Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Kelly Flameheart is a prime example of someone who achieved fame at a young age.

Deep within the Dragonspine Mountains, he obtained an ancient and blazing power—the Sunlight Staff. After acquiring the staff, he also awakened the long-dormant Silvermoon Dragon—Riel'gol.

After that, the humans and dragons joined forces and, like gods descending from the heavens, launched a crucial attack together with Mencius's army in the Battle of the Griffin Gate, completely reversing the tide of the battle and winning a victory for Asur that was destined to be recorded in history.

After that battle, he was not only bestowed the title of "Dragon Mage," but also rose to become a dazzling new star. And the person who granted him this title was none other than Rahil's father, Mencius.

As one of the most influential dragon mages in the Kingdom of Caledon, he naturally participated in this battle.

His mission was to lead a group of dragon mages to remain in the southwest of Lortheon, waiting for the allied forces that had circled around to the southeast to arrive, and then launch a pincer attack from the flanks, descending from the sky to launch a thunderous air raid on the enemy fleet anchored in the vast ocean.

The plan was perfect, and the pace was reasonable.

However... things went wrong, everything went wrong.

After flying over the city walls, he did not descend and enter the lagoon mist like Lamelain, who led another team. He originally intended to enter, but unlike the illusions on the vast ocean, he sensed the abnormality of the mist. It was not naturally formed, but contained some kind of ritualistic concealing power.

But just as he adjusted his formation and prepared to break through, Lamerlin took the lead and led his team into the fog.

In an instant, Kelly changed his target and decided to turn to the port, destroying the docked ships and burning warehouses and dock facilities.

result……

Embarrassed.

He couldn't find a single word to describe what happened next.

There were no boats, no equipment, nothing at all.

The port was empty like a ruin, with only the stone docks that could not be moved or dismantled still standing there, stretching lonely into the depths of the lagoon like abandoned fingers.

Clearly, Duruci had anticipated their arrival.

Before they arrived, the enemy had already moved all the valuables, leaving only a carefully designed trap.

Just as Kelly ordered the troops to deploy, disaster struck. They were repeatedly attacked, with ballistae relentlessly firing into the air, the heavy bolts whirring and piercing the air.

And he and his dragon mages were unable to retaliate.

The strange celestial phenomena had severed the Aksha winds. Without them, their magic was like a stream cut off, leaving only dryness and powerlessness. Only when the dragons breathed their dragon breath could they barely catch a glimpse of the fleeting fiery winds; that instantaneous flash of energy was like finding a spring in the wasteland, but it was far from enough.

They tried to fight back, but could only trade their lives for each other, sacrificing the dragon's life to silence the ballista.

The dragon mages he led were all his students, whom he had personally trained. Now, they fell, burned, and turned into meteors before him, one by one, along with the dragons.

The moment the dragon horn sounded, the strange celestial phenomenon finally disappeared, and Kelly immediately looked towards the lagoon.

However, he did not see Lamelaan; he only saw the corpse of a Silver Moon Dragon.

The enormous body floated half-submerged on the lagoon, the water reflecting the silvery light of its dragon scales like a shattered moon. Because the seabed was shallow, the corpse did not sink completely, rising and falling silently with the tide, appearing exceptionally desolate.

Kelly knew that it was Lamela's partner.

This means that Lameran—failed, died in battle.

Therefore, it was not Lamela who interrupted the ritual in the mist, but the enemy who stopped the ritual themselves.

When he looked up at the sky, he was shocked. In that instant, his pupils contracted sharply, and his heart felt as if it had been seized by a cold, sharp blade. He knew why the enemy had stopped the ritual. Because he saw it—a colossal power that sent chills down his spine was slowly unfolding, like a storm tearing the sky apart and devouring the light.

He felt that everything that had happened today was a dream, no, a nightmare, an eerily real nightmare from which he could not wake up. Reality and illusion intertwined, the smell of blood and fire filled the air, and every breath he took in scorching ashes. He was trapped in the nightmare, his consciousness still struggling, but his reason was gradually being eroded by fear.

The war was completely different from what he had ever known, and its intensity was unprecedented. He even doubted whether he was still in Ulthuan, whether he was still on that familiar continent.

During the last time Duruci attacked Osuan...

Unfortunately, he had no time to think. That force, like a comet or a divine punishment, was hurtling towards him. Clearly, he was targeted; the opponent's objective was extremely clear—it was him.

