Defeating the World with the Power of One Dragon!

In the dream, a sea of flowers bloomed in dazzling purples and reds.

The floral ocean stretched endlessly, running from beneath their feet to the horizon, red like molten lava, purple like dusk mist, white like fresh snow, rising and falling in a wind that did not exist.

Cerora sat in the center of the flower sea on a swing naturally woven from vines.

She kept a humanoid posture; in the dream her dragon scales had become a form-fitting green dress, its edges showing malachite-like patterns that shimmered in varying shades with her movements. Long hair fell over her shoulders, the ends hanging naturally, a few strands draped across the swing’s vines.

Garoth crouched not far away, maintaining his great dragon form.

One foreclaw rested on his knee, his tail coiled at his side, his gaze fixed on the flower sea that had no edge, as if pondering something.

The vivid colors reflected off his scales, somewhat dazzling.

“Do you know?”

Cerora swayed on the swing and spoke slowly.

“The elves are calling you ‘the sacred great dragon who rose from the ashes.’ They shower you with praise.”

“I suppose their bards are already composing epic poems about you. There are probably seven or eight different versions being sung in the major city-states by now.”

She paused, then continued, “And the orcs… they see you as a blood enemy.”

“Every orc warrior, before heading into battle, utters the vilest oaths begging their Beast of Might to tear your soul apart.”

“Your renown on Arotala is now unquestionably first.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Garoth idly pushed aside a small patch of flowers in front of him, tender petals shattering beneath his sharp claws.

“I don’t care how the elves sing about me, nor how the orcs hate me.”

“Such empty fame means nothing to this dragon.”

Cerora blinked and a faint smile tugged at her lips.

“Yes, yes, I know you don’t value those things.”

She said, “But empty fame can sometimes be a weapon. It can make people lose their nerve before the battle even begins, and it can make allies concede before speaking. You don’t have to value it, but you can use it.”

The red iron dragon did not continue that topic.

“Let’s speak of the matter at hand.”

His voice deepened slightly. “What happened after the deity’s avatar died? How did the battle progress?”

After killing the avatar, Garoth had retreated immediately just in case.

Now his true body rested in the Sacred Spring to recover; he didn’t know the follow-up details.

He only knew the orcs were routed, but to what extent, how far the elves had pressed forward, whether Saints or Immortals had been lost—those key pieces of information required Cerora’s input.

“The orcs were completely routed.”

Cerora leaned forward slightly, the swing halting its motion.

She dropped her smile and spoke with a formal tone.

With a light wave of her hand, the flower sea in the dream suddenly receded, replaced by a blurred but vast battlefield scene: waves of dark green rolling back, silver-white blades like a dam-burst pressing forward relentlessly.

“The elves pursued their advantage and expanded their gains.”

“They pressed through the Redridge Mountains and drove Kantum’s remnants south of the range, retaking the Redridge.”

Cerora drew a horizontal line in the air with one finger.

“They stopped at that point.”

She withdrew her finger and continued, “Too many rage beasts tainted by the Cataclysm Storm still lurk in the Redridge Mountains.”

“Those things are hard to deal with. The elves aren’t willing to risk infection; they’re clearing and eradicating the rage beasts while reestablishing defensive lines, so the offensive has been paused.”

Cerora dispersed the illusion and the purple-red flower sea surged back, enveloping them both.

Garoth nodded, his gaze tightening as he asked, “What about the Saints and the Immortals? Any casualties?”

That was the thing he cared about most.

How many orc legions were lost or how much land was abandoned mattered less.

As long as the Saints remained, the orcs’ backbone was not broken.

The same applied to the elves; if Immortals were lost, the victory’s cost would be too high.

“Both Saints survived.”

Cerora shook her head. “The Chosen One of the Red Tide and the Bone-Gnawing Saint are battered and bloodied, but they live.”

“The two elven Immortals are also safe.”

“Beings at that level don’t die easily. Even if gravely wounded, given time and resources they can recover.”

