The Red Emperor’s self-illumination fell upon the martial monk, lingering for several breaths.

“First we deal with the Abyss threat together. After that, each side will use its own strength to contend for the Central Continent.

Cooperate first, compete later.”

There was no empty politeness in those words, only blunt honesty.

Garoth paused to consider, and a decision formed in his mind.

No matter what came later, for now uniting against a common external threat was clearly the best choice.

When Halden announced giving up the Central Continent, he explicitly mentioned that the nations could freely contest the land, but only on the condition that the Abyssal Rift was dealt with.

In truth, that wasn’t an order so much as a reminder.

A reminder to everyone that the territory had become a cake soaked in poison; unless the rot was cleaned, whoever took a bite would die.

Even without Halden’s reminder, the other countries understood this perfectly.

To divide the Central Continent you could not avoid the rift cutting across the center, seeping with Abyssal breath. Worse, if left unchecked, demons would spread and even remote regions would be invaded.

Those twisted creatures would not honor territorial borders.

They would turn everything they touched into scorched earth.

Putting aside any lofty motives about the continent’s safety, for the sake of mere survival the nations should cooperate and seal the Abyssal Rift together.

That was the baseline consensus.

But Garoth did not accept immediately.

He fixed his gaze on the martial monk and asked first, “Besides the Eastern Lands, the Southern Domain, and the Northern Borders, there is the Western region now being unified by the Breckton Kingdom. Have you sent a representative to negotiate cooperation with the Lord of Thunder?”

Lamorein had long had his sights on the Central Continent.

The ancient blue dragon’s intelligence network rivaled any human kingdom; he clearly knew some hidden information.

Perhaps when he founded his nation he already eyed the Central Continent, and now he certainly watched the rift’s changes closely.

If an alliance were to be formed, the Western region would not be omitted.

“The Eastern Alliance and the Southern Domain first reached a cooperative framework,” the martial monk replied evenly. “Then I, representing the Eastern Alliance, came to Romania.

“As for the Lord of Thunder, the Southern Domain’s representatives are responsible for negotiating with him.”

At those words the martial monk’s expression shifted slightly. The self-illumination of the northern kings standing beneath the Red Iron Dragon flickered faintly.

Garoth took it all in.

He had a rough idea what those men were thinking.

Previously, most of the Atlantis Continent had been dominated by humans. Even in regions outside the Central Continent, major alliances were human-led; other races had their settlements but were politically and militarily subordinate.

Now the situation was mirror-imaged.

Two great dragon nations had risen, unifying the North and the West, and were almost on equal footing with the human alliances.

Moreover, the human side functioned roughly like a United Nations:

a coalition of kingdoms that maintained significant independence and would deliberate, even bargain, when major matters arose.

The dragon side was different — unified.

Take the Northern Borders as an example: the Red Emperor was the sole sovereign. Humans and other races had to rely on dragon protection to survive; the power structure was completely different.

That inevitably made others uneasy.

Especially rulers accustomed to human dominance.

Garoth did not care what others thought.

Worries or resentment were their own problems.

They were not the immediate priority.

“What is the specific form of cooperation?”

Garoth threw out the most crucial question. “Romania, Sarud, Natacro… who will lead the allied army? Whose will carries more weight? When battlefield orders conflict, whose commands do we follow?”

This was a contradiction any alliance must face.

Without clear division of authority, cooperation quickly becomes infighting.

The martial monk answered without hesitation, clearly prepared with a plan.

“When the Eastern Alliance and the Southern Domain negotiated, they established a framework. The same framework applies to the Northern Borders and the West.

“The allied force will not have a single supreme commander. Each alliance will appoint one plenipotentiary representative. These representatives form the allied decision council. Major actions require a majority vote to execute.

“If two approve and two oppose, they continue discussing until a majority is reached, or the action is shelved. If a majority can never be achieved, each region may decide to act independently, but they must notify the council in advance to avoid misjudgments and conflicts.”

He paused, then added, “Between alliance representatives there is no hierarchy, no primary or secondary.

