[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-black-dragon-necromancer":3,"chapter-black-dragon-necromancer-black-dragon-necromancer-chapter-136":6},{"origin":4,"title":5},"chinese","Black Dragon Necromancer",{"chapter":7,"nextChapterSlug":19,"prevChapterSlug":20,"totalChapters":21,"novelImage":22},{"id":8,"novel_id":9,"title":10,"slug":11,"index":12,"content":13,"wordcount":14,"created_at":15,"updated_at":15,"volume":16,"translator":17,"content_hash":18},2312896,4521,"Chapter 136: Verna","black-dragon-necromancer-chapter-136",136,"\u003Cp>Pain.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Not physical pain—Sakavi was long accustomed to the dull numbness of being wrapped in dragon scales.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It was the numbness deep in his soul, as if something were gnawing at it—like insects, like mold, like invisible tentacles slowly devouring the edges of his consciousness.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He had slept in the belly of this hellish volcano for an unknown length of time—perhaps months, perhaps a year.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Time in the 72nd Abyssal Plane was stagnant, like still water—no day or night, no seasons, only an eternal crimson sky and the acrid stench of sulfur in the air.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Abyssal Plane erodes the souls of outsiders. This was recorded in the Dragon Legacy, but only those who truly endured it could feel it—the sensation of ten thousand ants crawling inside your mind, slow, relentless, never stopping.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Sakavi opened his eyes.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The cave was pitch black, lit only by the occasional dull red glow from distant lava pools. He sensed something approaching—not footsteps, but a deeper, heavier pressure, like water seeping into sand.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Karava stepped in quietly and whispered, “My Lord, I apologize for disturbing your slumber. A demon calling himself Count Feino has come to visit. He says he has a transaction you’ll find interesting.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Sakavi’s voice rumbled from the depths of the cave, thick with awakened fury: “Who dares shatter the dream of a black dragon? He’d better be ready to pay for it.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Before the words had fully faded, a tall figure stepped into the cave. He appeared to be in his sixties, with neatly combed silver-white hair revealing a pale, high forehead.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His face was lean, cheekbones slightly prominent, skin like fine parchment, etched with fine yet elegant lines. His pupils were dark gold, vertically slit and slightly contracted, glowing faintly in the dark.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He wore a tailored black three-piece suit, a dark silver ouroboros pin fastened at his collar, and held a black ebony cane in his right hand, its tip set with a deep red gem—inside which smoke seemed to drift slowly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He walked with perfect posture, steps as light as a cat’s, lips curled in a faint, unreadable smile—radiating the refined restraint of an old aristocrat… and a dangerous cunning.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Respected Black Dragon Duke, I have entered.” He bowed slightly, voice calm. “Though it seems your mood is poor. But I believe you’ll soon be pleased—ha ha ha.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Sakavi’s dragon eyes glowed in the dark: “I’d be happier if I crushed your skull, flayed your skin, and poured acid into the hollow.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Feino remained unmoved, standing firm with his cane. “Calm yourself. Prince Giren Weberli has successfully slain the Thousand Torments Demon Lord Solos. The armies of the Aisos Empire have established a foothold on the Silent Wastes. Demons are gathering.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“So one plane lord is dead.” Sakavi’s voice dripped with contempt. “The vacant throne will draw more contenders. None of my concern.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Then let me speak of something that is.” Feino tapped the ground lightly with his cane. “Your subordinates took it upon themselves to reach into the Graywater Delta. But they seem to have gotten their hands caught—due to insufficient forces. You really ought to rein them in.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Sakavi’s growl shook the cave walls: “My affairs are none of your business. If you can’t offer me something truly interesting, you’ll pay for your insolence.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Feino emitted a low, chest-rumbling laugh: “Ha ha ha. Seems I struck a nerve. Very well—chit-chat ends here.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He paused, switched the cane to his left hand, and slowly withdrew a yellowed parchment scroll from his inner coat pocket. “I hold a map of the Withered Mire. No one’s paying attention there now.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“My eyes aren’t blind. I don’t need your reminder.” Sakavi replied coldly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Oh?” Feino raised an eyebrow, his dark golden pupils glinting with amusement. “Then you’ve also seen the hundreds of thousands of warrior skeletons buried beneath it? That’s quite remarkable—this marsh was once a battlefield.