Evolving by devouring from a young dragon

The winds of Ash Highlands always carry the smell of sulfur.

The chieftain of the Emberfang Orcs stood on the edge of the crater, gazing at the churning lava below, remaining silent for a long time.

He's been standing here for half an hour.

Footsteps sounded behind me, heavy and slow.

He didn't turn around.

"The crack has widened again," the chief said in a harsh voice.

The great shaman walked to his side, his aged hand resting on his bone staff, his cloudy eyes gazing into the depths of the crater.

There, golden flames leaped beneath the lava, and in the center of the flames, a fist-sized egg covered in golden patterns slept peacefully.

At this moment, a crack appeared on the egg.

"Thirty percent," the great shaman's voice was hoarse, "over the past hundred years, thirty percent of the power of fire has been stolen."

The chieftain bit his lower lip, his fangs clenched.

Without the power of these flames, the fiery magma will be extinguished.

He didn't ask who it was, because the great shaman had already seen the answer in the divination.

East.

That place is a hill of withered bones.

A few days ago, he had sent several of his people to investigate. Those young men crawled into the crevices at the bottom of the crater and climbed along the scorching cave walls for two whole days, bringing back news that silenced all the orcs.

Beneath the crater lie several hidden lava rivers, which extend from the Ash Highlands eastward.

However, the underground river itself is not the problem.

"The power of fire will not flow away on its own." The great shaman's voice was very soft, as if he were talking to himself. "Earth fire is alive; it has its own channels and its own flow. It will not change course for no reason, much less disappear into thin air."

The chief turned and looked at him.

The flames flickered in the shaman's cloudy eyes.

This was exactly the same as the result of his divination.

To the east, there are powerful magical beasts that have been using the underground river to steal the fiery power of lava for the past hundred years.

The chief's fangs clenched together with a grinding sound.

"What is it?" he asked angrily, his anger surging through his chest.

"What can travel through the lava underground? What is intelligent enough to plan a route for theft? What can live for hundreds of years just to steal our fire?"

The high shaman did not speak; he simply tapped his bone staff lightly on the ground.

The moment the staff tip hit the ground, a scene appeared in his mind.

It was a dark red beast with severed limbs, bloodshot eyes, and a body length of nearly 40 meters.

The high shaman remained silent for a moment before slowly speaking.

"Seventh tier, Fire Lizard... King."

The chieftain's face turned red, a sign that the Emberfang Orcs were angry.

"Seventh rank." He repeated the number, his voice rough and harsh.

He turned around and looked again into the depths of the crater.

The egg lay quietly in the golden flames, the cracks on its shell appearing and disappearing in the heat, like a wound being torn open.

"Prophet," he said gravely, "is there any revelation?"

The high shaman shook his head.

He could communicate with heaven and earth using shamanic power, so he knew that the power of fire had been stolen, but he could not foresee the future.

Moreover, he has been trying to communicate with the gods for a long time, but has not received a response.

That's why he was so anxious.

When did they begin guarding this egg for generations? The great shaman's memory has become hazy.

He only remembered that when he was a child, his grandfather stood on the edge of the crater in the same way, looking at the egg.

Grandfather said the egg was here the day the Emberfang Orcs moved into the Ash Plateau.

A thousand years ago? Two thousand years ago? Or even longer?

So long that even the Emberfang Orcs themselves couldn't explain it anymore. They only knew one thing: protecting this egg was the meaning of the Emberfang's existence.

But now, the egg has cracked, the god is not responding, the fire has been stolen, and the thief is a seventh-tier fire lizard king.

The high shaman lowered his head and looked at his hands.

These hands had healed countless orcs with the power of totems, glimpsed the workings of heaven and earth through divination, and plunged bone staffs into the ashes of volcanoes countless times, calling upon the name of the gods.

But now, these hands are trembling.

Perhaps it's because I'm getting old.

He comforted himself.

But he knew better than anyone that the faith they had protected for generations would be annihilated, and the Ashtooth tribe would also turn to ashes.

"Prophet." The chief's voice interrupted his thoughts.

The high shaman raised his head.

The chief was looking at him, the fire in his dark golden eyes brighter than the lava in the crater behind him.

"Tell me," the chief said, "where did this egg come from?"

The great shaman was stunned.

He understood what the chief meant.

They, the Emberfang Orcs, have lived here for generations, guarding this egg and this faith, but no one has ever asked why.

It's not that I don't want to ask, it's that I'm afraid to ask.

When you dedicate your entire life to one thing, questioning its origins is like questioning why you are alive.

Either there is no answer; or the answer will crush you.

But now, the egg is about to break. If you're destined to lose everything, at least know the truth before you lose it.

Even if the truth is more cruel than the loss.

The high shaman remained silent for a long time.

Golden flames rolled in the lava, baking their crimson skin until it turned bright red.

"Your father," the high shaman finally spoke, his voice hoarse, "did he ever tell you how your great-grandfather died?"

The chief frowned.

"He died on the north slope, fighting a lava snake."

"That was the cause of your grandfather's death." The high shaman shook his head. "I was asking about your great-grandfather."

The chief remained silent; he didn't know.

“Your great-grandfather,” the high shaman said, “died after walking into the crater.”

Why?

The high shaman pulled his bone staff from the ground and drew a circle in the ashes with the end of the staff. The circle was not big, just big enough for two people to stand in.

"Because he is like you," said the high shaman, "and also wants to know how this egg came to be."

"He searched for thirty years. He searched every stone in the Ash Highlands and every hide scroll of the Emberfang Orcs, but he found no answer."

He went to the dwarven empire, to the human kingdoms, to the northern ice plains and the southern rainforests. He traveled the entire continent for twenty years, but still found no answer.

"When he returned, he was old. He stood where you are now, looking at the egg for three days and three nights. Then he walked into the golden flame."

The high shaman's voice grew softer and softer until it was almost inaudible.

"He walked in without saying a word, but everyone knew why."

He didn't know why he was guarding the egg, where this mission came from, or what the meaning of the Emberfang Orcs' existence was. So he chose to die in the flames of the gods, hoping that the gods could give him an answer.

"Did God give him the answer?" The chief's voice trembled slightly.

The high shaman shook his head.

"God said nothing. Your great-grandfather's ashes were spewed out by golden flames and scattered on the edge of the crater. The ashes were blown away by the wind and fell all over the Ash Heights."

"From that day on, the soil of the Ash Highlands changed. Grass began to grow on the once barren wasteland, magical beasts began to inhabit the area, and prey began to be available for hunting. The Ashfang Orcs no longer had to go hungry, and no longer had to fight to the death with other tribes for a piece of meat."

The high shaman raised his head, his cloudy eyes looking at the chief.

"Perhaps, that is God's answer."

The chief remained silent.