Chapter 1031: The Rending Battle
Grant Duke Balrogel stood at the edge of the terrace. The towering northern mountains pierced the clouds, their peaks shrouded in mist and swirling snow, blending into a vast, indistinct panorama where even the massive stone terrace seemed to merge seamlessly with the sky. It was as if one step forward would dissolve him into the boundless expanse.
A steady, commanding voice came from behind him. “Your Grace, the Dragonblood Council has completed the handover.”
Balrogel, ruler of the Holy Dragon Principality, withdrew his gaze from the distant horizon and turned to Sir Gorosh Shikel, who had just ascended the terrace. He gave a slight nod. “Thank you for your efforts.”
“Is the final moment upon us?” The tall, bearded Sir Gorosh looked at the Dragonblood Duke with a complex expression. “Are you truly leaving?”
“The final moment is near. I must reach the battlefield before then,” Balrogel’s voice rumbled like the mountains themselves. “I’ve heard two voices echoing in my mind for some time now. One is fading… It’s time to go. I’ve been absent from this coming-of-age ceremony for far too long.”
Sir Gorosh was silent for two seconds, then bowed his head. “…This is your mission.”
Balrogel nodded, falling into silence. Only the howling cold wind swept over the mountaintop, carrying snowflakes from afar. After an indeterminate time, the Dragonblood Duke broke the quiet. “More and more young Dragonborn are leaving the mountains, seeking adventure in the human kingdoms to the south…”
“The allure of the new world is irresistible,” Sir Gorosh replied. “And the instinct to fly is etched deep into every Dragonborn’s soul. It can’t be rewritten by genes. The human world has just emerged from war. The continent’s balance will shift. Opportunities will multiply, and the number of young Dragonborn leaving the mountains will only grow.”
Balrogel glanced at his longtime courtier and smiled faintly. “You’re different from me. You were born and raised in the Holy Dragon Principality’s mountains, a true Dragonborn. I remember when you were young—you once leapt from Dragon’s Leap Cliff. I never imagined so many years would pass so quickly.”
“Yes, many years,” Sir Gorosh’s usually stern face softened. Perhaps he recalled his youth, or thought of his daughter happily living in the human world. “You remain strong and vibrant, while I can barely glide anymore… But that’s alright. To witness the world’s changes in my lifetime is a blessing greater than what my ancestors had.”
Another gust swept down from the north. Balrogel looked toward the distant horizon. Through the mist, he glimpsed the majestic Eternal Storm swirling over the vast sea—a colossal wall of clouds standing like an impenetrable fortress between the continent of Loren and Talrond. He inhaled the frigid air deeply, murmuring to himself, “The time has come.”
“May you travel safely,” Sir Gorosh bowed his head, his voice solemn as never before. “From this day forth, the Dragonborn may call themselves dragons.”
A sudden gale swept across the stone terrace, carrying the overwhelming presence of a great dragon. It rose on the wind, stirring waves of magic as it soared skyward. Sir Gorosh kept his head bowed until a deep, authoritative voice echoed from the distant heavens: “Lift your heads—you are dragons yourselves!”
A massive white dragon burst from the highest tower of Dragon’s Keep, ascending into the clouds. Thousands of Dragonborn living around the fortress witnessed this unprecedented sight—the dragon’s wings whipped up fierce winds, snow swirling around the mountain peaks, magic currents bending in the high air, and even the clouds traced a faint silver path pointing toward the distant north.
Countless eyes from the mountains and valleys of the Holy Dragon Principality turned skyward, filled with awe and a hint of fear. This was a true dragon—nearly a hundred meters long, powerful limbs, full wingspan—not a malformed, weak Dragonborn. In the principality’s long history, no Dragonborn had ever seen a real dragon soaring overhead.
Was this good news? A bad omen? A signal from the dragons’ ancestral home? Or merely a passing visitor?
No one recognized that the silver dragon was none other than the Dragonblood Duke himself. Circling the highest peak several times, the majestic dragon then lifted its head and charged toward the northern horizon.
…
Above Talrond, the sky was dominated by the chaotic Dragon of Madness. Its colossal form—measured in kilometers—was a terrifying amalgam of shifting clouds, mutated flesh, crystallized bone spikes, and bloodstained blades. This abomination defied mortal comprehension and natural law, rampaging across the vast continent as a mindless force of pure rage and destruction, unleashing beams of annihilation and sulfurous flames upon the land.
The perpetual daylight was swallowed by thick smoke, and even the great sun, which should not set for half a year, was obscured by the “nightfall” conjured by the Dragon of Madness. Under the dim sky, scorching black clouds hung low over the sea, and massive bolts of lightning struck every mountain and plain.
At Talrond’s edges, warped gravity had torn apart more than half the coastline. The earth curled upward, defying nature, breaking into shattered islands drifting in the sky. In the continent’s heart, uncontrolled divine power tore open terrifying rifts to the elemental realms, where living flames and surging ice reshaped everything. Above, a gateway to the Shadow Realm was forcibly rent open, spewing inky black lightning with every roar of the Dragon of Madness, ravaging once-glorious cities, sprawling factories, and ancient temples.
Everything accumulated over the past 1.87 million years on this continent was dissolving like dust. The once-magnificent, if musty, dragon civilization was being torn apart by its former protector. Towering buildings, vast pipe networks connecting cities, factories that once sustained the dragon population—all shattered by gravity storms, elemental corruption, and spatial rifts.