Garoth slowly nodded his dragon head, showing no surprise.

Defeat and death are different things.

Garoth was an exception in some respects, and he understood that, but he also knew that without an overwhelming disparity, legendary battles rarely settled life and death cleanly.

Battles between Saints and Immortals yield winners and losers, but they rarely result in outright annihilation.

At that level, to completely eradicate the opponent demands enormous cost.

Sometimes a top-tier duel ends with both sides retreating to their lairs to lick wounds and wait for the next clash.

Still, the situation was not bad.

Nausil had lost its moon; Immortals could not use it to suppress Saints, and Kantum’s divine avatar had fallen, making it harder for another to descend directly.

Both sides suffered significant losses.

But neither side collapsed outright, which was the outcome Garoth preferred.

“Back to you.”

Cerora looked into Garoth’s eyes.

“I knew you’d shine on Arotala, but I really didn’t expect you to kill a deity’s avatar.”

“That was a deity’s avatar, Garoth.”

“A true deity’s projection into the Material Plane, arriving to interfere with the plane’s affairs.”

Cerora’s eyes brightened and her tone brimmed with unmasked admiration as she praised, “As expected of you, and as expected of the dragon I favored.”

“It was a stroke of luck.”

Garoth said plainly, his voice unmoved by the praise.

“I was already preparing to withdraw. At the moment the blood moon shattered, I was tearing space, but the spatial structure of the South Foothill Plain held firm. I needed time to rip open an exit.”

His gaze dropped as he recalled the details.

“At that moment the orc Saints attacked me.”

“The Chosen One of the Red Tide controlled my blood, the Bone-Gnawing Saint shattered my body and forced me into a corner.”

“If they hadn’t attacked, I wouldn’t have thought to bare my fangs at a deity.”

“I would have ripped open space and left Arotala without hesitation. Then the deity’s avatar might have broken free to kill two Immortals, or might have been killed earlier.”

“In any case, it would have had nothing to do with me.”

Cerora listened quietly.

She pondered and said, “The Kantum Saints must be full of regret now.”

“They’ll chew over that moment every night after the battle.”

“If they hadn’t interfered with you at that moment, the situation on the South Foothill Plain might have developed very differently.”

She shook her head as she spoke.

“However, there’s one thing that puzzles me.”

“Why did the orc Saints attack you?”

Cerora furrowed her brow lightly and said:

“You performed brilliantly on the battlefield, suppressing the legendary-level engagement and causing massive losses to the orc legions, but the Saints’ task was to deal with Nausil’s Immortals and coordinate with the deity’s avatar to secure the ultimate victory—not to deal with you.”

“At that moment they shouldn’t have spent their precious breaths on you.”

“But they attacked you first.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

Garoth’s eyes narrowed as he recalled the fighting.

“I thought about that question too.”

He mused, “From my vantage, even if I’d been severely wounded by the Saints, the optimal choice was to immediately exit the battlefield and leave the outcome to Nausil’s Immortals, not to show my claws at a god.”

He paused then said, “But I didn’t leave.”

“I rose from the ashes and with my greatest strength smashed back everything that hadn’t killed me along with my fury.”

“That wasn’t the rational choice.”

“Reason told me the correct move was to withdraw immediately and hide. But… I couldn’t hold back. Emotion overwhelmed reason.”

Cerora nodded, understanding his meaning.

“That’s forgivable.”

“No intelligent being can be perfectly rational.”

She said, “Anger, fear, greed, pride… they take root in the gaps between decisions and make choices before the intellect fully comprehends them.”

“The orc Saints likely acted the same.”

“They saw a crown-level great dragon that wasn’t even a Mandate of Heaven parading before them, burning their legions, trampling their formations, crushing their warriors like ants.”

“So they couldn’t help striking at you first, trying to remove the nuisance.”

“In the end it went beyond their expectations and became the result we see now.”

Garoth tapped his jaw lightly.

