Chapter 53: Dragon Lance

The dwarf sorcerer gradually drew closer.

He carried a focusing magic lens, and by adjusting its focus to the microscopic level, he clearly saw the metallic sheen on Long Lin’s surface fading, revealing the internal honeycomb-like structure storing fire elements.

This was a form never recorded in any alchemical textbook.

The thought that his discovery might be published as an academic case made his pulse quicken.

The dwarf sorcerer’s breathing grew rapid, his thick beard trembling with excitement.

Meanwhile.

As the flames burned, the shattered scales turned fully crimson. Under microscopic view, molten, bright red substances seeped from the honeycomb pores.

The dwarf sorcerer sharply sensed the danger, his face darkening.

Hum!

Runes instantly flared to life on the iron rings tied to his beard, rapidly extending a radiant shield that enveloped his entire body.

The shattered scales exploded like a squeezed sun.

Boom!

A burst of flame and shockwave erupted upon the dwarf sorcerer, hurling him backward, smashing through three rows of shelves.

Ten seconds later.

Giron crawled out of the chaotic workshop, his face caked in ash, his charred beard still smoking. Had the iron rings on his beard not been defensive alchemical artifacts that absorbed much of the blast, his fragile sorcerer’s body would have suffered grave injury.

Even so, he paid a heavy price for his carelessness.

His left eye throbbed with searing pain; when he touched his face, he felt only melted metal frames and sticky, viscous remains of crystalline matter.

The explosion came too suddenly; his alchemical gear activated too late, and the blast had blinded that eye.

He simply hadn’t anticipated it.

Such a tiny fragment of scale could inflict this level of destruction.

Regaining his composure, he took another look.

The gold alloy crucible had cracked radially, the rune-carving tool shattered into pieces, and the focusing magic lens was ruined. The pain on his body was secondary—these losses cut deeper into the dwarf sorcerer’s heart.

For an alchemist, reliable tools were priceless.

“Waaah! You cunning, red-iron-blooded dragon! I’ll remember you!”

The dwarf sorcerer’s skin flushed crimson with rage, his cry echoing through the night.

Boom! Olaf kicked open the warped workshop door, hefting a warhammer longer than his own height, his gaze sweeping the interior like a tiger’s, landing on the blinded, red-hot dwarf sorcerer.

“Giron, what happened?”

He asked.

The dwarf sorcerer: “I was attacked by a vile dragon.”

He briefly recounted the events.

After hearing the dwarf sorcerer’s account, Olaf widened his eyes and blurted out: “What vile dragon attack? You didn’t get blown up by a dragon—you blew yourself up from sheer stupidity!”

Upon hearing this.

The dwarf sorcerer froze, then spat out a mouthful of blood.

Being called stupid by a brute made him feel like he’d explode—and yet he had no reply.

Overcome with rage and fury, the dwarf sorcerer spat another mouthful of blood, his brain starved of oxygen, and collapsed straight to the ground, unconscious.

Meanwhile.

Bear Ridge, Needleleaf Valley.

Garos knew nothing of what had befallen the dwarf sorcerer. Had he known, he would have laughed out loud.

Roasting his own shed scales and leaning in close to inspect them? He’s lucky he didn’t get blown up on the spot.

The earth-shaking bears, famed for their defense and total focus, had each been reduced to charred, bloody pulp during their sparring with Garos.

A frail alchemist caught off-guard by such an explosion at close range—if his reaction had been even a fraction slower, death would have been certain.

Unaware of the event unfolding under the same sky.

Garos remained spirited; his training with the young dragon was far from over.

He thought carefully: strengthening only the outer scales was like adding thicker armor over a weakness—but the weakness still existed. Better to train the weakness itself directly.

Thus, after building up his resolve.

Garos took a deep breath, stood upright, and thrust his waist into the trunk of a young, slightly soft needleleaf pine.

As wood chips flew, the young dragon extending from his reproductive cavity drilled a deep hole into the tree trunk.

Garos’s faceplate twitched and contorted; he hissed sharply through clenched teeth. Even with his current tolerance for pain, he couldn’t help grimacing.

This kind of self-weakness training was not something an ordinary dragon could ever muster the will to endure.

“Again! I’ll make this weakness as hard as steel—no, harder than steel!”

The red-iron hatchling gritted his teeth and charged again, brutally slamming into the tree.

Boom! Boom! Boom! The trunk grew densely pockmarked with holes, cracks spreading until, unable to bear the strain, it snapped clean through.

Garos felt the young dragon’s ache and stinging reach unbearable limits—he finally stopped, resting before beginning the next round of adaptation training.

The next day, as the first rays of dawn spilled over Needleleaf Valley.

Garos spread his wings and flew out from the cave in the valley’s center.

Needleleaf Valley was surrounded on three sides by mountains, each riddled with natural caves; Garos had chosen the largest and most comfortable as his Long Chao.

As the saying goes: the day’s plan begins at dawn.

Normally, Garos would take flight at dawn to hunt suitable ferocious beasts and demonic creatures, honing his combat skills along the way.

Had another dragon ruled a Xiong Qun,

it would likely command its subordinates to hunt for it, providing food while it enjoyed a life of ease.

Garos did not. He did not reduce his hunting frequency, for hunting was not merely for food—it was to sharpen his combat skills, enrich his battlefield experience, an indispensable part of his training.

Battlefield experience mattered greatly to Garos.

Like the copper dragon he had encountered before.

A sixteen-year-old juvenile dragon, still carrying several alchemical artifacts—if its combat experience had been sufficient, Garos’s robbery would not have succeeded so easily. It was precisely because he judged the copper dragon lacked battle experience that Garos chose to counterattack and seize the treasure, rather than retreat.

Back to the matter at hand.

Garos had intended to take flight directly for hunting.

But his stride was too wide; the motion tugged sharply at the pain behind his hind legs, making him grimace. He landed again, helplessly crouching on a rock slab, preparing to rest longer.

Samantha noticed Garos’s unusual behavior.

She stepped forward on all fours, asking in surprise: “My dear brother, are you injured?”

Garos: “No.”

Samantha didn’t believe him. “You walked just now like you were limping—something’s clearly wrong.”

“Don’t be stubborn. Where are you hurt? Let me check.”

“I’ve learned a new rune—I can inscribe it on your wound to accelerate healing.”

The red dragon extended her sharp claws, eagerly drawing near to Garos.

Garos’s face hardened, his eyes glinting with danger. “Stay away. Test your rune on the bears.”

(End of Chapter)