hotmtlnovel Page 163
Page 163
"Don't get excited, old golden dragon." Casalos waved his paw, gesturing for him to sit down. "Like I said, this is just the iron dragon's speculation. Although there's prejudice against precious metal dragons, it's not entirely without merit."
It paused, then continued, "Because before the Netheril era, precious metal dragons—specifically gold and silver dragons—generally lived in floating nests they built themselves!"
This information was like a bomb, sending shockwaves through everyone's minds. Floating nests? Did Netheril have floating city technology before?
"And in the prosperous era of the elves before the time of Netheril," Casaloz continued his narration, completely ignoring the shocked expressions of the crowd, "gold and silver dragons had already developed the habit of transforming in large numbers and mingling with humanoid societies to live alongside them."
"The flourishing of arcane magic in Netheril owes much to those gold and silver dragons disguised as Netherians!" Its voice suddenly rose, tinged with sarcasm. "Even today, at least one renowned gold dragon, once a 'half-mentor' and 'close friend' of a Netheril archmages, still roams the continent of Faerûn."
Eros Krujipara's expression turned somewhat grim. As a golden dragon, he certainly knew who Casaloz was referring to—Palalandask, the ancient golden dragon known as the "Invisible Guardian." But he had never connected this matter with the invention of the Miser Core.
"Your tone of voice is strange, Tielong."
"You mean mentors and close friends? Your legendary predecessor must have told you younger generations your story in this way."
"But," Casalos changed the subject, "Palalandask was bound by the mage Mileriigath, forced to obey to avoid a worse fate. During its long life in Netheril, it toiled obediently, its lifespan, and ultimately its nature and abilities, altered by the many spells cast upon it by its controller and his apprentices—so what you see is a half-ethereal golden dragon. As that fishing village slid from its glorious peak due to Karthus's foolish actions, from the ruins across the Empire and from hordes of mind flayers and other malevolent enemies, Paralandask seized all the magic it could, especially spellbooks, and began to freely wield its enhanced magic for the first time… That old golden dragon, its wings already tinged with age and anchored by spell effects, is not our topic. Let's return to the fishing village of Netheril."
Based on the information I have, the claim that Netheril's method of manufacturing Mythril cores originated from the Golden and Silver Dragons is somewhat untenable.
It shook its head, as if denying its previous conjecture: "The arcane prosperity of the fishing village of Netheril originated from the One Hundred Nether Scrolls—you know what those are. Regardless of what mysterious things these Nether Scrolls in my belly have become now, the original origin of the One Hundred Nether Scrolls is still the four primordial races."
The four primordial races: the terrifying serpent-men Saruk shamans, the cunning and agile elves, the fanatical amphibian race created by the Bachiz demon fish, and the soaring birds created by the Airi bird race. These names were not entirely unfamiliar to the archmages present, but to connect them with the Miser Core was truly unheard of—that era was too distant, practically mythology.
"After the mythical age of the gods ended and the age of thunder began, a time of transition between gods and mortals," Casalos's voice became low and mysterious, "the earliest record of the Miser Core comes from the Aieli bird race, one of the four primordial races, who occupied the skies."
The magic ship was approaching Sultanza, and the massive black walls of the city appeared even more magnificent. But no one paid attention to that; everyone's attention was drawn to Casalos's narration.
Iron Dragon cleared his throat and began reciting a passage clearly from an ancient text: "They opened a portal to the elemental planes and forged a pact with the wind giants. Under the giants' guidance, the Sarah people bound powerful elemental spirits to small wooden structures, elevating them high into the sky. The Aieri-Kur people linked these vessels together with chains, ropes, and wood, creating their own floating habitat. In less than a century, the Sarah's Aieri bird people went from digging burrows underground to soaring above the clouds—a victory that filled their chests with pride."
It paused, allowing the information to process in everyone's minds, before continuing: "As the arcanists became more proficient in their art, they learned to relinquish the constraints of the elements and instead create basic exorcism helms. This innovation spread westward, as the Aeliri-Coroca began using this technique to build several of their smaller cities. The Sarah's habitat grew larger and larger. In the following centuries, the Sarah discovered the secrets of crafting Miser Cores. Eventually, their habitat rivaled that of their northern and western cousins, the Cloud Forest."
"The Sky Empire of the Aieri Bird Clan is the true origin of the Miser Core," Casalos concluded, then turned to the treant beside the Golden Dragon Druid and teased, "Tulang, you were clearly wrong to say that Sinlenar was the largest floating city. Every city in the Aieri Bird Clan's Sky Empire was far larger than Sinlenar! And some clues related to that era are still being sung by your treant bards in a legendary tale called 'The Lament of Monugombara,' haven't you noticed?"
"Poetic records are always distorted, let alone poems that have been passed down for tens of thousands of years." The old tree man creaked and shook his wooden beard, completely unmoved by any provocation.
Elminster stroked his beard thoughtfully. "So you mean the Netherilites simply rediscovered the technology?"