Amid this apocalypse, countless dragons surged skyward like tides, tearing at the Dragon of Madness’s monstrous form with cold, merciless precision. Missile barrages launched from deep underground and coastal regions ignited fiery infernos on its body. Every moment, vast clouds of “dust” rained down from the sky—ashes of dragon remains, Omega’s steel war machines, and fragments of the Dragon of Madness’s weakening body.
This was a cataclysmic bloodbath, raging for an unknown length of time.
Deep beneath Talrond, a silver-white train thundered through heavily fortified tunnels, carrying mechanical weapons and ammunition for the next battle. Ancient computation centers hummed, calculating firepower deployment and the dwindling numbers of dragon legions. Underground forges and doomsday factories worked around the clock, forging steel into new weapons or repairing salvageable dragons for redeployment.
At the deepest core of this subterranean steel kingdom, Omega’s central processor operated relentlessly—cold, efficient, devoid of reverence for gods or mercy for flesh and blood.
As a machine, Omega’s core directives, implanted by its creators, superseded all else. Driven by these commands, it executed its final mission, commanding countless dragon legions and ancient artillery as it had for over a million years.
Though the legions and batteries dwindled, Omega’s calculations assured victory was inevitable.
The cataclysmic “Dragon of Madness” had weakened. More importantly, it had severed its faith link with mortals, losing its divine power. Though still stronger than any creature on this world, it was weaker than at any point in its history. Every attack by its former dragon “followers” chipped away at the power sustaining it.
On Talrond’s western edge, deep within a mine, divine attacks had just breached the last steel defenses.
A silver-white metallic dome was destroyed. But to Omega, it was merely a trivial node lost—thousands more like it remained scattered across Talrond and the nearby seabed.
Inside the underground base, heat waves surged as flames spread through pipes and corridors. The distant sea gate had opened, and the roar of seawater flooding the mine echoed like thunder.
The destroyed silver egg-shaped device lay quietly in the waterlogged chamber, its shell cracked, sparks dancing between its core and nearby walls. Before a nearby pillar, scrambled characters flickered, recording Omega’s final fragmented thoughts before the node’s destruction:
“Life’s meaning… lies in self-perpetuation…
“Creators… chose self-destruction…
“Contradiction… error… illogical…
“Error, error, error…”
The flickering red characters burned bright in the dimming depths. The faint alarm was drowned out by the thunderous sea and explosions. With a final roar, the last isolation gate was swept open by the surging water, flooding the mine and swallowing the Omega node and its remaining thoughts.
Across all of Talrond, among thousands of silver-white egg devices, Omega’s consciousness persisted. And so did the bloodbath.
…
The former headquarters of the Dragon Council, the mountain city of Agondor, lay in ruins. Mighty gravitational storms had shattered the once-majestic peaks, tearing apart everything on the mountains and the city nestled at their base, hurling debris into the chaotic sky.
Amid the uncontrolled gravity, a colossal structure tumbled wildly. Its grand transparent shell formed an ellipsoid shape, resembling both a nest and a giant egg. Along its edges, massive neon signs flickered faintly, struggling to hold onto power. Fragmented letters blinked intermittently: “XX Arena.”
Suddenly, a massive black limb, like a scythe, descended from the clouds, slicing the arena in two. Explosions roared in succession as a golden figure burst forth from the wreckage, using the shattered remains as cover. It unleashed scorching flames and powerful bolts of lightning against the enormous limb, then narrowly dodged aside with a desperate agility.
This was a golden dragon—stronger and larger than most of his kind. His hundred-meter-long body shimmered with ancient runes etched in radiant light. Every feature marked him as a dragon of exceptional status within their society. Yet now, like the others caught in this battlefield, his great eyes had lost all emotion, replaced by a cold, mechanical gaze.
The fierce battle raged on, but then, abruptly, the golden dragon’s movements faltered.
A flicker of feeling returned to his eyes. Driven by that faint spark, he lifted his head and saw the Chaos Dragon looming high above, roaring wildly in madness. Between the dark, heavy clouds, pale purple lightning crackled. The Chaos Dragon’s body was riddled with cracks, glowing with an eerie light—signs that the brutal conflict was reaching its final, critical stage.
From another direction, a powerful presence surged forward. A massive figure, nearly the same size as the golden dragon, emerged from the smoke. This was an ancient dragon—once perhaps a black dragon—but the long years and extensive modifications had turned nearly all his scales to a dull gray-white. Visible implants and mechanical augmentations covered his body, making him look less like a living creature and more like a flying fortress of steel.
“Heragor!” the old dragon’s voice rumbled like thunder. “Hurry! We won’t stay lucid for much longer!”
Hearing his old friend’s call, the golden dragon Heragor glanced toward the Chaos Dragon’s “head,” searching desperately for a familiar gaze within the swirling madness—but found nothing.
The aged dragon urged again from beside him, “Quick! Balogor is almost here!”
Heragor withdrew his eyes from the sky. Clinging to the fragile thread of his regained consciousness, he fought the soul-rending chaos clawing within. Without hesitation, he turned alongside the ancient gray-white dragon and charged toward the distant sea.
(End of chapter)