Winter arrived silently in the night.
At first, it was just the wind changing direction.
It no longer brought moist, warm air from the southern sea. Instead, it turned northward, sweeping over the towering snowline of the Redridge Mountains, carrying the chill of the high altitudes down into the Blackrock Wasteland.
Then, fine snowflakes began to fall from the thick layers of ash-filled clouds.
Like countless gray butterflies, they danced lightly over the wasteland—a land left behind by the Scorch King and cooled lava—forming a thin crust of frost that gradually concealed the dark red beneath a pale, icy shroud.
The Greenwild Kingdom's encampment was located northwest of the Blackrock Wasteland.
It was a valley surrounded by scrub forests, low-lying, with raised earthen slopes blocking most of the biting wind.
The vegetation here hadn't been completely devoured by the war yet. Beneath the withered yellow grass roots, traces of life still remained. After the snowmelt soaked in, the ground exuded a damp, earthy scent.
Garoth coiled on a protruding rock at the center of the valley.
His dark black scales radiated intense heat. Before snowflakes could even land on him, they sizzled and evaporated in midair, turning into water droplets that instantly became vapor.
From a distance, he looked like a furnace still radiating heat.
The air around him was distorted by waves of heat, and the snow on the rock had long been baked dry, leaving a circular patch of bare, dry stone.
"A new meteorite... a new mutation form."
Garoth toyed with the cube in his claws, able to see the meteorite sealed within.
Should he keep his Ember-Annihilating Form for now?
Or should he take the gamble and bet that the next mutation would be better?
He pondered the question.
Meteorites were scarce resources. Each one was hard-won.
Using one recklessly might yield a better form, or it could yield a worse one—or even some extreme change that wouldn't suit the current battlefield.
Just then, the Green Dragon approached through the snow.
Her steps were graceful and composed. Her emerald-green scales stood out vividly against the gray-white and scorched-black landscape. Snowflakes landed on the edges of her wing membranes, only accentuating the brilliance of her scale color, like a piece of moving jade.
"What's that you're holding?"
The Green Dragon walked up beside Garoth, her tail gently brushing the snow off the rock before she curled up beside him.
Garoth said, "A meteorite. The one Nausil paid in advance."
Hearing this, the Green Dragon shook the snow off her body. "Looks like those elves are pretty satisfied with your performance, paying you upfront. Hmph. They're not afraid you'll pull a Claudia on them and give them an unexpected surprise at the end."
"This isn't all of it. I haven't gotten the other meteorite yet."
Garoth glanced at the Green Dragon, his tone flat, and continued, "Besides, this is one of the benefits my reputation brings."
"The elves know I'm not an evil dragon on the side of chaos."
"Since I agreed to cooperate with them, I won't just switch sides at a whim."
Whether in Atlan or here on Arotala,
Garoth had never done anything that would undermine his prestige or act capriciously.
First of all, there was no need.
Chaos and betrayal might bring short-term gains, but the price is long-term trust and cooperation opportunities.
Secondly, it was about maintaining his image.
When you're not strong enough to fight the whole world by yourself, this kind of image reduces a lot of unnecessary trouble.
Other powers are willing to negotiate with you, rather than immediately trying to surround and annihilate you—that in itself is an advantage.
The Green Dragon was fiddling with the snow on her tail.
At his words, she raised her head, her jade-green dragon eyes staring straight at Garoth.
"Since you've already got the meteorite, why not use it?"
The Green Dragon stretched her head forward, her tone laced with encouragement and temptation. She said, "Maybe the next mutation will make you even stronger."
"Besides, you have time now."
"The orcs have been pushed back. The war isn't over, but it's just come to a pause. The front lines are quiet for now. The scouts report that the orcs have pulled back to the southern foothills of the Redridge Mountains. There won't be any major conflicts for a while."
"You have plenty of free time to channel the meteorite's power and let it spawn a new form."
"Hey, it's time to see what's behind the next door."
Garoth tilted his head slightly, looking at the Green Dragon.