"Make way!" he shouted hoarsely, his voice filled with anger and determination.

He didn't choose to confront it head-on; that would be suicide. He wasn't reckless; he knew that Riel'gor's size and strength couldn't withstand that force directly. The dragon mage's fighting style differed from the dragon prince's; it didn't rely on brute force, but rather on creating distance, adjusting breathing, and concentrating the mind to cast spells.

After the strange celestial phenomenon disappeared, the Aksha wind finally returned. The long-lost energy flowed into his body like a thin stream; though it was weak and fragmented, it was enough for him—a spark of hope.

however……

The opponent arrived far too fast, ridiculously fast, exceeding all his expectations and his understanding of speed. That speed could not be explained by wings or wind pressure; it was more like a fall of will, a dive of destiny.

Just as Riel Gor entered a side-flight maneuver, adjusted his posture, and prepared to create distance, Maratex opened fire.

Fire.

Yes, fire. This is not a metaphor, but a fact.

Maratex is described as a dragon, but to Darkus, it is more like... a high-performance aircraft forged from mythology and war technology.

Although Darkus was engaged in battle at the moment, he didn't see it.

Of course, this is just a metaphor, since Marathex is indeed a dragon—an emperor-level doomsday fire dragon.

He didn't have a machine gun, but that didn't stop him from firing.

Activating the fire is simple; just press the switch. No…

Ashdalon and Caledal don't have the resources of Marathax; they're red dragons, not doomsday fire dragons, and certainly not emperor-level beings. They need time, a long period of time, to accumulate and mature, growing in millennia. Unless, of course, they receive medicine, like Skalandil in another timeline (Chapter 415).

If they don't take medicine, by the time they reach the time of the Emperor Dragon, Darkus will probably be dead, naturally dying of old age, becoming a legend, or even a god.
When the couple reached an altitude of 1,000 meters, they simultaneously adjusted their posture and began to decelerate. Within the combat team, their role was to provide flanking support, maintaining an altitude that allowed for both offensive and defensive maneuvers. When Malatex became passive, they were responsible for quickly cutting in to support the flanks; once Malatex gained the upper hand, they could unleash their own attacks, mowing down the chaotic enemy forces.

And now, as they adjusted their posture, they watched Maratex continue his dive and firing.

Dragon breath was outdated to Marathex. In his view, that kind of fire, spewed out instinctively, was crude, primitive, and savage, at best capable of frightening creatures that had never seen the world.

As a doomsday fire dragon that has systematically learned magical knowledge and is a being that truly masters the mechanics, he would naturally use dragon breath, but that would be too beneath him, too ancient, and insufficient to highlight his status and rank.

To him, dragon breath was merely a lowly breathing reflex, and what he wanted to do was to turn destruction into an art.

Of course, he never shared this view with other elves or dragons.

When he reached a height of one thousand meters, his mouth slowly opened, and scorching energy gathered deep within his mouth, compressing, folding, and resonating, as if the entire sky was being absorbed into his body.

At 950 meters, he opened fire.

Explosive shell? Cannonball?
Fireball? Pyroblast?
There's no difference; they're both forms of power.

If traditional dragon breath is like the flames spewed by a flamethrower, then Marathex's explosive bombs are like grenades fired from a grenade launcher.

Just like Dragon's Breath is a complete baguette, while the Bomb is a baguette that has been forcibly compressed into a slice of bread.

The firing was continuous.

The entire process was seamless and devoid of any performative element. It wasn't an outburst of anger, but a calculated act of destruction; of course, there was some showmanship involved.

The scene was shocking, horrifying, and soul-chilling.

On average, he fires one explosive bomb every second.

The rhythm is cold and mechanical, like an ancient war engine in operation.

The moment each bomb was ejected, Marathex's head would dip slightly, his throat would vibrate like thunder, and the air would ripple as if it were being burned.

Because he did not slow down, his speed continued to increase during his fall. When he reached an altitude of 450 meters, he had already fired five explosive shells.

Five projectiles, fired from different heights and angles, traced almost straight trajectories, as if guided by an invisible hand, precisely aimed at the direction where Kelis, the Dragon Mage, and the dragons were located.

The wind was compressed into a low-frequency roar, flames trailed tails of light, and the sky was torn apart by streaks of red, as if the entire sky above the lagoon had become the apex of purgatory.

Three of the bombs exploded just as they were about to enter the formation.

