Chapter 369: His Purpose? His Decree?

A green dragon, vast as a mountain. A black dragon, its hide harder than forged steel. A blue dragon, sheathed in blinding lightning. A red dragon, its chest seared with eternal flame…

Nine dragons roared as one. Their breaths converged into a single cataclysm, combining torrents of acid, ghostly emerald fire, arcing bolts of lightning, and searing rays of heat. Raw, overwhelming elemental forces fused into a spear of annihilation that struck against the Tidewall, the colossal barrier spanning sea and sky.

The layer of water exploded, tearing open a vast hollow space severed from the surrounding wall and forcing ajar a passage through its depths. The nine dragons plunged through in unison, holding the breach open with their might and widening it by dint of sheer power.

“Everyone, you must have sensed what’s happening. Our ruler—now all but a god—has nearly finished the construction of his kingdom. This imitation of a divine realm shall be Its dominion, the foundation upon which It ascends to a loftier height.

“We lack for time. We have lain hidden all these centuries in preparation for this battle. By our own strength, we must shatter the ‘heaven’ he has built and free our kin, who have been bound in chains and caged by faith since ages past.

“Once, we lacked our current might. But in the long silence of our slumber, each of you has found your own path. I shall block the power It wields. I entrust you with striking down Its heaven.”

At the fore flew the silver dragon Aurelian, the spearhead of their assault against the Tidewall. Behind her followed eight other dragons, each one an anomaly among dragonkind, singular in strength and marked by fate.

“I understand,” rumbled Pompeii, the black dragon. His voice was as harsh as iron grinding upon stone. “In my years within the City of Sin, my flesh has been tempered beyond ruin. That divine scourge which once scarred me can no longer sunder my form. Whether or not It was once our king, It shall taste suffering.”

His talons raked his own hide, sparks flaring from scale and claw. His form was compact but terrifying: he had barbed ridgelike blades, armor-thick scales, and explosive muscle that even his self-grown “armor” could not conceal.

Years of torment had honed him further. His scales had been broken and reforged, his muscles torn and rebuilt. His dragonbreath had waned, but his flesh had reached an unyielding pinnacle. Without penetrating precision, even seventh-tier spells could not scar him.

“Aurelian,” said Goelia, the green dragon, voice edged with caution. “I do not doubt your judgment, but I wish to confirm Its true strength before we wage war in earnest. We have prepared for this day, but so has It. The Church of Dragonkind hinders us, and their strength is Its gift, Its advantage. Whether we can match It remains uncertain.”

Goelia’s eyes gleamed with cunning. Famed for guile, Goelia always sought an escape, a fork in the road.

Aurelian’s voice rang out, clear and resolute, “It bound us once, shackling every dragon to Its will and forcing worship upon us. Its reason for doing so is now plain. It was the most perfect of us all—the purest of dragons. In It, the essence of dragonkind shone untainted.

“Its body gleamed with gold, Its blood, Its scales, Its eyes—every part of Its body proclaimed perfection. It was sovereign of the sky, the peak of life in this world. It was our king.

“I need not say overmuch about Its strength. Except for the final wave of abyssal creatures that emerged during the battle of the Abyssal Depths, none have ever been able to threaten It. And since then, It has guarded us with its blessings as a perfect monarch.

“Yet perfection has limits. The blood of dragons can only bring us so far. In body, magic, and even technique, It surpassed every threshold until nothing remained to overcome. Further growth was impossible.

“I cannot say why It turned from the path of mercy, but in Its thirst for more, It took up the way of the gods. It gathered the faith of all dragonkind, forging a heaven of dragons, where It alone would reign supreme.”

The silver dragon’s words clarified the motive of their foe—once king, now god.

“I understand,” Goelia replied, vast head lowered. “Then this is our last, best chance. I will prepare our strategy before we reach the Isle of Dragons.”

Another voice rose up, sharp with doubt. It was Doris, a white dragon flying in their ranks.

“I do not understand. If what you say is true, then It has grown far stronger than before. It has crossed the limit none of us could breach. It has always been immeasurably greater than we have. How can we hope to prevail now?”

Goelia turned toward the younger dragon.

“Think, Doris. Its heaven is not yet complete. Without it, It cannot ascend beyond this threshold limit. Its strength has stagnated; It is no stronger than in ages past. This is Its weakest moment.”

“I remain uncertain. Even if Its strength has stagnated, why would this be Its weakest moment?”

Goelia turned toward the other dragons, who were all but rolling their eyes. It looked as if the passage of time had not made this white dragon any wiser than before.

“It is no god, not truly. Yet It grants Its strength to mortals, to Its Church of Dragonkind. As Its followers grow, Its power is diluted.

“At this very hour, at the eve of the creation of a heavenly dominion, with Its cult at its fullest, Its strength is more scattered than ever before.

“Were It at Its peak, we would have no hope. But right now, at this precise juncture, we may have a slim opportunity. Our goal must be to take It down now.”

Goelia took advantage of Doris’s questioning to lay out the plan once and for all. Aurelian had indeed chosen the best time to strike.

“We draw near the heart of the Tidewall,” Aurelian warned. “Soon, we will enter the domain of the Church of Dragonkind. Be ready. Their archbishop will surely come, bearing all the blessings of our false god. That shall be our first battle.”

Around them, the leviathans of the deep stirred. The dragons pressed on, wings beating in grim accord.

“Understood.”

“I am ready to tear them into scraps.”

“Yup.”

“Sweet is the hour of vengeance.”

“…”

The dragons responded, one and all, with unwavering resolution. They had gathered their might and were steeling themselves for the first battle.

For an instant, Aurelian’s perception drifted afar. Four distant marks of her own making flared in her awareness, a fleeting thought stirring in her mind.

“I did not expect Sieg and the others to arrive so swiftly. We must hurry. Everything shall be settled by the time they arrive.”

Silver brilliance shrieked in silence. Greatswords of argent light interlocked and cleaved downward, establishing a new corridor through the depths of the Tidewall.

Meanwhile, in ruins buried beneath endless layers of draconic bone, a malformed half-draconian interrogated the black-robed figures he had summoned.

“Who issued this command? If none among you confess, all of you will taste unending despair.”

Philett, archbishop of the Church of Dragonkind, could sense the fear of the gathered devotees. Yet it stirred no pity in him. To hinder the will of the Master was an unforgivable sin beyond any reprieve. Those who erred would pay with everlasting agony.

“So be it. If none will admit it, I shall search you one by one.”

His brow tightened. His patience thinned.

He seized the nearest black-robed man by the head. A piercing scream split the air as the man’s body burst and rotted away. Philett dragged his soul out with brutal force and drove Its power into it. The naked spirit was scoured clean, torn apart without mercy.

“No… not you. Next.”

He gave the faintest nod, ignoring the soul’s dissolution, and strode to the next follower in sight.

“Not you.”

“Nor you.”

“…”

This happened again and again. None resisted; the last follower soon crumbled into ash.

“How can this be? It wasn’t any of you?”

Philett’s voice faltered into a bewildered mutter. That strange, meaningless decree delivered in the Church of Dragonkind’s name hadn’t been issued by any of his followers. Only one possibility remained.

“Was it You… our great Lord?!”

A shiver of awe and dread passed through him. With all else eliminated, he saw the truth: the command must have come from the one who had never before spoken directly—their god.

He discarded any lingering doubt. Though he could not fathom why It willed the cult to strike at a nameless stretch of the Tidewall and slaughter a single passing fleet, Its will was divine. As archbishop, Philett could only obey. No hesitation nor failure was permitted. He would see the act done himself.

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