Though he often battled his own desires, he never sought to eradicate them completely and turn himself into a perfectly calculating machine.

Machines don’t err, but they also don’t create miracles.

Every miracle springs from a decision reason cannot explain, a forbidden moment that nonetheless occurs.

So sometimes he, like others, made imperfect choices driven by emotion.

Not only Garoth—any intelligent being is susceptible.

Saints, Immortals, even gods aren’t immune.

The stronger a being becomes, the more they may follow their feelings, acting on impulse because few things or beings can now restrain them.

Cerora thought for a moment, then said:

“Nausil will probably want to hire you again.”

“They tasted victory and know having you on their side can turn a battle or even create miracles. They may have formerly treated you as a mercenary, a useful enforcer.”

“But now it’s different. Your value far exceeds what they expected.”

“They’ll soon send envoys to Atlan with rewards and requests for you to take another commission, to fight alongside them again. But I think you shouldn’t return to Arotala anytime soon.”

Garoth inclined his head slightly.

He said, “Nausil benefited greatly this time; without me they would have suffered a massive defeat. Still, I agree with you—I won’t return to Arotala or accept any commissions in the near future.”

Garoth didn’t let victory go to his head.

Killing a deity’s avatar had accumulated too much hatred.

The sacrilege of slaying a god’s projection wouldn’t fade with time; it would ferment in the orcs’ hearts and grow into deeper hatred.

Setting foot on Arotala now would place him directly before the Saints’ blades.

To those orcs he had profaned, his priority might now be higher than Nausil’s Immortals. They could rush him like rabid dogs.

No cost spared, no consequences considered.

“I’m glad you think that way.”

Cerora nodded lightly. “Your situation truly is different now.”

“You were strong before but still within the realm of the legendary. Now you did something none of the legends dared imagine—killed a deity’s avatar with your own hands.”

“That will make many people reassess you.”

Garoth’s voice deepened:

“I won’t stop them from coming, nor will I hide from them, but I also won’t actively throw myself into the knife’s edge.”

“Sound judgment,” Cerora said. “Caution and cowardice are not the same—the former lets you live long, the latter makes you miserable. You clearly know the difference.”

Cerora stopped swinging the swing.

She rose lightly, barefoot stepping through the flowers toward the red iron dragon. The bright blooms parted beneath her feet and closed silently behind her.

“One more thing,” she said.

“I will enter dormancy soon.”

“While dormant I can still communicate with you through dreams, but my perception will dull and I can no longer maintain a full conscious presence. Sometimes when you speak, it may take me a long while to respond.”

“So…”

She stepped before Garoth and looked up at him.

“Let’s cherish this time.”

The flower sea faded layer by layer from brilliant purple-red to a misty white, like a great snowfall about to blanket everything and wrap the two figures.

Vophal Dragon Domain.

Sunlight poured over the surface of the Cold Sacred Spring, broken into glittering patches.

Silver Dragon King Nereus sat on a protruding gray-white rock at the shore, half her tail in the water, scales soaked in light that shone pale gold.

She propped her chin on a foreclaw, posture loose and relaxed.

She looked less like a sovereign of a dragon domain and more like an ordinary dragon basking in an afternoon nap.

“Terminator of all things, Storm Dragon of Calamity, God-Slayer…”

She recited those titles slowly.

“We dragons always like majestic names. Who wouldn’t? Garoth, what do you feel about these new titles?”

She gazed ahead.

Opposite her, the red iron dragon climbed from the Sacred Spring onto the shore.

Water slipped from his scale seams, pooling near his claws.

A shimmer ran along the scale joints as high heat swept his body; the remaining droplets turned to vapor and dissipated, the armor returning to dry texture and a muted sheen in the sun.

“The first two sound more vicious.”

Garoth said, glancing down at his foreclaws.

“Terminator and Cataclysm sound subjective—names many vicious dragons would like.”

“As for God-Slayer, it’s more neutral.”

