Chapter 141: The Silent Wastes

After returning from the Ashen Wastes, Sakavi lay curled in a cave of the Hellfire Volcano for three full days.

The wound at the base of his left wing had scabbed over, but each wingbeat still sent dull throb through him. He didn’t care. What weighed on him were the ambitions and greed that clung to his mind— and he needed a key.

The Soul Prison.

Fino wanted the prisoners inside. Sakavi didn’t know where the prison was, who was held there, or what the warden was.

He knew only one thing: the Dragon Legacy mentioned the place. Just one sentence—“At the deepest layer of Plane 72, souls so abhorrent even the Abyss refuses them are imprisoned. The warden’s name has been forgotten, for those who have seen it no longer own their own souls.”

Even the Dragon Legacy dared not write more.

Sakavi was no longer a reckless hatchling. He wouldn’t charge into a place where even legendary warriors might not survive, as he had at sixteen.

He needed allies. Not tools like Karava who merely followed orders, but partners with brains, means, and the willingness to be discarded without hesitation when necessary.

And in this plane, only one place could provide such “partners.”

The rear outpost of the Silent Wastes.

Sakavi flew for five days.

The first three days were within Plane 72. He flew just beneath the cloud layer, avoiding demonic gathering points on the ground and the occasional patrols of Rebel Souls overhead. The farther south he went, the more desolate the land became.

Black basalt gave way to gray-white dust; the sulfur scent faded, replaced by a dry, ancient-ash-like odor.

On the fourth day, he passed through a natural rift in the plane.

The rift was narrow, barely wide enough for a dragon to slip through sideways, yet the internal space corridor proved unexpectedly stable. When he emerged from the other side, the landscape had changed utterly.

The sky was no longer crimson, but a pale, nearly transparent gray-blue, like winter morning frost.

No sulfur deserts, no rivers of magma—only an endless expanse of gray-white wasteland: cracked earth, dried riverbeds, occasional clumps of stiff, iron-wire-like shrubs in gray-brown.

This was the Silent Wastes.

A “flying enclave” of Plane 72, severed from the main continent by natural spatial barriers, where the Abyss’s influence was weak and order energy barely managed to take root.

The Allied Forces chose this place for their forward base not because of strategic value—quite the opposite, it was absurdly remote—but because only here could ordinary soldiers’ protective spells last three days.

Sakavi lowered his altitude, gliding just above the wasteland’s surface. The cracked ground below resembled a vast, parched mouth, silently open. He flew for about two hours before spotting silhouettes on the horizon.

It wasn’t a wall—it was an outpost.

The Aisos Empire’s million-strong army was locked in bloody combat with demons deep within the Silent Wastes, but Sakavi had no intention of going to the front. He was headed for the chaotic rear outpost, crammed with factions, a makeshift “city” of tents, wooden shacks, and leather huts—reeking, yet teeming with life.

It had no name. People called it simply “the Camp.”

The Camp sprawled vast, appearing from above as a gray patch glued stubbornly to the gray-white wasteland. No unified planning, no orderly streets—only countless self-formed districts jammed together like a pile of haphazardly stacked blocks.

The Empire’s supply depots occupied the center, surrounded by high walls and arrow towers. Outside those walls lay the true “Camp”—adventurers, merchants, mercenary bands, intelligence traders, deserters, fugitives… anyone and everyone.

Sakavi landed five li from the Camp, shifting into his dragon-human form.

He wore a dark gray traveling cloak, hood pulled low, revealing only a sliver of black jaw covered in fine scales. A short, unremarkable sword hung at his waist—not for combat, but to appear less like a threat.

From his space ring, he pulled out a black iron badge and pinned it inside his cloak. It bore the seal of the Luo Sen Empire, identifying him as an envoy of “Luo Sen Empire’s hereditary duke, Sakavi Kelsis Domina.”

A legal identity. On Imperial soil, it could make a guard’s spear tip shift a few inches. But that was all—five-colored dragons’ reputations here were no better than demons’.

