Chapter 60: The Battle of Gray Mist Valley

When the massive shadow of the Black Dragon began to engulf the edge of Gray Mist Valley, what first met the eye was not clear terrain, but a vast, slowly flowing “ocean” of gray. Thick smog formed a colossal gray wall, drowning everything in the valley, with only a few exceptionally towering peaks piercing through the mist like black islands, their summits exposed.

Sunlight was utterly filtered here, leaving only a cold, monotonous glow. The dragon’s wings stirred not just air, but the dense fog heavy with dust and damp chill. As it descended, cutting above the mist sea, the view grew fragmented. The mist below was not a solid mass, but fractured into streaks by the valley’s air currents.

Through these fleeting gaps, faint glimpses emerged of bottomless ravines, cliff faces scarred as if by a giant’s claws, and dead, gnarled black forests. The entire valley lay utterly silent; sound was swallowed by the fog, leaving only the low roar of the dragon’s own wings echoing between the cliffs. The Black Dragon’s arrival was the one and only undeniable noise in this dead land.

As it pressed deeper, a steady point of light appeared at the heart of the mist sea. The point grew clearer, larger, until its full form emerged—not golden or splendid, but built of massive gray stones matching the valley’s tone, heavy and resolute, as if carved directly from the mountain rock. Its tall spire was the highest structure in the valley, second only to the peaks, stubbornly piercing through the gray haze.

Warm, steady candlelight and magical radiance glowed through stained-glass windows, a beacon of unquestionable faith in this gray world. High walls, battlements, and scattered arrow towers were visible. The entire church complex clung to a massive cliff behind it, easy to defend and hard to assault.

Legend held that centuries ago, Gray Mist Valley was not the lifeless place it was today. It had once been lush and teeming with vitality. But a great disaster changed it—a rift connecting to the Abyss was opened deep within the valley by cultists.

Polluted energy from the Abyss surged forth like a tide, withering all life it touched, corroding the earth, and filling the air with a permanent, corrupting gray fog. Upon hearing the news, Viceroy Novan Koro of Vikanar Province immediately ordered his garrison to march into the valley to suppress the cultists and demons.

Facing twenty times his own numbers, the Viceroy held the valley’s exit for twenty days straight, until the Church’s Order of Holy Knights finally arrived. Yet Novan himself succumbed to his wounds and severe Abyssal corruption, dying shortly after.

To honor him and suppress all evil forces, the Church of Light built this cathedral within the valley and stationed a revered bishop to guard it. In truth, it was a place of exile for unwanted Church members—this was precisely why Sakavi chose it. Some things only required appearances.

As the Black Dragon circled high above the cathedral, searching for a landing spot, the cathedral’s heavy doors burst open, and squads poured out from the training grounds beside it. Lines of armored Holy Knights, clad in gleaming silver plate, rapidly assembled on the open ground before the church.

They swiftly formed a tight defensive formation: shield-bearers in front, spear-wielders behind, clergy at the center. Each shield glowed with soft holy light, the radiance intertwining and resonating above the formation, gradually coalescing into a golden, glass-like dome that resisted the valley’s gloom and the Black Dragon’s shadow.

“Lord Black Dragon of Luo Sen, state your purpose, or we shall treat you as an invader!”

“Hmph. Tell your bishop his conspiracy with the Luo Sen Imperial Court to overthrow His Majesty the Emperor has been exposed and failed. It is time he paid for his crimes. Today, by order of Emperor Senide, I have come to apprehend Vancodo. Uninvolved parties, stand aside.”

“Black Dragon, such a feeble excuse? You’d rob even here? Coming to Gray Mist Valley to seize someone? I, Valerius, will not allow it. If you wish to leave the Vangeno Plane alive, retreat now while you still can.”

“Is that so? Perhaps you’re right. But today, I have no intention of reasoning.” Sakavi waved his claw, and three hundred Black Dragon cultists emerged from the gray mist, wielding black iron battle-axes and tower shields, their scaled armor reflecting cold, hard glints in the fog. The “Wings of the Black Dragon,” as flesh puppets, required combat to gain experience.

Sharut issued orders; sixty squads scattered like ravenous wolves, encircling the Holy Knights from all sides. Dragon mage units used the terrain for cover, unleashing area-control spells—“Black Mist” and “Dead Cloud”—causing the Holy Knights’ formation to fray.