“We are to act unanimously in purpose.

“Resolve the Abyssal Rift, stop the spread of the demonic tide, and once the rift is sealed and the demons eliminated, the allied force will dissolve. As for the Central Continent’s ultimate ownership… that will be decided afterward by each side’s strength.”

The martial monk lifted his eyes and looked up at the Red Iron Dragon on the throne.

From this angle that massive dragon body filled his vision. Even as a legendary figure, high above most mortals, he felt the heavy pressure.

“His Majesty Ignas, what are your thoughts?”

He asked.

The hall fell silent.

The northern kings held their breath; they knew this decision might shape the continent’s future.

“No problem with cooperation.”

Under many stares the Red Iron Dragon spoke calmly. “To extinguish the Abyssal flame, the Romanian nations are willing to join the Eastern Alliance and the Southern Domain on the same front to fight the demons. Until the rift is closed, the Northern Borders and the human alliances will not attack each other.”

Relief showed on the martial monk’s face.

“With your participation, the rift can be sealed.”

He offered flattery and produced a scroll.

The scroll was made of some silvered leather, its edges inlaid with dense runes that gave off a faint magical glow.

It was a wartime alliance magical covenant, multiple copies, witnessed by deities. The Eastern Alliance nations and the Southern Domain nations had signed. “Your Majesty, I now present it to you.”

An invisible force lifted the magical covenant and brought it before the Red Iron Dragon.

The martial monk bowed again, this time with greater reverence.

“The Eastern Alliance has urgent matters to attend to. Your Majesty Ignas, kings of the Northern Borders, I will withdraw.”

“May your kingdoms endure. May Atlantis endure.”

Led by his attendants, the martial monk turned and left, soon disappearing into the throne hall’s corridor.

A few minutes later the envoy from the Eastern Lands had gone.

Only the northern kings and the true ruler remained in the broad hall; the air relaxed a touch.

“Sorog.”

The Red Iron Dragon’s voice broke the silence.

The iron dragon standing like a statue beside the dais lowered his head, metal scales grinding with a faint clang.

“Rise.”

“Act as the Northern Borders’ representative and take a seat on the allied decision council. Convey my will and decide on my behalf,” Garoth said.

“At His Majesty’s command.”

Sorog replied in a low voice. “I will ensure your will is enforced.”

Garoth turned his gaze to the kings below.

Under his stare, those human rulers straightened.

“My lords.”

The Red Iron Dragon scanned the room, eyes sweeping young and old faces. “The storm of the age has already risen. Long years of peace are ending. The scent of war spreads across the continent. During this time, the Northern Borders must act as one.”

He bared his teeth.

“Follow me into the headwind and you will gain glory and reward. If any of you try to scheme behind my back…”

He left the threat unsaid, but the hall’s temperature spiked. An invisible dragon might filled the air.

“Your Majesty, the Northern Border nations will obey your commands.”

This time King Lothrian spoke first, drawing the disapproving glance of the Theo king.

Others then agreed in turn.

Garoth nodded with satisfaction.

He did not need their loyalty, only obedience.

In the face of dragons’ long lifespans, human loyalty was fragile, but interest and fear were reliable bonds.

The stage was set.

After decades of steady growth, the Red Emperor was ready to dance again.

This time his partner might be ally or enemy, and the music would be the symphony of clashing blades and scales and the thunder of magic.

Not long after, in an isolated pocket of space,

a three-headed, six-armed great dragon stood tall. His eyes burned blood-red, his faceplate thick as steel, dragon qi surging like molten fire, as if a walking volcano.

He hovered in the sky, wings fully splayed, casting a shadow over a vast expanse of the kingdom below.

Beneath the Red Iron Dragon was a shocking sight: an enormous pit as if the crust had been torn open.

Dark red heat shimmered at the rim. Rock melted by extreme heat had re-solidified into glassy substances. The pit walls collapsed in stepped layers and the deepest parts plunged into unknowable depths. Countless tiny spatial cracks flickered as if the world had been pierced through.

