Chapter 278: Chapter 170: Ritual Turmoil (Part 2)
"You little rascal. You must think the Celestial Master Sect is no fun, huh? It’s *you* who’s trying to Promote, not your master... When you’ve completed your training, if you manage to get into trouble without dragging my name into it, I’ll count my blessings."
Seeing Lucy only head to the altar to assemble after he had urged her on, Daoist Zhou sighed and departed.
’This disciple of mine is good at everything,’ he thought. ’Her talent, disposition, and aptitude are all excellent. She’s just disobedient and prone to breaking the rules, which always costs me my already meager bonus.’
The three brothers standing nearby—Jose, Tune, and Denero—could only offer a wry smile at the scene.
Although the siblings were engaged in all sorts of open and secret struggles for the position of Patriarch, that conflict was confined to just Jose, Tune, and Isabella.
The others, like Lucy or even Denero, and down to some qualified collateral branches of the Beowulf clan, had little ambition for the Patriarch’s seat due to their age, power, and influence.
Back in the Bigshot Area, Daoist Zhou decided to act on a whim. While the other bigshots were distracted by the news of the impending Dragon Hunting Ceremony, he would, regardless of the cost, perform a divination to foresee the fortunes of this Trial in the Dracul Mountain Range.
But the moment he formed the finger seal, his expression changed. ’When you tread on frost, solid ice is soon to follow... no, that’s not quite right. Why is it so chaotic... I can’t see it clearly. Could it be that someone of great opportunity is present? Let this old Daoist try one more calculation...’
"Ah! Daoist Zhou, your ears and nose are bleeding!" a Maid cried out, having noticed his bizarre condition.
Her cry of alarm immediately drew the attention of everyone else in the Bigshot Area. All eyes turned to the ethereal Daoist Zhou.
It wasn’t just his ears and nose; the corners of Daoist Zhou’s mouth had also begun to bleed. He appeared to be in extreme pain. His once-clear eyes were now murky and bloodshot, and the blood dripping from his face fell onto the horsetail whisk in his hand, staining it a mysterious red.
The Maid was quickly reprimanded and sent away by several Patriarchs standing nearby. They could see that Daoist Zhou was in the middle of a divination.
Much like Western Astrology, Chinese fortune-telling was one of the world’s few ancient forms of Alchemy that could peer into Destiny, and it evidently demanded a price for doing so.
For a Silver Tier expert like Daoist Zhou to suffer such a heavy backlash, the person or thing he was observing had to be of an exceptionally high level.
A moment later, the cloudiness in Daoist Zhou’s eyes cleared. Facing the curious bigshots around him, Daoist Zhou first performed a Dust-removal Spell to cleanse the bloodstains from his robes, then spoke just four words in Chinese:
"Good fortune follows calamity."
.........
On the altar, the Priest rattled off a string of words in what Baron noted was Ancient Celtic Language—though it sounded a bit like the Min Nan Language to him. The Priest then made a few prayer-like gestures before placing a Holy Grail, filled with the blood of some Dragon Descendant, at the center of the altar.
He scooped up handfuls of blood from the grail and flung them into the air. Accompanied by an ancient, unintelligible Spell, the blood drifted down like petals, landing on the Scale-Stripping Sabers held aloft by the Trial Takers. The red liquid seeped into the Dragon Scale patterns on the blades.
Enchantment—that’s what the people around called this ritual.
But that wasn’t all. After all the blood in the Holy Grail had been scattered, the Priest ordered his men to bring forth a bound seventh-generation Flying Dragon, known biologically as a "Welsh Little Flying Dragon."
The Flying Dragon was over ten feet long. Even with its membranous wings bound by some sort of Alchemy Rope, it could only manage to spread them to two-thirds of their full capacity—a span that was still over ten feet wide. The flock of Dragons that had just flown out of the Dracul Mountain Range were its kin.
However, Baron overheard someone say that this particular Little Flying Dragon had already reached the level of a Sixth Generation Species. Its thick hide was already beginning to be covered by a layer of fine, cyan scales—a sign of atavism.
This type of Little Flying Dragon was likely one of the rarest of its kind: a "Cyan Flying Dragon." Although Spiritual Perception rated it as no more than Black Iron, the oppressive presence unique to the Dragon Species gave it the true combat power to rival a Bronze.
Even with a Dragon Guide leading the way and dozens of Beowulf’s Dragon Slayers holding its restraints, the Cyan Flying Dragon remained defiant, holding its head high and letting out a breathy hiss like grinding rust from its long throat.
Faint wisps of Dragon Flame sputtered and died with each exhalation. Baron overheard that the Dragon’s fire glands had been removed to prevent any danger to the Old Race members present. This burning Dragon Flame was merely residual.
Baron was a little surprised to hear this. He had always assumed Dragon Flame was a special magical talent of the Dragon Race—an innate ability to conjure fire at will, without needing any kind of physical medium.
"But only Low Tier Dragon Descendants rely on fire glands. For a Fourth Generation Species or higher, Dragon Flame is no longer dependent on a gland... a single thought is all it takes for the Dragon Flame to ignite."
The Silver Mask beside Jose spoke. "Only a Dragon Descendant with the purest bloodline can achieve that."
’Have you ever even met a Dragon? Just spouting off whatever nonsense you assume is true,’ Baron snarked internally, playing on a popular meme.
Some of the Trial Takers present—most of them Wizards who had never been so close to a Dragon Descendant before—held their breath. Their eyes were glued to the Cyan Flying Dragon’s every move, fixed on its faintly golden, draconic pupils. They were like children at a zoo seeing a tiger for the first time, their faces a mixture of curiosity and the dawning horror of, ’I actually have to fight this thing?’
Hmm... ’Any kid who thinks that,’ Baron mused, ’ought to be named Wu Song.’
From the moment it appeared, the Cyan Flying Dragon’s struggles had grown increasingly violent. It let out a mournful, pleading shriek as the scales along its spine bristled, scraping against the ropes that bound it and showering the air with sparks.
More and more of Beowulf’s Dragon Slayers were sent to help, but they could barely keep the Cyan Flying Dragon from breaking free of its restraints.
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