New Calendar Year 418, January

The Aola legions marched into the heartlands of the Lothrian Kingdom.

This torrent of steel, warbeasts, and Aola warriors approached Valdo with an unstoppable momentum.

Wherever they passed, city gates opened at dawn or dusk, garrisons laid down arms, and they respectfully welcomed the great Red Emperor’s arrival.

There was no resistance or shouting, only compliance.

When the outcome of that fateful battle on the Rhen Plateau reached them, Lothrian’s will to resist flickered and died like a candle in the wind.

The Aola legion advanced steadily, neither hurried nor slow.

On the other side, Valdo.

For those living here, this winter felt colder than past years.

Lead-gray clouds hung low and refused to yield any sunlight.

Wind cut through the palace’s towering colonnades and spires, whipping up thin snow and slapping it against stained-glass windows.

Streets were sparsely populated; those who had to go out wrapped themselves tightly in heavy coats and hurried with bowed heads. Markets remained open but offered far fewer goods. Food prices tripled, and coal became scarce; people rarely spoke while buying, but more than once they all turned their eyes northward.

Toward where the Aola legions would arrive.

Inside the royal court, unease reigned.

The gilded great hall had lost its former solemnity and authority.

Nobles had misplaced their composure, ministers could not hide the alarm on their faces. They clustered in small groups, whispering with muffled tones, eyes darting toward the outer halls or anxiously toward the throne.

The throne was empty.

Their king was dead—on the Rhen Plateau.

Not killed by an enemy, but by his own hand.

When the news returned, the court sank into silence for an entire afternoon.

No one praised the king’s dignity.

Whatever his reasons for choosing suicide, other nobles and ministers privately labeled him a coward.

In wine cellars’ corners, shadowed corridors, or locked studies, similar murmurs spread.

“At least they should have arranged a successor…”

“He died and left everything in ruin, as if he never truly cared for his kingdom or people.”

To commit suicide after such a crushing defeat?

It wasn’t impossible.

But at minimum, one should tidy up the mess first.

If the king had properly arranged his succession and then taken his life, no one would have called him a coward; they might have forgiven his failure and blamed only the wrong direction.

Perhaps when his dreams were shattered, Raymond no longer cared about anything.

But however it was, the king was gone.

If only the king had died, that would have been bearable.

The royal bloodline remained, there would be someone to take the throne.

The crucial blow was that the crown-level guardians who protected the kingdom had all fallen on the Rhen Plateau.

Those who once stood atop Lothrian’s power, who wanted to give the kingdom a bright future, had burned themselves out in a final gamble and in doing so drained Lothrian’s core strength.

The Holy Spirit had reconstituted itself.

As long as the Lothrian Kingdom existed, it would not truly die.

But it could not make Lothrian feel safe.

People’s trust began to shift toward another direction.

Gordon Ignas—the iron dragon—reigned over his residence, a broad courtyard on the palace’s west side.

The garden had been the royal family’s summer cooling spot, with a fountain in the center and rosebeds, bordered by several old oaks. After the iron dragon moved in, the fountain was filled in, the roses removed, and the ground was paved with metal plates to prevent cracking under his increasingly heavy bulk.

In the iron dragon’s juvenile years, people came and went frequently.

Back then he was small, with smooth, delicate scales, a plump body, a clear voice, lacking the ferociousness of mature dragons; he was the princess’s playmate.

Noble children visited out of curiosity; maids happily brushed his scales or fed him preserved fruits.

To many humans, that iron dragon then seemed clumsy or even endearing.

But over time his image shifted toward that of a true wyrm.

His shoulder height grew from below a person’s waist to something one had to look up to; his claws got sharper and could carve deep gouges into flagstones; his scales took on a harsh metallic sheen in sunlight.

No matter how many fine adornments were draped on him, he could not hide the growing dragon might.

Since the iron dragon became an adult, the courtyard became nearly deserted.

Apart from scheduled deliveries of food, caretakers cleaning and attending him, and the occasional visit from the princess, few other visitors came.

People feared him.

Perhaps outwardly they could accept him, praising him at ceremonies and smiling gently, but the primal fear of a colossal predator never left human hearts.

Iron Dragon Gordon knew this and thus constantly remembered his dragon identity.

But recently, everything had changed.

Nobles and ministers once again flocked here with enthusiasm.

