Chapter 124

Beneath a burning sky, the sulfur storms unique to the Abyss howled in the distance, staining the horizon a sickly orange-red.

Vast volcanic rock mountains, like the spine of a demon, pierced the earth, and atop the steepest of these peaks now crouched a terrifying cluster that made even dragons tremble—one hundred and twenty dragons.

Seventy metallic dragons, their scales gleaming with rational luster, and fifty chromatic dragons, radiating wild, violent energy, stood in clear division around the summit platform.

Yet bound by an urgent shared goal, they maintained a fragile truce, thick with low growls and wary glances. All their gazes kept flickering toward the relatively “small” but powerfully commanding core circle at the platform’s center.

The leader, the bronze dragon Purglin, was not the largest in size, but his amber scales shimmered with the glow of wisdom and experience under the sulfurous firelight.

He crouched atop the highest rock, his tail lightly tapping the ground, his eyes sharp as blades forged through a thousand hammerings, sweeping constantly among the several “representatives.” He was the architect and binding force of this improbable alliance.

The black dragon Sakavi lay coiled in the deepest shadows, his dark scales nearly absorbing all light, save for his cold yellow vertical pupils and the acidic saliva dripping from his jaws, revealing his presence and impatience.

The bronze dragon Groverian carried the scent of sea salt and ozone; even in this dry hell, his scales seemed beaded with condensation.

He stood tall and stern, the embodiment of strategy and discipline among the metallic dragons, his disdain for the black dragon beside him unmistakable.

The blue dragon Vendsa crouched near the cliff’s edge, where the wind was strongest, her sapphire scales crackling with static sparks.

She was silent, but her raised crest and slightly parted beak revealed she was meticulously analyzing every current of air and energy—alert sentinel and tactician.

The red dragon Fidemina was the most agitated. Hot breaths erupted from her nostrils, igniting the rocks beneath her, her molten-gold pupils burning with pure destructive desire and extreme impatience with the status quo.

“Gentlemen, the purpose of summoning you here today is surely known to you all.”

Purglin, the demigod bronze dragon, did not raise his voice, yet his tone carried the resonance of metal, cutting through the howling wind atop the peak and reaching every dragon’s ears clearly.

His amber vertical pupils slowly swept across every face in the core circle, and where his gaze fell, even the most restless red dragon momentarily suppressed the sparks in her breath.

“The Weiboli family’s hunt has begun,” he paused briefly, letting the weight of the name “Weiboli” settle in the air, “the Abyss Lord of Abyss #72 has entered his final countdown.”

A rustling of scales echoed from the periphery, mixed with low, wary hums.

“Yet the Abyss leaves no void,” Purglin’s front claws tightened slightly against the rock, causing a faint tremor to ripple through the mountain, emphasizing his next words.

“Our task is to seal that damned rift in Moyan Mountain. We must, at the precise moment the old lord falls and his authority vanishes, prevent any new, greedy demon lord from forcibly claiming entry.”

His voice turned sharp as a drawn dragon fang, “We have gathered here not for a battle of defeat, but to utterly extinguish any possibility the Abyss might turn this conquest into a prolonged stalemate. Now—”

His gaze fell in turn upon the black dragon’s shadow, the bronze dragon’s wave-like scales, the blue dragon’s flickering electric light, and the red dragon’s molten pupils.

“—speak your considerations. Or your conditions.”

“Lord Purglin, before we discuss the rift in Moyan Mountain, an old matter must be clarified here.”

A voice as cold as iron shattered the brief silence. It belonged to a dragon whose scales shimmered with bronze luster, his vertical pupils like frozen ice, fixed past Purglin and locked onto the darkest shadow.

“During the cleansing campaign of Subplane #1872, as we fought bloodily against the Chaos’ claws, one among us—” his words paused deliberately, forcing every dragon’s gaze to turn toward the black dragon coiled in shadow.

“—not only failed to fulfill his promise, but at the moment the battle stabilized, seized the richest spoils by dishonorable means, swallowing an entire material continent—fifteen percent of that plane’s stable territory—all for himself.”

His wings unfurled slightly, stirring a gust of salt-laden air thick with fury.

“This matter has never been addressed. And today, this ‘hero’ stands among us.” The bronze dragon’s voice sank lower, yet grew sharper, like a blade unsheathed for judgment.

“If the foundation of cooperation is trust and justice, then this old debt must be settled before we face the new threat together.”

