I Have a Military Shop Tab in Fantasy World-Chapter 147: Arriving at the City

Built into the dark slate of the Emberreach Highlands, the frontier town bore the marks of resilience—stone walls reinforced with black iron, homes sunken partially into the hills, and smoke trailing from chimneys like nervous breath. Soldiers patrolled the outer streets, their armor charred from ash winds and patched from skirmishes with beasts displaced by the dragon’s presence.

Inigo and Lyra followed Marshal Cedric through the stone-paved main road, passing blacksmiths, bakers, and wary civilians who threw them sidelong glances. Behind them, the JLTV idled near the barracks—still drawing attention from wide-eyed children and old men alike.

"The town holds up better than I expected," Inigo murmured.

Cedric gave a low grunt. "We’ve had years to prepare. Our ancestors built Ironmark as a fire-hardened settlement. If dragons came, we were told to last until help arrived."

Lyra ran her hand along the edge of a merchant’s wooden cart, pausing as she spotted a hand-painted mural—depicting a titanic red dragon looming over a mountain, villagers offering tribute at its feet.

"You depict them as gods," she remarked.

"Or devils," Cedric replied. "Depends who’s telling the story. That one was painted after the last attack, about a century ago. We haven’t had one in living memory—until now."

A child peeked at them from behind a stone pillar. His mother pulled him back quickly and whispered something that made him look toward the horizon with wide, fearful eyes.

Inigo caught the glance. "They know something’s coming."

"They can feel it," Cedric said. "Everyone does. But we pretend. We trade, we build, we pray—because fear is slow poison. If you let it seep too deep, it rots the spine."

They crossed a small plaza where a trio of traveling bards were playing soft music on flutes and drums. Their notes barely carried over the hum of the forge nearby, where apprentices hammered at shields and polearms with near frantic speed.

"Preparing for war?" Lyra asked.

"Preparing for extinction," Cedric muttered.

—

They paused next at the Flamekeeper’s Chapel, a modest stone temple built directly into the rock wall that faced the central square. Its entrance was carved with flowing runes in the draconic tongue—worn down by centuries of wind, ash, and reverence.

Inside, the air was thick with incense. Brass lanterns swayed gently from chains above. Statues of the Five Saints of Flame stood between stone columns, each clutching a weapon once said to be used in dragon-slaying rituals.

A priestess greeted them, her face lined with age but steady as bedrock.

"You come seeking fire," she said softly.

"We come to stop it," Inigo replied.

She placed a gentle hand on Lyra’s shoulder. "Then may the Saints guide you. Especially Saint Kevara. Hers was the blood that burned without turning to ash."

Lyra glanced toward the statue of the armored woman bearing a long spear. "Saint Kevara," she echoed.

"She faced the red serpent of Duskspire," the priestess said. "And wounded it. Not slain... but wounded."

Inigo raised a brow. "That’s supposed to encourage us?"

The priestess chuckled. "No. It’s to remind you that even legends didn’t finish the job alone."

—

Back at the outpost, Cedric led them to the highest platform of the main watchtower. From this vantage point, the Emberreach Highlands stretched like a cracked canvas of obsidian, ash, and scarlet light. Columns of smoke rose in the distance, curling like dragon breath into the sky.

"There," Cedric pointed to the far hills. "That valley wasn’t scorched last week."

Inigo pulled binoculars from the JLTV’s gear bag. As he adjusted the lens, he could make out the outline of what had once been a forest. Blackened trunks jutted from the ground like skeletal fingers, and the soil glowed faintly orange with embedded magma lines. The air seemed to shimmer above it.

"It moved again," Cedric confirmed. "It doesn’t nest long. Red dragons are never idle. They shift territory, test borders. We’ve lost scouts to heatstroke just trying to approach."

"No visual on the dragon itself?" Lyra asked.

"None. We only find the aftermath."

She nodded slowly. "It’s establishing dominance."

"Exactly," Cedric replied. "A warning to everything with eyes and a heartbeat."

Inigo set the binoculars down. "I want to scout that crater tomorrow. Dawn."

"You’ll get it," Cedric said. "One of my field scouts will guide you past the magma flows. The terrain’s unpredictable—cracked ridges, sulfur vents, molten pockets. Your metal carriage might not make it in."

"Then we go on foot."

—

That evening, the Flamehearth Hall buzzed with low conversation and clinking mugs. The large wooden lodge served as Ironmark’s gathering place for both military and civilians. Dozens of townsfolk filled the tables, sharing hot stew, bread, and thick mead brewed with mountain honey.

A table had been set for Inigo and Lyra. They joined Cedric and his officers, greeted with nods and the occasional wary smile.

"Eat well," Cedric said. "It may be the last warm meal before things turn hot."

Inigo helped himself to roasted yam, strips of salted pork, and a mug of cold cider. Lyra sat beside him, observing the room more than the food. Nearby, an old storyteller spun a quiet tale about the founding of Velnora—how the kingdom was built from the ashes of a dragon’s wrath.

Across the hall, a blacksmith’s apprentice was visibly shaking as he spoke with one of the guards. The soldier placed a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder, whispering something meant to comfort. Lyra watched them both.

"They’re pretending to be brave," she whispered.

"They are brave," Inigo said. "They’re still here, aren’t they?"

She nodded.

From another table, a scout captain leaned over. "You the one who fought the Broodmother?"

Inigo looked up. "Yeah."

The captain gave a grim smile. "Good. Maybe you’ll give that lizard something to think about."

"I’ll try."

—

After dinner, Inigo stood alone near the outer wall, watching the sun bleed behind the high peaks of the Emberreach. The red haze in the sky blended too well with the natural smoke drifting from unseen fissures below. It was beautiful, in a morbid way.

Lyra approached, her cloak pulled close against the cooling wind.

"It’s coming," she said. "Soon."

Inigo didn’t answer at first.

"I’ve seen monsters. Hellspawn. Parasites wearing people’s faces. But this... this thing isn’t just hunger or madness."

"No," Lyra said. "It’s pride. Dragons don’t kill because they have to. They kill because they believe the world belongs to them."

He looked at her. "Do you think we can beat it?"

"Yes."