This scene was the result of Garoth testing a new skill.

It did not come from any established path or dragon legacy record. Garoth, building on his dragonqi bomb, had created a destructive technique of his own.

He had spent most of the past months on this.

“This move requires longer accumulation and greater consumption than the original dragonqi bomb, but its power is vastly increased,” the Red Iron Dragon murmured, studying the pit’s details. “It can even use pure energy to rupture spatial structure and produce sustained spatial disorder… it can legitimately be called a Dragon Emperor Interdimension.”

Although not yet perfect—the charge time remained too long—strategically it was already potent.

“It’s especially useful against fixed targets.”

“The materials tainted by Abyssal breath are extremely tough, not easily destroyed by ordinary means.”

“Now demons are forging fortresses from Abyssal materials. Those stones and metals corrupted by the rift’s energy have hardness and magic resistance far beyond normal materials. Ordinary siege engines and conventional magic struggle to damage them effectively.” 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

He cracked a smile.

“Heh… perfect.”

“I’m curious how many of my attacks it can withstand.”

To be frank, his cooperation with other alliances was a move for stability, not necessity.

Garoth had little real worry about the Abyssal Rift.

At present the rift’s stability did not allow Mandate-tier demons to pass. The strongest among them were at the crown level, and at that layer Garoth was largely unconcerned.

Decades ago he could fight four at once.

Decades later, while he had not achieved a qualitative leap, he was still much stronger than before.

So long as a Mandate-tier enemy did not appear, he was confident.

Garoth shook his head, stretched his talons, joints crackling.

On the ground beneath him the supergiant pits he had made spread everywhere, varying in size and depth; the whole landscape looked blasted by countless meteors, with no intact stretches of land.

Garoth did not mind.

As he grew, finding suitable training grounds became increasingly difficult.

Back when he was in the Dragonback Mountains, skills like the dragonqi bomb required careful consideration of surroundings.

Even a casual warm-up could collapse nearby peaks and crack the earth.

Holding back during training was unsatisfying.

What he occupied now was a special space created by dimensional magic: within the Material Plane, yet not directly on the planet Bernardo—a pocket-world attached to the main world.

It was a gift from the Matna sovereign after submission.

Its overall size was roughly equivalent to two Romanian Plains, but it was desolate and dead, with almost no intelligent life and no valuable resources. The edges of the space were a blurred chaotic boundary; the sky was always gray, with no sun, moon, or stars—only a faint source of light of unknown origin. The ground was rock and sand, occasionally crystalline clusters, but with extremely low magical content.

To most people it was worthless.

But it suited Garoth perfectly.

It was large and solid, and no matter how much he destroyed it would not affect the main world.

It had become his personal training ground.

Whenever he needed to test a new skill or just wanted to let loose, he came here to expend his strength.

“One more time.”

Garoth roared. Black-and-red dragonqi flames boiled like oil on fire, bursting from between his scales.

The air vibrated, emitting a low hum.

He extended six arms and slowly brought them together toward his chest. The silver patterns of his Spell-Extinguishing Claws lit up, guiding dragonqi to converge. The three majestic dragon heads opened in unison; deep in their throats blood-colored light churned—Destruction Breath brewing, not to be expelled directly but as one energy source integrated into the whole technique.

He could feel the power gather, compress, and change in essence.

At that moment his motion halted.

An external contact triggered his perception, and it had a high priority.

Garoth inhaled deeply; the boiling dragonqi around him dimmed as the energy was forcibly drawn back into his body.

Interrupting a skill charge at that level was unpleasant.

It was like snuffing out an already lit fuse—painful.

But he had grown accustomed to that pain.

He even sometimes interrupted his own skills on purpose to train against backlash; it was one of his methods.

He took out the communication device, which was gleaming with lightning.

“Lamorein, what is it?”

Garoth asked plainly, his voice free of disturbance.

He knew the other would not contact him without reason.

Lamorein’s low voice came through, faint thunder in the background sounding like an approaching storm.