“Whoever kills a deity’s avatar can be called that without stance. The benevolent can call it that, the malevolent can call it that—it’s a fact.”

He crouched at the water’s edge, tail coiled at his side.

“Which do you prefer?”

The Silver Dragon Queen asked.

Garoth’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Previously I would have chosen the neutral third.”

“It’s a bit showy but overall neutral, objective, devoid of emotion—just a statement. I needed caution and restraint to create space to survive, to appear less dangerous.”

“Oh?”

Nereus tilted her head. “You said previously—so now?”

The red iron dragon bared sharp teeth in a grin.

“Now, I like the first one: Terminator of All Things.”

“Simple, direct, no explanation or embellishment needed.”

“It states only one thing: whatever stands before me—be it legions, fortresses, or a deity’s avatar—will ultimately face destruction.”

Nereus looked at him quietly.

“You’re not wrong.”

“And the Five-colored Dragons and the Iron Hybrid Dragons will love that title. A fierce, domineering name wins more respect than a milder one.”

Garoth asked, “Don’t the Metal Dragons like it?”

The Silver Dragon Queen inclined her head and smiled.

“Metal Dragons do like it too; they just won’t admit it aloud.”

“They care about others’ opinions and don’t want to look like brutish proponents of violence, but behind closed doors, if you let them choose, many will pick the most awe-inspiring name.”

Saying it is easy.

Which dragon doesn’t want a title that sounds overwhelmingly mighty? Metal Dragons are no different.

“The higher you stand, the less other people’s opinions matter.”

Nereus sighed. “When you truly stand above the clouds, the gossip beneath only becomes wind noise.”

“What truly affects you are attacks from equal heights.”

“Many Metal Dragons spend their lives chasing a good reputation, carefully maintaining their image, not realizing that the top-tier beings never need others to judge their worth.”

She withdrew her tail from the water and adopted a more proper posture.

“News about you hasn’t calmed.”

“From Arotala to Atlan, and across the various dragon domains, rumors fly. Some versions cling to fact; others, as you can imagine, have completely severed from reality and become absurd fabrications.”

She paused and looked at the red iron dragon.

“The most exaggerated version says… you’re actually already Immortal but have been disguising yourself.”

“That you slaughtered gods in Arotala, killed the deity’s true body alone, shattered the moon as a ritual, and the night sky of Bernardo now lacks a chunk, the moon reduced to one piece.”

“And that version even has certification from one of the Emperor’s sons, so it spread widely.”

Nereus chuckled and, smiling, asked, “Guess which of your offspring endorsed it?”

That needed no guess.

Garoth shook his head slightly and didn’t answer the final question.

He said, “Information distorts as it spreads, like ripples blown by the wind—the farther it travels the blurrier its shape.”

Many heroes or myths are born that way.

A mortal adventurer kills a frenzied beast, and three city-states later the tale becomes slaying a demon.

Bards need heroes; audiences need legends.

Often the truth matters less.

“Will you refute the rumors?”

“No need.”

The red iron dragon shook his head.

“Rumors belong to the wise; the thoughts of fools and the mediocre have never mattered.”

“A few truly important people knowing the truth is enough. What others think or say has no influence on me.”

Nereus nodded and said no more.

She thought a moment and then asked, “What about Claudia? When will you deal with him? He’s awake.”

Garoth’s spirit stirred.

He did harbor some interest in the ancient chrome dragon.

If he could tame him, his retinue would gain another Mandate-ranked dragon—such power is rare everywhere.

A tamed ancient chrome dragon would not only be a battlefield spear but a signal to enemies and allies alike that he could force even a tyrant to bow.

“What is his condition?”

“Consciousness fully awakened.”

Nereus said. “Considering his mental state, I applied limits. His body has only recovered about thirty percent. He’s been frozen and sealed at the lake bottom to keep him from gnawing on everything.”

Garoth followed her gaze to the lake.

The surface was mirror-calm, showing nothing unusual.

“Lord of the dragon domain, please bring him up.”

