Three months had passed since Lothrian’s formal submission.

It was now spring, grass growing and orioles singing, and the mountains of the Ser Wilderness bristled with vigorous life.

Pine seeds, carried by the wind, had lodged in rock crevices; with a little soil and snowmelt they pushed through the grit and poked verdant shoots out between steep cliffs.

Rip!

The tearing sound shattered the mountain quiet.

A massive claw covered in dark red scales gouged deep into the rock, closed, and effortlessly tore away a huge chunk of granite mixed with roots and soil.

Garoth casually shovelled the clump into his mouth, his massive dragon jaws opening and closing.

Stone and fibrous wood were ground to powder between his indestructible teeth, then his throat muscles rolled and he swallowed it down.

The peaks around him had long since been disfigured.

Huge, twisted gouges riddled the mountainsides, as if savaged by a giant beast. Some sections, having lost support, teetered dangerously, and the occasional scree tumbled down the steep slopes with ominous sounds.

“No matter how much I eat, my belly is still empty.”

Garoth munched while thinking to himself.

It had been a while since the intense battles on the Rhen Plateau.

Since then, he had not had a proper full meal.

At the worst moments, he even wanted to bite himself.

But Garoth endured with iron will.

He understood clearly that this unsatisfied hunger was not meaningless; his body was being forced to adapt to low intake, and his gut’s efficiency at extracting nutrients was slowly improving.

Each time he swallowed those energy-less rocks and mud, his digestive system made minute adjustments and grew stronger.

This was a necessary process for evolving into a more efficient energy-utilization form.

It was also a grueling process.

Hunger itself was not unbearable to Garoth.

What really tormented him was the weakness that followed: inadequate intake directly undermined his regular training.

Strength gains slowed, and muscle fortification lagged.

For the red iron dragon obsessed with getting stronger and savoring every surge of power, that was the hardest part to bear.

“Resources aren’t the problem for me anymore.”

His talon gouged into the rock again and tore off another bite.

“What truly restricts me is my efficiency in using those resources.”

“If I keep wasting like this, as my size and power grow, that weakness will only be magnified until it becomes a fatal drag on my progress.”

It was this clear-headed logic that allowed Garoth to force himself onward.

It was for the sake of opening broader paths in the future.

Pff!

The Red Emperor exhaled a gout of scorching breath, then, enduring the gnawing hunger, began today’s training.

But today's session did not last long.

A familiar psychic ripple arrived; it was iron dragon Sorog.

Garoth paused mid-action, his talons embedded in the rock to steady his posture.

He halted his training for the moment, keeping his climbing stance, scraping some gravel with his left claw into his mouth and chewing while focusing most of his attention on the mental link.

“That brat Gordon’s been restless lately.”

Sorog’s voice sounded in his mind. “He came to me saying he wanted to try what it’s like to be a king — of course, he meant the throne of Lothrian.”

“I turned him down outright.”

The iron dragon paused, then continued, “Lothrian is ultimately a human-majority kingdom. Putting a dragon, especially one like Gordon, on that seat would instantly ignite everyone’s latent resistance.”

A muffled approving sound escaped Garoth’s throat as he swallowed grit.

“Mm, you handled it right.”

Conquest, governance, annihilation... these are entirely different things.

Garoth’s aim had never been to turn Lothrian into a charred kingdom.

An orderly Lothrian, with production sustained or even growing, could supply Aola — and Garoth himself — with ores, food, manpower, even knowledge across the long years to come.

Gordon’s idea sprang from curiosity and play, not real governance.

“I didn’t slam the door after refusing him.”

Sorog said, “I told him that while he cannot be king, his previous plan could continue, and I’d give him the support he needs.”

“What happened then?”

“He was pretty pleased and agreed on the spot.”

Sorog seemed to smile. “Lothrian’s surface submission doesn’t mean their hearts are convinced.”

“Gordon’s slow, subtle infiltration to change Lothrian’s mindset doesn’t conflict with our strategy; it can even complement it.”

“Giving him something worthwhile to do also prevents him from getting bored and causing trouble.”

Garoth nodded slightly and asked, “So, the royal seat—has someone been chosen?”

“Yes. From the surviving sons of the Lothrian king, we picked the most compliant one.”

Sorog’s tone was even. “He’s young, weak-willed, but crucially obedient and understands whose power put him there.”

“How did the royal family react?”

“They were calmer than expected.”

“At least the crown is still on their family’s head, the bloodline hasn’t been severed. That gives them comfort, or rather, a reason to persuade themselves.”