"I know what you're hoping for. For example, a new style after the mutation."
Cerora didn't deny it.
The corners of her mouth curled up slightly, revealing a hint of fang. "Of course. Don't you think it's interesting?"
The Red Iron Dragon shook his head.
"I'll test the next form later."
He thought for a moment, then continued, "My current mutation form is very suitable for this war."
"Long-range destruction, sustained output, large-area clearing... these are all things I need. Recklessly mutating into a new form might not immediately adapt to the battlefield, and the war won't wait for me to slowly figure things out."
After careful consideration, Garoth decided to keep the Ember-Annihilating Form for now.
While there was a possibility of something better, there was also the possibility of something worse.
And even if the next form was equally powerful, it would take time to get familiar with and master it.
Since the Ember-Annihilating Form was performing excellently, and he was already familiar with it, and the next phase of the war would only be more intense, playing it safe now was more appropriate than taking reckless risks.
"Alright... since you say so, I won't force you."
"But I still have high hopes for your future mutation forms."
The Green Dragon said, her voice returning to its usual lazy tone.
"There will be a chance."
Garoth nodded slightly, then raised his head, looking at the sky shrouded by both ash and snow.
"Let's talk about the next phase of the war."
He said.
The Green Dragon nodded, shook the snow off her tail, and shifted to a more comfortable lying position.
"Then let's get down to business."
"This Nausil counteroffensive has pushed the orcs all the way from the plains back to the border of Kantum's heartland. The elven legions are advancing faster than expected—wave after wave, leaving no time to catch a breath."
"The remnants of the Bloodskull tribe are retreating. The other two major tribes are also tightening their defenses."
"At the current rate of development, it won't be long before Nausil's other legions complete their encirclement. The northern legions have already pressed to the eastern foothills of the Redridge Mountains. The western legions are also circling toward the Kantum heartland."
"When that happens, it'll be the real war."
She paused, looking at Garoth.
"What do you think the orcs are going to do?"
"Wash their necks and wait to die? Or is their Saint finally ready to come out of his tent?"
"The latter."
Garoth answered without hesitation.
"But the current situation is very unfavorable for them."
He continued, his gaze turning serious. "They originally had three Saints—the Chosen One of the Red Tide, the Bone-Gnawing Saint Fang, and the one who died under the elves' moon before. Compared to Nausil, they had a slight advantage at that level. Nausil's immortals, though powerful, don't have the numbers."
"But that advantage no longer exists."
"After losing one Saint, under normal circumstances, facing Nausil's counterattack, they should be more cautious than they are now. For example, shortening their defensive lines and seeking to pull back."
"But strangely, they haven't done that."
Cerora followed his train of thought. "In other words, they might not think they're at a disadvantage."
"Exactly."
Garoth nodded his massive dragon head, looking toward the direction of the Kantum Empire's occupation.
The snow was falling a bit more densely now. The flakes had grown from small particles to pieces the size of a fingernail, and the wind was stronger.
"When they still had three Saints, they didn't get much of an advantage over Nausil."
Garoth said. "Nausil occupies the most fertile regions of Arotala. Their foundation is unfathomably deep."
"The elves' heritage, magic, and the discipline of their legions are all things Kantum can't match. Kantum managed to seize land from them, but it wasn't because of a suppression at the Saint level."
"It was because of the Cataclysm Storm." Cerora took over.
"Right."
Garoth nodded. "They invaded Nausil alongside the Cataclysm Storm, catching the elves off guard, and managed to tear off a few pieces of meat in the chaos."
"But once Nausil stabilized from the chaos, Kantum had no chance of winning."
"The Saint who died before is proof of that. In a direct confrontation, their Saints aren't stronger than the elves' immortals."
"Yet, they're still acting like they can win."
"Kantum's orcs are fierce and belligerent, but they're not stupid. Where does this confidence come from?"
Cerora's expression grew serious.
She moved her tail from beside her to in front of her, using the tip to point at the sky, making a gesture indicating something higher.
"Mm, don't forget what's above the Saints."
