The Magma Wyrm lurched backward, its massive body crashing to the ground like felled timber. Before it could raise its cleaver, Throne's boot slammed into its throat—Senpou Leaping Kicks snapping his body taut mid-air. The creature's bulbous eyes bulged further. Thump. Thump. Thump. Its spherical form rolled across stone, bounced once, lay still.
It spat a gout of molten rock between labored breaths.
"Why... help... it?"
The words came thick with confusion. By any logic, two hunters should divide the spoils of a rare Ancient Dragon kill.
"Her story amused me."
Throne planted his boot between its shoulder blades. His Flowing Curved Sword elongated with a metallic shriek, becoming a spear.
"She's worth more breathing."
The blade punched through its neck, erupting from its gaping maw in a spray of black blood. Thick limbs thrashed beneath him—impressive vitality for something missing half its skull. He wrenched the sword free and plunged his bare hand into the wound. Magic pulsed between his fingers.
Haima Classroom Burst. The spell detonated inside its cranium. The Wyrm's head ballooned grotesquely before bursting like overripe fruit, painting the stones in crimson pulp. A wind scattered the remains to nothing. Throne straightened, scanning the severed heads mounted on the walls.
No trace of dragon essence. An entirely separate lineage. He ran his tongue across his teeth, savoring the discovery. This specimen had undergone profound draconic corruption—sanity eroded by bestial fury, yet retaining formidable power.
Which raised the question: why would such a creature seek out an Ancient Dragon? Instinct alone couldn't explain it. 'Does it possess some latent sensitivity? Yet enough cognition remains to avoid suicide.' This thing stood no chance against Lansseax. A single swipe of her crimson claws would bisect it. Either greed had overridden survival instinct, or—
"You're lying."
Throne sheathed his sword.
"Never wanted your heart anyway."
Hooves clattered as Redmane cavalry surged from the town's gates, encircling him with leveled spears and drawn bows. The ranks parted. A familiar figure approached astride a warhorse—gaudy armor, face weathered by decades of campaigns.
Commander Jerren. Throne recognized the knight instantly. Ten years since their last shared mission. His expression flickered, then stilled. He remained motionless, meeting the other man's gaze.
Choices crystallized. Let Melina strike with Destined Death and lead the Redmanes to slaughter the dragon? Or spare her, leaving future options open? The scales tipped in silence.
Torchlight glinted on distant viscera strewn like preserves across stone. The answer came swiftly. Long-term investments yielded greater returns. Ancient Dragons were rare, but true strength came from knowledge—from reading the battlefield's ebb and flow.
Becoming an Asura meant walking alone. Few companions would survive that path. 'Consider this an advance. You'll repay me with interest later.' Throne made up his mind, pulled a red scroll from his bosom, and raised it high.
"I'm a Redmane Festival participant. Dragon hunting is my assigned mission."
Jerren had someone take it over to look at, and he recalled the unlucky fellow from the rumors. Seeing the name recorded on the parchment, his pupils couldn't help but constrict, and he looked up to carefully examine the other man. As someone who had traveled The Lands Between, he was knowledgeable and judged the other's identity from his swordsmanship, clothing, and the forged name.
Flowing Swordsman; these nomads had also returned along with the Tarnished.
"I didn't expect it to be you."
His words carried a bit of courtesy. This was a people that had disappeared into the long river of history, with only a few having left The Lands Between along with the Golden Order Army.
"Well, after all, rot has quite a connection with us, so I should visit Caelid."
Throne revealed a gentle smile, just like a warm current turning, and as peaceful as a small stream: "Since I'm here, I should also participate in the festival. I wonder if this can count as completing the mission."
Courtesy aside, Jerren still kept a straight face and said: "Sorry, they are human, they don't count as dragons."
Still as inflexible as ever.
Throne gave a wry smile and nodded: "That is a pity; wasted some effort for nothing."
He gave the impression of being peaceful and elegant; no matter how one looked at him, he didn't seem like an evil person. Jerren jumped off his horse and pulled a map from his bosom.
"Your Excellency, this is a map of dragon activity near the canyon; consider it some form of compensation."
"Many thanks. Also, please trouble yourselves to collect the corpse."
Throne performed a strange etiquette, as if a sprite were about to dance, and then smiled at each person and departed elegantly. A group of knights just watched blankly, feeling that this person was different from the rest, yet not exactly strange, so they had to gather around.