Garoth had mixed feelings on that.

Royal submission was expected; beneath absolute power, even strong pride could be struck down in one blow.

He pondered, then asked, “What about the commoners and nobles of Lothrian? Their attitudes now?”

Sorog hesitated a few seconds, organizing his words: “This country... its foundation is much deeper than places like Theo.”

“Lothrian’s humiliation from defeat runs deep; the populace is filled with a suppressed unwillingness.”

“Many veterans and old nobles hold clear hatred toward Aola and us; taverns are full of resentful grumblings about past glory and current disgrace.”

“But it’s not unsolvable.”

Sorog’s voice shifted, filled with certainty.

“How long does human hatred last? One generation? Two? Three?”

“The generation that personally suffered the pain of war, losing kin and homeland, will age and die, and the memory of blood and fire will fade with them. History’s truth will be covered by new narratives.”

“Fifty years, a hundred, two hundred... time will make these short-lived races forget everything.”

“Then Lothrian will only remember Aola’s strength and be proud of it.”

Ordinary people’s likes and hates were actually the least important because they were the easiest to guide.

Lothrian and Aola’s honeymoon phase had once seen many Lothrian merchants, scholars, and commoners admire Aola’s splendor, though on the eve of war almost all of Lothrian regarded Aola as barbaric.

Was that shift spontaneous?

No — it was the result of the Lothrian royal family and nobles manipulating public opinion.

Now the table had turned; Aola sat in the driver’s seat.

“So you plan to replicate the methods used in Theo on Lothrian?”

Garoth asked, scraping another rock with his claw.

“Not just replicate — deepen and perfect them.”

Sorog’s tone brightened. “And conditions now are even better than before.”

“Lothrian’s ruling class, whether inwardly willing or not, must publicly follow our will. With their cooperation, resistance will be far smaller and results much faster.”

“Specifically?”

Garoth chewed on rock, interested, and pressed.

“First, education. That is the foundation.”

Sorog, having thought it through, said, “History must be rewritten.”

“Lothrian’s past glory can be preserved, even glorified, but the interpretation must change.”

“Its decline will be blamed on arrogance, isolation, stagnation — a rotten noble system that dragged the kingdom down. Now, thanks to Aola’s help and guidance, Lothrian has been set right, reborn into a stronger, more advanced order.”

“No matter how things are in private, all textbooks and official records must follow this tone.”

“Second, cultural shaping.”

“I’ve ordered the collection of all Lothrian folk tales, epic songs, drama scripts, even nursery rhymes.”

“Anything that depicts dragons or other Aola symbols as evil antagonists will be banned.”

“At the same time, I’ll encourage new cultural works: songs praising you as the sun, paeans to Aola’s power and order, portraying dragons as symbols of strength, wisdom, and guardianship.”

“We want Lothrian people to unconsciously accept our narrative in their daily chatter.”

Garoth chuckled low; gravel fell from between his teeth. “You think carefully, but sentient beings are emotionally complex — mere preaching and stories may not secure their loyalty.”

“Of course not.”

Sorog immediately added, “So there’s a third, most critical step: binding interests.”

“We must deeply bind the interests of Lothrian’s ruling and noble classes to Aola — shared rise, shared fall.”

“For example, loyalists gain mineral rights, trade charters, tax reductions, and are encouraged to intermarry with Aola’s people.”

“Rebels’ families are marginalized and their seized property redistributed to collaborators.”

“In a few generations, Lothrian’s upper echelons will be deeply tied to Aola; their interests become ours, and opposing us means opposing themselves.”

Education shapes cognition, culture influences emotion, and interests determine stance.

This combination quietly transforms a hostile defeated nation into a compliant, even dependent territory.

“Thorough.”

Garoth praised without reservation. “Your wisdom earns my trust, Sorog. This process could become our template for similar situations.”

“You deserve credit for your initial reminder, my dear brother.”

Sorog returned the compliment modestly. “You showed me that governance is more than force; you are the wise guide.”

After a brief mutual affirmation, the iron dragon steered the topic to other vassals.

“The small duchies aside, Reebos, Matna, and Cambruk are sensible.”

“They signed our new alliance, formally recognizing Aola’s... special leadership on the Romanian Plains. The terms are blunt, no equality there: resource extraction, military passage, trade advantages — all favour us.”

This move learned from Lothrian but included many Aola features.

Sorog paused then raised a doubt: “Garoth, I don’t quite understand.”

“Since we essentially control the situation, why not imitate Lothrian back then and form a new Federation centered on Aola? Nominally integrate all states — administration would seem more convenient.”