Gifts piled at the courtyard gate.

Crates of gold coins, sealed magic scrolls, rare fruits preserved with ice magic, ointments said to harden scales, silk and spices…

They queued patiently, hoping for a brief audience and a few words.

Their eyes still showed fear, but more and more an obsequious flattery edged into their expressions, almost bordering on servility. They no longer merely regarded him as a kept beast, but as a...bridge.

A bridge to survival.

Today that eagerness reached a new pitch.

“Lord Gordon, good day.”

“On such a cold day, does the ground not chill you as you rest here?”

“My family keeps a blanket made from the finest down of snow doves, sewn with gold thread—snow doves only live on the highest northern peaks and molt only once per year; collecting it is nearly impossible…”

A count who made his fortune in mining smiled broadly.

He bowed from a distance, holding a square parcel wrapped in deep-blue velvet, speaking with reverence.

Gordon lazily lifted his eyelid, glanced at him, and exhaled a puff of warm breath that condensed into mist in the cold air. He gave no reply.

Seeing this, the count took it as permission and smiled even wider.

He placed the parcel in the designated gift pile and added a few courtesies—“May your scales shine forever,” “Lothrian will forever honor you”—then backed away.

Minutes later another minister arrived.

He wore a heavy ermine cloak, his beard rimed with frost, clearly having waited outside for some time.

He carried a velvet-lined jade box and opened it from afar. Inside lay a fist-sized moonstone that seemed to flow with liquid moonlight. It was said to calm dragons’ spirits and was extremely rare.

“I heard you collect gems. This has been passed down from my great-grandfather, kept deep in our family vault. Today I present it to you.”

“I hope it brings you pleasure.”

Gordon neither refused nor showed delight; he extended a foreclaw and lightly hooked the gem with the smallest talon, bringing it close to inspect.

The stone gave off a soft glow even in the dim sky, reflected in his vertical pupils.

After a moment he set it among a pile of similar trinkets, and emitted a low rumble from his throat—an acknowledgment of receipt.

The minister stepped back, visibly relieved and beaming.

All day long, similar scenes replayed.

Offerings of rare magic metals, tributes of prime meats, subtle probes into the Red Emperor’s tastes...

If this had been years ago, Gordon might have felt pleased, proud, triumphant: see, these humans grovel to me.

Now he only found it tedious, like watching ants hurriedly move food before a storm—busy, but it wouldn’t change anything.

Their gifts, smiles, and flattery were all aimed at survival.

“My covert plans to subvert Lothrian haven’t even started before they’ve already ended,” he murmured.

The iron dragon shook his head; the coarse scales of his neck scraped together with a faint metallic rasp.

He looked up at the snow-filled sky; flakes that touched his warm scales melted instantly into wisps of steam.

His melancholy was real, but so was a clear-headedness.

He knew why people had changed their attitudes.

The great Red Emperor—his blood kin, his elder brother—had used one dragon’s might to fell all Lothrian crown-level guardians on the Rhen Plateau, and now led the army toward Valdo.

All the schemes Gordon had imagined—sedition, covert accumulation of power—looked like child’s play now.

His kin, his brother, had solved everything in the most direct way.

“Our dragons’ true reliance should be power, and only power,” Gordon reflected.

At that moment, the air suddenly warmed.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Clusters of flame ignited in the courtyard, crimson threaded with gold. They gathered, stretched, and condensed into a slim, exquisite humanoid form.

The fire drew inward, forming a tangible outline.

She was surrounded by a faint orange-red aura, a cascade of flame for hair whose tips flickered like dying stars. Her dress was woven of fire into a blazing gown that moved without wind; its edges constantly birthed and extinguished tiny sparks.

Her presence dispelled the courtyard’s chill; even the falling snow turned to vapor as it neared her.

Lothrian’s Fire Spirit Princess, Elina.

Her gaze followed the retreating figure of the minister and a faint smile curved her lips.

“In the last days, the court has paid me attention again and given me many materials I need. Things they once delayed they now bring willingly.”

“These fence-sitters turn so quickly.”

Her voice had a hollow clarity with a crisp, fire-like echo—not harsh, but rhythmically peculiar.

Gordon rumbled, “Seeking advantage and avoiding harm—that’s the instinct of most creatures.”

“Weak animals show submission to the strong; humans are no exception.”

