Chapter 141: Silent Wasteland

After returning from the Ku Hai Yu Zhao, Sakavi lay in the cave of the Purgatory Volcano for three full days.

The wound at the base of his left wing had scabbed over, but it still throbbed every time he flapped his wings. He didn't care about that. What he cared about were the lingering ambitions and greed in his mind, and he needed a key.

The Soul Prison.

Feinuo wanted the prisoners there. Sakavi didn't know where the prison was, didn't know who was locked inside, and didn't know what the Warden was.

He only knew one thing: the Dragon Heritage mentioned that place. Only one sentence—"In the deepest part of the 72nd plane, souls that even the Abyss is unwilling to accept are imprisoned. The Warden's name has been forgotten, because for those who have seen it, their souls no longer belong to themselves."

Even the Dragon Heritage didn't dare to write more.

Sakavi was no longer a reckless Juvenile Dragon. He wouldn't do what he did when he was a teenager—charging single-handedly into a place that even a Legendary-Rank warrior might not survive.

He needed help. Not tools like Karawa who only executed orders, but partners who had brains, means, and could be abandoned without hesitation when necessary.

And in this plane, there was only one place that could provide such "partners."

The rear stronghold of the Silent Wasteland.

Sakavi flew for five days.

The first three days were within the territory of the 72nd plane. He flew below the clouds, avoiding demon gathering places on the ground and the Judgment Demon patrol teams that occasionally appeared in the sky. The further south he went, the more desolate the landscape became.

Black magma rock was gradually replaced by gray-white dust, and the sulfur smell in the air faded, replaced by a dry scent like aged bone ash.

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

The rift was narrow, only allowing a dragon to pass sideways, but the space channel inside was unexpectedly stable. When he drilled out from the other end of the rift, the scene before him had completely changed.

The sky was no longer dark red, but a pale, almost transparent gray-blue, like the thin frost of a winter morning.

There were no sulfur deserts or magma rivers on the ground, only a boundless gray-white wasteland, cracked soil, dried-up riverbeds, and occasionally a few clusters of gray-brown shrubs as hard as iron wire.

This was the Silent Wasteland.

An "enclave" of the 72nd plane, separated from the main continent by a natural space barrier, with a much thinner Abyssal aura, where order energy could barely stand.

The Allied Forces chose to establish a forward base here, not because of its good strategic position. On the contrary, it was ridiculously remote; it was because only here could the protective spells of ordinary soldiers last for three days.

Sakavi lowered his altitude, gliding along the surface of the wasteland. The cracks in the ground were like a huge, dry, cracked mouth, opening silently. He flew for about two hours before finally seeing the outline of buildings on the horizon.

It wasn't a city wall; it was a stronghold.

The million-strong army of the Aisos Empire was fighting a bloody battle with demons in the depths of the Silent Wasteland, but Sakavi didn't intend to go to the front line. He was going to the rear, to that temporary stronghold crowded with all kinds of forces—a "city" pieced together haphazardly with tents, board houses, and animal-skin sheds, stinking but full of vitality.

It had no name. People just called it "The Camp."

The camp covered a vast area, looking like a gray patch from the air, stuck firmly to the gray-white wasteland. There was no unified planning, no neat streets, only countless spontaneously formed blocks squeezed together, like a pile of haphazardly stacked building blocks.

The Imperial army's supply warehouse occupied the central area of the camp, protected by high walls and arrow towers. Outside the high walls was the real "camp"—adventurers, merchants, mercenary groups, intelligence peddlers, deserters, fugitives... everyone was there.

Sakavi landed five miles outside the camp and transformed into his Dragon-man form.

He wore a dark gray travel cloak, his hood pulled very low, revealing only a black jawline covered in fine scales. A nondescript short sword hung at his waist, not for fighting, but to make himself look less "ill-intentioned."

He took a black iron badge from his space ring and pinned it to the inside of his cloak. It was a vassal badge of the Luo Sen Empire, proving he was an envoy of "Luo Sen Empire Hereditary Duke, Sakavi Kelsis Domina."

A legal identity. In the Empire's territory, this thing could make the spear tips of the guards deviate by a few inches. But that was all; the reputation of a Chromatic Dragon in this camp was no better than that of a demon.

He walked toward the camp along a dirt road pressed out by carriage wheels. There were many pedestrians on the road: human merchants driving pack animals, Dwarf miners carrying pickaxes, a few priests in the robes of the Church of Light walking hurriedly, and a team of Elven Rangers resting silently by the roadside.