Garoth stopped chewing.

He slowly lifted his head, eyes passing over the Ser Wilderness peaks toward the higher horizon.

“Look at the sky.”

He didn’t answer directly, instead saying something seemingly unrelated.

Sorog subconsciously raised his head and stared upward.

The daytime sky was clear, vast, azure washed clean.

Thin clouds drifted lazily.

“Remember, above us is not empty; there perches a true empire.”

Garoth murmured softly.

Sorog’s expression turned solemn at once.

Indeed — Halden had been preoccupied handling the Romanian nations lately, almost forgotten was the true colossus beyond the plains.

Halden’s Sky City still hovered in the air.

“I overlooked that.”

Sorog’s voice was low but regained composure.

“No matter, we must remain alert.” Garoth’s tone eased. “A loose system linked by treaties and a tight federation will provoke Halden very differently.”

“We don’t need to touch that line yet.”

Sorog understood.

This was Garoth’s usual approach.

Use everything cautiously while hiding himself in the enemies’ eyes until your power can overturn the rules.

Sorog chuckled in a low voice: “Fine, then we maintain the status quo for now.”

“I await the day you topple that Sky City with a single thrown stone.”

A joke lightened the heavy atmosphere.

“There’s another matter to discuss.”

Sorog returned to the point. “About the Rhen Plateau.”

“Its geography is far superior to the Ser Wilderness — almost at the center of the Romanian Plains, fertile soil, rich resources, and once developed, it connects everywhere.”

“It’s time to firmly plant Aola’s banner on that plateau.”

Garoth was unsurprised.

He was actually thinking further.

“Not only occupy the Rhen Plateau.”

Garoth declared his decision. “I intend to move Aola’s royal city there.”

“Relocate the capital?” Sorog was plainly stunned.

“Times change, and we must adapt.”

Garoth explained, his gaze distant. “The Ser Wilderness and the Permafrost Tundra sit at the northern edge of the plains, with the cold northern ocean behind. In the past, this position was defensible with escape routes, suitable for a fledgling Aola.”

“But now our territory and influence have expanded southward and into the heart of the plains.”

“That location has become remote and backward.”

More importantly, threats from the sea were growing.

“The White Scourge rages at sea; we must guard against her possible strike.”

“Orc fleets have sailed far across the ocean. While they aim at Gordon’s lands, they could still choose to land at stronger locations. If we simultaneously face the Sorog Empire, they may opt for a stronger foothold.”

Garoth spoke calmly.

He had always possessed an extremely keen sense for real danger.

His rise was not by brute force alone.

Prepare ahead; avoid hazards before they arise.

Against truly powerful, not yet fully understood enemies, Garoth habitually adopted a “king unseen by king” caution, avoiding unnecessary direct conflict.

This caution had accompanied him from hatchling to the Red Emperor who now made the whole plain tremble.

His power had grown immeasurably, his wings casting shadows over the sky, but his original restraint remained; he had not become arrogant or wanton. 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

Power breeds pride, and wisdom lies in tempering it.

Garoth always remembered that.

“I understand.” Sorog’s voice chimed in again, appreciative.

“Moving the capital to the Rhen Plateau is farsighted.”

“This needs careful planning. I’ll begin preliminary preparations.”

“You have full authority over these specifics.”

Garoth interrupted, granting complete trust.

“As you command.” Sorog replied tersely.

Soon after, the mental link finally severed.

Garoth drew his attention back to the present.

Hunger still nagged at him, and the peaks groaned under his heavy mass.

He stared south — the Romanian Plains where his voice had come to dominate.

Above, the sky seemed empty yet carried the shadow of a floating empire; beyond, the rolling ocean hid unknown dangers.

The road ahead was long.

Garoth withdrew his gaze and stopped dwelling on distant threats and schemes.

There was an important matter right now.

He inhaled deeply, red veins instantly appearing in his eyes. He closed his lids, practiced deep breathing, and when he opened them, a few bloodshot streaks still lingered before subsiding after several seconds.

“The frenzied flame — its burn has grown fiercer recently.”

Garoth thought silently.

For some reason the frenzied flame had become harder to control of late; the psychic resistance he had previously developed was gradually failing, and whenever he looked westward, toward the west, the flame’s flicker grew wilder.

And the west... was the direction of the Arotala Continent.

It had been stable before; why this sudden change?

Connecting the frenzied flame’s origin with recent anomalies on the Arotala Continent, Garoth could not help but suspect that the meteor shower sweeping the Arotala Continent — which the Nausil Elven Empire had labeled a natural disaster — might be related to the frenzied flame.