"Lord Jerren, should we follow this person?"
"No need. He is not a threat, or rather, in a sense, he is our ally." Jerren smiled, as if he had more capital to brag about again.
"I didn't expect that there would be such a powerful Flowing Swordsman among the Tarnished."
"But he is very strong."
"Being strong doesn't mean he's a threat. Have you heard a saying?"
Jerren pursed his lips, recalling an old matter.
"Stagnation leads to accumulation, and accumulation leads to corruption. Let me tell you, back when I went to Ainsel River, that down in the well..."
A group of Redmane Knights rolled their eyes, knowing that Jerren's old habit had flared up again. Fine, do nothing today, just listen to him brag here. However, remembering the few Kindred of Rot killed recently, they were clearly from the outside.
Knowing that the swamp attracted these flies like cheese, having an ally whose ancestors were enemies of rot was indeed a good thing. Throne tucked his hands into his wide sleeves, not worried about being targeted by the Redmane Guard. There was a method to choosing this mask; for example, this Flowing Swordsman identity was quite clever.
Caelid's greatest enemy was not the dragons, but the forces of rot that had almost destroyed them. Coincidentally, in legend, the one who sealed the rot was an outstanding Flowing Swordsman.
That blind swordsman was clearly a protagonist template, chosen by the Ainsel fairies, sealing the god of rot, and finally becoming Malenia's teacher. 'His swordsmanship must be at the pinnacle of The Lands Between; it would be even better if there were a chance to clash with him.' Throne felt a bit of yearning, but shook his head the next instant.
Ashina Style was not an ordinary school of swordsmanship. If one had to see every expert, Isshin Ashina had also defeated many swordsmanship masters, but once he had seen enough, he would pull out a six-barrel handgun. Returning to the alley, he took several turns to find an inn, stepped onto the second floor, pushed open the door, and saw Melina guarding the entrance.
"Is the matter done?"
"Yes, just a dragon-transformed monster; it's nothing to me."
So arrogant. Melina frowned but didn't refute it. She just felt everything was like a dream. When they first met a few months ago, a hero-level Magma Wyrm would probably have been a bitter fight. How much time had passed since then, and the man had killed it like a chicken.
"You wouldn't be marveling at how fast my strength has grown, would you?"
"Who is marveling? I don't know who was trying every possible way to make me act at the beginning."
"Heh, it was you who insisted on helping. Remember that time dealing with Oleg? I even stopped you."
Looking at the grinning man, Melina didn't know how to refute him, so she could only mutter softly: "So shameless."
Throne pretended not to hear and asked casually: "Where is Lansseax?"
"See for yourself."
Melina stepped back half a step, and Throne immediately saw the dead dragon lying on the table, fast asleep. He was stunned for a moment, then veins popped on his forehead. Damn stinky dragon, I'm out there taking hits, and you're still pretending to sleep!
Throne strode over, slammed his palm on the table, and said coldly: "Hey, didn't you say Ancient Dragons never get drunk? How long are you going to keep pretending?"
Lansseax rubbed her eyes, raised her head in a daze, yawned first, and then propped up her head, looking sleepy-eyed.
"It's been a long time since I slept so comfortably. Indeed, strong alcohol is the best sleeping pill. Oh, it's already solved; as expected of you."
I'll be damned... Throne was a bit confused. Could it be that this fellow wasn't pretending to sleep to test him, but was truly asleep? He hesitated for a moment, then pretended to be fierce and said: "Are you using me?"
The dragon woman still had that lazy look and said indifferently: "Oh, you figured that out? As expected of you."
"Hey, you repeated the flattery."
Throne tapped the table heavily, continuing to maintain his fierce expression: "A Magma Wyrm daring to attack you—is it that hard to analyze? Don't provoke me; your life is already in my hands, and I can skin you and pull your tendons at any time."
"I'm so scared. Tsk, if you wanted to deal with me, you could have done it just now. For example, have that girl stab me with Destined Death, then have the Redmane Guard attack together; my chance of escaping is very low." Lansseax continued to yawn and examined her fingernails.
"But you didn't do it, did you?"
"That's because your value alive is greater."
"Oh, so everything you said just now was nonsense."
Throne's eye twitched.