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Silence stretched for several breaths. Then Sakavi burst into a thunderous laugh: “Hahahaha—interesting! Speak. What do you want?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Feino tucked the map back into his coat, resuming his polished gentleman’s demeanor. “If I recall correctly, the late Abyssal Lord imprisoned countless souls within the Bone-Cry Mountain fortress-prison. That half-god warden… is a stubborn one.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“That’s not your concern.” Sakavi’s voice dropped, heavy with undeniable authority. “Prepare the Withered Mire beacon. Return to your hellish home.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Feino bowed deeply, his motion elegant as if performing at a royal ball. He retreated three steps before turning slowly, the tapping of his cane fading into silence.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The cave fell still again. Sakavi fell silent for a moment, then sighed: “Hmph… Never a moment’s peace. But yes, they do need reining in.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He lifted his massive dragon head toward the shadows. “Karava. Go to the Graywater Delta. The marsh is your domain. Watch those fools. The Mu River Plains are the foundation—don’t give me more trouble.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Karava emerged from the shadows, bowing low. “As you command!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Verna stood before the glowing map, her finger pressed against the abandoned tidal ditch at the border between Whispering Shoal and Reed Marsh.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Behind her stood five others: Captain of the Guard Vellis, Spider Queen Priestess Marsha, Goblin Mobile Corps Commander Grik, Harpy Leader Tali, and Jackal-man Leader Kaimon.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kaimon had attended such war councils before, but each time he felt uneasy. The stone table was too small, the chairs too low, the stalactites overhead made him constantly want to lift his head and sniff for prey’s scent.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He was a gray-furred jackal-man, broad-shouldered and sturdy, with an old scar across his nose—a slash from a drow scimitar, earned during his campaigns in the Underdark.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His tribe numbered a thousand brothers, all capable of silent stealth through mud for half a day, biting through fungal tendrils with their teeth, and creating chaos in enemy camps worse than plague.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Kaimon.” Verna’s voice pulled him from his reverie.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Here.” He grunted, ears twitching up.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Your jackal-men won’t join the frontal assault.” Verna traced an arc on the map—from Whispering Shoal, around the flank of Reed Marsh, deep into the edge of the Humus Basin. “I want you and all your men to take this route.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kaimon leaned close, squinting his yellow eyes. The path crossed the densest fungal network, skirted at least three Bone-Spike Toad nests, and required wading through chest-deep mud for nearly four hours.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>To a human, this meant death. But jackal-men could smell fungal tendrils’ rot from half a mile away; their hearing could detect the heartbeat vibrations of toads five feet beneath the mud.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“And then?” Kaimon’s claw pointed to a marked red cross on the map—a critical node in the Old Rot’s fungal network, labeled by drow scouts as “Rotthroat.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Three main fungal trunks converged here, like blood vessels feeding nutrients and commands throughout the marsh.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Destroy it.” Verna said, her tone as casual as ordering someone to chop down a tree.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Then retreat east to this high ground and wait for signal. I don’t care how you do it—I want no new sprouts from that node in three days.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kaimon bared his teeth, revealing rows of sharp yellow fangs. It wasn’t a smile—it was the jackal-man way of saying “understood.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“And the rest?” asked Grik, the Goblin Mobile Corps Commander, his voice shrill. He was short but muscular, carrying a shortbow disproportionate to his size.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His two thousand goblins were no rabble. Under the brutal training of drow instructors, they had mastered drow-style Mobile Corps Commander tactics: disperse, harass, concentrate, retreat—like a disciplined swarm of hornets.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You fight alongside the drow main force.” Verna said. “But not head-on.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The battle began two hours after midnight. Verna had chosen this time—the Abyssal Plane’s mist was thickest, and the fungal network’s perception dropped by twenty percent due to the cold.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>More importantly, the Gray Mire Stalkers needed to surface frequently at night to replace the air in their lung sacs (their breathing tubes became clogged with dew), making them most vulnerable.