The Red Iron Dragon also looked up at the sky, shrouded by ash and snow, as if he could pierce through the clouds and see something far more distant.
"That Beast of Might."
Bag, the deity worshipped by the Kantum Empire.
He said, his voice gradually growing grave. "The gaze of a deity spans many worlds. They can't respond to every believer. But Saints are already the highest tier of believers below a god..."
To a certain extent, Saints are equivalent to sub-deities, not just simple believers.
They share a portion of the god's Authority, representing the god's will in the Material Plane.
If they can go further and receive promotion,
they might even have the chance to become true deities.
"The Beast of Might might be watching this war."
"The fall of a Saint, the defeat of an empire, the slaughter of believers—none of these are enough to make a god personally descend."
"But if the foundation of the orcs' faith is threatened, and the outcome of this war might shake his faith map in this Material Plane..."
The wind passed through the valley, swirling up snow and ash.
Garoth paused for a moment, his gaze deep, before speaking again. "Who knows, this Beast of Might might choose to descend here."
Divine Descent.
A god personally descending to the Material Plane, even if just an avatar, would be enough to change the course of the war.
True deities are rejected by the rules of the Material Plane, bound by countless layers of restriction.
But gods have their ways.
For example, through a believer's body, a sacred altar, or some ancient contract node, they can project a portion of their power down.
However, no matter what method they use, there is a price to pay.
"Who wins and who loses this war isn't decided by the legions on the ground, nor by the Saints and immortals."
"The final variable is still unseen for now."
Hearing this, the Green Dragon nodded.
"You know exactly where the biggest risk lies."
She stared at Garoth, her dragon eyes holding a serious look. "So, I want to remind you of one thing. No, a principle you must follow: absolutely do not get bogged down in the fight."
The Red Iron Dragon grinned, revealing his sharp fangs.
"I know my limits."
He said. "I cherish my own life more than any dragon. I fight when I should, and I leave when I should. You don't need to worry about that."
"But I'm glad you took the time to tell me this in person."
Cerora blinked, the seriousness in her eyes fading, and the corners of her mouth curled up slightly.
"You should be glad. After all, you won't find another queen as good as me."
The two great dragons lay side by side on the rock, gazing at the gray-white sky, listening to the faint sound of war horns in the distance. The snow continued to fall, covering the earth with a thin layer of white.
Winter had arrived.
The snow fell even heavier on the southern foothills of the Redridge Mountains.
Fierce winds howled down from the mountain passes, lashing snowflakes against the rocks, pounding down densely, covering the southern plains in a layer of white. The snow grew deeper and deeper.
An orc encampment was embedded in this harsh land.
Their camp was completely different from Nausil's.
There were no neat formations. Only an endless sea of dark green tents, like thorn bushes bent under a blizzard, sprawling across the frozen ground.
Between the tents, orc warriors huddled around bonfires for warmth. The flames reflected on their silent, restless faces.
Their fangs glinted in the firelight, but they lacked their usual ferocity.
And at the deepest part of the camp.
Against the northern cliff face of the mountain, a crude stone temple rose from the ground.
It had no ornate decorations. Only massive, quarried boulders were stacked into a square, colossal structure. The gaps between the stones were filled with a mixture of lime and animal blood. Once solidified, it was harder than the rock itself, showing a dark, dull red.
A huge war banner hung over the temple's front door.
On the banner, painted with stone dust and carbon, was a single bleeding broken bone.
Bag's emblem.
Simple, brutal, carrying a primal sense of power.
Inside the temple, the light was dim. Torches burned quietly around the hall, the smell of burning fat mingling with the scent of blood, permeating the vast, empty space.
Two Saints stood before the idol.
The one on the left was taller and more robust than the average orc. His bare skin was a dark red, as if repeatedly scorched by the sun and fire. From his collarbone to his cheekbones, black and red war paint covered every inch of exposed skin.
His hair was also braided into cords, with small skull beads hanging from the ends.
He wore no armor, his upper body bare, only a leather strap slung diagonally across his shoulder.
