Chapter 656: The Dead Dragon Shall Rule All Worlds

Above the dragon court, the night wind swept across the iron dragon's scales.

Sorog lay coiled at the Emperor's side, his foreclaws crossed before him, listening intently as the Emperor laid out his vision for the future. Then he slowly nodded his massive skull.

"A grand expedition. An excellent idea."

"Rather than casting our gaze toward other planes—those domains beset by gods and riddled with treacherous rules—it's far better to concentrate our strength on the Main Material Plane."

"The Main Material Plane is the foundation of all realms. It is the broadest and most stable territory."

"Every inch of land we claim here is tangible and real. Forging this Main Material Plane into a kingdom that belongs to our Sacred Aola is a far more correct path than any plan that looks to the Outer Planes or begs for the protection of the gods."

The iron dragon spoke with conviction.

Garoth tilted his head slightly, gazing at his blood kin.

Since the very beginning, Sorog had been the kin he relied on most—bar none.

This reliance was not without reason.

While other dragons enjoyed their leisure, honed themselves, or spent time with their mates, Sorog devoted nearly all his time to the affairs of the empire.

No other dragon in the empire was like him.

He could sit for an entire day amidst mountains of scrolls and reports, utterly content, never tiring.

His life was so spartan it bordered on asceticism.

He pursued no territory, hoarded no treasure, cared nothing for entertainment or rest. He didn't even have a fixed lair. The temporary dens he occupied were as crude as border outposts, lacking even the most basic floor-polishing.

The only thing that could make this iron dragon's pupils light up?

The empire's development reports.

For instance: how much the dragon birth rate had increased compared to the previous quarter, what new heights the average life level of a certain legion had reached, or how an industrial output record had been broken in some region of the empire...

To other great dragons, these numbers were mind-numbingly dull. But in Sorog's eyes, they gleamed brighter than any treasure.

In truth.

The ambition to develop a Dragon Empire and restore the glory of dragonkind was not uncommon among iron dragons.

Many iron dragons had harbored similar dreams when they first hatched from their eggs.

Deep within their bloodlines, a certain obsession with order and grand visions was naturally etched. They would outline the blueprint of a world ruled by dragons over and over in their minds, imagining scales covering every continent.

But almost all iron dragons, as they grew older, gradually came to terms with reality.

The decline of dragonkind had lasted too long. Even the great dragons themselves had begun to grow accustomed to this state.

Ambitious blueprints shattered time and again against the hard wall of reality. The initial dreams, battered by repeated failures, were gradually buried deep in their hearts, becoming old memories only occasionally revisited.

Sorog was different.

From his youth to his prime, and from his prime to his current age as an ancient dragon, he had never set aside this ambition for a single day.

Every inch the empire advanced, I could draw from it a satisfaction deeper than any material pleasure.

Ever-growing metrics, ever-expanding borders, ever-strengthening legions—these were the most fertile soil for me.

The empire's prosperity was his greatest joy.

Therefore, the grand expedition plan the Emperor spoke of struck precisely at his sensitive point.

But Sorog was rarely ruled by emotion.

He calmed down from his earlier exhilaration, sinking into serious thought, his pupils narrowing slightly.

"Setting aside grand visions and ambitions, the grand expedition itself is a necessary step the empire must take in the future."

"Aside from extremely rare micro-dragons like the Faerie Dragons, all other dragon types are major consumers of resources."

"Great dragons need territory to roam, hunting grounds to feed, mineral veins to meet the demands of their scales and lairs, and vast spaces to accommodate the spread of their wings."

"Now, as the empire grows stronger, the number of dragon subjects within its borders continues to increase."

"This is a good thing, but it also brings new problems."

"Each new generation of young dragons puts pressure on the empire's resource reserves. With the empire's current territory, before the latest generation of dragons even fully matures, resources will begin to run tight."

As he spoke, Sorog paused briefly.

