Chapter 147: Chapter 141: Dragon Hunting Squad

“This attack on the gemstone mine was a bit of a risk, and the gains weren’t significant enough to warrant the danger.”

“Honestly, it wasn’t wise to take such a risk for a momentary thrill.”

“Too impulsive. I should have been more cautious, more careful.”

The Red Iron Dragon silently reflected.

But another emotion quickly surged forth.

When the Flame Thunder Breath blasted the first ballista, when the Anti-Sky Pillar and golem bodies crumbled under his claws, that long-lost, pure, almost savage sense of exhilaration returned, just like when he first bit through the Sword-toothed Tiger’s throat as a child.

Years of deliberate suppression for the sake of survival.

Found a moment of relief today.

He never liked living cautiously—it was merely a necessity for survival.

The Red Iron Dragon suddenly accelerated, tearing through the clouds, soaring higher into the sky, letting the torrential rain wash away the smell of gunpowder from his scales.

In the brief sunlight above the clouds, he stretched his battle-scarred body.

“I must not forget caution, can’t be recklessly adventurous.”

“But!”

“Only the weak are burdened with caution. One day, I will live without fear, with nothing to hold me back!”

Galos took a deep breath of the thin high-altitude air, letting the cold oxygen fill his lungs.

He cast aside hesitation and regret behind him in the clear sky, diving back into the deep storm with renewed determination.

Days later.

The rain began to ease, the thick, sky-covering downpour turned into a mere drizzle.

To the south, outside the Sel Wilderness, in the Raymond Duchy, Thorn Territory.

Here, it was dry, with no clouds to obscure the sky.

The moonlight was as bright as ever, but to Viscount Ironthorn, it appeared cold and melancholic, two moons—one real, one false—hung in the sky, like a pair of eyes casting a mocking gaze at him.

He stood on the terrace, a layer of stubble on his chin, his eyes bloodshot.

He looked nothing like a refined noble viscount, but rather like an inept middle-aged man who had lost his son.

And so it was.

Fury burned in Viscount Ironthorn’s chest like an inextinguishable fire, his son was dead, killed beneath the claws of dragons.

The proud, young Edmund, who was supposed to inherit everything and bring pride to the family, was now just a smear of indistinguishable flesh—no, not even that. His remains were nowhere to be found.

The viscount’s teeth ground together audibly, the veins on his temple bulging as if they would burst.

His breathing was heavy, each inhale seeming as though he tried to swallow all the anger in the air.

“Those beasts… those damned beasts!”

His voice was low and hoarse, like a curse squeezed from the depths of his throat.

He hated those dragons, hated their arrogance, their cruelty, hated that they dared to take his son from him.

But.

More than the dragons, he hated—himself.

Regret entwined his heart like a venomous snake; he regretted sending Edmund to collect taxes, regretted not dispatching a stronger guard, regretted not conducting thorough reconnaissance, regretted not discovering the monsters had dragons behind them!

Those damn dragons.

Not content with killing Edmund, they attacked a Raymond Duchy mining site, causing significant damage, stealing a vast amount of gemstones, and explicitly saying it was a gift for him.

This brought Viscount Ironthorn a great deal of trouble, stirring family inquiries and dissatisfaction.

But the viscount no longer cared.

His fingers dug deeply into his palm, nails piercing the skin, drawing blood, yet he felt no pain.

He remembered Edmund’s nonchalant demeanor before leaving, his son’s smile as he said, “I’ll have the monsters kneeling to offer their treasures.”

But now, his son was never coming back.

The moonlight remained bright, casting over the viscount’s face, reflecting the tumultuous hate and pain in his eyes.

“An eye for an eye, blood for blood!”

“I will skin you all, tear you to pieces! Not a single one will be spared!”

He slowly looked up, gazing towards the direction of the Sel Wilderness, his eyes sharp as knives.

Soon after.

Viscount Ironthorn donned the armor he wore leading troops on the border in past years, bringing along a professional Dragon Hunting Squad he had hired at great expense by selling family assets, with members averaging a life level above 12, experienced with impressive records of hunting adult dragons.