Nereus turned to face the Sacred Spring.

The lake surface began to spin—a ring of fine ripples first, then an expanding whirlpool; the water split to both sides.

Claudia rose slowly from the deepest part.

The ancient chrome dragon maintained his full form but was encased in a massive crystal of ice. Limbs rigid, wings half-spread, head posed as if trying to lift in wakefulness, fangs exposed, eyes closed.

Encased in ice he looked like a frozen statue.

Still, menace radiated from him.

“I didn’t sense him while I soaked in the Sacred Spring.”

Garoth said.

He had assumed Claudia was sealed elsewhere, but apparently he had been in the Cold Sacred Spring all along.

“Because there are multiple folded spaces within the spring.”

The Silver Dragon Queen explained, “He was placed in another layer of water that doesn’t overlap with your area.”

Garoth didn’t press for the specifics. This was a sanctum of the Vophal Domain; such arrangements were unsurprising.

The ice crystal drifted to shore and grounded on the rocks with a heavy thud. Nereus rose gracefully, approached, and pressed a foreclaw to the crystal surface.

In an instant countless fine runes appeared.

The runes spread and rotated along the crystal’s surface, then one by one dimmed. When the last rune faded, she withdrew her claw.

“The seal is lifted.”

“This ice won’t hold firm now. You may melt it at will.”

As she spoke the crystal began to tremble. Cracks crawled across the surface and tiny shards fell away.

It could no longer hold the chrome dragon.

Garoth nodded, raised his left claw and tore the air in front of him.

Space tore like fabric; the fissure’s edges were jagged. He then used his right claw to hook the ice’s edge, testing its weight before hoisting the massive block imprisoning the ancient chrome dragon.

What followed would not be subtle.

So Garoth planned to bring the chrome dragon into his pocket world, a barren place with nothing worth destroying and no fear of the dragon escaping.

“Taming an ancient chrome dragon with mental problems will be an interesting challenge.”

“Want to try together?”

The red iron dragon looked back at Nereus and asked.

Nereus shook her head.

“I cannot leave the domain.”

Her eyes turned to the faintly visible barrier in the distance. “Though the domain is peaceful most of the time, I must guard here just in case.”

Garoth inclined his head lightly in acknowledgment.

Dragon kings protect their domains; while part of that may be a response to twilight, it is fundamentally a responsibility to shelter their kin.

The position is not glory so much as burden.

“I’ll see you later.”

He tightened his grip on the ice, flicked his wing membranes, and the massive body bearing the frozen Deep Freeze Tyrant plunged into a spatial rift. The fissure slowly closed behind him, leaving the Sacred Spring’s shore calm again and the Silver Dragon Queen standing alone.

Elsewhere.

The pocket world’s barrenness was as always.

The sky was gray and heavy, like a repeatedly washed old cloth pressed down overhead. The ground looked ravaged, scarred with blackened gullies where lava had cooled, utterly lifeless.

Garoth ripped open space and stepped through.

He carried the massive ice crystal, wings folded at his sides, scanning the land that belonged to him.

Previously his pocket world had shown sparse life—some drought-tolerant shrubs, tough wild grass, the occasional small insect in rock crevices.

Now it had become almost a life-exclusion zone.

And it was his doing.

Every inch of scorched earth was his handiwork.

The great dragon walked to a relatively flat lava plateau and relaxed a foreclaw.

Thud.

The ice smashed onto the black volcanic rock, sending up a cloud of dust.

Its surface bristled with growing cracks and trembled.

Garoth did not hurry to melt it. He stepped back a few paces, crouched, and watched the self-shattering seal.

Cracks propagated from within, cold air rising in waves and condensing into white mist in the arid atmosphere, revealing the hulking silhouette enclosed.

Claudia’s consciousness still lay beneath a haze.

He had had a long, heavy dream.

In the dream he ate.

Hunger vanished.

The convulsing walls of his stomach calmed; even the gnawing emptiness that always chewed at his nerves faded.