“It’s hard to tell whether that’s good or bad.”

The Red Emperor’s gaze was grave.

Meanwhile, on the Arotala Continent’s eastern border.

Reinhardt, dusty and travel-worn, walked along a small road toward an ordinary village.

He had come from the Atlantis Continent to escape turmoil and his own thoughts, and to treat old wounds. He had set foot on this unfamiliar land.

Soon a human village appeared ahead, calm and peaceful.

Grain laid out to dry shone golden, chickens and ducks paced along fences, and a yellow dog lounged lazily in the sunshine by a doorway.

His arrival drew some attention, but the villagers were simple and kind, curious and welcoming.

An elder greeted him warmly, a young woman brought cool creek water, and the townsfolk cleared a clean guestroom for him; the air smelled of cooking smoke and earth, everything serene and secure.

On the Arotala Continent, elves were the rulers.

The humans living there were, paradoxically, more united.

Reinhardt liked the village’s atmosphere.

He even thought he might rest here a few days.

But that peace shattered completely in the afternoon.

At first it was just a sharp squabble among children over a strangely patterned pebble by the stream — a commonplace squabble in such villages.

Soon, though, a father’s intervention escalated the mood. His voice was rough and his accusation quickly became a charge of theft.

The other parent naturally retorted angrily.

Reinhardt was resting in front of a house and frowned at the noise.

He intended to observe and only step in if necessary.

But events accelerated beyond reason.

He noticed the quarrellers’ eyes filling with visible bloodshot veins at an alarming speed.

Their voices rose, as if not fighting over a pebble but some deep-rooted hate; insults turned vicious and expansive, from personal to familial and ancestral grievances.

More chilling was how the rage spread like a contagion.

The face of a peacemaker flushed red as he joined the fray; onlookers’ mutterings became loud shouts of approval and incitement.

Within minutes dozens had gathered in the clearing, spitting and glaring, the sparks of reason seemingly blown out.

Reinhardt strode forward in measured tone: “Everyone, calm down! It’s just a stone...”

“Outsider, shut up!”

“What do you know!”

“They always looked down on us!”

Accusations pivoted easily toward him, suspicion and malice washing over him, and then someone shoved first. The suppressed volcano erupted.

Shoves turned to fists and kicks; people seized nearby sticks and tools as weapons.

Screams, roars, and the clash of breaking objects exploded through the air.

The girl who had brought him water twisted her face into a snarl, shrieking as she jabbed a sharpened stick at her neighbor; the kindly old man from yesterday now brandished his cane like a mad tiger, attacking everyone around him; birds and fowl scattered, and the previously docile yellow dog strained at its chain, foam at the mouth as it lunged and snapped.

In an instant, the whole village plunged into blind fury and chaos; blood began to splatter on the soil.

“Is this some kind of curse?”

Reinhardt no longer hesitated.

An invisible pressure emanated from him; a soft but irresistible halo covered the clearing.

He activated his Domain.

Within the Domain, every swinging weapon, lashing body, screaming villager, and the barking dog were gently but firmly suppressed by a force.

They could not move.

Yet their chests heaved violently, eyes red with veins, their throats making trapped beastly sounds saturated with primitive hatred and hostility, glaring at one another as if each would tear the other apart.

Amidst the wrecked clearing, Reinhardt stood alone outside that bizarre scene.

He frowned, scanning one enraged familiar and unfamiliar face after another.

“Enough!”

He shouted with the authority of a legendary-tier presence, trying to cut through the fog of fury and awaken these lost souls.

The instant his voice left his mouth, a flash of irritation and anger rose in Reinhardt’s heart.

He looked over the villagers thrashing futilely within his Domain, and a brutal thought suddenly surfaced.

“This is ridiculous! A bunch of ignorant fools, might as well...”

Before he finished the thought, he was shaken.

He instantly reined back his mind and introspected. Indeed, a faint heat and ferocity were trying to pierce his resolute will; a single bloodshot vein had crept into his own eye.

He was a legendary nearing crown-level — how could these ordinary villagers’ infected rage spread to him?

“No.”

Reinhardt inhaled deeply and forced down every ripple of emotion, his gaze sharpening to razor focus.

He re-examined the village cloaked in invisible madness.

Sunlight still fell warm and bright, yet it left him with a chill.

He had come here to distance himself from the conflicts of the Romanian Plains and seek opportunity, but it now seemed the Arotala Continent hid stranger and more troublesome things.