The Chosen One of the Red Tide.
The one on the right was shorter and stouter compared to the Chosen One of the Red Tide.
But his stoutness was more like a tightly compressed iron ball—solid, heavy, full of explosive power. His limbs were disproportionately thick; his forearms were almost as thick as his thighs, and his knuckles were large and heavy like sledgehammers.
His war paint was even denser, covering him from head to toe, forming a thick layer of colored crust.
The Bone-Gnawing Saint.
At this moment, there was no one else in the temple, only the two Saints. Attendants and lower-ranking Shamans had been dismissed outside.
"The empire is retreating."
The Bone-Gnawing Saint's voice rumbled. "From the Blackrock Wasteland to the foothills of the Redridge Mountains, we've been beaten back at every step."
"The elves are closing in. The silver tide is washing over us."
"At this rate, it won't be long before their spears reach the door of this temple. Then there won't even be a place left to pray. We'll have to retreat back to Thalassia."
Because of the orcs' over-exploitation,
the Thalassian Continent was almost completely barren.
Unless pushed to the absolute brink, the orcs would never willingly withdraw from Arotala. Thalassia no longer had any soil for them to survive on.
Beside him, the Chosen One of the Red Tide's face showed neither joy nor anger.
His voice was low as he said, "Sarthoa is dead."
"My most trusted Great Shaman, the pillar of the Bloodskull tribe. I could feel it when her life was extinguished."
"Not just her. The Bloodskull tribe's legions were devastated. Countless of our people and warriors... were turned to charcoal by the fire spewed by a dragon. Burned to ashes."
He clenched his fist, his knuckles cracking, a shadow of gloom passing through his eyes.
"Worst of all, I heard doubt in their prayers."
"The warriors still call out our god's name, but they're beginning to question, to fear. They're starting to use the word 'invincible' for the enemy."
"The empire's faith is wavering. Cracks are forming."
The entire Kantum Empire was built on the bonds of faith.
The orc tribes weren't naturally united. In fact, they were quite loose. It was their shared faith that bound them together, forming a force capable of rivaling Nausil.
And a wavering faith meant the very foundation of the empire was shaking.
This was an extremely serious matter.
The Bone-Gnawing Saint let out a guttural growl, like a beast's roar, and said, "With Nausil's moon in the sky, we can never beat their immortals."
"That damn moon shines on everything. Any surprise attack is exposed without a trace."
"If we stay and fight, we won't end up any better than Yookte. He's already lying in cold ashes. His body is ice cold."
Mentioning the dead Blackfang Saint, he paused, his gaze turning to the Chosen One of the Red Tide.
The Chosen One of the Red Tide looked back at him.
The eyes of the two Saints met in the dim, crude temple. Despite the constant stream of bad news, neither saw hesitation or evasion in the other's eyes.
"Dusk creates true believers."
"When the day draws to a close, and the light of false gods is devoured by the long night, only those who still kneel in despair are worthy of our god's glory."
The Chosen One of the Red Tide said slowly.
The Bone-Gnawing Saint lowered his head, a grunt of agreement squeezing through his fangs.
At the same time, the Chosen One of the Red Tide turned and walked toward the depths of the temple.
A hidden door slid open silently.
Behind the door was a narrow, sloping passage. At the end of the passage lay an even larger underground stone chamber.
At the center of the chamber was a huge circular altar.
The altar was carved from a single massive stone. A circle of beast bones stood around its edge, each one as thick as an arm, etched with ancient runes. In the center of the altar stood a deity idol.
Its face was a fusion of orc and beast features.
A protruding snout, outward-curving fangs, a flat, broad nose bridge, a high, jutting brow ridge. Antlers like those of a Giant Deer curved outward from its forehead, branching in a rugged, dominant arc, each fork sharp as a spear.
Thick, ferocious, full of power.
And this was the idol of the Beast of Might.
A deity's form isn't fixed. In different worlds, it adjusts its image according to the perceptions of its believers.
In the hearts of the Kantum orcs, who worship power and conquest, their god looked like this.
