Translator: AnubisTL
The northeast border of the Frontierlands, a guard post of the Venomtail Tribe, stood in the pre-dawn hours.
A gray-blue sky, like silk soaked in ink, stretched over the Swamp of the Dead.
The morning star still glowed, the eastern horizon had just begun to show a fish-belly white, and the sun had yet to rise. Damp mist drifted slowly across the land, shrouding the border region in a hazy veil.
Sentinel Captain Kethos perched atop the serpentine watchtower, his gray-green scales blending seamlessly with the moss-covered wooden railing.
His thick, forked tail tapped rhythmically against the weathered brick and stone, producing a steady clack-clack sound.
As a veteran who had shed his skin four times, his amber vertical pupils could detect any anomaly even in the dim light.
"Naji, your scales are reflecting."
Kethos hissed suddenly, his forked tongue flickering rapidly as he sampled the air for pheromones.
His gaze locked onto the young sentinel's neck—there, two newly formed scales were exuding faint pink mating pheromones, shimmering in the dawn light.
"Thinking of sneaking off to the sacred nest to find that molting maid again?"
The serpentfolk sentinel captain's voice hissed with mocking amusement, the sibilant tail of his voice echoing in the humid air.
The rookie Naji flinched as if his tail had been stepped on, curling up abruptly. His scales instantly shifted to a muddy brown, blending seamlessly with the environment. He stammered, "N-nonsense! My heart is devoted to guarding the tribe. How could I...?"
A raspy chuckle erupted from the shadows.
Sephos, the hidden sentry, poked his head out from the darkness of the watchtower, his amber vertical pupils as sharp as poison-tipped daggers.
The veteran, who had undergone four molts himself, lowered his voice. "Save it, kid. The six-armed lady's maids have high standards. They only look at warriors who've molted five times or more."
"You've only had your second molt. Your venom glands aren't even fully developed yet," another veteran chimed in, his scales quivering slightly with laughter. "If you can't hold back, the fierce pythons in the swamp are a decent alternative. A bit crude, but the taste..."
The veteran serpentfolk teased the young man with their banter, creating an outwardly cheerful atmosphere.
However, a keen observer would notice that these seasoned warriors occasionally flicked their forked tongues and hissed intensely—a typical sign of serpentmen releasing inner pressure.
The tips of their tails tensed unconsciously, their muscles coiled and ready to spring.
This seemingly casual conversation was merely the veterans' way of easing their internal tension.
In the pre-dawn silence, an invisible pressure was building along the border.
Suddenly, the hidden sentry Sephos's long tongue shot out like lightning, piercing a night moth in mid-flight.
The scales on his throat bulged as he swallowed the prey. He deliberately lowered his voice and said, "I heard... the Dragon of Ironforged refused our loyalty. Those dragons... are angry."
The words dropped like a block of ice into boiling water, and the air around them instantly froze.
All the serpentmen's scales bristled involuntarily, and their tails stiffened, pressed flat against the ground.
Sephos continued in a barely audible hiss, "The six-armed lady shouldn't have..."
"Shut up!"
Sentinel Captain Kethos's hiss suddenly sharpened, his tail whipping down with a crack against the stone, sending chips flying.
"The tribe's high command makes decisions we cannot question! Guard your posts and keep your tongues in check!"
Unexpectedly, the usually argumentative hidden sentry remained silent.
The old serpentman turned in confusion and saw Sephos staring fixedly into the distance, his tail rigid, cold sweat beading on his human-like face, his pupils narrowing to slits.
Following the hidden sentry's gaze, Kethos's expression froze.
Beneath the gray-blue sky, a legion like a black tide was crushing the morning dew as it advanced.
The ironhooves of centaur warriors raised dust storms into the air, the heavy steps of ogres rippling the swamp water, and the eerie green eyes of werewolves glowed like floating Will-o'-the-Wisps. Even more terrifying were the dragon shadows circling in the sky and the colossal white tiger whose every step shook the earth—a wild monster lord rumored to be capable of tearing giants limb from limb.
"Surrender! We surrender!"
The alarm bell hadn't even rung. Faced with such overwhelming power, the serpentman guards surrendered without hesitation.
The guards emerged from the watchtower one by one, discarding their weapons in the mud.
But it was too late.
"Kill all rebels without mercy," the iron dragon's icy voice boomed from the sky.
"Randomly kill half of the remaining, spare the other half."
Solgorn's command was as cold and emotionless as a death sentence.
As a ruler of the Lawful alignment, he personally disliked excessive cruelty. However, the Venomtail Tribe's past betrayals had to be washed away in blood. Without this cleansing, the serpentmen might again harbor rebellious thoughts.
Perhaps out of fear of death, most of the serpentmen chose to comply.
A few hot-blooded young warriors who dared to raise their weapons were pinned to the watchtower by whistling arrows.
The rest huddled together in terror, silently praying that the slaughtering blade would not fall upon them.
The fall of this border watchtower was merely the beginning of the disaster.