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kaimon led his thousand jackal-men out one hour before the battle began.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>They didn’t take Whispering Shoal. Instead, they descended a hidden fissure west of the outpost, stepped across exposed rocks from the receding tide, and circled to the marsh’s rear flank.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This was the route Grul the Skinner once used to transport captives by sea—still stained with dried blood. Jackal-men’s padded paws made almost no sound on the slick rocks.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kaimon walked in the center of the column, his nose constantly twitching. The air reeked of the Ash Sea’s salt, the marsh’s rot, and now, the increasingly thick, cloying sweetness of fungal growth.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He raised his right claw. The column halted. Jackal-men crouched silently on the rocks, like gray stone statues.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Thirty paces ahead—fungal tendrils beneath the mud.” Kaimon whispered to his brother Sola. “Have the men coat their boots in crocodile bile.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Jackal-men pulled small clay jars of putrid scale-crocodile bile from their waist pouches and smeared it evenly on their soles and greaves. The pungent odor confused the fungi’s chemical senses, making them mistake jackal-men for passing crocodiles.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>They moved again, leaping from rock into waist-deep mud.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kaimon led the way. His ears rotated, catching every sound: the wind through Reed Marsh, the popping of mud bubbles, the faint rustling of fungal tendrils moving underground.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His nose simultaneously analyzed dozens of scents—the toads’ fecal stench, the Stalkers’ blood, and the overpowering reek of the giant “Rotthroat,” like rotting cabbage.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Half a mile from the target, Kaimon heard the first horn blast from the front line.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It was Tali’s signal. The feint force was advancing.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>On the front line, Tali’s fifteen hundred drow warriors formed a loose skirmish line, advancing from Whispering Shoal toward Reed Marsh. Two thousand goblin mobile troops moved among them, wielding shortbows and poisoned arrows, stepping as lightly as if walking on cotton.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The first wave of Bone-Spike Toads surged from Reed Marsh—about two hundred. They didn’t fire in unison; the distance was too great for their spines to reach. Instead, they formed a crescent, attempting to flank the drow.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Tali didn’t fall for it. She ordered the drow to crouch, raising shields to form a curved wall.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Goblin mobile troops fired poisoned arrows through gaps in the shield wall. The arrows were coated in Abyssal fire oil—non-lethal on impact, but the flames ignited the toads’ oily skin membranes, creating chaos.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The toads hesitated.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>At that moment, Sylvie’s harpies dove from above.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Three hundred harpies spread their gray-black wings like a cloud sweeping through the mist.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>They hurled the clay jars in their claws toward the rear of the toad formation. The jars shattered, spilling dark green Abyssal fire oil across the ground, igniting in a roaring blaze that cut off the toads’ escape.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Trapped between fire and shield wall, the toads panicked. They tried to organize a coordinated volley, but their bone-spine veteran commander was struck through the throat by a goblin sniper’s poisoned arrow and collapsed into the mud.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Deep in the marsh, a muffled tremor shook the ground. Mud churned as dozens of Gray Mire Stalkers burst forth.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>They were larger than the ones Keno had encountered, their dorsal breathing tubes rising like chimneys, puffing white mist.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The front-line enemies didn’t immediately fire their Corrupt Gaze—they saw no high-value targets exposed behind the drow shield wall.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Meanwhile, the flanks began encountering trouble.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The flank-hunting squads were in position. Five hundred elite drow were scattered along the Stalkers’ expected paths.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Crossbow bolts pierced the first Stalker’s left forelimb and right hind leg. It roared, struggling to break free, but the arrowheads had pierced its scales—the toxin took effect, slowing its movements.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Ten drow charged from the side. Two carried barrels of concentrated Abyssal fire oil. They climbed onto the Stalker’s back—the blind spot of its Corrupt Gaze—and poured the oil into its dorsal bone-tube breathing vents.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Stalker’s lung sacs ignited.