Translator: AnubisTL
"Attacking the gem mine was too risky, and the rewards weren't worth the risk."
"I shouldn't have taken such a gamble for a fleeting moment of satisfaction."
"Too impulsive. I should have been more cautious, more careful."
The red-iron dragon silently reflected on his actions.
But another emotion surged within him.
When his flame lightning breath blasted the first ballista, when the anti-air pillars and golem bodies shattered beneath his claws, that long-lost, pure, almost primal exhilaration returned—like the first time he tore through the throat of a saber-toothed tiger as a cub.
Years of deliberate self-suppression for survival had found a brief release today.
He had never enjoyed living cautiously; it was merely a necessity for survival.
The red-iron dragon suddenly accelerated, tearing through the clouds and soaring higher into the sky, letting the torrential rain wash away the gunpowder stench clinging to his scales.
In the brief sunlight above the storm clouds, he stretched his battle-scarred body.
"I mustn't forget caution, mustn't be too impulsive or reckless."
"But...!"
"Only the weak are burdened by endless caution. One day, I'll live without restraint, without fear, without limits!"
Garos inhaled deeply, the thin, high-altitude air filling his lungs with icy oxygen.
He cast aside his hesitation and regret into the clear sky behind him, then plunged with renewed resolve into the raging storm below.
Several days later.
The torrential rain gradually subsided, the oppressive curtain of water thinning into a sparse drizzle.
South of the Sierre Wilderness, in the Duchy of Raymond, lay the Thorn Territory.
Here, no rain fell, and no clouds obscured the sky.
The moon shone as brightly as ever, but to Viscount Ironthorn, it seemed cold and unappealing. Two moons—one real, one illusory—hung in the sky like a pair of eyes, their mocking gaze fixed upon him.
He stood on the terrace, his jaw shadowed by stubble, his eyes bloodshot.
He looked less like a meticulous noble and more like a middle-aged man broken by the loss of his son.
And that was the truth.
Rage burned in Viscount Ironthorn's chest like an unquenchable flame. His son was dead, torn apart by the claws of dragons.
Edmund, the proud, young man who should have inherited everything from him and made the family proud, was now nothing but a pool of indistinct flesh. No, not even that remained—his bones had vanished without a trace.
The viscount's teeth ground together, his jaw clenching so hard the veins on his forehead bulged as if they might burst.
His breathing was heavy, each inhale seeming to swallow all the rage in the air.
"Those beasts... those damned beasts!"
His voice was low and hoarse, a curse squeezed from the depths of his throat.
He hated the dragons—their arrogance, their cruelty, their audacity to steal his son.
But even more than them, he hated himself.
Regret coiled around his heart like a venomous serpent. He regretted sending Edmund to collect taxes, regretted not assigning stronger guards, regretted failing to conduct thorough reconnaissance, regretted not realizing those monsters were backed by evil dragons!
Those damned dragons.
Not content with killing Edmund, they had attacked the Duchy of Raymond's mine camp, causing massive destruction, stealing vast quantities of gems, and even specifying it as a "return gift" for him.
This brought Viscount Ironthorn immense trouble, drawing the ire and dissatisfaction of his family.
But the viscount no longer cared.
His fingers dug deep into his palm, nails piercing the skin until beads of blood welled up, yet he felt no pain.
He recalled Edmund's nonchalant demeanor before his departure, his son's confident words: "I'll make those monsters kneel and offer up their treasures."
Now, his son would never return.
The moonlight remained brilliant, illuminating the viscount's face and revealing the seething hatred and anguish in his eyes.
"Blood for blood, tooth for tooth!"
"I will flay you all alive and tear you apart! Not a single one will survive!"
He slowly raised his head, gazing toward the Sierre Wilderness, his eyes as sharp as daggers.
Soon after.
Viscount Ironthorn donned the armor he had worn when commanding border troops years ago. He led a professional dragon hunting group he had recruited by selling off his family's assets. The group's members boasted an average life grade exceeding 12, were seasoned veterans, and had achieved glorious victories hunting adult dragons.