He looked toward the other continents, his gaze crossing the mountain silhouettes in the distance, and continued:

"If we take a longer view, as the empire continues to grow, absorbing and breeding dragon subjects at the current rate, then it won't just be Atlan—the resources of the entire Bernardo will be unable to meet the empire's needs."

"At that point, outward expansion becomes a necessity."

"Expeditions to other worlds aren't just for the empire's development—they're for the empire's survival. Dragonkind itself is a race that grows stronger the more it expands. Once it stops, even the sharpest claws and fangs will slowly dull from idleness."

Garoth listened quietly.

Only after Sorog finished did he nod slowly in approval.

"Your thoughts align perfectly with mine."

"But the true grand expedition won't truly begin until I reach Immortal. Now is not the time."

Sorog nodded slightly, his tail giving a gentle flick behind him.

"It should be so."

"The prerequisite for an expedition is sufficient strength to support it. Otherwise, it's all just empty talk."

"Sacred Aola doesn't yet truly have the qualifications to launch a grand expedition. We haven't even fully unified Bernardo. There are still unconquered territories and unsubjugated races on the continent. A grand expedition requires a consolidated rear, a resource base capable of supporting a cross-world expedition."

He lifted his gaze to Garoth, his eyes carrying a resolve as hard as iron.

"Conquer Bernardo first."

"Completely incorporate this planet into Sacred Aola's territory. Unite all dragons, all races, all resources under a single banner."

"Only then will Sacred Aola have the right to knock on the doors of other worlds."

The red iron dragon raised his head, looking toward where his gaze fell.

The silhouette of the Continent of Atlan stretched out under the night, rolling mountains and plains outlined in varying shades of shadow beneath the moonlight. Further beyond lay the endless territories he had yet to control—but would one day plant the red dragon banner upon.

"Trust me. That day isn't far off."

He said.

Time flowed gently beneath the night.

More than ten days later, Garclo and Laria completed their handover in Arotala, transitioning their former tasks to other Emperor's sons, and then returned to Atlan, arriving at Sacred Aola's main base.

On the open ground, the noonday sun poured down, warming the sandy gravel beneath its rays.

The red dragon Garclo. The red dragon Laria.

Both stood upon the earth, bathed in sunlight as though cloaked in gold.

Behind them, hundreds of Dragonforged Warriors stood in formation.

These warriors were clad in heavy armor and armed with fine equipment. Every piece of armor had been carefully forged and enchanted. Every weapon gleamed with a sharp, cold light.

They were the elite of the elite.

Their life levels generally ranged between fifteen and twenty, with a legendary leader at their head.

At that moment, a deep, imposing crimson figure slowly folded his wings and descended.

Sunlight cascaded from the sky, outlining his massive body in blurred contours of light and shadow. His scarlet scales intertwined with the midday rays, heightening his aura of majesty.

The red iron dragon lowered his gaze to sweep over the formation, then spoke slowly.

"You are about to set foot on land where no Aola legion has ever tread."

"There, you will face unfamiliar enemies, unfamiliar dangers, and unfamiliar environments. Some among you may never return to bask in this sunlight again."

He paused briefly, then continued.

"But you will also leave the first footprints there, plant the first red dragon banner, and carve a path to a new world for the empire behind you."

"Warriors of Aola, my gaze will always be upon you."

"Your names, your deeds, your sacrifices—none shall be forgotten. The empire stands with you always. Everything you do will be inscribed in history."

With that, the great dragon raised his right foreclaw.

One by one, his pincer-like claw-fingers curled in, tightened, and then—he slashed downward with savage force.

*Riiip!*

Space was torn open, revealing a massive rift. The edges churned with searing energy, the surrounding space twisting slightly, as if a colossal gate now stood in the middle of the clearing.

Beyond it lay the continent of Faerûn.

Garoth had already obtained the world's coordinates through Vira and the human Holis, and had even sent the Faerie Dragon adept at planar travel over in advance to pinpoint a suitable location.