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A muffled explosion tore the Stalker apart from within. Gray-white flesh and shattered bone sprayed dozens of feet. Its head landed on the ground, its milky eyes still faintly glowing—but no longer a threat.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The second Stalker, witnessing its companion’s fate, tried to retreat into the mud—but too slowly. The drow were already hunting it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Tar smeared over its eyes, rendering its Corrupt Gaze blind and erratic—its beams burned trenches into the mud, but struck no one.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Hachet rose from behind the mound, scimitar in hand, approached from the side, then leapt onto the Stalker’s skull, driving his blade through its eye socket. The Stalker convulsed once, then collapsed like a fallen wall into the mud.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Less than half an hour into battle, hundreds of Stalkers lay dead.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Meanwhile, Kaimon’s jackal-men had reached the “Rotthroat.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It was a massive fungal aggregation, protruding from the mud, over ten feet in diameter, its surface covered in dark red, scale-like bark. At its top, it split open like a malformed dahlia, oozing thick black fluid from its fissures.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Three main fungal trunks extended from its base, sinking deep into the mud, each as thick as a water barrel. The air reeked of overpowering rot. White, maggot-like larvae crawled over its surface, constantly gnawing at the outer skin to promote growth.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“That’s it.” Kaimon whispered.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He scanned the surroundings. Dozens of Bone-Spike Toads guarded the Rotthroat, along with numerous fungal puppets—humanoid monsters stitched from rotting corpses and fungal filaments, feeling no pain, knowing no fatigue.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But the jackal-men numbered a thousand. And they weren’t here for a frontal assault—they were here to destroy.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kaimon split his force into three groups. First group cleared the guards. Second group attached alchemical explosives to the fungal trunks. Third group provided cover and rear guard.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Move.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The battle lasted only a few breaths.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kaimon personally led the second group, tying over thirty clay jars to the three fungal trunks. He lit the fuses, then sprinted with the entire team back the way they came.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Behind them came a deafening explosion. The Rotthroat was torn apart from within by the fungal decomposer blast—black fluid erupted like a geyser, shooting dozens of feet into the air.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Three main mycelial trunks snapped simultaneously, white foam gushing from the broken ends—a stress response as the mycelia lost their central control. The entire swamp’s ground began to tremble faintly, like a giant beast had its nerves ripped out.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kai Meng turned to look back. The ruins of the Root-Throat still burned, the air thick with the stench of charred mycelia and protein.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Retreat!” he roared. “Head for the eastern highland—there are allies waiting there!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>On the front line, the Old Rotwood’s forces, deprived of central command, descended into chaos. Bone-Spiked Toads no longer coordinated; some fired bone spines blindly, others fled toward the swamp’s depths, and some even spun in place.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Tali’s frontal decoy unit seized the opportunity, advancing half a li and slaughtering dozens of isolated toads with curved blades and spears.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Verna glanced at the sky—the mist was thinning; dawn was coming.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Withdraw,” she ordered.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Zhol troops pulled back in perfect order.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>When Kai Meng’s jackal-men reached the eastern highland, Verna’s personal guard was already waiting. Two flat-bottomed boats circled in from the sea and anchored at the rocky shore below the highland.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The jackal-men were soaked, caked in mud and blood, but Kai Meng counted their numbers and found fewer than a hundred men lost.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Well done,” Captain Dilon said, an uncommon compliment, handing him a waterskin.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kai Meng did not take the water. Instead, he crouched on a rock and turned back toward the swamp’s depths. Smoke still rose from the direction of the Root-Throat—a thick black column stark against the gray-white mist.\u003C\u002Fp>",2602,"2026-06-20T13:10:04.638Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","c8bab6bf413dc32b8189828c9b321e7f6407f335c8b8cbf0dc68f5ae64c71ee7","black-dragon-necromancer-chapter-137","black-dragon-necromancer-chapter-135",145,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fblack-dragon-necromancer-cover.jpg"]