He felt satiated.

He had lived long but never known such a feeling.

From his earliest memories hunger shadowed him like a constant companion. He believed he had grown used to it and that it was the price of living.

But it wasn’t.

Life could be different.

At first Claudia didn’t even know which word to use.

He vaguely remembered a scorching warmth that spread from his gut to his limbs, making his body light and his thoughts clear.

But the feeling receded like a tide.

Like snowmelt in a clenched palm, the tighter you grip, the faster it runs away.

His stomach began to contract again and the flame rekindled; hunger crawled from the marrow like millions of ants, climbing the veins to every inch of skin.

He wanted to roar, to tear, to bite until the world’s flesh filled his throat.

He wanted to devour—mountains, rivers, sky, earth—everything he could see, to chew and swallow until perhaps his hunger would stop forever.

But his body felt heavy, as if pressed by something, not even allowing his jaw to open.

So he struggled.

Claws scraped, his back arched, his head rammed; each attempt loosened the bindings a little and his consciousness came back bit by bit.

Finally the heaviness shattered.

The ice exploded like a meteor; shards flew.

Claudia awoke.

He lifted his head, chest swelling, jaw opening to the limit, lungs expanding, a long-suppressed urge to roar rising in his throat.

“Graaah!”

“I! Great Claudia! Tyrant of Deep Cold! From the end of ice and death…”

His voice cut off.

The cold dissipated and his sight cleared.

Claudia saw black scales, deep icy eyes, the scent of burning ash and molten rock… the red iron dragon crouched not far off, watching him quietly.

Memories flooded back.

He recalled the last scene before losing consciousness.

His body reacted before his brain.

His spine arched, wing membranes instinctively spread wide, tail whipped straight, neck compressed back; upper and lower jaws clicked with a fanged snap, fangs exposed, poised to strike like a wild cat stepped on the tail.

“Relax.”

Garoth’s voice was gentle, as if soothing a frightened cub. “No need to be so tense.”

Claudia remained unmoved.

His fangs still protruded, the tips glowing with Law-Eating light.

He was so hungry.

Instinct made him want to lunge.

Smack.

A dragon claw struck his forehead.

The force was precise—enough to blacken his vision and make ears ring, but not to shatter the skull. The chrome dragon’s head snapped to the side and his rising fangs slammed together with a crisp impact.

“You!”

He whipped his head back, fangs rising again.

Another dragon claw met him.

Smack!

“Roar!”

Smack!

“You dare—”

Smack!

“Enough!”

Smack!

After several repeated blows the chrome dragon ceased struggling.

He lay on the ground, limbs propping his body, chest heaving. Anger still burned in his gaze, but the wild madness had been largely tempered, replaced by humiliated fury.

“What do you want to do?”

“What, torture a Mandate? Insult a Mandate?”

Claudia growled.

Garoth withdrew his foreclaw and said deliberately, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Claudia glared at him but did not attack.

A low stomach rumble came from within him.

Hunger surged, heavier than before.

His stomach felt like a beast inside, greedily gnawing his flesh and reason.

The previously scattered frenzy returned to his eyes. Pupils shrank to slits then dilated, jaws opened involuntarily, and saliva stretched silver threads between his teeth.

Garoth’s response was as habitual as ever.

A dragon claw struck again, quick and precise.

But this blow differed slightly from the earlier ones.

He held a formed Dragon Qi bomb between his claws, and with lightning speed, when the chrome dragon’s head was driven back and its mouth exposed, Garoth shoved the Dragon Qi bomb into his throat.

Claudia’s Throat of Devouring World activated simultaneously.

The space between his fangs warped into a vortex that compressed and tore apart the light-sphere powerful enough to flatten mountains, swallowing it.

Boom!

His belly jolted and bulged as if something pushed outward, scales nearly parting; his body convulsed uncontrollably.

But what followed wasn’t only pain.

A feeling of being filled arose; the gnawing in his belly vanished at that moment, replaced by satisfaction.

