The pitch-black sky seed to be stirred by an invisible hand, churning the clouds and whipping the forests into rolling waves. Raindrops as large as beans poured down, wailing between the mountains and wilderness, raising a pale curtain of rain.
Garoth stood in the storm, his body like forged steel.
Beside him, the iron dragon and the red dragon spread their wings and straightened their postures, their draconic faces filled with excitent as they bared their sharp fangs.
"Crush those insignificant insects!" Samantha spat sparks from her nostrils and growled.
"They will pay in blood for their arrogance!" Sorog's tallic scales clanged.
The Ignas brothers understood each other well enough. When they saw the change in Garoth's expression and gaze, they didn’t need to ask—they already knew his thoughts.
Unlike Garoth, the red and iron dragons had long been brimming with killing intent, eager to skin and dismantle the humans who dared extort them. Only Garoth's restraint had kept them in check.
But now, even Garoth had been provoked.
He had yielded, but the other side pressed harder.
From a human perspective, their actions weren’t unreasonable. If this monster clan was weak, they would simply subdue it with private forces and take full control. If it was strong enough to intimidate them and provoked a war, that was even better—they could call in the garrison to suppress it, beat it into submission, and then offer rcy to ta it.
What the nobles wanted wasn’t fair cooperation.
It was complete dominance.
But for Garoth’s side, this was utterly unacceptable.
The nobles’ probing and provocation were pushing against Garoth’s bottom line.
It made him feel imnse danger.
And so, he grew wary, fearful—and boiling with killing intent.
Yet now was not the ti for direct action.
The more critical the situation, the more he needed calm and rationality. He had to consider the consequences and plan an escape route.
Garoth took a deep breath, drawing the storm into his lungs before exhaling slowly.
"Sorog, inform the leaders of each warhost. Prepare for battle. Order the leaders staying behind in our territory to gather their belongings and imdiately evacuate to Tempering Heights."
"Samantha, clear out Needleleaf Valley. Take everything you can. Destroy what you can’t."
The aning behind his words was clear.
Garoth was abandoning this territory.
He was decisive—once he decided to flip the table, he would make full preparations for migration, leaving no chance for retaliation.
Hearing this, Samantha hesitated.
She couldn’t bear to leave the territory she had built for so long, nor the wealth it had brought.
"Wait, Garoth—are we giving up our land?"
"Not giving up. Just a temporary retreat. We’ll return eventually."
"Why? A viscount’s army can’t possibly defeat us. We can slaughter them all and keep this place!"
A viscount wasn’t a high-ranking noble in human society.
Samantha remained as arrogant as ever, believing only great nobles or lords were worth her avoidance.
Sorog glanced at Garoth’s calm expression and sneered, suppressing his surging emotions. "Fool. Do you think the Lothrian Federation would tolerate three vicious dragons nesting near a trade route? Would they sit back and watch us grow stronger?"
"A viscount is nothing to fear. But once we bare our fangs, we’ll draw too much attention."
"If we stay here by then, waiting for stronger forces to besiege us, we’re dood."
"Given our draconic nobility—our value—we might even attract legends."
"If a legend comparable to an ancient dragon cos while we’re still here, we won’t even have a chance to flee."
"And we don’t even need legends. High-level elites alone could pose a threat."
When Sorog suppressed his emotions and thought rationally, his wisdom far surpassed Samantha’s.
His words echoed Garoth’s thoughts.
Every legend was a pillar of the nation, a core figure of their race and country. A viscount wouldn’t have a legend backing him—otherwise, he wouldn’t be a viscount scrambling for scraps in the wilderness.
But the vast Lothrian Federation had legends. The Ser Wilderness garrison had legends too—otherwise, they couldn’t suppress the savage magical beasts.
If they killed the viscount’s n—including a noble’s son—it would undoubtedly be seen as a provocation against the Lothrian Federation.
To the Ser Wilderness garrison, the Molten Iron Clan would no longer be just another monster clan. They’d see these dragons as a threat to the federation—one that required a heavy-handed strike!
If they stayed in the Serpentine Earth Rift, the script was predictable.
First, the viscount would send forces for revenge, only to be crushed by the dragons. Then more formal legions would co. If even they couldn’t handle the dragons, the garrison’s elites would step in.
Or perhaps, without all the twists and turns, a powerful figure might take interest upon discovering the dragons and strike first—skipping the formalities to claim a lucrative prize.