The Ironforged Legion advanced into the heart of the Venomtail Tribe with a steady, unstoppable momentum, slicing through the serpentmen's territory like a hot knife through butter.
The outposts along the way were ruthlessly crushed, forcing the serpentman guards into the cruel choice of "kill one, spare one."
For the few outposts that offered fierce resistance, the iron dragon showed no mercy, utterly annihilating them—buildings were leveled, guards slaughtered to the last man, and not even a chance to surrender was given.
Solgorn knew that such Iron Blood tactics would cause problems for his future rule.
But rather than leave lingering threats, he preferred to spend extra time rebuilding order.
The serpentmen of the Venomtail Tribe were too naive. Their cleverness was worthless against absolute power. Having chosen to play both sides, they had to pay the price.
As time passed, the unstoppable legion finally approached the heart of the Venomtail Tribe—the Swamp of the Dead.
At the swamp's edge, led by the Six-armed Serpent Woman Naris, the Venomtail Tribe had assembled their full strength.
Poisonous mists summoned by sorcerers swirled above the swamp, giant snakes tamed by shamans lurked beneath the water, and fully armed serpentman warriors stood in rigid formation. Yet, strangely, not a single sword was drawn.
Opposite them, the Ironforged Legion's formation was even more terrifying.
Elite centaur heavy cavalry formed a charging formation, ogre warriors hefted massive wolf-toothed clubs, and the eyes of alchemy golems glowed with dangerous red light. Not to mention the wild monster lords holding the rear and the dragon circling in the sky.
The serpentmen's tails slapped restlessly against the mud, their forked tongues flickering rapidly as they tried to quell the fear in their hearts.
Even the bravest warriors felt a profound sense of oppression in the face of the Ironforged behemoth, now fully baring its fangs.
The two sides remained locked in a standoff, separated by several kilometers.
"Halt!"
The iron dragon's roar, infused with mental deterrence, brought the entire monster legion to a sudden stop.
Yet the bloodthirsty warriors' eyes still burned with battle fervor. Their claws and weapons gleamed coldly in the morning light, and their string of victories had made them eager to tear into more flesh.
Whoosh!
Solgorn's wings folded like steel gates as his massive body plummeted from the sky like a shadow. Just ten zhang above the ground, his dragon wings unfurled abruptly, creating a gale that precisely controlled his descent.
With a dull thud, his heavy dragon form landed steadily on the hard ground at the swamp's edge.
To everyone's shock, he had come alone to the enemy's front lines!
The serpentmen tensed their bodies in unison, the friction of their scales creating a collective shush. Some younger warriors' tails instinctively curled inward—a primal reaction to extreme tension among their kind.
The iron dragon moved with a powerful, steady stride, slowly approaching the Six-armed Serpent Woman who stood in a battle-ready stance.
He raised his sharply defined dragon's maw, looking down at the tribal chief with a dangerous glint in his vertical pupils.
"This is our second meeting, Naris," Solgorn's voice resonated with a unique metallic resonance. His dragon's maw curled slightly, revealing rows of bone-white fangs. "Is this the scene you envisioned?"
His gaze swept over the Serpent Woman's sword blade, which trembled slightly from her tension.
Those blades, capable of carving a hundred scars into dragon scales, now seemed bound by invisible chains, hesitant to be drawn.
Opposite the iron dragon stood the Six-armed Serpent Woman, Naris, exuding a suffocating combat aura.
Her six arms unfurled like blossoming petals, each hand gripping a cold, gleaming longsword of cold iron. The edge of the blades seemed to cut through the air, and the surrounding atmosphere distorted slightly in their presence.
As a 16th-grade six-armed serpentfolk sword saint, Naris's life grade was equivalent to that of an adult red dragon.
Solgorn, a 35-year-old adolescent iron dragon, had a life grade of only around 12. Though this was considered exceptionally advanced for an iron dragon of his age, he still trailed significantly behind the Serpent Woman.
At this moment, the two were less than ten meters apart.
For a sword saint, that distance could be crossed in an instant.
Naris's sharp eyes could clearly see the pulsing blood vessels beneath the iron dragon's neck scales—a single strike there would trigger a torrent of blood.
Yet she didn't move.
Naris knew better than anyone that a dragon's monstrous physical prowess could nullify any level advantage. Even if she gained the upper hand, she could never end the fight quickly. Behind the iron dragon stood the entire Ironforged Legion, their eyes glinting with menace, not to mention the Lord of the Crimson Wings, before whom she felt no desire to resist.
Recalling that terrifying being who had turned the tables during the Dawn and Ironblood Tribe's ambush, Naris tightened her grip on her sword.
She simply couldn't understand.
With such overwhelming power, why would a dragon bother with tactics against those barbarians? Wouldn't it be simpler to just crush them?
Alas, she would never understand.
Garos was unlike other young dragons. The Lord of the Crimson Wings was cautious, always seeking victory at the smallest cost, never blindly charging forward out of arrogance. This very prudence was the key to his growth and survival.
(End of the Chapter)
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