As expected of an old fox, she was indeed smart, and very bold, daring to gamble with her own life. It was just that her words were very annoying.
"Tell me, what is really going on between you and Greyoll?"
"Nothing much, just that Greyoll and I had a little friction, and I suffered a small loss and couldn't turn into my dragon form. But don't worry, I'm not a gambler. If you really chose to attack, I could still run away."
"So confident?"
"If I weren't confident, I would have died under Godfrey long ago; would it even be your turn?"
Throne looked at her quietly, then looked away after a while, not knowing how to describe it. Smart and crazy; indeed, she was a beast at her core. Let me think, whose value is greater to utilize, Greyoll's or hers?
After knowing the truth, the goal of holding back Radahn seemed to have been achieved. Of course, he wasn't low enough to go kill Radahn with Greyoll; presumably, those dragons wouldn't believe him either. But the dragons always give me a feeling of being unreliable. Can they really hold back the Redmane Guard?
The air between them crackled with unspoken calculations.
"A minor conflict, but Crumbling Farum Azula stands leaderless now. Which side will they choose?"
Throne's face hardened—this decision would shape their future.
Lansseax's voice turned glacial.
"Dragons remain inferior creations. The Dragon Lord withers, but command was never theirs to claim."
Ah. So that was the truth of it.
Throne gave a slow nod, the pieces settling in his mind. Placidusax's decline had fractured the dragonkin, yet the Ancient Dragons' supremacy remained unchallenged.
"Why did you start fighting?"
The dragon woman's stern mask shattered into sudden laughter.
"Their racket disturbed me. Besides—" Her smile sharpened.
"The hour hasn't yet come."
Throne mirrored her grin. Now he understood her indifference toward his dragon war. She might even want him to slaughter them all—though that gamble carried too much risk.
"If you're wounded, why linger in Caelid?"
"Where else offers such entertainment?"
Throne's retort died in his throat.
The woman would risk her neck for spectacle.
Melina broke her silence.
"Wait. You're dragonkin. Why would Greyoll attack you?"
"Faction wars."
Lansseax examined her claws.
"Ancient Dragons flaunt their arrogance. You think the lesser breeds enjoy kneeling? Not all dragons laze about in Crumbling Farum Azula."
Throne snapped his fingers. "Kinship means nothing. The Golden Order's lords shared blood—still bashed each other's skulls open. Everything boils down to profit."
Confusion flickered across their faces at "profit," but the meaning landed.
Lansseax doubled over laughing.
"You're deliciously blunt. This one—" She jabbed a finger at Melina.
"—still nurses childish ideals. Block someone's path, and do you think shared blood stays their hand? Sentiment's the cheapest currency."
Her casual words spilled another secret.
Throne's mind raced. So this Ancient Dragon came to mediate.
As for who emboldened Greyoll... Hah. Seems I did.
Melina's jaw clenched. This dragon had struck a nerve—she hated being called stupid.
"You tricked us. Dragged Throne into your mess."
"Child, my presence changes nothing. Greyoll would've clashed with him regardless."
Lansseax bared her teeth.
"Her brood doesn't negotiate. They digest first."
Melina stiffened, outmaneuvered. The dragon spoke truth—Throne came to exploit dragonkind, and Greyoll commanded their strongest forces.
"Then we should leave. The dragons have shown their hand."
"Ah, but the board's shifted."
Lansseax's smile deepened as she turned to Throne.
Poor Melina. Like a sapling battered by storms. Every schemer outmaneuvers her.
Throne suppressed a chuckle. The dragon was right—the game had changed.
Greyoll was just another rebel. No point wasting time in Caelid.
Lansseax's true worth lay in the crumbling citadel at her back. Common dragons roared without reason, but Ancient Dragons could bargain.
Power meant nothing without control. He wouldn't tolerate allies who vanished when thunder rolled.
The plan held no future worth pursuing. Greyoll's origins were common knowledge. That they'd stalled Radahn at all bordered on miraculous.
Lansseax studied him through half-lidded eyes. Another wild card—but at least she could be reasoned with. Bargained with.
"Do you want me to help you take out Greyoll?"
"Something like that."
His fingers tapped the table.
"It's embarrassing to admit. Naturally, your cooperation comes with a price."
The dragon woman swirled her cup. Ice clinked against crystal.
"Then what is my reward?"