“With my brother’s might, their behavior is understandable. At least it’s better than foolishly resisting to the end.”

He paused, turning his massive head to look at the princess; her burning form reflected in his eyes.

“What will you do? Wait until Garoth’s forces are at the walls, or take action in advance? For example, ensure the city is surrendered intact to him?”

Elina’s flame-formed brows lifted slightly as she answered.

Gordon shook his head. “Garoth has his own designs. I need not worry for him.”

Lothrian’s nobles and ministers feared massacre, pillage, and every atrocity recorded in history about conquerors.

But from Gordon’s understanding of his blood brother, he doubted Garoth would do that.

He did not even care much for conquering Lothrian.

As he spoke, Gordon prodded the mass of gifts with the tip of his tail; a ruby rolled and clinked on the flagstones.

“Lothrian’s illusions are shattered; even their current status cannot be preserved.”

“But Elina, you seem unconcerned.”

The Fire Spirit Princess smiled faintly.

She walked to the courtyard’s edge and touched the trunk of an old oak.

The bark smoldered slightly under her touch but did not ignite—her control of flame was precise.

“Once, I believed the kingdom and its people were the most important things.”

Her voice was calm, as if reciting a fact unrelated to herself.

“I was willing to give my life, to give everything, everything I had for Lothrian.”

“For that, I abandoned human form, embraced this elemental shell, believing it would grant me longer power to protect them.”

“I still remember every step of the ritual.”

“Lie in the furnace, let liquid fire essence flow into the veins, skin carbonize and peel under high heat, bones reshape, nerves fuse with fire veins...it hurt, but I thought it was worth it to serve the kingdom, so I endured and was reborn.”

She paused for a second.

Snow melted above her head into white vapor and rose.

“But people change.”

She turned, flame-eyes fixing on Gordon.

“After death and rebirth my thinking shifted—not suddenly, but like peeling away an outer layer; I became purer.”

“States are just temporary assemblies of matter and will.”

“They are sandcastles at the tide’s whim.”

“Humans build dynasties, fight and sing for them, sacrifice for them, but centuries later dynasties fall; millennia later names can be forgotten. Lothrian has stood a thousand years; that is long for mortals, but against mountain ranges, stars, and elements, it is a blink.”

Her flames surged, and the air grew warmer.

“Gordon, now I pursue something more essential.”

A fiery light flashed in her eyes—literally burning, not metaphorically—when she spoke of her pursuit.

“For example, the world’s structure.”

“Why does fire burn? Why is ice cold? Are the four classical elements ultimate, or manifest shadows of deeper laws?”

“Where do flames originate? Where do they go when extinguished?”

“When wood burns into heat, light, and smoke, mass appears to decrease—where does that mass go? I have many questions to answer, and the possibility of eternity among them.”

Her speech quickened then drew inward, returning to the present.

“As for who rules this land, whether it’s Lothrian, Aola, or some other name...so long as it doesn’t prevent my exploration of these answers, I could not care less.”

Gordon listened quietly.

He could understand such a transformation.

Dragons are naturally driven to seek power and the world’s truths.

Humans also have such urges, but brief lives, intense emotions, and social bonds often obscure or warp them.

Having shed human constraints, Elina adopted a mindset closer to long-lived species.

Her obsessive pursuit of knowledge fit among long-lived beings.

Among dragons, many are similar—some obsessed with star movements, watching skies for centuries; some dissect life until they become masters; some study magic’s essence and lock themselves in caves for generations.

Elina had simply joined their ranks.

“You’re becoming more like us, Elina,” Gordon said softly.

Many human rulers refuse to change their human forms; some kingdoms forbid royal long-life methods altogether. Rulers need to retain humanity to empathize with people and maintain control.

Thought patterns are often determined by mode of existence.

A monarch living a thousand years cannot truly empathize with a peasant who lives decades; an entity that no longer needs food but subsists on elemental energy cannot grasp the terror of famine.

When existence changes, thinking inevitably changes. At first memory and habit may hold, but over time thought transforms, and one becomes something else.

“Perhaps,” she replied with a faint smile, flames flickering. “But it’s not bad; at least now we understand each other better.”

She reached out a hand formed of flame and gently patted Gordon’s forearm.

Gordon bared his interlocking fangs in a grin. “Yes, I prefer you now.”

The courtyard, warmed by fire spirit and wyrm, felt like spring; flagstones were dry, the air scorching.

