flaying knife sliced through his skin, carving away his flesh bit by bit.
Geronimo shrieked in anguish, but his screams failed to soften the executioner's heart in the slightest.
The savage sacrifice pressed on, and amid the relentless torture, Geronimo's sanity began to unravel.
What Holy Light? What Lord of the Dawn? What life fit for a proper human being...? It was all a lie, a sickening deception! That hypocritical band of paladins had abandoned him and fled! They had promised that if he survived the war, a new life would await him.
He had fought so hard to live—so where was the Holy Light?!
His frail body could not endure such torment. Before long, his breathing grew faint, and his consciousness blurred.
At the brink of death, Geronimo seemed to see a two-headed crow alight before him. One of its heads was entirely bald, stripped of skin just like Geronimo's back.
The grotesque, hideous bird lunged forward, aiming its sharp beaks at Geronimo's eyes.
A jolt of blinding pain shot through him, and his right eye plunged into total darkness.
Suddenly, the dying boy found strength from an unknown source. He reached out, seized the two-headed crow that was devouring his eye, and shoved it straight into his mouth.
Even if he had to die, he would drag this beast to hell with him!
He swallowed the foul blood in great gulps. A torrent of molten fire seemed to course through Geronimo's battered frame, the searing agony racking him with violent spasms.
Yet the fierce, unyielding will of a dying soul triumphed over the torment, gradually jolting his mind back into clarity.
A long-buried memory surfaced in his thoughts.
It was a story his mother had read to him when he was a small child.
In the tale, there had lived a people who worshiped dragons. They mimicked the dragons' roars, crafting a unique language of their own; whenever they chanted in that tongue, they were granted the colossal strength of dragons.
They were the remnants of the Dragon Era, survivors of the pre-civilization—the Cult of the Dragon.
Syllables that seemed to echo from primordial antiquity spilled from Geronimo's lips. Across the land, the roar of a dragon resounded once more.
High above in the sky, the fiendish phantom that had been preparing to devour souls paused, fixing an astonished, delighted gaze upon the dying boy.
Tiamat, the Dragon Queen, had heard this desperate dragon roar.
The executioner had no inkling of what was happening. Thinking the eerie sound was merely the boy's death rattle, he prepared to strip the spine out inch by inch to fashion a gruesome sculpture of flesh and bone. Suddenly, however, he found his arm frozen, refusing to obey.
The hand clutching the boning knife felt drawn like metal to a lodestone, slamming uncontrollably against Geronimo's wound.
Immediately after, sharp, fleshy buds sprouted from the mangled laceration. Like jagged teeth, they clamped down hard on the executioner's arm and began tearing at it with ravenous fury.
Flesh tore away, bones snapped, and the executioner let out bloodcurdling screams of agony.
Yet no matter how frantically he struggled, he could not break free from this horrifying backlash.
Every single wound across Geronimo's body turned into a gaping maw filled with razor teeth. His frame contorted grotesquely, wrapping around the executioner like a boneless mass.
The executioner's shrieks were cut short as his body was shredded to pieces and swallowed down by those dread maws.
Having devoured the executioner, the maw-covered monstrosity emitted a sickening crunch of warping bones and flesh before reshaping itself into human form.
Geronimo stood upon the blood-drenched platform, staring at his own hands in disbelief.
In his palms, along his arms... jagged-toothed mouths opened and snapped shut. His very body seemed stitched together from countless ravenous jaws—so terrifying, so revolting... yet brimming with immense power.
Geronimo bent over. After a few seconds, he could hold back no longer and burst into wild, manic laughter.
"Hahaha! Hahahahaha! To hell with the Holy Light! My faith belongs to the dragon! I am the dragon that soars the skies, the dragon that devours all!"
As Geronimo roared, the flayed skin across his back sprouted wildly, transforming into a pair of crimson, membranous wings of bone, like those of a colossal dragon.
With a powerful beat of those bloody wings, Geronimo took flight, hurtling straight toward the members of the Cerberus family.
Flesh and gore splattered across the stones. The boy turned fell dragon was going to return all his agony to the world.
Chapter 126