"Under the influence of a certain gatekeeper who's been stirring things up behind the scenes all along," Casalos said with obvious disdain, "the fishing village of Netheril acquired the Nether Scroll, a comprehensive arcane encyclopedia painstakingly compiled by the four primordial races to ensure the eternal transmission of the power they had learned and mastered. Therefore, obtaining the method for creating the Mythril Core is only natural."
"Gatekeeper?" Storm Silverhand keenly caught the word. "You mean a deity?"
Casalos didn't answer directly, but continued, "The only thing that bothers me is that even the Aeliri bird race limits their description of the creation and use of the Miser Core to 'discovery' rather than 'invention.' This difference in terminology is enough to reveal the arrogance and hubris of some ignorant fishermen, which is even more incomprehensible than that of dragons."
Its voice suddenly turned serious, each word seemingly containing the power of thunder: "The Miser Core is a direct creation of the first goddess of magic, Mysriel. It was a weapon or tool used in the war of the gods in the mythological era! It was created by the gods, and its application is also limited to the gods; it is a true divine artifact."
This conclusion silenced everyone. If the Miser Cores were truly divine artifacts, then the Netheril people using them to build floating cities... wouldn't that be...?
"However, due to the special nature of the magic network and certain unspeakable special reasons," Casalos continued, "even mortals can obtain the method to create and use Miser Cores—those fishermen of Netheril think they're so great, but they're just a bunch of pawns being used."
"Who's using you?" Lyra Silverhand couldn't help but ask, "The doorman you just mentioned?"
Casalos turned around, a mysterious glint in its indigo vertical pupils: "That's a different story." It shook its head. "And it's a story that originally had nothing to do with us, but will become relevant once you hear it. Are you sure you want to hear it?"
This warning caused everyone to hesitate. As the strongest beings on the continent of Faerûn, they all understood that once certain secrets were known, it was impossible to remain uninvolved. This was especially true when it involved the secrets of the gods.
Curiosity is human nature, and archmages are among the most insatiable. Several archmages are present—Elminster, Kelburn, and Elasdra—each a thirsty seeker of knowledge.
But Casalos's hint was also clear: it was something related to the gods, specifically the modern Pan-Faerûnian gods, something that would make it impossible to escape once you heard it.
While everyone was still hesitating, Casalos suddenly turned to look towards the direction of the Eastern High Forest. In the dragon's vision, a shadow was appearing and disappearing on the horizon, each time it vanished and reappeared, closing the distance to the magic ship by several hundred meters.
The shadow moved in an extremely strange way; it wasn't flying, nor was it teleporting, but rather something in between. It seemed to be able to freely traverse between reality and nothingness, each flash covering a vast distance.
"Alright, I guess you don't have a choice..." Casaroz's voice was tinged with anxious coldness, his silvery-white scales slightly raised, sparks flying between them. "So that's why the bunch of little demons imprisoned in Hellgate became the Abyss Passage; it turns out it was the 'bugs' that were behind it."
19. Bad breath
The shadow continued to flicker and move, rapidly closing the distance to the magic ship.
Even from such a great distance, everyone could feel the chilling aura of death. As everyone used their unique abilities to observe, the outline of the newcomer gradually became clear—it was a colossal dragon exceeding sixty meters in length, but its appearance instilled a deep unease in every spellcaster present.
This dragon possessed a bird-like head covered in dull scales, with two pairs of translucent horns, one large and one small, curving upwards from its skull. Its body was more slender than that of ordinary dragons, as if stretched by some force. Most eerie were its wing membranes; the power of the Styx flowed through these translucent, eerie blue films, leaving brief ripples of death in the air with each flap. A chilling dark mist swirled around the entire dragon's body—the purest manifestation of death energy from the negative energy plane in the prime material world.
"Death Hunter!" Kelben Black Staff was the first to call out the newcomer's name, his voice filled with undisguised shock. As the Archmage of Waterdeep, he certainly wouldn't forget this mysterious and terrifying dragon. Although he had only observed its battle with certain beings from afar, the pure power of death had left a deep impression on him.
Elminster's white beard fluttered in the wind, and a hint of schadenfreude suddenly appeared on his aged face. The millennia-old sage seemed to have finally found an opportunity to get back at him verbally. He deliberately drew out his words, speaking in a feigned nonchalance, "Oh, isn't this that lost dragon that hunts down those who blaspheme the dead? I remember it only has a grudge against you, Casalos? Looks like it's here to settle scores?"
Lyra Silverhand nodded in agreement, having also witnessed the battle above Waterdeep: "Indeed, the entire city of Waterdeep could feel its deathly pressure. But Casalos, what did you do to provoke such a being?"
"You wish, you old fool." Casalos's beak clicked, letting out a mocking chuckle. It lazily flicked its tail, its silvery-white scales shimmering with a cold luster under the magical light, its indigo vertical pupils filled with an expression of anticipation.
Iron Dragon paused deliberately, enjoying the puzzled looks on everyone's faces, before continuing unhurriedly, "It's Cyrek, the Cyrek who led a group of unarmed farmers to their deaths during the Battle of Shadow Valley, risking his life to defend the bridge behind you and thwarting the Santyr's sneak attack from behind!"