Outside, snow intensified, wind cut through palace blocks, and a distant bell toll—one of the watchtower alarms on the walls—swayed unstruck by the wind.

Yet vigilance in people’s hearts only rose.

Far away, a monarch bearing indomitable majesty trampled through the snow.

Days and nights passed.

Half a month later.

At dawn, soldiers on Valdo’s walls first noticed a change.

On the horizon a faint black line appeared where snowplain met gray sky; it moved, then broadened and thickened, like tide flooding a mudflat, slow and resolute.

It was the Aola legion’s front.

They were silent, orderly, like polished blades.

No war drums or horns sounded—only iron hooves breaking frozen earth, metal scraping, and the low roars of gargantuan beasts.

Those sounds formed a deep, continuous wave that rolled across the snow; diminished by the time it reached the walls, it still carried a weight heavy enough to crush any remnant of will to resist.

Above the black tide, in wind and snow, loomed a figure that made the entire Romanian Plains tremble.

The Red Emperor, the Undying Dragon, Garoth Ignas.

Because he had borne the blazing sun and smashed the Rhen Plateau in one strike, another name had spread among bards:

Scarlet Emperor Cangxing.

Now he retained a conventional dragon form.

Even in that form, his massif body resembled mountain ranges, and his barbed scales and armor like jagged peaks—still emanating unrivaled pressure.

He did not deliberately exude dragon might.

But his aura, tempered by blood and fire and stamped by crushing crown-level opponents, was already as heavy as substance, settling upon every living heart in Valdo.

Livestock snorted in their pens, dogs cowered trembling in corners, birds avoided that airspace.

Facing the Red Emperor, on the walls.

Soldiers who should have been battle-ready were unnervingly quiet and unmoving—unlike a fighting force.

Crossbows drooped, arcane cannons idle; faces were pale, weapons untouched.

At that moment, a grinding of gears sounded within the city.

Valdo’s giant metal gate slowly opened.

Gears meshed, chains slid, runes flared, hinges groaned.

Through the gap filed a procession of Lothrian nobles.

Leading them was an aged royal duke—white-haired, formally dressed in the most official court attire, chest full of medals.

He was the late king’s uncle and, by rank, the highest eligible representative within the court.

He should have been enjoying his twilight years in a warm estate, reading and gardening, attending trivial ceremonies occasionally.

At least such matters should not fall to him.

He was too old; he needed a cane to walk.

But now he had to step forward.

The old duke shuffled, supported by two young nobles. He reached several hundred meters from the gate and stopped in the wind and snow.

They released their supports and he stood alone, wobbling slightly in the cold. Then, to the dragon silhouette in the sky, he bent his spine deeply.

“Lothrian...Valdo City welcomes the great Red Emperor, His Majesty Garoth Ignas!”

His voice was hoarse, projecting all his strength.

“May...may His Majesty’s radiance shine upon this land.”

As his words fell, more nobles echoed.

They followed behind the old duke, bowing in unison with uneven voices.

“Welcome the Red Emperor to loyal Lothrian!”

“There is only one sun; His Majesty Ignas is that sun!”

“The Romanian Plains will prosper beneath dragon wings!”

“We pledge our loyalty and beseech Your Majesty’s mercy!”

...

Regardless of prior public opinion, regardless of how many private resentments, fears, or calculations existed, at this moment the Red Emperor heard nothing but praise.

Some lines were prepared, some improvised, some rambling from nerves, but their meaning was the same:

We submit—have mercy.

Then a shadow like tempered iron shot out from the city and finally hovered a hundred meters before the Red Emperor—a distance intimate enough for dragons to see each other’s scale patterns clearly.

“My dear brother!”

Gordon’s voice was thunderous with heartfelt joy. “Congratulations on reaching Lothrian’s capital! Your fame resounds across nations!”

The last time Gordon had seen his kin in person was when the Aola delegation celebrated the founding of the nation. Aola’s territory was then only half its current size—the brother had been strong but cautious among the nations.

This reunion, however, came with Lothrian already kneeling under dragon wings; the Red Emperor was about to become the undisputed master.

Wind and snow lashed Gordon’s spines and barbs.

He could not help remembering that long-ago afternoon when, a young dragon sunning in the courtyard, a strange voice suddenly sounded in his mind through the bloodline connection—cautious, probing.

