The area surrounding the shaman's house was the most important place in the entire village.
Under normal circumstances, aside from the attendants required for daily service, no tribesman would dare approach it.
The shaman was the mouthpiece of the gods.
To approach casually was considered an insult to the great Feathered Serpent God, Viracocha.
Even the building itself possessed a sacred nature.
Yet tonight, countless tribesmen had gathered beneath the cover of darkness.
Their bodies were painted with holy war markings.
They wore wooden and leather armor reserved for battle.
Ancient blades hung at their waists.
Spears filled their hands.
Beside them prowled dragon-beasts bestowed by the gods.
The very people who once worshipped this sacred place now surrounded it with murderous intent.
A tall, elderly figure stepped out from the crowd.
The tribal chief.
Nominally the highest-ranking person in the village beneath the shaman.
Like every warrior present, he wore a magnificent feathered headdress and the ceremonial attire reserved for the tribe's most sacred occasions.
As he stared at the burning house, his expression was filled with reverence.
Ordinarily, a tribal chief should have been the person most wary of the shaman's authority.
Perhaps until today, he had been exactly that.
But now?
Now he considered himself the shaman's most loyal servant and the Feathered Serpent God's most devout believer.
Because he had seen it with his own eyes.
The divine messenger had descended.
The black dragon existed.
The god's emissary existed.
Wasn't that proof enough?
Earlier tonight, Capac had delivered a revelation.
Viracocha had spoken.
The outsiders were fallen shamans who had betrayed the god.
The black dragon had been sent to punish them.
And the tribe's warriors had been chosen to assist in the holy task.
The old chief believed every word.
Thus he and his people stood here tonight.
Turning their weapons against what had once been sacred ground.
The Feathered Serpent God had granted them everything.
Their harvests.
Their prosperity.
Their survival.
Naturally, they would offer their lives in return.
Only then could they prove the sincerity of their faith.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Muffled impacts echoed from within the burning house.
The scouts he had sent forward were thrown back one after another.
As expected of traitorous shamans.
They possessed genuine power.
Then several figures emerged from the inferno.
The very guests they had warmly welcomed over the past two days.
The chief sighed.
Why couldn't things have remained peaceful?
Why couldn't they have continued sharing food and laughter?
Then he raised his staff toward the sky and roared:
"Chay traicionaqkunata wañuchiy!"
(Kill the traitors!)
Instantly the tribal warriors surged forward.
Dragon-beasts and young drakes followed with savage roars.
At the same time, the divine messenger behind them raised its head and unleashed a terrifying roar of its own.
The effect was immediate.
The warriors felt fire erupting within their veins.
Scales spread across their skin.
Sharp spikes emerged from their backs.
Their bodies began transforming.
Draconic.
The old chief smiled.
Before the battle, they had consumed the sacred wine bestowed by the Feathered Serpent God.
Now that power awakened.
It made them stronger.
Closer to divinity.
Closer to the gods themselves.
Perhaps it would not be enough to defeat the traitorous shamans.
But surely they could at least hinder them.
Surely that would create an opening for Lord Capac and the divine messenger.
The thought filled him with joy.
To serve the gods.
To aid their messenger.
What greater honor existed?
Unfortunately, his happiness lasted only a single moment.
Then his expression froze.
Because faced with hundreds of warriors charging toward them—
The outsiders showed no fear whatsoever.
In fact—
The blond woman and the young boy leading the group both grinned.
Then they simultaneously raised their wands.
"Maximized, Widened Blizzard!"
[Empower Spell]
Increase all effects of a spell by 50%.
[Widen Spell]
Double all range values of an area spell.
One moment ago there had been fire.
Dragonfire behind them.
A burning house before them.
The next moment—
The old chief felt cold.
Bitter cold.
Snow began falling from the sky.
Not ordinary snow.
Countless snowflakes transformed into razor-sharp ice shards.
Enhanced by multiple metamagic techniques and cast jointly by two powerful spellcasters, the blizzard descended like divine punishment.
The first wave struck the charging warriors.
Blood exploded.
Heads split open.
Men screamed.
Yet the physical damage wasn't the worst part.
Every shard carried freezing magic.
Anyone struck immediately felt their body stiffen.
Their movements slowed.
Some froze completely in place.
Others collapsed as numb limbs refused to obey.
The ground became even more treacherous.
Ice spread across the earth.
The muddy rainforest floor transformed into a frozen battlefield.
Tribesmen born and raised beneath tropical heat had never encountered ice.
Most immediately lost their footing.
They slipped.
Fell.
Crushed one another beneath panicked bodies.
Above them rained ice.
Below them stretched frozen ground.
Around them howled magical winter.
Within seconds, entire ranks became trapped inside the storm.
Unable to advance.
Unable to retreat.
The ice shards continued falling without mercy.
One after another.
Again and again.
The warriors were slowly shredded apart.
Behind them, those who had not yet entered the blizzard stared in horror.
None dared advance.
Even the dragon-beasts and young drakes fared little better.
Occasionally, a lucky survivor managed to break through the frozen storm.
Only to encounter the remaining two witches.
Jaina stepped forward first.
Her hair had shifted into a vivid crimson under the influence of battle.
Spell after spell erupted from her wand.
Blasting Curse.
Severing Charm.
Explosive magic rained upon the survivors.
The draconic scales granted some resistance.
But not enough.
Bodies were thrown through the air.
Limbs shattered.
The survivors were scattered like leaves in a hurricane.
Then came Ciri.
Unlike the others, she didn't even use a wand.
She drew a silver sword.
Yet somehow that blade seemed more magical than any wand present.
Every swing unleashed a different force.
Frost.
Lightning.
Invisible kinetic waves.
Her swordsmanship surpassed every warrior in the tribe.
No one could withstand even a single exchange.
Blocking failed.
Dodging failed.
Counterattacks failed.
The sword cut through everything.
Even the massive dragon-beasts were cleaved cleanly in half.
Not a single warrior who escaped the blizzard managed to reach their targets.
Not one.
A single spell.
Just one.
Yet the front ranks of more than a hundred attackers had already been annihilated.
The battlefield became silent.
Those remaining at the rear stood frozen with terror.
Even with the dragon and Capac standing behind them, they no longer dared charge.
Instead, they lingered at the edge of the storm.
Launching desperate attacks with blowguns and thrown spears.
It accomplished nothing.
Every projectile struck magical shields and bounced harmlessly away.
The difference between ordinary people and powerful wizards had never been more obvious.
The old chief collapsed to his knees.
His hands trembled uncontrollably.
Nearby, Capac's face darkened.
"Useless trash!"
He pointed furiously at the terrified tribesmen.
"The entire tribe is useless!"
Then he turned toward the young dragons and dragon-beasts.
"And you lot are useless too!"
"After all the power the divine messenger granted you!"
Finally, he knelt before the towering black dragon.
His voice became respectful once more.
"Honored Divine Messenger."
"It is now clear that these rabble cannot defeat the traitors."
"I humbly beg you to act personally."
"Unleash your thunderous power."
"Destroy these enemies."
"And prove worthy of the god's blessing."
The black dragon seemed to understand.
It lowered its massive body.
Then slowly stepped forward.
A threatening growl rumbled from deep within its chest.
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