“Garoth, the Southern Domain’s people have come to see me.”

He spoke directly, calling him by name rather than the formal titles “Ignas” or “Red Emperor” used in official settings.

Directly using a dragon’s given name usually signified closeness and recognition—an equality and willingness to form a closer relationship.

Garoth could see that the Lord of Thunder wanted to draw nearer to him.

Otherwise Lamorein would not frequently transmit casual intelligence and opinions.

It was both a diplomatic posture and a probing gesture.

“I know.”

Garoth said. “The Eastern Alliance envoy just left me and brought a magical covenant.”

“Heh.”

Lamorein chuckled. “I guessed you would accept. Given your nature, it would be very unwise to refuse cooperation now.”

Garoth did not deny it.

“To be honest, sitting together with those humans and voting by the same rules…” Lamorein’s tone held contempt. “It’s disgraceful. In the past those races knelt before us begging for mercy, picking scraps from our claws; now they sit at equal tables and sometimes expect us to heed them.”

He paused, then suppressed his emotion and returned to a calm tone.

“But now is now.

“The Abyssal Rift is there and demons build fortresses. I can still tell right from wrong: first drive those filthy things back.”

“So you agreed as well?”

Garoth asked, though he expected the answer.

“Agreed.” Lamorein responded crisply. “My firstborn scion, Kaelzorg—you remember him, the blue dragon who contacted you—will serve as the West’s representative and take a seat on that council.

“My contemporaries and blood kin stand ready to enter the war.”

Garoth inclined his head slightly.

“I look forward to fighting side by side.”

He said.

“So do I.”

Lamorein replied, but his voice lowered and took on a more intimate tone, as between close friends.

“However, Garoth, some things are not suitable for formal occasions. I think you will want to hear them.”

“About…what happens after the cooperation ends.”

Garoth said nothing, waiting.

“Once the Abyssal Rift is dealt with and the wartime alliance covenant dissolves,” Lamorein slowed his speech, “I intend to strike at the human crown-levels immediately.

“The three crown-levels of the Eastern Alliance, the magical crown of the Southern Domain, those human kings who think they are our equals, and other legendaries… heh. Human bodies are frail; compared to us dragons they pay a much higher cost fighting demons: heavier injuries, greater consumption.

“That is our best opportunity, when they are weakest.”

“You and I, together.

“We wipe them out at once, clean and thorough. The remaining rabble would be nothing; they would be our slaves, mining resources, building palaces, offering blood. The whole of Atlantis would return to the age of dragons.”

To turn on their allies immediately after the war—if the Lord of Thunder thought this, might the human side be thinking the same? The two sides were different species; their cooperation was temporary, built on mutual suspicion. The chance of immediate hostilities after the cooperation ended was high.

Garoth weighed this and did not reply at once.

A long breath came through the device, as if the ancient blue dragon suppressed excitement.

“Garoth Ignas, you and I are the same kind of dragon.”

Lamorein’s voice became solemn.

“You resent the status quo. You resent being suppressed by other races. You built a kingdom and unified the Northern Borders not to sit as equals with humans, but to make dragons stand above them again. You have succeeded: now in the North the human kings bow before you. Your will is everything.”

“Just like in ancient times when dragons ruled sky and land.”

“Then dragon speech was the continent’s common tongue, dragon nests were the beacons of civilization, and all races looked up to us. Now those small creatures have forgotten who the true rulers are.”

“I know you know what I mean.”

Lamorein’s voice lowered. “Because in your heart there is the same thing as in mine: a thirst for higher status, a response to the instinct to dominate, a sense of mission to revive the dragons’ glory.”

“Join me, my kin.

“Together we will let dragons shine again. The North and the West will join into one, forming the foundation of a dragon empire. Then east and south will be brought under our wings.”

Garoth was silent for two seconds.

“I will see how things develop.”

He finally said calmly. “It is too early to promise anything. The battlefield changes in an instant; no one knows what will happen confronting the Abyss. Perhaps the human crown-levels will be all killed; perhaps we will suffer heavy losses; perhaps other variables will arise.”