That satisfaction was fleeting.

The wave of hunger soon surged back and devoured it.

Claudia’s gaze flickered violently; madness and reason wrestled within him, and he remembered the instantary bliss he felt before losing consciousness.

Across from him Garoth observed Claudia’s changes with understanding.

Bulimic psychosis among dragons is a troublesome yet simple mental disease.

Simple because it’s relatively easy to treat.

If you can capture the gluttonous dragon alive and feed it until satisfied, it will gradually shake off madness and become more controllable.

Unlike some mental disorders that have no cause or effective cure and let dragons sink into perpetual danger, this one has a clear tactical approach.

Troublesome in two aspects.

First, you must capture the target alive and feed it. Gluttonous dragons are often stronger than normal dragons, extremely aggressive, and hard to communicate with—this is no easy task.

Second, bulimia is prone to relapse.

Other issues are secondary.

Right now the priority is to calm the chrome dragon enough to communicate.

Garoth fixed his gaze on Claudia and said, “Claudia, answer me—do you want to feel the meaning of living again? Do you want to truly live?”

Claudia did not answer.

His self-light moved across Garoth as if gauging the red iron dragon’s intent while fighting his hunger. Pupils tightened to lines then slowly widened, and during the process the madness in his eyes fluctuated like a candle in the wind.

“Meaning of life?”

“I don’t remember what that is.”

“I only remember hunger—hunger seeping from the bones, hunger that wants to devour the soul.”

He spoke and his jaw opened a little; saliva gathered between his teeth.

Garoth’s expression was calm. “You’ve been ruled by hunger too long. A Mandate-ranked dragon reduced to a slave of appetite, like a beast that only knows to feed.”

Claudia laughed.

“So you mean to humiliate me? Heh, crude taste.”

Garoth asked directly, “When you ingested my Dragon Qi bomb, what did you feel?”

Claudia fell silent.

Of course he felt it.

That brief, fleeting satisfaction—though momentary—had existed, like rain after drought, like air touching the drowning.

Once tasted it can never be forgotten.

“Do you want more?”

Garoth asked.

Claudia’s pupils contracted violently.

He wanted it.

He wanted it desperately.

But admitting it—would that mean surrender? Surrendering to the red iron dragon before him?

“I won’t give you free meals, nor let a Mandate dragon rot on,” Garoth said as if seeing through him. “You have two choices.”

“First, I will kill you—this you should already realize.”

“Second, submit to me, accept my restraints, accept my feeding, and become my claw and fang.”

“Choose.”

Claudia lowered his head, fangs retracting, neck arched into a submissive curve.

“I choose the second.”

“I submit… I agree.”

Garoth inclined his head slightly and said simply, “Good.”

Claudia slowly lowered his head as if to make a gesture of submission; his jaw nearly touched the ground, wing membranes folded fully, tail obediently lay to his side.

Then in the next instant he sprang up.

Every last scrap of strength exploded out and he lunged with jaws gaping to the limit, Law-Eating light blazing from his fangs like a sun, aiming straight for Garoth’s throat.

The strike was incomprehensibly fast.

But Garoth had anticipated it.

His left claw shot out first, clamping the chrome dragon’s upper jaw while his right claw seized the lower.

“I know you won’t submit so easily.”

Claudia squeezed a sound from his throat and struggled, “K-kill… me…”

He did not fear death.

Claudia had always sought the satisfaction of fullness, and death would make hunger stop—an acceptable end to him.

He chose death.

“No, I’ve changed my mind.”

Garoth said.

He did not expect to cure Claudia in a single course, but time and patience were available to him.

Flames flickered between Garoth’s fangs.

Then dragon breath drove into the chrome dragon’s Law-Eating teeth.

As before, Claudia’s body convulsed violently.

Pain tore his nerves, but at the same time the familiar, lethal satisfaction surged in stronger waves than before, as if his soul would dissolve in hot honey, briefly erasing his will to struggle.