At the moment of the explosion, it seemed as if the heavens and earth were torn apart.

It wasn't a loud boom, but a series of overlapping explosions. The air was instantly compressed and ignited, forming a blazing white core at the point of explosion, followed by a spreading orange-red shockwave, like ripples of light sweeping out.

As a dragon mage, Kellis was an expert in wielding fire. Almost instinctively, he raised his staff, summoning the winds of Aksha to forcibly interfere with the energy.

He successfully detonated two, while another dragon mage detonated the third.

But there are two more, none left.

It was too fast, so fast that the dragon mages didn't even have time to react, so fast that they even paused for a moment, so fast that the fourth bomb was only detonated hastily after it entered the formation.

A massive shockwave exploded in the air.

That wasn't the wind, but an invisible wall that slammed into the flight array.

The closest blazing dragon was almost knocked off course; its massive body twisted in the air, its bones cracking, and its flight path was as if it had been flattened by an invisible fist, instantly deviating from its original direction.

The dragon's physical strength was indeed there, and it withstood the attack for a while, but the dragon mage on its back was not so lucky.

The shockwave came too fast and too close; he couldn't even fully deploy his magic shield.

Everything happened in an instant.

He ate his fill, so full he was practically overflowing. If it weren't for the amulet around his neck flashing a dark red light at the last moment, shielding him from the brunt of the attack, he and his clothes would have been vaporized.

Protected by the amulet, his body was pressed tightly against the dragon's back, his feet almost lifted off the dragon's back as if by an invisible hand. If it weren't for the fixed clasps, he would have been thrown off.

Then, silence.

He fell into a coma. The amulet had shielded him for a moment, but only for a moment. The remaining shockwave, like an invisible hammer, slammed into his torso with the vibrations of the air.

He fell into a complete coma, his hands loosened their grip on the staff, and he was pinned to the dragon throne, unable to move.

The deafening roar of the dragon and the booming of the explosions outside had all faded into the distance. He felt as if he had fallen into a silent abyss, time stood still, and his thoughts were frozen. But inside his body, a devastating catastrophe was just beginning to unfold.

It was a silent storm that spread between flesh and bones.

First to rupture was his liver, that silent and blood-rich organ, which, under the impact of the shockwave, was like a fruit crushed by a heavy hammer. It trembled and swelled at first, then cracked with a snap, and dark red blood gushed out along the gaps in the internal organs, warm and thick, carrying the stench of rust and burnt flesh, quickly filling the entire abdominal cavity.

At that moment, it was as if a blood-red flower bloomed in his abdomen, silent and cruel.

Immediately afterward, the delicate capillary network in his lungs gave way. Like spider silk scorched by a raging fire, they snapped and collapsed one by one. Warm blood rushed into his alveoli through the ruptures, replacing air and the breath of life.

The oxygen that should have been flowing in the chest cavity disappeared, replaced by a surge of blood filled with heat and despair.

In his unconscious state, his body was still reflexively trying to breathe. It was an instinctive struggle, a delusion of survival. But what he was inhaling was his own blood, warm, sweet-smelling, and thick. The liquid surged up his trachea, overflowed his bronchi, and gently yet deadly filled his throat.

His Adam's apple trembled, but he couldn't make a sound. He didn't cough because the cough reflex had disappeared.

And so, the blood quietly accumulated, rising slowly within him like a dark tide. Some blood spilled from the corners of his mouth and nostrils, forming thin, dark red streams. The blood dripped down his chin, torn into a fine mist by the air currents of flight, landing on the dragon's hard back scales, where it was immediately dispersed by the high-altitude gale into a scarlet fog, shimmering briefly in the sunlight like scattered red dust.

A faint metallic smell wafted in the air, mixed with the acrid odor of sulfur.

The feeling of suffocation finally surfaced in his deep coma as a vague, instinctive fear. That fear had no conscious shape; it was just the silent screaming of nerve endings. His body began to twitch slightly, and his fingertips and neck muscles trembled uncontrollably.

That was the final lament of a nervous system deprived of oxygen.

He tried to breathe, but had forgotten how. Each futile inhalation only drew more blood into the depths of his lungs, causing bubbles to burst in the blood plasma with a faint, almost inaudible hissing sound.

The mixture of blood and alveoli sloshed within his chest cavity, producing a faint yet terrifying gurgling sound. The sound, almost inaudible amidst the dragon's roar and the howling of the air, was like death whispering in his ear.