He gave no specific answer.

Lamorein did not sound disappointed.

Instead a low laugh rolled through like thunder across clouds.

“I understand. Caution is warranted. You are not a hotheaded young dragon who acts on a taunt. I passed that age long ago.”

“Rash promises mean nothing, especially in matters like this.”

“Then let it be; we’ll see how it goes.”

“I believe by then you will choose as I do.”

His laugh carried certainty.

Lamorein seemed to fully trust his judgment, convinced Garoth shared his driving motives—he was just waiting for the right moment and reason.

Finally the lightning died and the transmission ended.

Silence returned to the desolate space.

Garoth hovered and looked down upon the scarred land, thoughtful.

Lamorein’s invitation had been offered with an assumed sincerity.

He truly believed Garoth to be of the same kind, convinced the Red Emperor harbored the same ambition, convinced that joining to eliminate human crown-levels after the war was logical, even natural—a mutual understanding among dragons.

But the belief itself felt discordant to Garoth.

Not because he doubted Lamorein’s sincerity, but because he suspected the other misunderstood a fundamental thing.

Dragon glory. Ruling sky and land. Resentment at being suppressed by other races.

For Lamorein these grand concepts were motive, goal, reasons to spill blood.

The Lord of Thunder was a dragon supremacist.

His actions—founding Breckton Kingdom, unifying the West, seeking alliance with Garoth—all followed that main line: to restore dragons’ dominance.

Garoth was different.

He was indeed dissatisfied with the status quo.

But his discontent was not that “dragons are oppressed by other races,” but that “Garoth himself was not strong enough.”

He built a kingdom and unified the North not to revive ancient glory.

That glory was history; however glorious, it was past.

He did it to secure a firmer foundation for himself, to seize more resources so he could continue to grow and become stronger, to evolve toward a higher plane of existence.

Whether humans were strong or weak, whether dragons’ glory returned or not—those grand narratives were too distant, too abstract, and ultimately irrelevant to him.

Garoth cared about his own future.

Whether he could break into Mandate, even Immortal; whether he could master greater power; whether he could survive a larger impending crisis—these mattered.

He sought evolution, survival, transcendence.

If cooperation served his interests, he would cooperate.

If wiping out human crown-levels after the war suited his interests—say, to gain resources or remove threats—then he would strike.

If not, if humans still had utility or the risk was too great, he would hold back.

There was no racial mission he had to fulfill.

No dragon glory he had to resurrect.

Only the ever-stronger self mattered.

Everything else was a variable to weigh and discard if necessary.

Yet the Lord of Thunder had read Garoth’s “dissatisfaction” as identical to his own.

That was presumptuous.

“He seems to have some misinterpretation of me.”

Garoth thought, shaking his head.

Still he did not immediately rule out postwar cooperation.

It was an option depending on circumstances.

If human crown-levels were decimated and he and Lamorein retained most strength, purging potential rivals would be profitable.

If not, the evaluation would change.

Lamorein’s certainty that “you are like me” made Garoth realize the ancient blue dragon, though experienced, had blind spots.

“I probably have blind spots as well.”

Garoth did not think himself perfect.

That was why, when making major decisions, he would not only consult the seasoned Sorog but also take Samantha and Gordon’s opinions.

In the future he might include suitable heirs into the Bloodline Connection, to hear the perspectives of dragons of different ages, temperaments, and experiences—filling his blind spots.

Absolute dictatorship is efficient, but risky.

Wise rulers listen broadly.

Then Garoth stretched his body again.

Black-and-red dragonqi flames reignited along his scales.

Those grand racial narratives were not his concern now. Lamorein’s misinterpretation and human vigilance were secondary matters.

He should focus on what he could control.

For example, perfecting a skill that could pierce the rift before Mandate demons were allowed through.

The Red Iron Dragon’s massive arms began to close toward his chest.

Soon the pocket-world’s ground trembled again.