The exit of the rift was precisely set in a hidden wilderness.

Far from towns and main thoroughfares, it was enough to allow the vanguard to land safely without being discovered immediately.

"For Sacred Aola!"

"For the magnificent Emperor!"

Garclo was the first to spread his wings.

He strode toward the rift with long, determined steps. As he drew near, he paused briefly, turned back to glance at his Dragon Father. Garclo said nothing, merely giving a heavy nod before turning and stepping into the rift.

Laria followed.

As he passed by his Dragon Father's side, he paused for half a breath, meeting his gaze for a single instant.

Laria gave a slight nod, said nothing, then walked forward with unwavering steps, disappearing into the rift as well.

The Dragonforged Warriors filed in after them.

Hundreds of figures maintained perfect formation, row after row crossing through the gateway to a new world, their steps synchronized, without a trace of hesitation or doubt.

Soon, the last Dragonforged Warrior's silhouette was swallowed by the rift.

"Maybe I could go over myself for a while first, lead them in establishing a foothold in the new world."

The thought flickered through his mind.

But then the red iron dragon shook his head slightly, dismissing it.

With his size and energy level...

The spatial rift capable of accommodating him would be far larger and more conspicuous.

Unless Garoth planned to remain in Faerûn permanently, going over himself would only attract more danger to the vanguard.

The red iron dragon chose to trust his offspring.

Even in a new world, they would adapt well.

At the same time.

Faerûn Continent, Nameless Wasteland.

The night was like ink, pressing heavily upon the boundless wilderness.

The moment Garclo stepped out of the rift, all four claws landed on damp grass.

Simultaneously, his vertical pupils contracted sharply.

An indescribable chill seeped through the gaps between his scales, sending tremors through his heart. It felt as though invisible presences were pressing in from all directions, bearing down heavily on the edges of his perception—omnipresent.

Then Laria and the Dragonforged Warriors also arrived on this unfamiliar land.

Like Garclo, Laria's pupils also snapped tight. Every muscle in his body instantly tensed, his spine arching slightly.

When they turned their gaze eastward, the palpitations reached their peak.

The eastern night sky was not black.

At the far end of the horizon, the heavens were stained an unnatural dark red—the color of clotted blood—as though the sky had been torn open by a massive wound.

Across that blood-colored canopy, occasional blinding flashes of light erupted.

Just by gazing from afar, Garclo and Laria felt as though invisible hands had seized their hearts, making even breathing laborious.

"Laria."

Garclo's voice was heavy. "Do you feel it?"

Laria was also staring eastward.

His vertical pupils narrowed to thin slits, the scales on his brow furrowing slightly. "It's the wrath of the gods, burning over the Imathia Empire in the east."

The wrath of the gods was mainly sweeping through the Imathian Empire.

Divine anger had materialized into tangible force, sweeping across cities, mountains, and plains, obliterating everything that dared resist.

At the same time, its shockwaves covered nearly the entire world.

The more powerful the lifeform, the more keenly they could sense the presence of the gods' fury.

To the perception of legendary dragons, it felt as though the entire East had become a forbidden death zone. Their battle-hardened instincts screamed at them—do not approach now, under any circumstances.

"All warriors, hear me."

"Collectively transform. Follow me into the dense forest to the north."

The bodies of the Dragonforged Warriors began to shrink, twist, reshape... In the blink of an eye, hundreds of birds launched into the air from the ground. Their plumage was mostly gray-black and dark brown, interspersed with a few raptors sporting dark red crests.

Garclo and Laria had completed their transformations even earlier.

The two massive red dragons vanished, replaced by two dark-colored falcons slightly larger than ordinary raptors, almost perfectly blending into the night, showing no abnormalities.

At the same time, Laria retrieved a palm-sized disc.

This was a legendary item imbued with concealment and counter-tracking effects.