No one looked at him twice. In the camp, there were too many people hiding their heads and covering their faces, so many that no one had time to guess what was under your hood.

But everyone knew that this place didn't belong to anyone's "home." It was the anteroom of the battlefield, the waiting room between life and death.

The camp entrance had no gate. There were only two blackened wooden stakes, with an old Imperial flag hanging between them, the white rose pattern already blurred by wind, sand, and bloodstains. Two Imperial soldiers leaned against the stakes, their armor covered in dust, their eyes half-closed, as if they could fall asleep at any moment.

When Sakavi walked past them, the soldier on the left opened one eye.

"Badge."

Sakavi flashed the vassal badge. The soldier took a look, then looked at the black scales vaguely visible under Sakavi's hood, his brow furrowing.

"Black Dragon?" His voice carried undisguised disgust.

"A Black Dragon of the Luo Sen Empire," Sakavi said, his tone as flat as if stating the weather.

The soldier was silent for a few seconds, then waved his hand. "Enter. Don't cause trouble; if you do, no one will help you collect your corpse."

Sakavi tucked the badge away and walked into the camp.

The interior of the camp was messier and livelier than he had expected.

The main road—if those potholed dirt roads pressed out by carriage wheels could be called a main road—was lined with all kinds of stalls.

Stalls selling demon carapaces, Abyssal ores, enchanted weapons, healing potions, intelligence, slaves, bodies... everything was there. The air was filled with the mixed smell of cheap spices, sweat, blood, and feces, as noisy as a pot of boiling slop.

Sakavi walked along the main road, observing his surroundings calmly.

He knew what he was looking for.

Drow Elves.

In the entire multiverse, if there was any race that was both skilled in assassination and not averse to cooperating with Black Dragons, it was the Drow. They had no obsession with good or evil, no loyalty to order, only interests and power.

Moreover, they had intelligence networks spread across the entire plane; information about the Soul Prison that couldn't be pried out of the Empire might not be impossible to pry out of the Drow.

The Luosern Alliance, a huge organization of hundreds of thousands of Drow cities, had sent tens of thousands of people this time. Nominally, they were "assisting the Empire in crusading against the Abyss," but everyone knew they were here to reap benefits.

The Empire not only tacitly allowed their existence but reluctantly acknowledged their status as a lawful faction, because the Mind Flayer brain deep underground was the common enemy of all, and no one wanted to see them return to the surface.

Sakavi found the Drow area in the northeast corner of the camp.

This area was clearly different from the others. There were no noisy stalls, no scattered trash, and even the air was cleaner than elsewhere.

Several black tents made of some light-absorbing material formed a semicircle, with deep purple carpets laid on the open ground between the tents. A low long table was placed on the carpet, with tea sets and incense burners on it. Two Drow Elves sat on either side of the long table, talking in low voices.

Their skin was the typical deep gray bleached by the underworld, their hair silver-white, and their eyes dark red. They wore well-tailored black leather armor, with rapiers and daggers hanging at their waists, their posture as relaxed as if they were drinking tea in their own living room.

When Sakavi approached, one of the Drow looked up, her dark red eyes sweeping over him. There was no surprise, no hostility, only a cold, professional scrutiny.

"Dragon-born?" Her voice was very low, carrying the texture of silk rubbing against silk, unique to the Drow.

"Dragon-man," Sakavi said. He didn't need to hide his scales; in front of the Drow, concealment would only make him look guilty.

"Purpose?"

"Looking for someone from the Truth-Speaking Society."

The Drow's eyes narrowed slightly.

The Truth-Speaking Society, an assassination organization under Ti Lu En, one of the seven councilors of the Black Abyss Council.

Their business spanned the entire multiverse, from assassinating political figures and stealing intelligence to subverting regimes; as long as the money was right, there was no job they wouldn't take.

Sakavi wasn't looking for them to kill; if he wanted to kill, he could do it faster himself. He was looking for them for intelligence.

Intelligence about the Soul Prison.

"Who introduced you?" the other Drow spoke. Her voice was colder, like a blade across ice.

"No one introduced me," Sakavi said. "I found it myself."

The two Drow looked at each other. The first Drow to speak stood up and walked to Sakavi, looking up at him. Sakavi in his Dragon-man form was two heads taller than her, but she showed no sign of looking up.