Their weapons, combat skills, spells, and armor were all meticulously designed for dragon hunting, making them exceptionally effective against their quarry.
To save time,
Viscount Ironthorn spared no expense, using a magical teleportation formation to transport his dragon hunting group directly to the Sierre Wilderness. They pressed on day and night, heading toward the Scaly Earth Rift Road.
Three days later, the dragon hunting group arrived at their first destination amidst a misty drizzle: the site where the private army had been annihilated.
The spellcaster leading the group knelt down, his fingers brushing across the scorched earth.
"Residue of dragon flame," he declared. "I need any remaining traces related to dragonkind."
The other members scattered like hunting hounds, searching for the slightest clues.
Their efforts yielded nothing.
The wilderness stood firmly on the side of dragonkind, the torrential rain having washed away all traces of the battle.
The corpses that had remained were devoured by the wilderness's ferocious beasts and demonic creatures, leaving only mangled iron armor, broken weapon blades, and metallic debris.
As for any signs of the dragons themselves, only the scorched earth formed by their dragon breath remained.
The spellcaster pinched a handful of ash, rubbed it between his fingers, and said, "This dragon breath ash is an extremely poor medium, making tracking nearly impossible."
Viscount Ironthorn remained silent, his gaze dark and brooding.
Next, the dragon hunting group arrived at their second critical location: Needleleaf Valley.
The attack on the mine camp was no small matter.
Moreover, the slaughter of the noble's private army elevated this beyond a mere incident.
Upon receiving the news, the Lothurn Federation's wilderness guard immediately mobilized, deeming a large-scale purge necessary.
Using magic and alchemical constructs, they launched a systematic sweep centered on the Scaly Earth Rift Road, eradicating powerful ferocious beasts and demonic beasts.
When the mighty legion turned its full attention to the task, the scattered territories of the Ironforged Clan were systematically uncovered, one by one. Even Needleleaf Valley, identified as the core territory where the juvenile dragons had been lurking, was excavated.
Viscount Ironthorn, the person most directly involved in the incident, was informed of these developments.
Arriving at Needleleaf Valley, Viscount Ironthorn clung to a final sliver of hope. However, the only thing remaining was scorched earth.
Long before the assault began, the flaming dragon breath had completely annihilated the area.
"They were prepared for this," the spellcaster leader of the dragon hunting group said gravely. "This was a premeditated attack. They erased all traces of their presence beforehand to prevent pursuit."
After a pause, the spellcaster mused, "The juvenile dragons are arrogant and overconfident."
"Yet they abandoned their territory immediately after securing victory, which already surprised me. I never imagined they would be so meticulous in concealing their movements."
The spellcaster paused again, pondering aloud, "It must be that special hybrid dragon among them. Its nature differs from purebred dragons, and without a doubt, it's the leader."
Viscount Ironthorn slowly drew his sword, its tip piercing the earth as if to pierce the very ground and strike his fleeing enemies.
"Continue the search," his voice was colder than the blade. "Scour the entire Sierre Wilderness—dig them out if we have to."
The spellcaster studied Viscount Ironthorn, his voice low and ominous. "These dragons are cautious. Conventional methods won't work. But as a professional dragon hunter, I have unconventional methods at my disposal."
"What are they?" Viscount Ironthorn demanded urgently.
"Using the blood of extreme hatred as a catalyst, I can construct a tracking spell. While it won't pinpoint their exact location, it will guide us in the general direction."
The spellcaster spoke calmly.
"Then cast it quickly."
The spellcaster shook his head. "This is a dark spell. It will cost you at least ten years of your life. Are you certain you're willing to pay such a price?"
The viscount fell silent, his resolve wavering.
Approaching fifty, he was in his prime, a seasoned warrior at the peak of his strength. He could still father heirs and didn't necessarily need to risk everything in a vendetta against dragonkind over Edmund's death.
But after a fierce inner struggle, the desire for revenge triumphed over reason.
Viscount Ironthorn declared, his face impassive, "As long as I can kill those dragons, I will drink their dragon blood and devour their flesh raw. This price is nothing."
(End of the Chapter)
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