"Either way, we can’t stay in the Serpentine Earth Rift. We must leave."
Garoth’s gaze sharpened as he spoke slowly. "But before that, I’ll make them pay a bloody price."
In truth, the most rational choice would be to flee with their tails between their legs, leaving the humans untouched.
But Garoth wasn’t purely rational.
He had his own desires, his own demands.
Had he survived and grown so cautiously just to flee like a coward at every threat?
No.
He did it so that even when forced to retreat, he could make his enemies pay for disrupting his peace—so they’d rember the consequences of provoking him.
So that next ti, he wouldn’t need to yield.
When he abandoned his territory under the Blackrock dwarves’ threat, he had no strength to resist—fleeing overnight like a stray dog.
This ti, he’d make his enemies rember the pain.
Next ti, perhaps it wouldn’t be him running away.
Soon, orders were urgently relayed through ssage stones.
The combat units led by Karu didn’t return to collect taxes. Instead, under the cover of the storm and the sorceress, they silently approached the noble’s son’s camp.
anwhile, the leaders across the Molten Iron Clan’s territories received their commands, mobilizing their people to pack up and head for Tempering Heights.
In the blink of an eye, four days passed.
The rain had waxed and waned, but today, it poured relentlessly. Fat raindrops drumd against the leather tents with sharp cracks.
Inside the largest tent, the luxurious scent of perfu and roasted at mingled in the air.
Edmond reclined on a lounge chair, idly toying with a crystal ball.
He looked relaxed—more like he was on vacation than a wilderness expedition.
"Young master, do you really think those monsters will obediently pay taxes?" Brent flattered as he handed over a glass of chilled wine.
"In my opinion, we should just storm their lair."
Edmond glanced at the tax officer. "Do you know where their lair is?"
"Uh… not at the mont."
Brent gave an awkward laugh.
Edmond sipped his wine, his light blue eyes reflecting the defensive formations outside the tent.
Five alchemical golems ford a circular periter. The Thorn Knights trained in the heavy rain, while further away stood the frost giant under magical control—its eyes hollow and lifeless.
"Patience."
Edmond sneered. "Beasts are still beasts. Their stupid, primitive minds can’t devise any sches."
He genuinely looked down on wilderness monsters.
Or rather, all civilized beings held deep-seated prejudice against the crude, barbaric creatures of the wild.
For example, the goblin kingdom within the Lothrian Federation didn’t even acknowledge the goblin clans of the wilderness as the sa species—dismissing them as re "pseudo-goblins" with similar appearances.
Edmond swirled his glass before downing the crimson liquid in one gulp.
"At first, they might resent it, playing petty tricks when handing over taxes. But before our wisdom and civilization, such beastly antics are just laughable."
He spoke leisurely. "The taxes we’re demanding now are just the beginning."
"Next, I’ll keep testing their limits, pressuring them bit by bit, squeezing out all their wealth until they’re completely under my control."
Magic studies were expensive.
To secure his future standing in the Sky Academy, Edmond had no qualms about draining these monsters dry first.
In his eyes, his current extortion wasn’t an issue. Once he beca a high-ranking mage, wealth and glory would co effortlessly.
Brent nodded obsequiously, his smile ingratiating.
This young master was truly favored by fate. His origins were almost a limitation—his future achievents would far surpass his father’s. If he ever beca a legendary spellcaster, his na would echo across the Raymond Duchy, making him a pillar of the nation.
The atmosphere in the tent was light.
Edmond sipped fine wine, cutting his roasted at with elegant precision.
Yet beneath the calm, danger stirred.
In the shadows, the martial monk Bain suddenly opened his eyes, his pupils constricting.
"Sothing’s approaching."
His voice was grave.
"Uncle Bain, aren’t you overreacting?"
The magical alarms outside the camp remained silent. Edmond paid no heed.
Until—BOOM!
A deep, unnatural thunderclap rolled across the sky, growing louder.
The first to notice was the frost giant.
This alchemical-necromantic construct suddenly let out a piercing howl.
The knights looked up, following its pointing finger.
The storm-laden sky was torn apart.
A crimson nace streaked through the clouds, its trailing flas burning a vacuum path where raindrops vaporized into pale mist before they could fall. Its glow wasn’t the usual orange-red of teors—it was darker, closer to the hue of fresh blood, as if the heavens had been slashed open.
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