The surface of the disc gave a slight turn, and an invisible ripple spread soundlessly, sweeping over all the birds flying away, erasing their auras, residual energy traces, and even the heat radiating from their bodies.

Above the wasteland, only a flock of normally migrating birds remained.

They formed a loose formation and gradually faded into the depths of the night.

The clearing fell silent once more.

About two cups of tea's worth of time later, the air over the wasteland suddenly turned cold.

The temperature plummeted within a few breaths. A thin layer of white frost formed on the grass blades, and the surrounding insect chirps vanished instantly.

A figure slowly emerged from the darkness, soundlessly appearing at the scene.

He wore a wide black cloak, its hem dragging along the ground but stirring up no dust, nor brushing against any grass blades. He moved without a single sound, like a shadow gliding across the earth.

The figure halted in the middle of the clearing, the hood tilting slightly upward.

The direction he faced was precisely where the spatial rift had opened earlier.

After several seconds of silence, a withered, pale hand emerged from the black sleeve. The fingers were long, the knuckles prominent, the skin clinging tightly to the bone, as though only a thin membrane covered them.

The hand rose and traced several runes in the air.

*Hum!*

The air rippled like water.

Blurry images began to rise, inch by inch.

But those images could never become clear. Their outlines were scattered, impossible to make out.

The traces here had been erased.

"Some cautious outsiders have come to this land through spatial teleportation."

"But it doesn't seem like a normal teleportation spell."

A hoarse voice spoke, tinged with confusion.

If it had been a conventional teleportation spell, even after it had ended, he could still deduce the caster's origin from residual traces.

But the spatial marks here were chaotic, as if torn apart by violence.

This kind of residual trace was different from any teleportation spell he knew.

Teleportation was a very precise magic.

This was illogical.

Suddenly, a gust of wind blew over from the edge of the meadow, lifting the edge of the hood.

Beneath the shadow of the brim was a gaunt face.

The skin clung to the cheekbones, the shape of the bones clearly visible. The eye sockets were sunken and hollow, the eyelids dried and shriveled. An eerie green light flickered faintly within the sockets.

A lich. Sammaster.

He was a member of the Dragon-Worship Cult.

The Dragon-Worship Cult, a massive evil organization spanning many planes and worlds.

Their tendrils extended to many material worlds, showing different faces in each one, but their core goal remained consistent.

It was said that its founder had obtained an ancient magical prophecy.

It had been carved onto an unknown, ancient artifact. After countless days and nights of translation, after expending immeasurable effort, it had finally been deciphered into a cryptic line:

—The dead dragon shall eventually rule all worlds.

The members of the Dragon-Worship Cult believed in this prophecy.

They fanatically pursued the power of dragons and death, enthusiastically converting dragons into dragon liches by any means necessary.

They believed that the "dead dragon" referred to the dragon lich.

To make the ancient prophecy a reality faster, the cultists spared no methods—slaughter, sacrifice, curses—turning dragons into dragon liches, stopping at nothing.

In Bernardo, the Red Emperor had once been attacked by the Dragon-Worship Cult.

But the Dragon-Worship Cult in Bernardo was hardly rampant.

At the very least, its scale and resources couldn't compare to the cult in Faerûn, which had strongholds scattered everywhere and numerous high-ranking members.

"...Perhaps it was a dragon. Perhaps it wasn't."

Sammaster stared at the blurry, enormous outline, the flames in his eye sockets flickering softly.

To evade the pursuit and manhunts of the Dawn Church and the Harpers, he had been hiding in this remote region for many years. He had been finding his days somewhat dull, almost completely uneventful.

But now, it seemed something interesting was about to happen.

Those outsiders were clearly no simple matter.

Able to travel across space and with such cautious means of concealment—they were definitely not chance travelers passing through.

The lich let out a low chuckle, then slowly turned around. His black cloak silently billowed in the night breeze for a moment, and his figure abruptly faded, vanishing into nothingness.