Their weapons, combat skills, magic, and armor were all designed with dragon hunting as the core, specifically targeted.

In order to save time.

Viscount Ironthorn spent a large sum of money to use a Magic Teleportation Array, directly transporting the Dragon Hunting Squad to the Sel Wilderness, advancing day and night towards the Scale Earth Rift.

Three days later.

Viscount Ironthorn’s Dragon Hunting Squad reached their first destination through the misty drizzle.

—The site where the private army was destroyed.

The lead Curse Master squatted, fingertips brushing the charred ground.

“The residue of Dragon Flame.”

He said, “I need all residuals related to the Dragon Race.”

The other members quickly spread out, searching for any trace like hounds.

But they found nothing.

The wilderness sided with the dragons, the torrential rains washing away the battle traces.

The bodies left here were cleaned up by savage beasts and fiends of the wild, leaving only some broken and twisted armor, shattered weapons, and metal debris.

As for traces of the dragons.

Only the scorched earth from Dragon Breath remained, nothing more.

The Curse Master picked up a pinch of ash, rubbed it between his fingers, and said, “This bit of scorched earth from Dragon Breath is almost the worst medium, hard to use for tracking.”

Viscount Ironthorn remained silent, his gaze dark.

Subsequently, the Dragon Hunting Squad reached the second crucial location.

—Needleleaf Valley.

The attack on the mining site wasn’t a trivial matter.

Moreover, the attack on a noble’s private military wasn’t just any incident.

Upon receiving the news, the Lothern Federation’s wilderness garrison immediately sprang into action, considering a large-scale cleanup necessary.

Utilizing magic and alchemy creatures, they began a systematic purge centered around the Scale Earth Rift, clearing out those powerful beasts and fiends.

When the formidable legion got serious.

The territories of the Molten Iron Clan scattered across the wilderness were gradually discovered, and even Needleleaf Valley was unearthed, confirmed as a core domain where young dragons once lurked.

Being directly involved in the incident, Viscount Ironthorn was informed of this information.

Upon reaching Needleleaf Valley, Viscount Ironthorn held onto a last sliver of hope, yet found nothing more than endless scorched earth.

Even before the attack began.

The Flaming Dragon Breath had completely obliterated this place.

“They were prepared, launching a premeditated attack, erasing their traces before striking to prevent pursuit.”

The lead Curse Master’s gaze was heavy as he said, “Young dragons are arrogant and boastful.”

“Yet to forsake their territory so decisively after securing victory was unexpectedly cautious in concealing their tracks.”

After a pause, the Curse Master pondered, “It must be that unique Mixed-blood Dragon among them, with a nature different from Pure-blooded Dragons. Undoubtedly, it is the leader.”

Viscount Ironthorn slowly drew his sword, its point sinking into the soil, as if doing so could pierce the earth to stab those fleeing foes.

“Keep searching.” His voice was colder than the blade: “Turn over every inch of the Sel Wilderness—dig them out.”

The Curse Master assessed Viscount Ironthorn, saying quietly, “Those dragons are very cautious, conventional methods won’t work, but as a professional Dragon Hunter, I have unconventional means.”

“What is it?”

Viscount Ironthorn asked urgently.

“Using blood filled with extreme hatred as a medium, I can construct a Tracking Spell. Although we can’t pinpoint exact coordinates, it will guide us in the general direction.”

The Curse Master replied, unhurriedly.

“Then cast it at once.”

The Curse Master shook his head, “It’s a dark art, it will cost you at least ten years of your life. Are you sure you can pay such a price?”

The viscount fell silent, his heart hesitating a bit.

He was nearly fifty, middle-aged, but his body hadn’t hit decline, and as an Advanced Warrior, he was at his peak, capable of siring more offspring, not necessarily needing to go to the bitter end with the dragons over Edmund’s death.

But, after a bout of mental struggle.

The desire for revenge overcame reason.

Without expression, Viscount Ironthorn said, “As long as I can kill those dragons, I’ll drink their Dragon Blood, consume their flesh and bones alive, this price is nothing.”

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