Chapter 176: The Scout

The black fortress of Ouroboros sat high in the cold northern mountains.

Unlike the bright, warm city of Port Solis in the south, the capital of the Wallachian Empire was cold and harsh. The wind blew down from the frozen peaks, carrying the smell of iron, smoke, and old blood. Long red banners marked with a giant coiled serpent hung from dark stone walls.

Inside the grand throne room, it was dead silent.

The hall was lit only by large iron bowls filled with black, burning oil. At the far end of the room, sitting on a high throne carved from giant dragon bones, was Emperor Varos von Wallachia.

He was a tall, broad man wearing heavy armor made of dark, star-metal plates. His black hair was pulled back tightly, showing a scarred, hard face. His cold, blood-red eyes looked down at everything with total boredom. For thirty years, Varos had ruled his empire with one rule: the strong live, and the weak get crushed.

In front of the stairs leading to his throne, three scouts knelt on the freezing stone floor. They wore torn, dirty cloaks. Their boots were covered in frozen mud, and their chests heaved with tired breaths.

"Get up, Draven," Varos said. His voice was deep, calm, and heavy. "You crossed the mountain border six days early. You either bring good news about the Solarian army, or you brought your own death warrant."

Draven, the chief scout, slowly stood up. He kept his eyes locked on the floor. His hands shook as he unclipped a heavy iron tube from his leather vest.

"My Emperor," Draven said, his voice dry and raspy from riding for days without sleep. "This is not just news. It is a disaster. Everything in the south has changed."

"Speak clearly," Varos commanded, resting his armored arm on the bone armrest. "Did Empress Viona march her army to the coast? Our legions have been waiting at the border for months. Did she crush those foreigners from the sea, or are they still fighting on the beaches?"

"Sire..." Draven swallowed hard, kneeling down once more to offer the iron tube with both hands. "There is no more war on the coast. The Solarian Empire is gone."

Varos’s red eyes narrowed. "Explain. Viona had nine paladin legions, four battle-mage corps, and over two hundred thousand levied soldiers."

"They were all killed, Sire," Draven whispered, his voice shaking. "Not pushed back. Not routed. Wiped out completely. By an unknown nation that calls itself the United States of America."

The heavy iron doors at the back of the room swung open with a loud groan.

Heavy boots echoed across the stone floor. The rustle of dark cloth and the clanking of weapons broke the quiet hall.

The Ten Iron Fangs of Wallachia had arrived.

They were the ten strongest commanders in the entire empire. Each one was a master of war, dark sorcery, or brute combat, feared by every kingdom across the continent.

Leading the group was General Keith the Bloodhound, a giant man carrying a massive, jagged greatsword across his back. Behind him walked Grand Inquisitor Morzan, his face hidden beneath an iron skull mask, holding a dark coral staff.

Next came the twin assassins, Valen and Vayle, their twin daggers coated in lethal poison. Behind them were the heavy shield-general Boran Ironclad, the silent killer Kaelen the Whispering Death, the pale necromancer Lady Seraphina, the siege engineer Harkon Stonebreaker, the beast-master Fenris the Fang, and the young scholar, Arch-Magus Jarek.

These ten people had crushed every enemy the empire had ever faced. They had conquered barbarian clans, wiped out rival kingdoms, and turned Wallachia into a giant, untouchable fortress.

"You’re talking nonsense, scout," Keith growled, crossing his massive arms over his chest. His yellow eyes flashed with anger. "Viona is an arrogant woman, but she has divine light magic and thousands of paladins. How does some unknown kingdom from the sea wipe out two hundred thousand men in a few months?"

"They did not fight like an ordinary army, General Keith," Draven replied, looking back with wide, terrified eyes. "They did not form shield walls. They did not draw swords. They do not even use magic."

"A war without magic?" Grand Inquisitor Morzan laughed from behind his skull mask. His voice sounded like dry paper rubbing together. "That is impossible. Without mana, you cannot break enchanted armor. A simple defensive spell makes steel plate as hard as stone. A normal man without magic is just meat waiting to be chopped down."

"Read the report, Morzan," Emperor Varos said, cutting him off with a cold glare. "Give the scrolls to Jarek."

Draven opened the iron tube, pulling out thick rolls of paper and small blue memory crystals that held recorded pictures.

Arch-Magus Jarek stepped forward. His pale fingers unrolled the scrolls. He sent a small spark of mana into the crystals, casting large, glowing moving pictures into the empty air of the room.

The Ten Iron Fangs crowded around the light.

What they saw made even Keith stop breathing.

The first moving picture showed the wide stone highway in the south. Twelve thousand imperial soldiers—Duke Raymond’s personal army—were marching in neat lines. Their bronze shields were polished, their spears stood straight, and their golden banners flew in the wind.

Then, from the high clouds above, small gray shapes appeared.

They were not flying monsters. There were no mages chanting spells. They were sleek, sharp, gray machines that flew so fast they left white lines of cloud behind them, moving faster than the speed of sound.

"What kind of wyvern is that?" Fenris the beast-master muttered, squinting his wolf-like eyes. "It has no wings that flap. It has no tail."

"It is not a beast, Lord Fenris," Draven said. "It is an iron bird. It is not alive. It is made of metal and driven by strange fire."

On the glowing screen, the sky exploded.

Small metal cans dropped from the gray machines. The cans split open in mid-air, dropping dozens of small, spinning metal pucks over the marching army.

Before the soldiers could even look up, the road blew up into pieces.

Heavy metal darts shot down from the sky at terrifying speed. Giant bronze shields, hardened with high-level defensive spells, did not just break—they were punched right through like paper. Breastplates were blown to bits. Men and horses were ripped into bloody chunks before they could even scream. Within ten seconds, twelve thousand elite imperial soldiers were dead in the dirt.

"Look at those impacts," Harkon Stonebreaker whispered, shaking his heavy head. "There is no fire magic there. There is no lightning spell. That is pure weight and speed. To punch through reinforced plate from that high in the sky... that takes unnatural physical power."

"Look at the harbor," Draven urged, tapping the crystal. "Watch what happened to their ultimate weapon."

The picture shifted, showing the stone docks of Port Solis.

Every commander in the room leaned closer.

There, lying across the broken stone breakwater in the water, was the giant, three-hundred-foot body of Ignisrax, the ancient Red Dragon of Mount Caelum.

"Gods above..." Lady Seraphina gasped, her pale hand flying to her mouth. "The ancient beast of the volcano. Viona really broke the chains?"

"She broke them, my Lady," Draven confirmed. "She unsealed the dragon and sent it to burn the foreign fleet."

"And?" Keith demanded, his sneer completely gone. "Did the beast burn their ships?"

"The beast died in under ten minutes," Draven said plainly. "The Americans fired iron spears from their beach launchers and boats. They blew off its wings with explosive metal darts. Then, two green flying machines with spinning blades hovered over its head and chewed through its neck with repeating kinetic cannons until its head was completely destroyed."

The entire room went dead silent.

The Ten Iron Fangs stared at the dead dragon’s severed head in shock.

These were killers who had fought for decades. They knew the Solarian Empire well. They knew how hard it was to scratch an ancient dragon’s scales. Viona had spent months, three archbishops, and forty paladins just to lock that beast away.

And this unknown nation had killed it in ten minutes, without using a single spell, and without losing a single soldier on the ground.

Emperor Varos slowly leaned forward, his red eyes burning in the dim light.

"Tell me, Draven," the Emperor said softly. "Where are Viona and that mercenary, Leon?"

Draven dropped his head back to the floor. "They crossed our northern border three nights ago, Sire. They ran away from their empire. They are waiting at our gates right now, begging for an audience."