Seeing this, the Dragon mages shifted to fireballs, ice spikes, and curses, targeting the rear-line priests and commanders. The Holy Knights’ priests, in turn, immediately joined in casting “Protection from Evil,” “Remove Fear,” and other holy spells, activating a large-scale “Sanctuary” effect to purify the magical zones created by the Dragon mages.

Rangers and thieves moved like ghosts along the battlefield’s edges, slaying isolated knights with poisoned arrows, or infiltrating the flanks to assassinate key targets. The Holy Knights did not yield; under their commander’s orders, they feigned openings, luring the Dragon cultists deeper, then swiftly closed ranks to “drown” them in sheer numbers and holy power.

Perhaps they had not expected a large-scale assault in such an inland region, or perhaps this place was neglected by the Church’s Plane Headquarters—the Holy Knights’ personnel quality and equipment were subpar, even alarmingly crude.

Seeing the Holy Knights pinned down, Sakavi walked straight into the cathedral. With such fierce fighting outside, the bishop hadn’t even shown his face—if not paralyzed by fear, then he must be supremely confident in his own strength.

The heavy oak doors groaned under Sakavi’s claws, then collapsed with a crash. Dust and the gray mist outside surged in. Inside the cathedral, beneath the statue of the Lord Lanoth, sat an old man clad in a white holy robe.

It was an immense, towering hall, supported by dozens of colossal stone pillars like silent giants holding up a deep vaulted ceiling. Light was abnormally dim, with only a few thin rays piercing through high, narrow stained-glass windows, dyed into dark red, deep blue, and sickly gold—like dying auroras slicing diagonally through the interior darkness.

The air reeked of ancient wood, cold stone, and decades of burning incense—a scent that made Sakavi, a necromancer, feel deeply uneasy. His gaze, as if pulled by invisible chains, slowly passed beyond the glorious sanctuary and settled at the hall’s far end.

There stood a colossal statue. The deity’s face was merciful yet majestic, hands raised in blessing—but the statue itself was scarred, one wing broken and fallen to the ground, long buried under dust.

The old man beneath the statue did not seem to be preparing for battle so much as enduring a wait that had lasted for centuries. His holy robe had once been pure white, but now, stained by time and the present crisis, it bore a solemn gray-white hue.

He was ancient, his frame slender beneath the voluminous robe, yet his back remained rigid, as if fused with the statue behind him and the foundation beneath his feet. His hands rested naturally on his knees, knuckles thick and swollen—evidence he had once gripped sword or scepter in youth.

“Young Black Dragon, what has brought you here, shattering the peace that has endured for centuries? Is it divine guidance or fate’s design?” No expected roar, no flashing holy light, no battle-ready stance. Only… an all-knowing compassion, and an unshakable resolve rooted deep in the soul.

“It is fate, Your Grace. I apologize for disturbing your peace, but for certain special reasons, I must do this.”

As the two spoke, the battle outside continued. Dragon warrior squads formed compact units, circling the Holy Knights’ shield wall, provoking with weapons to draw attention. Any knight who broke formation to pursue was immediately overwhelmed and slain by the squad’s concentrated fire. Priests hid behind the warriors, casting healing and defensive blessings, and secretly slinging weakening spells upon the Holy Knights.

Faced with this “fly-swatting” tactic, the Holy Knights’ commander immediately ordered the entire unit to abandon pursuit and contract into a circular iron fortress. All knights turned their tower shields outward, spears inward, forming an impenetrable defensive wall. Priests and commanders were protected at the center.

This Dragon force had clearly prepared thoroughly—they carried various magical artifacts, abundant healing potions, and fought with utter disregard for their own lives. This misled the Knights, causing their formation to gradually unravel.

Seizing the moment, Sharut ordered the warriors to charge in formation, smashing through the Holy Knights’ lines as fast as possible to create openings for rangers and thieves. Faced with this sudden shift, the Holy Knights’ commander instantly ordered a full retreat inward.

The surviving Holy Knights pressed together, shoulders bracing the backs of their comrades, stacking massive tower shields layer upon layer—instantly forming a huge, faintly glowing steel hedgehog of a circle.

Yet before absolute power, all tactics grew pale and powerless. Under the Dragon mages’ next coordinated barrage, the formation trembled again, then shattered under the relentless, casualty-blind charge of the Dragon warriors, slaughtered to the last.

Though the Dragon force paid a cost of two hundred thirty lives to annihilate this Holy Knight unit, it was still a complete victory—because the sheer number of Dragon cultists could never breach the Plane’s defenses. As long as their souls were not purified on the spot, they could be extracted and reinserted into new bodies, reborn again.