School Transmigration: I, Chosen as the Saint by Dragons at the Start-Chapter 150 --The Conversation

Wopole’s complexion shifted instantly, a shadow of unease flickering in his eyes.

Though it vanished swiftly, was there anyone present who wasn’t a seasoned schemer?

Barlo caught the fleeting change on Wopole’s face and inwardly sneered, "Interesting, it really is you."

Wopole internally lamented, aware of the grudge between Roger, the saint of the angel race, and Owen, the saint of dragons.

During the Saint Selection Ceremony, Barlo had not only torn apart a member of the angel race, but Owen had also slapped Roger across the face in front of a multitude of races, reducing him to a figurative pig’s head.

How could Roger swallow such humiliation?

Yet, the angel race made no move, only exchanging a few words with the dragons afterward, which were promptly rebuffed.

This debacle was witnessed by all races, greatly tarnishing the angel race’s reputation.

Now, with the Dragon Slaying Pillar from the Dragon Slaying Field stolen, it was logical for the dragons to suspect the angel race.

Currently, on the continent, only the angel race and the Westro Fairyland seemed bold enough to act against the dragons.

Wopole was certain he had no part in it, but he feared Roger might have been involved.

If Roger were implicated, the angel race would inevitably be dragged down, unable to ignore the fate of their saint.

Should such a scenario unfold, the prestige of the angel race would plummet disastrously.

Already humiliated without retaliation, other advanced races might start to covet the angel race’s position.

The dilemma was clear.

On the entire continent, those with close ties to the deities were the Westro Fairyland in the west and the dragons.

Just a year or two ago, the shadow of the God of Dragons had descended in connection with Owen, causing quite the stir.

Such significant events could not have gone unnoticed by the continent’s more perceptive races.

Wopole, with a stern face, knew he couldn’t back down.

Such matters, once retreated from, are like a breached dam; once the flood begins, there’s no stopping it, and the angel race had no means to withstand such a deluge.

"Grandmaster Barlo, you must be jesting," his tone was somewhat calmer, clearly uncertain, "Our race’s teachings have always been stringent. If we say we will not touch something, we do not. You’re probably mistaken."

Barlo’s brow furrowed, his muscles tensed, and arcanergy began to rise around him, with ice-blue light swirling around his body as if he was about to strike at any moment:

"Do I look like I’m joking to you? You should be clearer about the Three Lineages Blood Tracking Technique than I am. This arcana’s accuracy is even more precise than your own birth. Am I here to make fun of you?"

Wopole’s face darkened, cursing inwardly, "Crude."

He was also somewhat troubled.

Barlo might appear reckless, but he was quite adept at handling matters, never acting without evidence.

"It might be a frame-up," Wopole insisted through gritted teeth.

"Swish."

No sooner had he spoken than Nidaam’s dragon scale sword unsheathed slightly, revealing just an inch of the blade, yet unleashing astonishing sword energy.

A streak of sword light seemed to sweep across the sky, slicing off several clouds.

The entire angel race was enveloped in this sword energy, even causing some angels to scream out loud.

Mysterious small cuts, as if from a knife’s swipe, appeared on their bodies.

Wopole’s eyelids twitched uncontrollably, "Grandmaster Nidaam, please, calm down."

Nidaam, originally a Yellow Dragon, was meant to be a warrior wielding axes, maces, and charging forward with shields.

However, he devoted himself to the way of the sword, unexpectedly making significant achievements.

Three hundred years ago, he broke through to grandmaster, nurturing a fine swordsmanship.

It is said that Nidaam has nurtured this sword for three hundred years, holding his dragon scale sword even in sleep, cleansing the blade with his mental force daily.

For three centuries, he never once drew his sword, for it is said that if he were to unsheathe it, the heavens and earth would change color, and the continent would tremble.

Scholars speculate that if Nidaam were to fully unleash his sword, anyone below the rank of sage would surely perish, while those above might face a one-for-one exchange.

Though this might seem exaggerated, Nidaam’s credibility has only continued to rise.

Now, with just an inch of the blade revealed, the emitted sword light could stir the winds and clouds, seemingly without any exaggeration.

Wopole, nervously swallowing, extended his hand and said, "Let’s calm down a bit. I’ll go and speak with the elders of my race."

Barlo’s face was covered with a thin layer of frost, "Make it quick."

Wopole, accompanied by a grandmaster, returned to the midst of the Celestial Kingdom, leaving the other grandmaster behind, who found himself in an indescribable predicament.

Facing the light of Nidaam’s sword, he truly understood its terror.

