Chapter 132: Krausuna

“Archbishop Arlok, I’ve come again to drink your temple’s holy wine!” As the massive head of the Black Dragon Krausuna poked through the temple’s side window, it brought with it a scent of sulfur and sea wind.

Even with her wings tightly folded, they still knocked over two candlestands at the entrance; her golden-red vertical pupils glowed like molten gemstones in the dim sanctum.

“First Elder Riman hasn’t rung the bell for a whole year—don’t you even send someone to invite me over for fun? So stingy!”

Archbishop Arlok of the Orcish War God Church slowly turned from before the altar. His copper-toned skin was crisscrossed with scars from countless battles; his single eye, like a ruby embedded in stone, regarded the laughing dragon-beast before him without a flicker of emotion.

“Krausuna.” His voice was like a millstone grinding coarse grain, “Every flap of your wings carries calculation. Don’t wrap your true intent in playful scales before me.”

He took a step forward; the heavy robes of the high priest emitted a dull clank of metal plates beneath.

“Speak plainly—whose bloody battlefield is your shadowed Black Duke trying to ignite with the War God’s altar fire this time?”

“Aaaah—!!!” Krausuna let out an exaggerated wail loud enough to shake dust from the rafters, jerking her head back and clutching her chest with both foreclaws as if pierced by an invisible arrow.

Her long tail “accidentally” swept across the temple’s side corridor, sending a row of prayer benches toppling in every direction.

“My dear, heartless Arlok!” She lowered her head, pressing close to the orcish archbishop, and forced two glistening “tears” of suspicious golden light into her lantern-sized eyes—each evaporating into sulfurous smoke before hitting the stone floor.

“Your sharp words wound deeper than the most vicious armor-piercing arrow! My devotion to Lord Feilong and my cherished friendship know no bounds!”

She raised one claw, using a sharp, spear-like toe to feign sorrow as she prodded the scales near her chest, producing a grating metallic screech.

“You’ve deeply wounded a dragon—a cherished friend’s fragile, sincere heart!” Suddenly, she laid her entire head flat upon the empty ground before the altar; her massive body made the entire temple tremble.

“Unless… unless you give me three casks—no, five! Five casks of your deepest-stored ‘Blood of Honor’ holy wine to soothe this wound! Otherwise, otherwise I’ll refuse to leave!”

Having spoken, she deliberately emitted a low, continuous whimper, yet the tip of her tail impatiently tapped the ground, cracking the stone slabs with fine fissures. One eye cracked open a sliver to watch Arlok’s expression.

“Enough.” Arlok’s voice was not loud, but like a sledgehammer striking a mortar, it instantly drowned out all the theatrical whimpers and tail-taps. In his single eye, there was no anger—only a deep, bottomless weariness, as if scorched by endless war.

He turned slowly; his heavy priestly robes dragged heavy trails through the dusty stone floor. Sunlight from the window illuminated half his face, carving his facial lines as deeply as if cut by a blade.

“In times of peace, I wouldn’t mind playing a few rounds of Tarot with you, listening to your absurd tales from the Abyss.” He raised a hand to halt her attempt to interrupt; his fingers, deformed from years of gripping an axe, were thick and knotted.

“But now, the borders of the Luo Sen Empire are burning; the eastern front has blazed for three days without pause; the wagon tracks of northern refugees have already reached the temple’s steps. Every breath carries smoke and blood; every moment demands the passage of fallen warriors’ souls.”

He finally turned his gaze upon Krausuna, his eyes like cooled lava:

“So put away the theater. Speak the truth. In the Hall of the War God, only blood-heavy truth may stand—no hollow jests are permitted.”

“What—?!!” Krausuna’s massive head snapped up, knocking over a bronze candlestand beside the altar, ignoring the scalding wax that spilled.

Her golden-red pupils shrank to slits in shock; both foreclaws slammed onto the stone floor with a clang, making the sacred emblems in the corner hum with vibration.

“You only see a new crowned figure upon the throne, Krausuna.” The weariness in Arlok’s single eye threatened to turn into actual ash.

He did not raise his voice, but each word weighed as heavy as dried blood soaked into the altar’s stone. His rough fingers unconsciously rubbed a deep gash along the altar’s edge—a scar left by a battle thirty years prior.

“The Luo Sen Empire is indeed the hegemon of the Crimson Moon Plane; precisely because of that, too many corpses and treasures lie buried beneath the throne. The howls of the jackal-men have never begun today.”

He slowly lifted his gaze, as if piercing through the temple’s thick stone walls to the distant smoke-choked horizon. “But in days past, Emperor Senide’s iron fist and the million swords stationed along the borders forced every would-be predator to retract their claws and swallow their greed.”

His voice grew lower, yet tighter:

“Now, the empire’s muscles and bones—the veteran legions—have been swallowed whole by the endless maw of the Abyss front. What remains on home soil are only the old and weak.”