He followed a dirt path worn by cart wheels toward the Camp. The road teemed with travelers: human merchants driving pack beasts, dwarven miners carrying picks, several priests in Church of Light robes hurrying past, a squad of elven rangers resting silently by the roadside.

No one gave him a second glance. In the Camp, too many hid their faces—no one had time to guess what lay beneath a hood.

But everyone knew: this place belonged to no one’s home. It was the antechamber of the battlefield, the waiting room between life and death.

The Camp’s entrance had no gate. Only two charred wooden posts, between which hung a tattered Imperial banner—the white rose emblem worn faint by wind, sand, and blood. Two Imperial soldiers leaned against the posts, armor caked in dust, eyes half-closed, as if ready to drop asleep at any moment.

As Sakavi passed them, the soldier on the left opened one eye.

“Badge.”

Sakavi flashed the seal. The soldier glanced at it, then at the black scales barely visible beneath the hood, and frowned.

“Black dragon?” His voice dripped with undisguised disgust.

“Luo Sen Empire’s black dragon.” Sakavi replied, tone as flat as stating the weather.

The soldier fell silent for a few seconds, then waved him through. “Go in. Don’t cause trouble. If you do, no one will collect your corpse.”

Sakavi tucked the badge away and entered the Camp.

Inside, it was messier and livelier than he’d expected.

The main road—if you could call the rutted, uneven dirt tracks by that name—was lined with stalls of every kind.

Sellers of demon shells, Abyssal ores, enchanted weapons, healing potions, intelligence, slaves, bodies… everything imaginable. The air reeked of cheap incense, sweat, blood, and feces, a cacophony like boiling slop.

Sakavi walked along the main road, observing silently.

He knew what he was looking for.

Drow elves.

Across the multiverse, if any race excelled at assassination and didn’t recoil from cooperating with black dragons, it was the Drow. They cared nothing for good or evil, no loyalty to order—only profit and power.

And they possessed an intelligence network spanning the entire plane. What the Empire wouldn’t reveal, the Drow might.

The Lothien Alliance, that vast organization of hundreds of thousands of Drow cities, had sent tens of thousands here. Officially, they were “assisting the Empire against the Abyss.” Everyone knew they were here to profit.

The Empire not only tolerated their presence but reluctantly acknowledged them as lawful-aligned, because the mind flayer Overminds beneath the earth were everyone’s true enemy—no one wanted them returning to the surface.

Sakavi found the Drow quarter in the northeast corner of the Camp.

It stood out sharply from the rest. No noisy stalls, no littered trash, even the air felt cleaner.

A half-circle of black tents, made of light-absorbing material, enclosed a space where deep purple carpets were laid. On the carpet stood a low, long table with tea sets and an incense burner. Two Drow sat on either side, whispering quietly.

Their skin was the typical pale gray of the Underdark, hair silver-white, eyes dark red. They wore form-fitting black leather armor, belts adorned with slender swords and daggers, their posture relaxed as if sipping tea in their own parlor.

As Sakavi approached, one Drow lifted her head. Her dark red eyes swept over him—no surprise, no hostility, only cold, professional appraisal.

“Dragon-blood?” Her voice was low, textured like silk rubbing together.

“Dragon-man.” Sakavi replied. He had no need to hide his scales; concealment before Drow only suggested guilt.

“Purpose?”

“I’m looking for the Proverb Guild.”

The Drow’s eyes narrowed slightly.

The Proverb Guild—one of the seven councilors of the Black Abyss Council—under Tielun’s command, an assassination organization.

Their operations spanned the multiverse: assassinating officials, stealing intelligence, overthrowing regimes. As long as the coin was right, no job was refused.

Sakavi wasn’t here to hire a killer—he could kill faster himself. He was here for intelligence.

Intelligence about the Soul Prison.

“Who sent you?” the other Drow spoke. Her voice was colder, like a blade scraping ice.

“No one sent me.” Sakavi said. “I found you myself.”

The two Drow exchanged a glance. The first one rose, stepped forward, and looked up at Sakavi. He towered over her by two heads in dragon-man form, yet she showed no sign of looking up.