A low, rasping chuckle emerged from the shadow, like rusted metal scraping rock. The black dragon slowly extended his neck; his dark scales reflected no light even under sulfurous fire, revealing only his cold yellow vertical pupils, fixed unflinchingly on the bronze dragon.

“My dear ‘ally’ Groverian, has your memory conveniently forgotten something?” His voice was thick and slow, dripping with venomous mockery.

“When the pus of Subplane #1872 burst, whose territory did the first wave of demons strike? My city of Agrik. While my kin turned to bones upon the walls, where were you?”

He raised his voice slightly, each word like an ice spike dipped in poison.

“Where was the promised reinforcement? Did your thunderous oaths vanish with the sea breeze stirred by your wings?” A dangerous, corrosive glow flickered in his throat, “As for that ‘unclaimed land’ I took…”

He deliberately stretched his tone, his massive head turning toward the demigod bronze dragon Purglin, then sweeping across the other dragons, as if seeking some unspoken “understanding.”

“Fire consumes all; the old powers are ash. As a true chromatic demon dragon, must I ask permission to claim spoils? By Abyssal law, strength is authority. If you resent it—”

His gaze snapped back to the bronze dragon, his pupils narrowing into a cruel slit, “Why didn’t you come and take it then? Or are you only skilled at counting others’ treasures after the battle?”

“Taking advantage of chaos?”

Groverian’s voice did not rise; instead, it sank into a deep, rolling thunder beneath the sea. He straightened his long neck, his sea-blue scales seeming to frost over.

“That is a shame etched into our blood,” he spoke slowly, clearly, like a final verdict in a court of judgment.

“While allies bleed, to sidestep the battlefield and profit from spilled blood; while oaths still warm, to turn your back on the pact sworn together—our kind calls this shameless.”

His massive head turned toward the shadowed black dragon, his vertical pupils churning with cold ocean tides and unmasked contempt.

“Only predators who worship greed as doctrine and deceit as breath would call betrayal ‘spoils’ and shamelessness ‘strength.’”

His wings unfurled slightly, stirring a biting, salt-laced breeze, “The thief in darkness can never understand the weight of scales beneath the sun, nor what honor means.”

“Hah—?!”

A piercing screech, mixed with bursting sparks, ripped through the air. Fidemina reared her head, her molten pupils contracting into searing slits, fixed unblinkingly on Groverian.

What erupted from her nostrils was no longer sparks, but twin torrents of searing heat, instantly scorching the rocks beneath her into a sizzling red glow.

“Rusted copper brat!” Her roar echoed like a detonation from the planet’s core, thick with unmasked fury and mockery.

“Try saying another word with that tongue rotting in sea salt? What ‘ally’? If you took it, you took it! Did I burn their camps or swallow their gold? Who gave you the right to lecture us like this?!”

Her massive body leaned forward slightly, sending a wave of scorching heat, every spine along her neck bristling like burning thorns.

“As for those two-legged, spineless worms who can’t even withstand our dragon aura—” she let out a short, shrill scoff, her molten-gold eyes filled with pure, predatory disdain,

“Are they even called ‘allies’? And is it worth you, a true dragon, barking like a guard dog for them? Groverian, your ‘status’ is so cheap it makes me sick!”

The final word spat a tiny jet of real flame from between her teeth, igniting the air and pushing the meeting’s atmosphere to the brink of explosion.

Just as the searing dragon breath clashed with the biting sea wind, a precise, steady hum of static electricity sliced through the boiling air.

Vendsa slowly leaned forward, her long neck covered in sapphire scales, her voice neither loud nor soft, yet as clear as a precision instrument, instantly capturing every dragon’s attention.

“Do not excite yourselves.”

Her vertical pupils glowed with calm, rational light, like arcs of calculated energy, sweeping evenly between the furious red dragon and the icy bronze dragon.

“For a species of fleeting, inferior creatures who cannot survive even one of our slumbers,” her tone remained flat, yet carried a cruel objectivity, “is it worth tearing our scales and exhausting our strength among ourselves?”

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze seeming to pierce through spatial barriers, toward the distant Abyssal rift.

“Whether the territory seized or the gold melted, they were not directly taken from your hoard, Groverian.”

Her voice shifted into a more persuasive, resonant low hum, “Every moment spent clinging to the dust of the past drains the incalculable possibilities we could seize in Abyss #72.”