“Those border folk you scornfully call ‘subhuman races’—they’re not fools. They smell the blood of power vacuums.”

Arlok finally turned fully toward Krausuna; his single eye reflected the flickering candles—and the cold reality:

“So jackal-men burn villages; harpies seize mining passes; swamp trolls begin attacking caravans… every frontier is breached, and we cannot spare even a single intact battle group to plug the gaps.”

“The War God’s temple is piled high with civilians begging for protection—and with unclaimed lists of the dead, many of whom did not die on honorable battlefields.”

His final words fell into the silent hall, bitter as rust:

“This is the reality, Krausuna. Beneath the empire’s glory, shadows are now measuring the land with claws and fangs. And we—can barely spare time to polish our shields.”

“Hah! Arlok, do you think only your empire is leaking wind?” Krausuna let out a short, rust-tinged laugh, her tail sweeping the ground and kicking up a puff of stone dust.

She slightly reined in her theatrical posture; her golden-red pupils now glowed with a rare, almost sympathetic sharpness.

“Look at our Duke’s domain: to gnaw one more piece of rot from the Abyss, the Duke has chained every male pig-man capable of breathing and crammed them onto troop ships. Now the villages hold only pups, old bones, and mothers with tearless eyes.”

Her claw slashed through the air as if crushing something. “Border reports?” They now read like a pyromaniac’s menu!

“Today one village burns to ash by a mercenary band; tomorrow another outpost is uprooted by some adventurer squad!”

She leaned closer, her breath growing searing hot: “Even when I led a patrol to clear a nest of blind hyenas, they dared to ambush us in the ‘Withered Gorge’—using anti-magic crossbows bought from dwarf smugglers to pierce the wings of two of my most trusted guards!”

Two plumes of sulfurous smoke erupted from her nostrils; her voice carried both fury and a barely perceptible worry. “These rats hide in shadows—unkillable, unbanishable—like maggots consuming our dwindling strength.”

Then, her tone shifted; her massive head lifted, voice sinking again into calculation: “But all these annoying holes, compared to the game being played on the Shattered Stone Continent… are merely dust on the edge of a boot.”

“Gisk has already driven a wedge into the demon city’s walls; the artifact buried deep within is worth a hundred chaotic villages.”

“Control that place, and we’ll have the capital to settle every single one of these ‘minor annoyances’—principal and interest included.”

“So,” Arlok’s single eye narrowed slightly, his gaze like a quenched probe piercing through Krausuna’s verbal veil. He stepped forward; his battle boots struck the stone with steady resonance, causing the eternal flames around the altar to flicker.

“Your game on the Shattered Stone Continent has met resistance. You need a powerful ally to stabilize your rear—or… open a new front.”

He cut straight to the point, his voice as direct and hard as forged iron:

“Then say it plainly, Krausuna. The War God Church does not withhold aid—but every gift of strength carries a price. What can Sakavi offer our empire, already drowning in crises, as true return?”

His gaze swept past the window, where faint smoke from refugee camps drifted into view.

Arlok pressed both hands against the altar’s edge, leaning forward like a warrior about to charge—though clad in the archbishop’s robes.

"Before the altar of the War God, don't peddle empty futures. Tell me—what tangible stakes can you place on this table, right now?"

“Benefits? Hah, Arlok, let’s speak plainly.” Krausuna shed all her theatricals; her dragon pupils narrowed, revealing the sharpness of a negotiator. One foreclaw tapped the ground rhythmically, producing dull thuds.

“We need two things: First, a shipment of strategic supplies ready for immediate transport to Crystal Horn Bay—thirty thousand sets of orc-standard weapons, medicine for large-scale corrosion wounds, and long-term-preserved military rations.”

“Second,” she paused, “sell us a ready-made fleet of warships. Doesn’t need to be new, but must be seaworthy and combat-capable.”

Watching Arlok’s bottomless single eye, she leaned forward, voice lowered yet laced with undeniable allure:

“In exchange, the southeastern Ashburn Wastelands—the Graywater Delta. Does your Luo Sen Empire still have the strength to reach into that swamp?”

Her tail flicked gently, with a shrewd softness: “But with a little tidying, that waterlogged land becomes flat, moist, rich in silt—easily feeding a million orcs.”

Krausuna’s lips curled slightly into a nearly sincere smile:

“If we ‘help’ clear the demons there, and build a few dikes… someone needs to be appointed regional archbishop, doesn’t he?”

She exhaled a wisp of sulfurous smoke, her voice hushed as if sharing a secret:

“Then your warriors’ families with nowhere to go, the displaced orc tribes along the border—they’ll all have a place to take root.”

“A granary and recruiting ground beyond the empire’s reach. Isn’t this benefit more ‘real’ than any hollow promise?”

“I cannot decide this alone—it requires Emperor Senide’s approval. But it is indeed a sound idea; the Luo Sen Empire’s interests in the Ashburn Wastelands do need solidifying.”