His heart initially raced wildly due to lack of oxygen; his heart pounded desperately, pumping oxygen that didn't exist, and his muscle fibers twitched amidst irregular electrical signals.

But soon, the heart muscle also weakened due to lack of oxygen, contracting weakly and experiencing tearing pain. The heartbeat changed from a frantic drumbeat to a slow, chaotic one, as if the rhythm of the music was being gradually stripped away, leaving only an empty echo.

Finally, in a cold silence, it came to a complete stop.

He died silently, without a final cry or a heroic gesture. He simply lowered his head quietly, his body completely relaxed, pressed against the dragon throne, and even the wind no longer swept over him.

Warm blood continued to flow slowly, meandering down his neck and through the seams of his armor. The blood seemed to be bidding a final, cruel farewell to his loyal companion—the still-fighting dragon.

However, his death was slow.

There are people who can walk faster than him.

The fifth bomb, in the end, could not be stopped.

Too fast, too fast to catch. The bomb tore through the air with an extremely sharp whistling sound. The sound pierced the eardrums, as if the soul was being dissected. It was sharp, pure, and cruel, like the spear of divine judgment.

It broke the sound barrier, creating a surging airflow, and behind it, the air was forcibly compressed into a white cone-shaped wave.

The dragon mages were in such disarray that they couldn't organize an effective interception. Some tried to raise their staffs but hadn't even finished the incantation; others tried to turn and dodge but only saw the flame grow larger and larger.

Bump!

There was no slow penetration, no elegant delay, only the most extreme and pure release of kinetic energy. The bomb detonated the instant it touched the tough scales of the Sun Dragon. The scales at the point of impact did not shatter, but were instantly vaporized by the high temperature. The flesh beneath the scales was charred and carbonized in a fraction of a second, the blood evaporated into mist, and the bones twisted in the explosion.

explosion!

The air was howling, and the heavens and earth were trembling.

The dragon, illuminated by the explosion, resembled a melting bronze statue; its wings shattered, and blood and fire rained down from the sky.

The destructive energy spread rapidly in a spherical shape in all directions, like a white star in full bloom, its light and heat expanding outward at an immeasurable speed. The air was instantly compressed, torn apart, and carbonized, and the fluctuating energy created visible shockwaves that pushed forward layer by layer in the sky.

The first to be devoured was the dragon mage clinging to the dragon's back; he didn't even leave any remains behind.

Under the intense heat and impact that could tear molecules apart, his body, his robes, the shattered fragments of his amulet, and even the small patch of air around him were completely vaporized.

At that moment, flesh, magic, elements, and soul were all stripped down to their purest form—energy.

There is no pain, no process.

He didn't scream, he didn't even have time to generate fear before he was erased, as if he had never existed, leaving only a brief, humanoid afterimage within the expanding core of the fireball. That outline lasted for less than 0.01 seconds before being torn apart, swallowed up, and annihilated by even more violent energy.

Then comes the shockwave!

The ensuing circular shockwave, like a divine punch, exploded violently from the center of the fireball.

The air was shattered by the impact, turning into a rolling white shockwave barrier that slammed into the dragon's massive body with a thunderous roar.

The dragon's scales were ripped off at the moment of impact, like metal petals swept by a gale. Its muscles and bones made a teeth-grinding crunching sound in the face of this force, followed by a clear and continuous cracking sound, the sound of the dragon's bones breaking, the painful echo of a creature being torn apart.

The massive dragon skeleton snapped, the dragon wings were twisted into an unnatural angle, and the flesh and scales around the explosion point were torn off and thrown into the air, turning into countless shimmering blood-red fragments that fell from the sky like a bloody metal rainstorm.

This is not a fight.

This is destruction.

It is the proclamation of the Emperor Dragon-class Doomsday Fire Dragon, the roar of the Aksha Wind.

"Ow!!!"

The Blazing Sun Dragon let out the most piercing and painful wail of its life. It was not a majestic dragon roar, but a shrill scream mixed with the cracking of bones, the tearing of flesh, and the ripping of the soul. The sound ripped through the sky, made the air tremble, and even the sun dimmed for a moment from the agony.

His massive body was lifted up by the force of the explosion, losing lift and balance, like a mountain with broken wings, carrying smoke and fire, and began to tilt, tumble and fall into the lagoon below.