"The Truth-Speaking Society does not receive walk-in customers," she said. "If you want us to do something, you need a letter of recommendation from the Black Abyss Council, or at least the guarantee of a councilor. You have neither."

"I have a deal," Sakavi said. "One that can double your stronghold in the 72nd plane."

The Drow's mouth moved slightly. It wasn't a smile, but the expression of "you have successfully caught my attention."

"Double it?" she repeated, her tone carrying a hint of playfulness. "Do you know how many people we have in the 72nd plane?"

"I don't know," Sakavi said. "But I know what you want."

He paused.

"A stronghold completely controlled by you, far from the tentacles of the Mind Flayers."

Both Drow were silent at the same time.

Sakavi didn't continue. He knew that in front of the Drow, the more you said, the fewer bargaining chips you had. He only needed to cast the bait, and then wait for the fish to bite.

The silence lasted for about half a minute. Then the first Drow turned, walked back to the long table, and whispered a few words to her companion. Sakavi couldn't hear what they were saying; the Drow used a kind of encrypted throat sound that even dragon hearing couldn't crack.

After about half a minute, the first Drow stood up again and walked to Sakavi.

"The person in charge of the Truth-Speaking Society in this plane will meet someone at the 'Dark Feather Tavern' on the east side of the camp tonight," she said. "You can wait there. But there is no guarantee he will see you."

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

"Take this; the people at the tavern won't stop you."

Sakavi took the badge and turned to leave.

After walking a few steps, the Drow's voice came from behind: "Dragon-man, do you know why we are called the Truth-Speaking Society?"

Sakavi stopped, not turning back.

"I know," he said. "Because your deals never leave any survivors."

He continued walking.

The Dark Feather Tavern was in a small alley on the east side of the camp.

There was no sign, no plaque, only an oak door blackened by smoke. When Sakavi pushed the door open, a wave of heat hit him—not the heat of a fireplace, but the stifling heat of too many people for the air to circulate.

The tavern wasn't large, with over a dozen tables squeezed together, filled with all kinds of races: humans, dwarves, halflings, a few Gray Dwarf miners, a team of Elven Rangers, and even a Dragon-born covered in blue scales, probably a scout sent by some Metallic Dragon faction.

No one looked up at him. In this kind of place, looking at you one more time or one less time could mean trouble.

Sakavi walked to the bar and placed the badge given by the Drow on the counter. The one-eyed human old man behind the bar took a look at the badge, said nothing, took a pottery cup from under the counter, poured a cup of dark red wine, and pushed it to Sakavi.

"Wait," the old man said.

Sakavi picked up the wine cup and walked to an empty table in the corner to sit down. He didn't drink the wine; in a strange place, drinking wine given by a stranger was something only a fool would do.

He placed the wine cup on the table, pulled his hood lower, revealing only his vertical pupils, scanning the entire tavern through the gap in the hood.

He was waiting.

People came and went in the tavern. A team of Dwarf miners were boisterously gulping down ale, a human mage was flipping through a thick tome in the corner, two halflings were playing dice, the bet being a small bag of silver coins.

In the corner, a few soldiers in Imperial standard light armor were whispering to a merchant-like person, seemingly selling military supplies. No one looked like the "person in charge of the Truth-Speaking Society."

But he wasn't in a hurry.

By the second half of the night, there were fewer people in the tavern. The one-eyed old man began to wipe cups, the Dwarf miners left unsteadily, the human mage closed the tome and got up to leave. The soldiers selling military supplies also dispersed, laughing and patting the merchant on the shoulder as they left.

Finally, only Sakavi and someone in the corner who had been facing away from him remained in the tavern.

That person wore a dark gray cloak, the hood pulled very low, making it impossible to see their face. But Sakavi could see their hands—slender, pale, with dark red nail polish on the fingertips. The tail end of a spider tattoo emerged from the cuff, winding along the back of the hand to the base of the fingers.

It was a Drow.

"Waiting all night, aren't you tired?" the person spoke. The voice was very low, carrying a lazy, casual quality. She didn't turn around, just played with the wine cup in her hand, as if admiring the color of the wine.

"Not tired," Sakavi said.

"The Truth-Speaking Society doesn't take orders from unknown sources. Who are you? Who introduced you?"

"Sakavi. Black Dragon Lord of the 1872nd plane. Hereditary Duke of the Luo Sen Empire. No one introduced me; I found it myself."