At that time Garoth had struggled for survival.

Though Gordon had lived well, his future was uncertain—would humans forever treat a monstrous wyrm kindly? He did not know.

Who could have imagined then that one day they would stand before Lothrian’s capital—indeed as conquerors?

“We...have truly reached this point,” Gordon murmured.

Garoth’s deep voice echoed in his mind: “This is only the beginning, Gordon. The Romanian Plains are but one corner of the world; our future extends far beyond this.”

The words were simple but invigorating, and a brighter light kindled in Gordon’s eyes.

After a brief exchange of old memories, Garoth directed his gaze to the still-bowing old duke and the opened gates.

“Enter the city.”

Two words, short and clear.

At that command, the Aola legions moved.

Aola warriors took charge of the walls, secured key routes, and inventoried armories.

The Red Emperor spread his wings and led the flight into Valdo’s skies; the dragon host followed. Below them lay Lothrian nobles prostrate and a terrified populace.

Before long Garoth stood within the great hall.

This palace hall symbolized Lothrian’s power—320 meters long, 80 meters wide, 30 meters high, a dome painted with murals celebrating past kings’ deeds, flanked by giant pillars.

For humans the space was ample, but for a full-bodied dragon still cramped.

Wings would brush walls; a turn could topple beams.

Landing on the forecourt, Garoth used Transformation to assume a more compact dragon-person form.

In a sense, this place would now be his domain; he had no interest in wanton destruction.

Garoth was direct.

He strode to the throne, turned, and sat.

His rigid tail coiled upon the steps as his eyes scanned the trembling Lothrian dignitaries below before settling on the old duke and several ministers led in.

“Lothrian’s rule ends here.”

The Red Emperor’s voice rolled through the hall.

His tone was a simple statement, as natural as declaring that snow is white.

He paused, then continued: “But the name Lothrian may be retained.”

At that statement, faint hope flickered in many below.

They knew Garoth had not come to negotiate; he came to issue orders they could not refuse.

Yet they had imagined worst-case scenarios: total annexation, the name erased from maps, royal executions, noble purges...and now the offer to keep Lothrian’s name meant at least a formal continuity.

It was unexpectedly lenient.

“Survival requires cost; continuation requires clear-eyed realism.”

The figure on the throne spoke on.

“For Lothrian, I have several demands.”

“First, the Lothrian Kingdom becomes a vassal of Aola. After war reparations are paid, annual tribute will be paid. Aola will be recognized as suzerain.”

“Second, Lothrian must accept Aola garrisons; all siege and warfare engines are to be surrendered to the Aola legion.”

“Third, Lothrian’s treasure vaults, libraries, alchemy workshops, magic academies...all institutions involving advanced knowledge, technology, and resources shall open immediately to Aola. All alchemical formulas, magical research outcomes, and lists of strategic material reserves must be copied and surrendered; no hoarding.”

“Aola’s scholars and artisans will be stationed in these institutions; you must provide full cooperation.”

He paused, scanning the pallid faces of ministers before fixing on the old duke.

“Fourth, control of the Holy Spirit is to be handed to Aola. It must leave the royal court and be placed in the Aola sanctuary under my command.”

Surrender war engines, surrender technology, surrender the guardian, pay reparations, and give yearly tribute...

These demands nearly drained Lothrian’s lifeblood, leaving only a barely functional shell.

But compared to outright annexation or scorched-earth eradication, this was merciful beyond expectations.

At least the royal bloodline would survive, nobles keep part of their estates, and common folk might be spared from war’s fury. Their future prospects were not forever cut off.

Lothrian had no bargaining leverage.

“...We shall obey Your Majesty’s decree.”

“Lothrian...accepts all conditions.”

The old duke bowed his head to represent the kingdom’s remaining rulers. All nobles and ministers knelt in succession without objection.

On the throne the Red Emperor inclined his head slightly.

Wouldn’t he, as with Theo before, restrict arms and forbid Lothrian from cultivating legends or training crown-level figures that could later produce new weapons?

Sorog the Iron Dragon stood on one side and wondered inwardly.

“No need,” the Red Emperor replied simply and calmly.

Many things are not unchanging.

What was necessary before may not be now.

Outside the hall the wind and snow still howled, but Valdo had a new master; the era of the Red Emperor had officially begun on this land.