He tried in vain to flap the giant wing, which was now just a broken skeleton. The bone spikes of the dragon wing twisted and broke in the air, making a low, whistling sound. But the struggle only made his fall more chaotic and his spinning more violent.

Blood gushed from the horrific wound on his back, torn into countless threads by the fierce winds high in the sky, converging into a long, desperate crimson trail.

The trajectory sliced ​​through the air like a blood-red crack in the sky.

Five, that's fine.

A little more wouldn't be much, a little less wouldn't be much either.

We can't release any more because the Maratex is too big and its dive speed is too fast.

When the fifth bomb exploded, Lortheon trembled. People on the ground instinctively looked up at the sky engulfed in flames. Those in the sky, high above, instinctively looked down, and what they saw filled them with utter horror!
In the split second before their devastating kiss with the water, at a deathly height of less than fifty meters above the lake, Maratex and Anasara exerted their strength simultaneously.

"Roar!"

It wasn't a roar, but a pure outpouring of energy devoid of any linguistic meaning. The sound was like a blade tearing through the air, vibrating the entire space and shattering the reflection on the lake's surface.

Instead of breathing upwards, Marathex thrust his massive dragon head downwards, and from his open jaws surged an extremely compressed, blindingly white torrent!
High-pressure flame recoil technique!
The air was compressed to a solid density deep in his throat, and then released in an instant, forming a straight, stable, incandescent white, almost transparent column of energy that pierced down from the sky.

The flames weren't burning; rather, space itself was being evaporated, the temperature so high that even light was refracted into distorted lines.

The laws of physics were forcibly invoked by magic at this moment, and the Third Law displayed its divine power upon him. The downward gushing flow of energy generated an equally enormous, terrifying thrust in the opposite direction.

Annasara's hair was also out of control; her black hair, like flames torn apart by a gale, flew into the sky amidst the turbulent currents of intense energy. She had no time to manage her hair anymore; she couldn't even control her expression. Her expression was no longer cold and stern, but completely twisted into a ferocious grimace—a mixture of extreme focus and pain, a frozen madness born from rampage and the strain of sheer willpower.

Her eyes were completely bloodshot, her pupils like two burning runes, flashing with a dangerous light between anger and silence. She gritted her teeth, blood seeping from the corners of her lips, her hands clawed, palms facing the void, the air between her fingertips trembling and collapsing, as if she were grasping something invisible to the naked eye.

She was protecting herself, and also protecting Maratex.

A violent energy swirled around her, enveloping the dragon and herself in a blazing, almost transparent protective barrier. The barrier flickered, twisted, and shattered, yet she forcibly maintained it with her will. The energy seemed to have a scent, filling the air with a scorching, pungent heat, accompanied by a metallic, high-frequency hum and a shrill shriek as if the air was being torn apart.

Even so, Marathex's bones groaned under the immense strain. The sound was deep and continuous, like the grinding of a thousand-pound iron plate being forcibly bent. The enormous overload instantly plunged his vision into a blood-red haze. The energy within his body surged wildly through his meridians, like thousands of steel needles piercing his nerves simultaneously. Every bone screamed, and every inch of flesh resisted.

But his downward momentum was abruptly halted by this savage and pure force confrontation!

The ground, composed of pure flames, was like a wall of reverse current that suddenly appeared out of nowhere, firmly supporting Malatex's heavy body.

Due to the instantaneous ultra-high pressure and temperature generated above, the lake surface didn't even have time to touch it before violently caved in, creating a huge bowl-shaped crater. The water at the edge of the crater was instantly vaporized, and the steam formed a white ring that shot into the sky, rapidly spreading in all directions. The sound was like an ancient behemoth turning over at the bottom of the lake, roaring and shaking the rocks until they shattered.

The kinetic energy of the fall is converted into forward momentum in that instant.

Instead of taking off, Maratex, like a pebble bounced off the water, skimmed the surface of the lake and began its second, and even wilder, flight!

As he skimmed across the lake at high speed, the air was scorched into a long trail of air, and behind his body was a fiery channel that had been completely boiled and torn apart!

In the instant it swept past, the lake water was violently pushed to both sides by the terrifying speed and high temperature, forming a continuous V-shaped giant wave. The crest of the wave was not a white spray, but a purgatory wall of waves rolling with steam and flames.

The scalding waves kept collapsing and rising, only to be lifted up by new steam, igniting everything in their path, like the lungs of some enormous life form breathing.