The person finally turned around.

Under the hood was a typical Drow face—pointed ears, silver hair, dark red eyes. But there was a long, thin scar on her left cheek, extending from the eyebrow to the jaw, as if something had slashed her from the side.

She didn't cover it, didn't even use foundation to hide it. That scar gave her already cold and hard face a dangerous, stay-away-from-me quality.

"Black Dragon Lord?" She looked Sakavi up and down, the corners of her mouth curling up slightly. "Saying such things in the Empire's stronghold, you have guts."

"The Empire's people don't recognize me," Sakavi said. "And I have a legal identity. The vassal badge of the Luo Sen Empire can be checked in the archives of the Pantheon."

"Being able to check it is one thing; being welcomed is another." The Drow's tone carried a hint of playfulness. "The treatment of Chromatic Dragons here is no better than that of demons."

"That's why I didn't go to the Empire's people," Sakavi said. "I'm looking for you."

The Drow's eyes narrowed.

"You come to the Truth-Speaking Society, what do you want?"

"Intelligence."

"What intelligence?"

Sakavi was silent for a few breaths, then said: "The Soul Prison."

The Drow's fingers stopped. The wine cup hovered at her fingertips for half a second, then she placed it gently on the table.

"Do you know what you are asking about?" Her voice didn't change, but Sakavi noticed her hand retracting into the cloak—a preparatory move to touch a weapon.

"I know," Sakavi said. "In the deepest part of the 72nd plane, souls that even the Abyss is unwilling to accept are imprisoned. The Warden is a Demigod-Rank demon, and for those who have seen it, their souls no longer belong to themselves."

"Knowing that, you still dare to ask?" The Drow's eyes flashed with a trace of genuine, unfeigned interest. "You want the souls there? You're crazy. A Demigod-Rank demon—even Prince Gilen of the Empire wouldn't dare to act rashly, and you, a Legendary-Rank Black Dragon—"

"I didn't say I would do it myself," Sakavi interrupted. "I need intelligence. The location of the prison, the weaknesses of the Warden, the method of entering and exiting the prison. The Truth-Speaking Society does intelligence business; name your price."

The Drow stared at him for a long time. Then she laughed. It wasn't a friendly laugh; it was the kind of "you're very interesting" laugh that carried a danger signal.

"The Truth-Speaking Society doesn't do business at a loss," she said. "I have the intelligence, but what are you going to trade for it?"

"A stronghold in the 72nd plane," Sakavi said. "A stronghold you can completely control, free from the interference of the Empire and demons. Near the Ku Hai Yu Zhao."

The Drow's gaze became sharp.

"Specific location?"

"After I get the intelligence on the Soul Prison," Sakavi said. "Pay the deposit first, pay the balance upon delivery."

The Drow was silent for a few breaths. Then she stood up, walked to Sakavi's table, and leaned over, close to his ear. Her voice was very low, low enough that only Sakavi could hear.

"Three days from now, at this same time, wait for me here. If the higher-ups agree to this deal, you will see me. If they don't..." She straightened up, the curve of her mouth deepening by a fraction. "Just treat tonight as a boring dream."

She turned and walked toward the back door of the tavern. The moment the door closed behind her, Sakavi noticed that she left no footprints on the ground she had walked over, as if she had never existed.

Sakavi picked up the wine that had never been drunk and poured it on the ground.

Then he stood up, pushed the door open, and walked into the cold night wind of the Silent Wasteland.

There was no starlight in the night of the camp. The gray-white wasteland in the darkness was like a boundless graveyard, and the sound of war drums faintly came from the direction of the Imperial army camp in the distance—not an attack, but a changing of the guard.

The breathing of the million-strong army was like a sleeping giant beast—low, slow, and never-ending.

Sakavi stood at the entrance of the Dark Feather Tavern, his vertical pupils reflecting the flickering light of the campfires in the distance.

What he needed wasn't patience; it was the beacon. And the beacon was in Feinuo's hands. Feinuo wanted the prisoners in the Soul Prison. The intelligence on the Soul Prison was in the hands of the Drow.

The Drow wanted a stronghold.

The corners of Sakavi's mouth curled up slightly, revealing a line of stark white sharp teeth.

One link after another. Each link was someone else's bargaining chip, and each link was also his bargaining chip. He only needed to pull this chain long enough. ===== CHAPTER 142 =====