Chapter 633: The Sudden Storm
The City Lord's Dilemma
Dragonhold has only one master: His Majesty, the Great Underworld Dragon, Avogadro.
In the hundreds of years of its reign, it had cycled through over seventy City Lords. Akorn was just one of them. He had no desire to end up as the Dragon's excrement like his predecessors, so he worked carefully to fully uphold Avogadro's rule, acting as his most devoted lackey. Although fleeting thoughts of usurpation and assassination would cross his mind in the dead of night, he knew they were pipe dreams.
Avogadro's power was enough to destroy the heavens and the earth. Across the entire Underworld, barely a hundred beings could rival him.
Such a powerhouse could not be defeated by poison or a dagger. Only an opponent of equal standing could kill him. Alas, after centuries, the dragonslayer had yet to appear.
Returning to the City Lord's manor, Akorn immediately issued orders to summon the champions of five races: the Half-Dragons, Demon Lizards, Dark Spiders, Red Rock Men, and Shadow Wraiths. Before long, the hall was packed.
Akorn sat alone on the high platform, observing them from above. The taste of power was intoxicating, and he relished the moment. However, the words of the Underworld Dragon hung over him like the Sword of Damocles, forcing him to collect his thoughts and abandon any improper notions.
A sorcerer used magic to replay the earlier battle scene, with a scholar providing analysis. Akorn then emphasized the importance of the four invaders and the specific demand of His Majesty Avogadro.
"He wants them alive, not dead."
At this demand, the hall immediately descended into chaos. The fighting strength shown by the four heroes was alarming. Simply defeating them would be difficult enough—capturing them alive meant a suicidal mission.
"This is the demand of His Majesty, the Great Underworld Dragon, Avogadro. If any of you are dissatisfied, you are welcome to voice your complaint directly to him."
When he finished, the air went completely silent.
Avogadro was no ordinary king. He was a Dragon—a greedy, vicious, cruel, and inhuman Underworld Dragon. Slaughter was its nature, and plunder was its instinct. It never cared about the lives of its subjects. The only reason it built Dragonhold was to get more people to help it accumulate wealth.
After every major battle, ninety percent of the spoils went into the mountain top lair. The remaining scraps had to be meticulously sorted before being given to the most loyal warriors.
Over time, everyone knew the true nature of the Underworld Dragon, yet no one dared to speak of it.
Watching the silence of the various racial champions, Akorn sneered.
"Since no one objects, then let's begin."
"Remember, they must be alive. If anyone dares to land a killing blow or tries to mess up the operation," he paused, his voice turning icy, "I will have them torn limb from limb and roasted."
"Go! Use your abilities to find them. The first one to find them gets the two thousand slaves in the Lava Caves."
At this promise, the assembled warriors finally showed some enthusiasm.
Two thousand slaves—that was enough food for a long time.
After the war council concluded, Akorn returned to the inner court. Five creatures, short in stature, with brownish-gray skin, and only a mouth and three eyes, sat cross-legged under the eaves, seemingly meditating.
Most Underworld creatures were ugly, but these were exceptionally so.
They were the Three-Eyed Imps, a notoriously ugly, physically frail, and deeply cunning race, reviled like rats. Yet, they possessed a magical talent that even the Gods envied, especially for Dark Sorcery and Curses, which seemed tailor-made for them.
"Are you all ready?"
One of the Imps stepped forward and said respectfully,
"The Curse Ritual is prepared and can begin at any time."
"Good."
Akorn relaxed slightly, though he still felt uneasy. "Those four are very strong. You must apply yourselves. If you fail, don't expect any mercy from me."
"Rest assured. Even His Majesty the Underworld Dragon cannot resist the curse we five cast together, let alone them."
Akorn's expression hardened, and he angrily waved his hand.
"Don't compare yourselves to His Majesty!"
With that, he turned and left.
The five Imps cackled strangely, their laughter unnerving.
The Makeshift Blacksmith
About four hundred kilometers east of Dragonhold was a small settlement—more accurately, a cluster of buildings made of bones and stones.
This was the largest slave market in the vicinity, filled with various types of slaves. Transactions were simple: either barter or outright theft. If you successfully stole something, it was yours; if you were killed trying, you deserved it.
To blend into the environment, Luke, in his ethereal form, stole the goods of an unlucky creature and then led over a dozen slaves to the Forge in the center of the settlement.
The Underworld lacked many things, but it was not short on raw materials. Various iron, copper, gold, and magic-infused metals were abundant.
Unfortunately, the scarcity of other resources kept its technological level in a primitive state. However, this didn't matter to the natives.
Luke found the forge's manager, an aging Red Rock Man.
"I am commandeering your forge for two hours."
"These slaves are your payment. Their bodies are strong, good for either food or labor."
The manager immediately shook his head.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Just no. Get lost and stop causing trouble here."
Luke brought his index and middle fingers together and slashed downward.
Pfft!
The Red Rock Man's right arm was severed clean at the shoulder. He screamed in pain, then instantly knelt in fear before even finishing the sound.
Luke lowered his head and said expressionlessly,
"Is it acceptable now?"
The Red Rock Man's eyes were filled with terror, anxiety, and dread.
"I'll take your silence as consent. From now on, these slaves are yours."
Luke turned and walked into the forge. A moment later, all the workers inside were tossed out. The door slammed shut, and no one knew what was happening inside.
The Red Rock Man gritted his teeth and stumbled away, supported by his subordinates.
He was going to find someone to deal with this reckless invader.
Luke didn't stop him or care to. To him, the Underworld was merely a journey, and he had no intention of staying long. As for these Underworld creatures—if he killed them, he killed them. No big deal.
The warehouse was stacked high with materials: gold, copper, iron, silver, and precious metals like platinum and iridium that were rare on Earth. Most importantly, there were various magic metals.
The only magic metals Luke had encountered before were Amazonian Metal and Poseidon's Chill Steel. The former was self-recharging, the latter could manipulate water molecules—both were top-tier materials. Although the forge had plenty of magic metals, they were significantly inferior to those two.
To save time, he had to resort to the most basic method.
Green flame shot from his palm, merging with the flames in the furnace. Instantly, the heat intensified several times over. Luke picked up a chunk of Mithril and threw it into the furnace, followed by platinum and iron.
Mithril was a perfect material for enchantment, platinum provided exceptional strength and toughness, and iron was simply there to bulk up the alloy.
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