Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 295 Alchemists' Guild

The gates of King's Landing groaned in the twilight, their massive hinges creaking like the bones of a dying beast.

The golden-robed guards remained lined up on either side of the doorway, their faces relaxed with the joy of welcoming their allies—until they saw the cold killing intent in the eyes of the first group of Western Frontier soldiers who entered.

The sound of blades being drawn formed a dense web of death, instantly turning what was originally a welcoming formation into a slaughterhouse.

Sandor Clegane's greatsword sliced ​​through the air with a terrifying whoosh, striking directly into the breastplate of Genos Slytherin, the city gate commander. The force was so great that not only did the metal twist and shatter, but internal organs and bone fragments also splattered out, staining the ancient dragon head on the city wall's reliefs red.

Just as the chaos reached its peak, Tywin Lannister appeared at the city gate on his tall warhorse, the setting sun making his crimson armor appear to burn.

"In Robert's name!" His roar wasn't loud, but it was like wildfire thrown into a pool of oil, instantly igniting the flames of total plunder.

The command was like a bolt from the blue, and the Lannister soldiers surged into the streets of King's Landing like a tidal wave. Flea Nest was the first to suffer; cries, laughter, and the clanging of swords mingled together, and the narrow streets were instantly turned into a sea of ​​blood.

The night was as dark as ink, and the lights of the allied camp stretched out in the distance, forming a faint band of light.

Euron Greyjoy slipped away from the patrol's sight like a ghost, disappearing into a desolate hill outside the camp.

He stood on the edge of the cliff, silently calling out in his heart. A moment later, the clouds suddenly parted, and a huge shadow swooped down.

The creature's outstretched wings blotted out the sky and the moon, its dragon head was ferocious, its eagle claws were like iron, and its body was covered with feathers that were as beautiful as gemstones yet as hard as steel—this was the rare mount he obtained from the "One Piece System"—the Thousand-Year Dragon.

"Good buddy," Euron said, stroking the dragon's cold feathers, his eyes gleaming with fervor and ambition, "it's time to see this feast."

He flipped and leaped onto the dragon's back. The thousand-year-old dragon let out a piercing shriek that tore through the night sky, its wings surging with powerful air currents, carrying him swiftly toward King's Landing.

Before long, the capital city engulfed in chaos and flames came into view. Tywin's soldiers surged through the streets like ants, firelight and blood mingled, and mournful cries even pierced the sky.

Euron rode the thousand-year-old dragon, circling above the thick smoke, like an indifferent god looking down at the hell on earth below.

The thousand-year-old dragon circled a hundred meters above King's Landing, its wings stirring up thick smoke and night winds. The next second, Euron Greyjoy leaped from the edge of the dragon's back, his black robes fluttering in the gale, like a black beacon thrown into hell.

The ground magnified rapidly in his eyes, the patterns of the cobblestone street becoming clearly visible. Just as he was about to be smashed to pieces, he suddenly leaped forward with both legs—

"Moonwalk!"

A muffled blast of air rang out, the immense force of the fall cleverly transformed into a lateral cushioning effect. His body suddenly froze, and finally, like a feather, he hovered lightly less than three meters above the ground, his shoes almost scraping the blood-splattered pebbles.

Using the momentum, he somersaulted and landed steadily in front of the dark entrance to the Alchemists' Guild. The whole process was silent, as if he were an integral part of this chaotic shadow.

Beneath the twisted bronze dome of the Alchemists' Guild lurks King Iris's most twisted dreams and deepest fears.

Everyone knows that the Mad King favors pyromancers far more than maesters, simply because they wield not healing herbs, but the emerald-green, leaping flames of destruction—wildfire.

This place is less a place of learning and more a vast armory. Thousands of terracotta jars are piled up in the cellars and warehouses, each sealed with that ominous green flame. These alchemical artifacts are extremely unstable; a single spark or a violent collision would be enough to send King's Landing and its hundreds of thousands of lives to the heavens, utterly destroyed.

Therefore, even with the deafening sounds of battle outside the city and the chaos within, the gates of the Alchemists' Guild were still heavily guarded by the most loyal Gold Robes. They gripped their spears tightly, watching warily for any approaching shadow, knowing full well that they were protecting a key that could determine the fate of the kingdom, and also destroy everything.

The golden-robed soldiers guarding the Alchemists' Guild might intimidate ordinary rioters, but in Euron Greyjoy's eyes, they were no different from lambs to the slaughter.

