The Dragon Heir Chapter 82: Unfavorable Odds

Claws scraped gently against the unyielding stone, carving tiny grooves with their sharpened edges as I crept closer to the crest of a small hill. I shadowed the procession of cultists, the lot of them blissfully unaware of their tail. That Heralas fellow wasn’t bluffing—they were hell-bent on wrapping up this ritual post-haste.

Oddly enough, it seed the system itself agreed with my suspicions. For the first ti ever, it presented not just a challenge, but a proper penalty.

MISSION ALERT!

MISSION:Purge the Corruptors!

OBJECTIVE: The vile cultists aim to desecrate this dungeon floor, distorting its energies to fuel their nefarious ascension and conjure sothing utterly abominable in the process. Halt their heresy. Wipe them from existence.

TASK: Track the cultists. Destroy their altars. Slay their leaders before the ritual reaches completion.

REWARD: Choice of a Tier 4 skill. Additional Technique Slot. Additional technique of choice. 10 to all stats, 5 Skill Points, 30 Morphogen per altar destroyed. Bonus reward for each cultist leader slain. Special reward for completely disrupting the ritual.

PROGRESS: 0/3 Altars destroyed | 0/2 Leaders slain

PENALTY: Failure will result in the destruction of the bio.

ACCEPT: Y/N?

The system’s fury was palpable, and for the first ti, I sensed a hint of… vulnerability? Helplessness? It wasn’t aid at , but it was unsettling nonetheless. By now, I’d pieced together how it worked. The system could only issue these missions when a monster beca aware of the interlopers or their sches. It couldn’t broadcast this plea to every hulking beast lurking in the shadows—there were limits to its power, as frustrating as that must’ve been.

My gaze flicked back to the cultists below as I unfurled my wings. With a silent leap, I plunged into a low glide, tailing them through the dim undergrowth. Their entourage wasn’t hard to follow—several other monsters had already noticed them and were throwing themselves at the group with reckless abandon.

Poor fools. The cultists were absurdly well-prepared. Their warriors weren’t just formidable—they were ruthless, each at least a yellow core. When even a Stage 4 stag-like beast charged in, it didn’t last long enough to so much as scratch their ranks.

They moved with clinical efficiency, dispatching attackers without breaking stride. Worse yet, an inner circle of them was acutely attuned to mana fluctuations, snuffing out any creature attempting to channel abilities before it could act.

Whatever the monsters were doing, it was working well enough to keep the Elves preoccupied, though not nearly well enough to make a dent. Still, I kept my Air Sense sharp, one eye’s shifting lenses tracking movents around while the other dissected the details of the mission. It struck how much faster my mind had beco at processing this kind of information. Thinking about it all at once might’ve seed overwhelming, but in practice, it was seamless, natural—like breathing.

The mission itself, though, was unlike anything I’d encountered before. The destruction of the entire bio if the cultists succeeded? What in all the blazing hells were these bloody Elves plotting? What monstrosity were they summoning? And how in the na of all things unholy did they plan to ascend that pompous noble brat of theirs?

I had questions. Too many questions. But, frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted the answers. All I wanted was to end this madness. This dungeon wasn’t theirs to claim. Its energy—its Prana—wasn’t theirs to exploit.

They didn’t belong here.

Did they even understand the consequences of what they were doing? From what I’d gathered, they relied on this place’s resources—their warriors grew strong battling its monsters. Why risk destroying that?

No, it wasn’t even theirs to destroy.

A fierce, primal rage simred in at their arrogance. And beyond the anger, there was a creeping sense of wrongness. Whatever they were planning to do, whatever grotesque thing they aid to summon, it wasn’t just vile—it was unnatural. Worse, I was sure it tied directly to elevating that noble brat to low-gold, just as the system hinted.

The deeper I thought about it, the more uneasy I beca. This was far bigger than I’d expected. The scale of the bio alone was staggering—still impossible to fully grasp. Despite the fog-like hues that veiled half the horizon, I could tell: it was massive. Easily the size of four or five Caerlum capitals—the sprawling heart of the Aurelia Empire—stacked together.

And they planned to destroy all of it.

A pit twisted in my stomach. Whatever this business was, it had to be stopped—no hesitation, no quarter. I glared at them as they cut down yet more monsters, their blades dripping with cruelty. But for now, my hands were tied; I simply didn’t have the strength.

Sure, I could torch my arms again unleashing that monstrous torrent of lightning—worth every drop of my hard-earned 50 mana—but doing so now would be idiotic at best. They’d detect it imdiately, and I’d wager my claws they’d prepared for it after my little stunt back at their camp. Besides, they were constantly on the move, which made scattering my toxins into an airborne poison an exercise in futility. No, patience was key. I needed to bide my ti until they reached their destination—though the waiting gnawed at sothing dreadful.

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Still, I couldn’t let anger take the reins. Rage is an unreliable co-pilot when sharp wits and a steady hand are required. So, I kept my head cool, even if my tail lashed with frustration, and the pursuit continued.

Before long, the entourage arrived at a colossal cavern within the dungeon. The space had been freshly carved out, no doubt the work of Earth mages. Its sheer size was impressive, but what truly caught my eye was the shimring fra of orichalcum—plentiful and painstakingly arranged. My heart sank. These cultists were supposed to be in a hurry, and yet here they were, flaunting a fully erected barrier enchantnt, reinforced with so of the most expensive materials imaginable. Typical.