Thick, powerful, fierce, and undefeated in battle.
And at the feet of the idol lay a corpse.
A corpse so mutilated it was nearly unrecognizable.
Its chest had been blown open from the inside, ribs splayed outward, revealing the dried organs within. Bone fragments jutted out from the charred black skin. Most of its face was destroyed. Its left eye socket was empty, nothing but a blackened hole.
The Blackfang Saint, Yookte.
He was dead. All life had been extinguished.
But the Chosen One of the Red Tide and the Bone-Gnawing Saint had recovered his remains.
Now, the Chosen One of the Red Tide walked to the edge of the altar and stopped.
He didn't look at the mutilated corpse. Instead, he raised his head, gazing up at the idol's face. Shadows played across its features, as if it had come alive. The Bone-Gnawing Saint stopped beside him, also looking up.
Then, the two Saints knelt on one knee at the same time. Their knees struck the ground with a dull thud.
They began to pray.
"Beast of Might, Lord of Savagery, Commander of Ten Thousand Armies."
"Your servant, who served You, has fallen in battle against foreign foes. His flesh has not yet returned to the earth."
"Your warriors have turned to dust. The flame of faith flickers in the cold wind. The great banner has fallen. The war drums are silent. Your kingdom on earth is burning."
"We kneel before You. We do not pray for ourselves. We do not pray for the living. We do not pray for survival or retreat."
"We only pray for one chance."
The Saints' voices rose sharply as they spoke the final line.
"Let the world witness Your glory!"
"Let our enemies be ground to dust by Your roar!"
"O Supreme One, undefeated in a hundred battles."
"Dusk creates true believers. Spilled blood waters true loyalty."
"We pray for Your gaze. We pray for Your response. We pray for Your... descent!"
Then, the altar lit up.
Starting from the base, along countless runes, a dim, dark light slowly spread upward. It covered every inch of the altar's surface, converging on the remains of the Blackfang Saint.
The charred, blackened skin first fell away, like a snake shedding its skin, revealing fresh new muscle fibers beneath.
They grew rapidly, covering the bones and organs.
Broken fangs pushed out again from the gums, growing longer, thicker, and more curved. The blackened face was filled in by new flesh and blood.
Soon, as the last piece of skin healed, a presence awakened from that shell.
Or rather, a will.
Vicious, savage, hungry, arrogant beyond measure.
It permeated the altar without leaking out, pressing down on the surrounding light until it dimmed, as if in submission.
The chanting of the two Saints had stopped.
They knelt prostrate before the altar, in a posture of submission, their foreheads nearly touching the ground.
At the same time, the chest of that body heaved violently once.
Then, the eyes opened.
Then, time flowed silently and imperceptibly through the wind and snow.
One orc legion after another retreated like a tide into the shadow of the Redridge Mountains.
Nausil's legions, on the other hand, pressed forward step by step from the north, their silver-white formations merging into a vast ocean.
More legendary warriors rushed to the front lines from the heart of Nausil. Elven mages, knights, and even... ancient immortals, gradually began to appear within the military formations.
Whoosh!
High in the sky, the Red Iron Dragon beat his wings, circling and swooping through the wind and snow.
Snowflakes hit his scales and immediately evaporated into steam. He raised his head and gazed into the distance. Before the Redridge Mountains, on the southern plains, the campfires of the orc positions flickered on and off, dense and countless.
"The Kantum Empire's legions are massing on the southern plains. They're not retreating anymore."
"They're preparing for another full-scale war."
The Red Iron Dragon's gaze was deep as he pondered.
Elves are better at fighting in complex terrain, like forests, mountains, and hills. If the orcs retreated into the mountains, their situation would only become worse.
The Red Iron Dragon looked up.
At the edge of the sky, the long-hanging Nausil's moon had silently changed color.
The silver-white had faded. It was now red as blood.
A blood moon hung in the sky, dyeing the wind and snow a crimson hue. The war between Kantum and Nausil had reached its most critical moment.
Comments