Chapter 169: The Past
The Dragon's Nest.
Grem's gargantuan wings whipped the air, kicking up a localized sandstorm across the obsidian beach. He plummeted from the high altitude, his massive weight carving two deep craters into the soft sand upon impact.
A spray of grit lashed across the snouts of several hatchlings who had wandered too close to the landing zone.
"Pah! Hack! Ptui!"
"Elder Grem! Have you no concept of 'delicate touch'?! My mouth is full of dirt!"
The surrounding hatchlings and several idle adult dragons immediately swarmed him. A prime-age Red Dragon poked his head from a nearby cavern, calling out with a lazy, mocking drawl.
"Grem! Tell us, what did that brat Ignius do on the mainland? He returned looking like a kicked dog. Did he lose his tail?"
The Black Dragon beside him joined in the heckling. "Aye, didn't he claim to be the 'Invincible Genius' as long as the Dragon King slept? He crawled back into his hole without uttering a single roar. It's pathetic!"
"I bet he ran into a real powerhouse! Come on, spill the secrets! We need a good laugh!"
"My gold is on him trying to raid a Royal Capital and getting blasted back by a Hero's Divine Protection! GAHAHAHA!"
A few young drakes who worshipped Ignius hissed in protest. "Lies! Lord Ignius is supreme! The mainland is likely just boring—those insects aren't even worth his time, so he came back early! That has to be it!"
The cacophony of inquiries buzzed in Grem's ears, but he didn't hear a single word. His mind was a storm, occupied entirely by the imagery described by that human merchant and that name that sent a chill through his marrow: The Evernight Empire.
Grem ignored the crowd, marching straight toward the center of the island—the base of the Great Volcano where the Council of Elders resided. Seeing the Elder's grim intensity, the other dragons instinctively silenced their mocking and cleared a path.
As Grem walked, he reached into the depths of his memory, unearthing the records of five thousand years ago.
Five thousand years.
To the new adults and the hatchlings, that was an unimaginable span of time. They believed the Dragon King was merely taking a long nap. They believed their race was born to live on this isolated island. They believed the yearly delivery of Dragon-Beasts to the mainland was a trivial, ceremonial tradition.
Only the "Old Guard" like Grem knew the truth. Reality was far more savage than the fairy tales.
Five millennia ago, the Dragons ruled the continent. The "Dragon's Nest" was not an island, but the peak of the world's most magnificent mountain range, overlooking a vast, emerald empire. Back then, they were the undisputed Overlords. They possessed unmatched Od, eternal lifespans, and the pride of a primordial bloodline. The other races—Humans, Elves, Dwarves—existed only to tremble in their shadow.
Thinking back, Grem mused, those were the days of true glory.
But glory is a fleeting spark. As the power of the Dragon race swelled, so too did the terror of the "insects." They feared the unmatched strength of the dragons; they feared the day the sky would permanently turn to ash under their wings. Even though the Dragons never officially declared an invasion, the seeds of fear took root and grew into a desperate madness.
Finally, the impossible happened: The Alliance.
The Human kingdoms, the Elven forests, the Dwarven mountains, and the Orcish tribes—they cast aside centuries of blood-feuds and stood as one. Their objective was singular: the extinction of the Dragon race.
A war erupted that lasted a thousand years.
The Dragons were gods of the battlefield, but their numbers were tragically sparse. In contrast, the Alliance was a self-replenishing flood. Especially the humans—they reproduced with the frantic speed of mabeasts, turning a newborn into a ranked combatant in a mere decade. They used "Human Wave" tactics, throwing millions of lives into the grinder just to exhaust a single dragon's Mana.
One by one, the Great Dragons fell.
Even the Dragon King of that era—a Tier 7 Golden Dragon of Mythic power—was cornered by a literal army of Tier 6 powerhouses. In a final, defiant act of "unreasonable" spite, he detonated his own soul, taking the entire elite core of the Alliance army into the void with him.
The fall of the King was the final crack in the dragon's spine.
During those ten centuries, the short-lived races produced heroes at a rate the dragons couldn't match. New hatchlings were forced onto the front lines before they could even breathe fire properly. The population plummeted.
Eventually, the Dragons were forced to accept the cold, hard reality of their defeat. They signed a humiliating Covenant of Exile.
The Dragon race would abandon the mainland forever, retreating to the isolated salt of the ocean. In exchange, the Alliance would cease their hunt for the survivors. Furthermore, to maintain the "Ecological Balance" of the world, the dragons were required to deliver their mindless offspring—the Dragon-Beasts—to the mainland every spring.
It wasn't a peace treaty. It was a surrender. It was the record of a race's decline.
These truths had been buried by Basaka and the other Elders. They didn't want the new generation to grow up carrying the weight of a broken legacy. They wanted the youth to carry their heads high with pride, untainted by the shadow of failure.
But now...
Grem's mind snapped back to the present. He had reached the volcanic caldera.
The mainland had unified. An Empire ruled by the dead had risen. A dozen adult dragons had vanished into the silence of the East.
This was not a coincidence. This was an omen.
Grem had a terrifying premonition: the nightmare of five thousand years ago was returning, only this time, it wore a crown of bone.
I have to summon the High Council. Now.
Grem lifted his head and let out a roar that tore through the cloud layer, vibrating with the authority of an Elder.
ROOOOOOAR—!
The signal for the Council of Elders echoed across the island. The last time this specific frequency had been used was over a millennium ago.
In an instant, the Dragon Nest went silent. Every dragon—hiding in a cave or brawling on the beach—stopped and looked toward the volcano. They knew a decision that would dictate the fate of their race was coming.
Grem didn't hesitate. He unfurled his wings and flew into the mouth of the caldera to deliver his warning.
In the depths of his opulent cavern, Ignius snapped his eyes open. He heard the roar.
"The Council is convening...?"
"Is it... because of me?"
The thought flickered for a second before he violently rejected it. No. Impossible. A failure like me isn't worth the Elders' time.
He rolled over, using his claws to rake a mountain of gold coins over his head, desperate to block out the sound of the world.
"I'm just going to sleep," he whispered to the darkness of his treasure. "None of this has anything to do with me. I suppose... I'll just disappear."
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