"Swap loyalty for survival?"
The red iron dragon tilted his massive head slightly, as if he were seriously considering the lich's proposal.
After a few seconds, he spread his huge maw into a grin.
"It sounds tempting, but... I refuse."
There wasn't any complicated reason.
Garoth slled lies in the other’s words. He did not believe he possessed so imperial aura that, with a shake of his draconic body, could make a once-legendary human—now a necromantic lich—whose heart brimd with hatred, genuinely submit.
If the other had been an ordinary lich, or if Garoth himself had once been a legend, he might have considered accepting such a dangerous "tool."
But the situation was different now.
A legendary lich twisted and corrupted by undeath, inherently unstable and uncontrollable, possibly hiding unknown trump cards and able to backfire at any mont—an obvious ti bomb.
The risk far outweighed the reward!
To be safe, Garoth chose the most brutal and straightforward solution—destroy the other outright.
End it once and for all, eliminate future trouble.
When the dragon spoke that final line, the lich's face contorted with rage. He began to struggle and resist violently, the desiccated body erupting one last thread of negative energy in a desperate death throe.
"Fool! Damn you, dragon! You have no idea what you are giving up! You will regret—"
Crack! Crunch...!
Garoth did not hesitate and ground his claws together.
Fierce, exaltant lightning wrapped his talons, mingled with deep black-red Dragon Qi, grinding back and forth like millstones.
In the end, accompanied by a short, unbearably wailing soul scream, the lich's fragile form could not withstand the destructive force and was pulverized into dust.
Garoth opened his enormous claw.
In his palm remained only a small handful of charred bone ash and residual energy particles, which fell and were scattered by the night wind at the bottom of the pit, leaving no trace that it had ever existed.
"Lord."
Shire appeared silently beside him. He stared at the drifting ash and spoke in a low voice, "Both liches and necromancers are notorious for their endless life-preserving tricks and cunning resurrection abilities."
"Should we take asures to purify this area thoroughly, just in case?"
The red iron dragon waved his enormous paw dismissively and said, "No need to go to such lengths. I'm certain he is as dead as dead can be."
Shire still looked uneasy and continued, "Forgive my frankness, but to ensure nothing is left to chance, I think we should—"
He was cut off brusquely by the dragon before he could finish.
"Hmm? You dare lecture on what to do? No one—no one—survives beneath my claws!"
"Not in the past, not now, and not in the future!"
Hearing those arrogant words, Shire bowed slightly and quickly lowered his head.
"Please forgive , I spoke out of turn."
Not long after, accompanied by a deafening rush of air, the massive red iron dragon unfurled his wings, riding a blast of scorching updraft into the sky, disappearing into the vast night.
Lord Flower Shire followed closely behind.
Silence returned to the giant pit.
After a while, a tide of dragonkin of various shapes and breeds poured into the battlefield.
They cleared the aftermath, collecting scattered valuable magical items and materials; they gathered heaps of undead remains; finally, roaring pyres burned all worthless detritus to ash, smoke billowing skyward.
Ti slipped quietly by, and seven nights later arrived.
Tonight the moon shone clear, its pale light pouring like quicksilver from the heavens, scattering across the scarred earth and creeping into the vast pit, whose surface had taken on a glazed, glassy texture.
All was quiet, save for an occasionally chilly night breeze.
After more than half an hour passed,
suddenly an inexplicable cold wind rose from the bottom of the pit.
Strange dust particles, invisible to the naked eye yet containing faint soul fluctuations, were drawn from the pit’s ash and crystalline fissures. As if pulled by an invisible hand, they drifted toward the pit's center.
The dust gathered and condensed, gradually tracing the outline of a gaunt humanoid form.
The lich Phillips rose again.
More precisely, he had never truly died; he had used an extraordinarily clever feigned-death spell to fool everyone, allowing him to return to the world without relying on a phylactery.
"Foolish, arrogant dragons... you understand nothing of the power of legendary thods."
"Necromancers study the mysteries of life and death. Do you think brute force can truly finish off?"
A faint whisper escaped the lich's lipless face, and an almost imperceptible trace of satisfaction crossed his features.
When his pseudo-legendary Domain was shattered, he had sensed disaster and without hesitation poured his remaining energy into a last-resort survival spell to preserve the husk; otherwise his soul would have sunk into a lengthy slumber from weakness.
Even so, this ti he had suffered unimaginable damage.
Whatever he had planned next would be severely delayed.
"Curse you, this debt is noted!"
"By my soul I swear, when I return to legendary status, I will turn you into my most powerful undead thrall! I will forever bind your mind within that mighty draconic body, tornting you daily, humiliating you again and again!"
"Next ti we et, I will make you comprehend what true terror is!"
Phillips ground his teeth and ranked the red iron dragon alongside the Lothrian Holy King as his top revenge targets.
A faint curl of pale-blue soul fire flickered weakly. The lich painstakingly cast a low-level invisibility spell to mask his faint aura, then crawled out of the deathly pit and slithered off toward his hidden cavern in the distance.
At the sa ti,
deep in Needleleaf Valley, Garoth had just finished a set of extrely intense physical training, his whole body steaming with exertion.
During a brief rest, he closed his eyes and felt the subtle changes and slow recovery after pushing his body to the limit.
Suddenly, as if sensing sothing, he snapped his eyes open, then produced a slightly trembling ssage stone.
The stone showed no sounds or images. It trembled for a mont and flashed the sigil representing Lord Flower Shire.
Then it fell utterly silent, showing no further response,
as if the earlier vibration had been an illusion.
Garoth rubbed his jaw beneath heavy scales, his gaze seeming to pierce the layered mountains, looking toward the place where he had fought the lich. He emitted a low, knowing snort.
"......
"Necromancers truly are not so easy to kill through and through."
"Whether he had a phylactery or not, I don't know. If he did... hah, that would actually be perfect for ."
This was not Garoth's first ti dealing with necromancers.
He rembered clearly the encounter in the Iron Fir Hills, when he t a pack of low-level adventurers—one necromancer in particular had left an impression.
If Garoth had not cautiously finished the job with a decisive breath of dragonfire at that ti, that fellow might have escaped.
Even the lowest necromancers are adept at faking death.
A lich born from a forr legendary necromancer? The life-preserving, feigned-death, and shell-shedding secrets he possessed would only be more nurous.
Did he have a trump card? What exactly was it?
Garoth couldn't be entirely certain.
But he knew in his bones that the other would not be so easily eradicated.
So at the edge of the great pit, though he had shown absolute confidence and brusquely dismissed Shire’s warnings—presenting an image of an arrogant dragon convinced of its power—he actually ordered Shire to lurk day and night near the battlefield’s ruins, watching for any sign of abnormality.
As expected—the fellow revived.
"A lich's phylactery is an exceedingly precious thing. Perhaps the Dragon-Forge Modification ritual might make use of one."
The red iron dragon shook his colossal head and drew his thoughts back.
In the next instant he stretched his wings, gave a light beat, and his massive body tore through the night, streaking into a sky full of stars, then flew off rapidly in a certain direction.
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