The sword light was like millions of tiny needles pressing against his skin, ready to pierce through at the slightest movement, to drink his blood and consume his flesh.

The discomfort was unbearable.

"Grandmaster Nidaam, please, retract your Mystic Technique," the angel race grandmaster pleaded with a pained expression.

Nidaam gave him a cold look, making no move, as chilly as the dragon scale sword in his hand.

Bilqis, through telepathy, asked, "What does Wopole mean by this? Is he admitting guilt?"

Barlo was in a foul mood, responding coldly, "Wopole is just showing his guilt, indicating he’s aware that someone from his race might have been involved in recent actions. Surprisingly, our bluff actually drew them out."

"Isn’t that a good thing?" Bilqis was somewhat puzzled.

"A good thing?" Barlo thought, "Though our dragons have been quiet for thousands of years, our dignity is profound. Even now, no advanced race dares to speak loudly against the dragons. With the angel race taking the initiative, whatever they’re hiding likely targets the dragons."

Bilqis’s eyebrows raised, intrigued.

Barlo continued through soul telepathy, "Nidaam, be prepared. There might be a bloody battle soon."

Nidaam didn’t respond.

Having nurtured his sword for three hundred years, he had long stopped speaking, but his desire for battle was skyrocketing.

Over these three hundred years, he had immersed himself in swordsmanship, never once striking.

It wasn’t out of fear but a deep condensation of all his energies.

Even his uncontrollable fighting spirit was repeatedly suppressed, condensed crazily, waiting for the moment to erupt.

It should be noted that three hundred years ago, he was known as a Sword Demon.

Not only was he obsessed with the sword, but he was also notorious for his lethality.

Upon breaking through to grandmaster, he instead comprehended the "Cultivation" Mystic Technique, astonishing all the dragon elders.

Everyone’s Mystic Technique is supposed to relate to their temperament, but Nidaam’s was the exact opposite.

He nurtured "killing aura," "sword aura," "battle aura," all waiting for the moment his sword would be drawn.

Now, it seemed, the opportunity had arrived.

Wopole entered the hall, where a massive round table sat, already occupied by four withered old men.

The one at the helm was the grand elder of the angel race, his pupils rimmed with gold, exuding an air of lavish dignity.

Beside him stood a handsome young man, his face alight with a warm, sunny smile.

Wopole shot him a glance, feeling a chill in his heart.

This was Roger, the saint of the angel race.

Despite the warmth and geniality of his smile, he harbored a completely twisted psyche.

Rumors frequently circulated within the race about his acts of cruelty against the disadvantaged races.

His cruelty was not ordinary but bordered on insanity.

He would slice victims into pieces, exposing their fascia and blood vessels, then meticulously pick out each vessel, allowing the sufferers to live on, holding their body parts, after losing their muscles, fat, and so forth.

There were tales of him crushing others into pulp, all the while chanting something about "Owen"...

In the one or two years Roger has been on the continent, his deeds were too numerous to document.

Such actions severely tarnished the reputation of his race, but because he was deeply favored by the grand elder and also the saint of the angel race, many incidents were suppressed.

In the grand elder’s words, "Young people should be given the opportunity to make mistakes."

Wopole, with his head bowed, reported, "Grand Elder, Barlo has come knocking. Nidaam is with him, claiming we’ve stolen their clan’s Dragon Slaying Pillar."

The grand elder remained silent, but Roger chuckled, "The Dragon Slaying Field is a gift from the Dragon Slayer organization to all beings of the continent. How has it become the private property of the dragons? The use of ’stolen’ isn’t quite appropriate."

Roger’s words sent Wopole’s heart plummeting.

Could Roger really have dared to commit such a grand sacrilege by stealing the Dragon Slaying Pillar?

"Saint," Wopole, pursing his lips, stated emphatically, "The Dragon Slaying Field brings back abhorrent memories for the dragons. After they exterminated the Dragon Slayer, the Dragon Slaying Field became the spoils of war for the dragons. The Dragon Slaying Pillar is also their possession. I hope you can understand this."

Roger, with his arms crossed, didn’t get angry over Wopole’s admonition.

He knew where his strength originated, and within the angel race, he always maintained a gentle demeanor.

His brutality, wickedness, and darkness were all reserved for those deemed as lower than dirt, the disadvantaged and intermediate races.

This, perhaps, was why the grand elder backed Roger.

As long as Roger’s loyalty lay with the angel race, anything he did was acceptable.

The grand elder spoke, his face aged, yet his voice as youthful as a seventeen or eighteen-year-old: "They’ve come to cause trouble?"

Wopole lowered his gaze, "Yes."

"Waste," the grand elder uttered coldly.