The ritualists were the first to enter, clad in their predictably ominous black robes, embroidered with enchanting runes. Among them was Heralas, who imdiately began chatting with another figure—the one who’d been with him before. What was his na? Elnor? Yes, that was it. Two leaders, then. At least I’d identified the ringleaders of this infernal circus.

Much as I yearned to storm in and put an end to their ddling, I knew the timing wasn’t right. With a steadying breath, I quelled the itch in my claws for action and settled into a waiting ga, patience proving the better part of valor.

Soon enough, an opportunity presented itself. The barrier shimred to life, sealing the cavern, but not all the warriors had ventured inside. A contingent remained outside, busy fending off the little tide of monsters foolish enough to throw themselves at their ranks.

I backed off, taking stock. Their numbers were, shall we say, a tad excessive for a head-on approach. What I needed was more distraction—and by distraction, I ant monsters. Conveniently, I’d beco sothing of a connoisseur in the art of baiting beasts.

Using my Air Sense, I locked onto the largest breathing signatures in the vicinity and set to work. One by one, I drew them in. This ti, while the defenders' numbers were overwhelming, the plan still worked in my favor. Sa tactic: bait the monsters until they noticed the cultists, then let the system—both theirs and mine—handle the chaos. The rewards for the mission were particularly tempting this ti, so the mont those formidable Stage 4 beasts spotted the cultists, they dropped any interest in chasing after little old .

I repeated the process, gathering an eclectic assortnt of monsters. My evasiveness and speed served well, allowing to amass a truly formidable horde in record ti. Before long, the cultists’ forces found themselves facing a surging mass of teeth, claws, and fury.

And yet, frustratingly, it still wasn’t enough. These Elves were infuriatingly clever and decisive. Not only had the cultists brought their full enforcer force, but their contracted delvers were here too, muddying the waters even further.

The cultists’ warriors, mages, and rangers—all masked in black—were unmistakable, numbering nearly sixty. At the forefront were warriors and a smattering of delvers, distinguishable by their simpler leather armor. They all had peculiar shields. Green vines writhed over those shields, degrading any monster foolish enough to make contact. They ford an impenetrable bulwark, flanked by spear-wielding warriors whose weapons bore the sa corrosive vine enchantnt.

Ten paces behind them, I spotted the control mages—similar to the ones I’d seen in their rituals. Thorny vines, earthen constructs, and shimring barriers erupted from the ground at their command, corralling the dumb beasts and funneling them directly into the frontline’s hungry blades. So of the mages had the gall to reanimate fallen monsters, turning them against their kin.

Further back lood another unit of masked warriors, with that Arbiter Elnor guy planted squarely at their centre, surveying the chaos like a frosty monarch overseeing a disheveled court. His elite guards flanked him, coiled and ready to strike should the frontlines so much as wobble.

A single sharp glance from him was all it took—like a silent conductor orchestrating carnage. They surged forward with precision, delivering punishing counterattacks to seal any breach in their defences.

Elnor himself wielded a peculiar black blade, its nace as unsettling as the man. I never once saw him move—not properly—but every so often, he’d draw the sword, and just like that, the most troubleso monster on the field would crumple, lifeless.

He was undoubtedly a red core—sa as Queen once was. Their power remained as inscrutable to as the depths of the Abyss.

Sothing about him scread that he could dismantle my pitiful monster wave singlehandedly if he fancied it. Yet he wasn’t. No, his gaze prowled the battlefield, clearly hunting for sothing—or soone—likely . Or whoever they thought might be pulling my strings. anwhile, under his relentless command, more and more monsters fell, their resistance crumbling like sandcastles against a tide.

I gave it one last go, summoning as many stage-four beasts as I could muster. More ca, drawn to the delicious scent of slaughter. But even their ferocity wasn’t enough; the Elves were still winning. Efficient. Ruthless. Experienced. Clever. A whole bloody army.

Against .

For the briefest mont, doubt clawed at my chest. But I smothered it, snuffing it out with the furious resolve bubbling in its place. No. The ritual should already be underway. It had to be. I unfastened the knot securing the glass case on my back—the case cradling my one true trump card—and drew it free with deliberate care.

The poison. My special concoction.

Narrowing my focus to the cultists, I worked with precision. Slowly, I dripped the toxic brew onto the tal rim of the case, one claw guiding the flow with the delicacy of a surgeon, the other coaxing out faint crackles of lightning to atomize the droplets.

I unfurled my wings, sensing the air currents and directing the invisible, lethal vapour towards the Elves with quiet finesse. As for the monsters still locked in their futile skirmish? They’d serve as unwilling collateral. A necessary sacrifice. I whispered an apology to my fellow creatures for the tornt to co, though it didn’t slow my hand. So losses, regrettable as they might be, were inevitable.

Changing positions, I let the toxins seep into every corner of the battlefield. And when the first signs of confusion gripped the combatants—monsters staggering, frontline warriors stumbling—I knew I’d succeeded.

This poison was an elegant kind of wickedness. Bizarre, perhaps, but as brilliant as any of Lotte’s outlandish recipes. It inverted its victim’s senses into a tangled web of chaos. Sight beca touch, touch beca sound. It was sheer, unrelenting tornt, a symphony of sensory disarray.

The battlefield was ripe for my entrance.

It was ti.