“The Proverb Guild doesn’t take walk-ins,” she said. “To hire us, you need a recommendation from the Black Abyss Council—or at least a councilor’s guarantee. You have neither.”

“I have a deal,” Sakavi said. “One that could double the size of your outpost in Plane 72.”

The Drow’s lips twitched slightly—not a smile, but the expression of someone whose interest had been piqued.

“Double?” she repeated, tone laced with amusement. “Do you know how many we have in Plane 72?”

“No,” Sakavi said. “But I know what you want.”

He paused.

“A base, completely under your control, far beyond the reach of mind flayer tentacles.”

Both Drow fell silent.

Sakavi said nothing more. He knew: before Drow, the more you spoke, the less leverage you held. He’d thrown the bait. Now he waited for the fish to bite.

Silence lasted about half a minute. Then the first Drow turned, returned to the table, and whispered to her companion. Sakavi couldn’t hear them—they spoke in encrypted throat-sounds even dragon hearing couldn’t decipher.

After another half-minute, the first Drow stood again and stepped before Sakavi.

“The Proverb Guild’s representative in this plane will meet someone tonight at the ‘Dark Feather Tavern’ on the eastern edge of the Camp.” She said. “You may wait there. But I make no guarantee he’ll see you.”

She handed him a small black badge engraved with a spider emblem.

“Carry this. The tavern staff won’t stop you.”

Sakavi took the badge and turned to leave.

A few steps away, the Drow’s voice came from behind: “Dragon-man, do you know why we’re called the Proverb Guild?”

Sakavi stopped, but didn’t turn.

“I know,” he said. “Because your deals never leave survivors.”

He walked on.

The Dark Feather Tavern stood in a narrow alley on the Camp’s eastern side.

No sign, no plaque—only a smoke-blackened oak door. When Sakavi pushed it open, a wave of heat hit him—not from a hearth, but from the suffocating density of bodies, air too thick to circulate.

The tavern was small, a dozen tables crammed together, filled with all races: humans, dwarves, halflings, several gray dwarf miners, a squad of elven rangers, even a dragon-blooded creature covered in blue scales—likely a metal dragon’s scout.

No one looked up. In a place like this, staring too long—or not staring at all—could mean trouble.

Sakavi walked to the bar, placed the Drow’s badge on the counter. Behind it stood a one-eyed human old man. He glanced at the badge, said nothing, pulled a clay cup from beneath the counter, poured dark red wine, and slid it toward Sakavi.

“Wait,” the old man said.

Sakavi picked up the cup, walked to an empty corner table, and sat. He didn’t drink. In unfamiliar places, drinking liquor from strangers was the act of a fool.

He set the cup down, pulled his hood lower, leaving only his vertical pupils visible through the gap, scanning the entire tavern.

He waited.

Patrons came and went. A squad of dwarven miners guzzled ale, shouting loudly. A human mage in the corner flipped through a thick grimoire. Two halflings played dice, betting a small pouch of silver coins.

In the corner, several soldiers in Imperial light armor whispered with a merchant-like figure—likely smuggling military supplies. None looked like the Proverb Guild’s representative.

But he wasn’t in a hurry.

By late night, the tavern thinned. The one-eyed old man began wiping glasses. The dwarven miners staggered out. The human mage closed his grimoire and left. The soldiers who’d been trading supplies also dispersed, slapping the merchant’s shoulder with cheerful grins.

Finally, the tavern was left with only Sakavi and a figure sitting in the corner, always facing away from him.

The figure wore a dark gray cloak, the hood pulled low, obscuring their face. But Sakavi could see their hands—slender, pale, fingertips painted with dark red nail polish. The tail end of a spider tattoo peeked from the sleeve, winding along the back of the hand to the base of the fingers.

She was a drow.

“You’ve waited all night. Aren’t you tired?” the figure spoke. Her voice was low, carrying a lazy, indifferent quality. She did not turn, merely toyed with her wine cup, as if admiring the color of the liquid within.

“Not tired,” Sakavi said.

“The Proverb Guild doesn’t take jobs from unknown sources. Who are you? Who sent you?”