Chaos reigned beneath the lake's surface.

Stunned by the shockwave, the fish floated to the surface belly up, only to be instantly cooked by the intense heat. Waves of heat rose up, and large amounts of lake water continued to vaporize, forming a low-lying, scorching, and dense white curtain of steam, like a corridor to the underworld opened up for him.

The energy emanating from the tips of his wings and the sides of his body was not extinguished upon contact with the lake water. On the contrary, that highly active energy, like a persistent ailment, burned, boiled, and twisted violently on the water's surface and in the air.

As he flew, they stretched into a line of fire tens of meters wide, burning fiercely on the lake's surface. Flames of gold, red, orange, and white danced on the blue water, creating a terrifying and surreal spectacle.

He traversed the infernal passage woven from flames, steam, and waves. His armor plates and the scales beneath them were scorched red by the intense heat. Every breath carried the scent of rust and sulfur. His wing membranes shimmered with high-frequency vibrations, emitting a low, trembling sound, like a battle flag fluttering in the heat of fire.

But burning within his vertical pupils was a calmness, the calmness of a predator locking onto its prey, the tranquility in the eye of a storm.

Not far away, the Blazing Sun Dragon, struck by the fifth explosive shell, carrying its companion which had already vanished into nothingness, was falling heavily into the lagoon.

The lake was completely dyed red in that instant, huge ripples mixed with broken scales and bubbles spreading in all directions, each rise and fall of the wave like an echo of a lament. The sound of the fall was deep and muffled, as if heaven and earth were whispering for their demise.

Maratech didn't bother to look at his spoils. To him, the explosions and crashes were nothing more than battlefield noise, insignificant interludes. Five explosive shells were merely a prelude, or more accurately, his way of greeting his cousins—a naked and arrogant salute.

As the near-tearful tremor within him gradually subsided, he could feel his blood flowing again, and the tension in his muscles and the resonance in his bones returned to his control. His vertical pupils narrowed slightly, and he raised his gaze, piercing through the billowing steam and flames, to look at the motionless figures high above—his cousins.

At that moment, the air seemed to freeze, and time seemed to slow down.

They hovered beneath the sky, silently watching him like statues, while he merely narrowed his eyes slightly, a barely perceptible sneer appearing on his lips.

Disdainful.

Pure, undisguised, and unquestionable contempt.

He had given them a chance; in that brief moment, he was exposed to his most vulnerable state. It was a brief respite after his high-pressure recoil surgery, when all his energy was in disarray and his body was almost out of control. If someone had seized the opportunity then, dared to dive in, dared to get close, he might have really been injured and fallen into the lagoon.

Unfortunately, no one moved.

His self-proclaimed noble cousins ​​just stared blankly at the trail of his burning flames, like idiots.

He suddenly remembered what Darkus had once said: "I gave you a chance, but you didn't take it."

A very low growl came from deep within Maratex's throat, like laughter, yet also like impatience with the air. He suddenly flapped his wings, and the air seemed to explode!
A massive blast of air tore through the air, and the counter-pressure created a wall of waves tens of meters high on the lake's surface. He was practically lifted off the ground, a sudden, dramatic rise, and a trail of intense flames ripped a red rift across the sky behind him.

As his body seemed to connect with heaven and earth, his form suddenly tightened, and then he suddenly rolled to the side!
The speed and angle of his movements were so extreme that one almost suspected his spine was made of steel. The dragon wings rippled with a deafening roar as they flipped, the swirling currents tearing at the steam and flames on the lake's surface, twisting them into a burning vortex.

At this moment, Anna Sara finally couldn't hold back anymore. Her eyes were filled with anger and a kind of almost desperate helplessness. She wanted to curse.

No, to be precise, she wanted to yell at him.

Even the best self-control can't hold back at this moment.

In her view, Marathex wasn't fighting at all, but showing off. After discovering the enemy was too weak and confirming someone was there to back him up, this damned dragon started acting recklessly—utterly reckless!
Maratex hovered, swooped, and tumbled in the sky, as if declaring to its cousins ​​through battle: I am not only strong, but I am also more elegant and free than you.

Her apprentice had clearly overlooked something, forgetting that the person who had been in charge was an elf who had lived for over five thousand years, not a dragon who had lived for over five thousand years.

But she held back in the end. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let the rising anger turn into coldness.

Because she knew—the second round had begun.

We can talk about it after the fight. (End of Chapter)