Her tail tip lightly traced the ground, leaving behind a precise, sparking electric groove—as if mapping the boundaries of profit.

“True wealth and authority await beyond that Abyssal rift. Wasting our strength on internal tearing is like using gemstones from a crown to fill a goblin’s muddy hole.”

She finally fixed her gaze on the core leader, Purglin, her words landing with precision and force, “Current bickering is unproductive. The power gathered here must point to one goal—the coming, greater feast that is ours to claim, is it not?”

Just as Vendsa’s words cooled the air like a misty rain, the darkest shadow rippled perfectly.

The black dragon slowly stretched, his long neck, capable of absorbing light, fully emerging from the gloom.

He ignored Fidemina’s lingering fury and did not glance at Groverian; instead, his cold yellow vertical pupils fixed directly on the demigod bronze dragon Purglin, his voice rasping and steady, like a dark river flowing through a deep cavern:

“Past dust must yield to future mountains.” He first calmly echoed Vendsa’s point, then his words pierced like a venomous claw, “To secure this ‘new mountain’ about to be claimed, my investment this time… is not insignificant.”

He paused deliberately, letting each syllable carry heavy weight, clearly reaching every dragon’s ears.

“Thirty chromatic dragons,” he stated the number, his tone devoid of boast, merely stating an undeniable fact.

“The finest warriors, masters of sulfur and shadow, now gather beneath my wings. Their strength will be poured without reservation into the Moyan Mountain rift, provided our shared goal is clear and the interests… secure.”

He named no ally, raised no old grievance—only calmly laid down the chips he held, enough to tip the scales.

This declaration was both promise and reminder—to every dragon present, especially to the leader Purglin—that regardless of the past, his power now was an undeniable force in this feast.

“Hahahaha!”

Fidemina let out a short, loud scoff from her throat, her molten pupils flicking toward the black dragon, filled with unmasked mockery and a certain unspoken “familiarity.” Sparks from her breath nearly splattered onto his dark scales.

“Cunning brat, who are you trying to fool with your tricks?” She flicked her head, her neck spines clattering, her tone brimming with seeing-through-all mockery.

“Thirty dragons? Please. Others might be fooled by your shadowy formations, but do you think I don’t know what’s hatched in your nest?”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice just enough for all to hear, as if sharing a spicy secret.

“Probably a bunch of dragonlings who can’t even speak full dragon incantations, whose scales haven’t hardened yet? Where did you drag this ‘army’ from, some stinking mud pit?”

She emitted a rumbling growl—mocking, yet carrying a strange “acknowledgment,” acknowledging the cunning itself.

“You dare call those fireball-throwing beasts, who can’t even project proper dragon aura, ‘dragons’? Sakavi, your hide is thicker than your scales.”

Her teasing was sharp but not truly angry—more like a seasoned player in a dangerous game, exposing a companion’s bluster while warning others: don’t be fully fooled—I know his hand.

A low, almost pleased, rasping chuckle emerged from the shadow. The black dragon’s yellow pupils narrowed slightly in the dark, like a predator sensing his prey stepping onto the trap’s edge.

“Fidemina, my dear ally,” his voice sank lower, like venom seeping through rock crevices, feigning wounded confusion, “a flame that turns on its own nest burns especially painfully.”

He slowly turned his head fully toward the red dragon, each word spoken clearly, slowly, yet piercing with cold force:

“About the origin of those ‘dragonlings’… shall I help cool your fiery memory?” He paused deliberately, letting the suspense linger in the sulfurous air.

“A certain… hmm, dragon whose scale color I cannot disclose for caution informed me that a shrewd young dragon trader, while clearing out his overcrowded nest, ‘disposed’ of them.”

A rumbling sound emerged from his throat, like suppressed cruel laughter.

“Ah, yes. Among them, the most ‘precious’ clutch—the silver-scaled dragonlings…” The black dragon’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, then abruptly cut off.

He slightly lifted his head; his dark scales, for the first time, reflected a faint cold metallic gleam under the firelight, his pupils locked onto Fidemina’s suddenly frozen neck spines.

“Hahahaha! All misunderstandings! If not for me, where would you get so many chromatic dragons to command? Dragonlings’ intelligence and combat power are ultimately inadequate.”

“Enough jesting, all of you. We must cross the entire Blackspine Highlands to reach the Abyssal rift.

There are no shortcuts—we must fight our way through. If no one objects, we depart. Time is not on our side. This opportunity comes but once.”