“Sakavi. Lord of the Black Dragon of Plane 1872. Hereditary Duke of the Luo Sen Empire. No one sent me. I came on my own.”

The drow finally turned around.

Beneath the hood was a typical drow face—pointed ears, silver hair, dark red eyes. But her left cheek bore a long, thin scar stretching from brow to jaw, as if slashed violently from the side.

She made no effort to conceal it, not even using foundation to cover it. The scar added a dangerous, forbidding edge to her already cold, hard features.

“Lord of the Black Dragon?” She sized him up, a faint smirk curling her lips. “Saying that inside an imperial outpost takes guts.”

“Imperial agents can’t recognize me,” Sakavi said. “And I have legitimate credentials. The feudal badge of the Luo Sen Empire is recorded in the Pantheon’s archives.”

“Being recorded is one thing. Being welcomed is another.” The drow’s tone held a hint of amusement. “The Five-Colored Dragons here are treated no better than demons.”

“So I didn’t go to the empire,” Sakavi said. “I came to you.”

The drow’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“You came to the Proverb Guild for what?”

“Information.”

“What kind of information?”

Sakavi fell silent for several breaths, then said: “The Soul Prison.”

The drow’s fingers froze. The wine cup hovered in her grip for half a second, then she set it gently on the table.

“Do you know what you’re asking about?” Her voice remained unchanged, but Sakavi noticed her hand retracting into the cloak—the preparatory motion for drawing a weapon.

“I know,” Sakavi said. “Deep within Plane 72, it imprisons souls even the Abyss refuses to accept. The warden is a demigod-level demon; those who’ve seen it no longer own their own souls.”

“Knowing that, you still dare ask?” The drow’s eyes flickered with genuine, unmasked interest. “You want souls from there? You’re mad. A demigod-level demon—even the Empire’s Prince Jilun dares not move against it. You, a legendary-tier black dragon—”

“I didn’t say I’d go myself,” Sakavi interrupted. “I need information. The prison’s location, the warden’s weaknesses, ways in and out. The Proverb Guild deals in information. Name your price.”

The drow stared at him for a long time. Then she smiled. Not a friendly smile—but one that said, “You’re interesting,” laced with danger.

“The Proverb Guild doesn’t do losing deals,” she said. “I have the information. But what will you give me in return?”

“A base on Plane 72,” Sakavi said. “One you can fully control, free from imperial or demonic interference. Near the Withered Carcass Mire.”

The drow’s gaze sharpened.

“Exact location?”

“After I receive the Soul Prison’s information,” Sakavi said. “Deposit first. Payment upon delivery.”

The drow fell silent for several breaths. Then she rose, stepped to Sakavi’s table, leaned down, and pressed close to his ear. Her voice dropped so low only he could hear.

“Three days from now, same time, same place. Wait for me. If the higher-ups approve this deal, you’ll see me. If not…” She straightened, the curve of her lips deepening slightly, “consider tonight nothing but a dull dream.”

She turned and walked toward the tavern’s back door. The moment the door shut behind her, Sakavi noticed—no footprints marked the ground where she had walked, as if she had never existed.

Sakavi picked up the untouched wine and poured it onto the floor.

Then he stood, pushed open the door, and stepped into the cold, silent night of the Withered Expanse.

The camp’s night held no stars. The gray-white Withered Expanse stretched in darkness like an endless graveyard. In the distance, toward the imperial encampment, faint drumbeats echoed—not an attack, but a change of guard.

The breathing of a million soldiers sounded like a slumbering beast—deep, slow, unceasing.

Sakavi stood at the entrance of the Dark Feather Tavern, his vertical pupils reflecting the flickering glow of distant campfires.

He didn’t need patience. He needed a beacon. And the beacon was in Fei Nuo’s hands. Fei Nuo wanted the prisoners of the Soul Prison. The Soul Prison’s information was in the drow’s hands.

The drow wanted a base.

Sakavi’s lips curled slightly, revealing a sliver of sharp, white fangs.

One link chained to another. Each link was someone else’s bargaining chip, yet each was also his own. All he needed was to pull the chain long enough.