A cruel smile curled at the corner of his lips as he whispered, "The Soul-Soul Fruit—Thundercloud Thor!"

In an instant, a small patch of rolling thunderclouds appeared out of thin air above his head, with electric snakes crawling around and emitting a low hum. The twin swords in his hands then crackled with dazzling blue-white lightning, as if he were holding two bolts of lightning.

The next instant, he moved. His figure flashed like a ghost, slicing through the guards, his twin blades crackling with deadly arcs of electricity. Each strike was accompanied by a brief clap of thunder and the stench of charred flesh. The guards didn't even have time to let out a complete scream before they were instantly pierced by the power of the lightning, falling one after another, their wounds charred black.

The whole process was clean and efficient, like a silent lightning storm sweeping by, leaving only a mess of charred corpses.

As Euron stepped through the dark gates of the Alchemists' Guild, the shadows inside began to tremble.

A fire mage wearing a robe stained with soot was seen frantically carrying a bulging backpack, trying to escape through a side door from the inside.

His face was a mixture of obsession with alchemy and fear of death—he loved the emerald flames boiling in the cauldron and was intoxicated by the magic of creating destruction with his own hands, but that did not mean he was willing to accompany the mad King Iris and turn this obsession into his own grave.

Euron's soft laughter rang out clearly in the dimly lit corridor: "Master Rosat, where are you in such a hurry?"

He was able to recognize the famous fire mage at a glance, thanks to the information Lisa had provided earlier—Rosat's facial features were already memorized from the carefully prepared portraits.

Upon being suddenly called by name, Rosat froze. Instead of stopping, he sped forward like a startled rabbit!

However, the next second came "Shave!"

Euron's figure blurred for a moment like a ghost, leaving only a slight whooshing sound in the air. Almost at the same instant, he appeared directly in front of Rosat as if he had teleported, completely blocking his path.

Rosat's face instantly contorted with horror, and he instinctively reached into his robes—where there was nothing but a few canisters of dangerous wildfire.

But the moment his fingers touched the cold rim of the pottery, Euron's hand slashed down with a sharp whoosh, precisely striking the back of his neck. Before the terror in Rosat's eyes had faded, he groaned and collapsed limply to the ground, unconscious.

Euron carried the unconscious Rosat as if he were carrying a sack of grain, nimbly slipping into what appeared to be an ordinary inn next to the Alchemists' Guild.

The innkeeper—a middle-aged woman with an ordinary face and a brisk figure—was wiping wine glasses. When Euron suddenly burst in, she paused slightly, her gaze quickly sweeping over the person in his arms and the turbulent night outside the door, before resuming her usual numb expression. She said nothing, only giving Euron a barely perceptible nod, then put down her glass and led him quickly to the kitchen, moving a heavy shelf to reveal a narrow staircase leading to the basement.

The basement was cold and dry, piled with barrels of wine and miscellaneous items. She was a hidden pawn that Euron had laid out years ago, quietly waiting to be awakened in the shadows of this city.

Euron tossed Rosat onto a haystack in the corner and gestured to the woman. The woman immediately took out a sturdy rope and skillfully tied Rosat up tightly, finally stuffing his mouth with a rag.

Having done all this, Euron didn't linger for a moment. He turned and disappeared back into the chaotic night outside the door. His target was still the alchemist guild that housed the emerald-colored death.

Euron's figure moved silently through the corridors and laboratories of the Alchemists' Guild, like a grim reaper reaping with precision in the night. His target was clear: the pyromancer masters who held core positions and whose minds contained the true secrets of alchemy. As for the insignificant apprentices, they were nothing more than troublesome weeds.

Each time he returned to the inn's basement, he would find himself with another unconscious figure, dressed in an ornate alchemist's robe. Behind him, in the guild hall and corridors, the ordinary apprentices and assistants who had tried to stop him or were unlucky enough to run into him lay silently in pools of blood.

The entire process was efficient and ruthless. Upon returning for the fifth time, he tossed the last target into a corner. In the dim light, the six core members of the Alchemist Guild lay bound on the ground like livestock awaiting slaughter.

Euron glanced at the "harvest," his eyes showing no emotion. He turned and stepped onto the stairs, leaving the inn and prisoners behind.

The night in King's Landing was still long, and there was another destination on his list.