The name struck like a thunderbolt from the watchtower. Lyra Silverhand's long silver hair trembled slightly, concealing her embarrassment, while Storm Silverhand raised an eyebrow, revealing a disdainful expression. Only Elminster's expression shifted from smugness to stiffness, and even his white beard stopped fluttering.
Casalos continued his "revelations," a wicked pleasure in his voice: "You and Midnight are so close, you must have heard her say what kind of person Cyric is in her eyes. A fanatical thief born in the filth of Santyr Fortress, yet still harboring simple and kind dreams? A hero willing to sacrifice himself to protect the innocent?"
Its voice suddenly turned icy: "Then why do you think he became like this?"
Before anyone could answer, Casalos answered his own question: "Because he was a loyal comrade of Isis and Midnight, and distinguished himself in the Battle of Shadow Valley. It's a pity that after witnessing firsthand how your goddaughter, whom you've raised for centuries—" Iron Dragon's gaze swept like a blade across Storm Silverhand—treated the heroes who helped you defend Shadow Valley, his worldview—his outlook on life, his values, his entire worldview—completely collapsed!"
Storm Silverhand scoffed, arms crossed, his tone full of disdain: "Here we go again, you iron dragon, all you do is twist the truth. My judgment was perfectly reasonable; any responsible person would have made the same decision."
Casalos scoffed, "Reasonable? He saw in Storm Silverhand's actions the truth that 'power allows one to do whatever one wants'! He saw that so-called justice is nothing but an excuse for the strong! He saw that the sacrifices heroes make for justice are worthless in the eyes of some!"
The Lost Dragon was still approaching, its movement, existing between reality and nothingness, making it appear and disappear intermittently. Dark smoke trailed long shadows behind it, like strokes of death drawn across the sky.
"What happened after that was simple." Casalos's voice became flat, as if recounting a trivial matter. "Bane took advantage of his vulnerability, promising him power to lure him into complete corruption, causing him to betray Midnight and Isis. Of course, it did hold a grudge against me—"
The iron dragon's beak, its scales covering the corners of its mouth, curved into a dangerous arc, much like a human's: "Because the moment I discovered it had joined Bane, I killed it!"
These words sent a chill down everyone's spine. Kill Cyric? Then what's that hovering in mid-air now?
"But what I never expected," Casalos said, his tone surprisingly indifferent, "was that it actually crawled out of the River Styx and returned to Faerûn as a lost dragon!"
Iron Dragon suddenly raised his head, his indigo vertical pupils flashing with ripples of chaotic energy from the four elements: "Guess who pulled him out of the River Styx? And who transformed him into the guardian of the underworld?"
Its gaze swept across everyone's faces, finally settling on Elminster: "Do you really think... of everyone here, I'm the only one who has a grudge against it?"
"Shine," Elasdra turned to her sister, her silver eyes full of inquiry, "what have you done?"
Storm Silverhand rolled his eyes, his tone filled with impatience: "I did what I was supposed to do! You all know the situation. Elminster vanished, leaving only a torn piece of his robe, and Midnight was standing right there. Shouldn't I have acted? I am the Harp Master, the Guardian of Shadow Valley. Upholding justice is my duty!"
She grew more and more agitated as she spoke, her long silver hair fluttering in an invisible magic: "As for that Cyric, just a petty thief, what does he know? Does he know what a sense of the big picture is? Does he understand what necessary sacrifices are?"
Elminster let out a long sigh, his aged fingers unconsciously stroking his white beard. He knew the nature of Storm; once he made up his mind, nothing could sway him.
"Hmm, she hasn't told you sisters about her heroic deeds yet?" Casaroz's voice was filled with wicked pleasure. It might not enjoy rubbing salt in the wound, but it didn't seem to care much for Storm Silverhand. Iron Dragon said slowly, "Then let me tell you the story of this 'hero.'"
It cleared its throat and began its narration in the tone of a bard reciting an epic tale: "When the army of Santyr attacked Shadowvale, Storm Silverhand, arriving late with the Knights of Mysdrano, did indeed miss the battle—which is understandable, given the 'long' journey. But the problem is, when she finally arrived, instead of rushing to rescue the inhabitants of Shadowvale or helping to clear the ruins and find survivors, she immediately arrested Midnight and her companions and forcibly accused them of killing this wretched old man."
Casalos pointed his tail at Elminster, his tone even more sarcastic: "The reason? Oh, because she 'saw' Midnight standing next to Elminster's 'rag fragment'!"
"I was only concerned about Elminster!" Storm abruptly stood up, hand on his sword hilt, his voice shrill and almost piercing. "You lying worm! What was wrong with my judgment? Anyone would have made the same choice in that situation!"
"Concern?" Casalos scoffed. "Your way of showing concern is quite peculiar. As for lies... you jump to conclusions without asking questions, arrest people without investigating the truth, and you didn't even confirm whether Elminster was dead or alive—oh, by the way, the old man was just caught in the dimensional rift created by the previous generation's goddess of magic's all-out attack on Saint Bane. He even got to see his mentor, whom he hadn't seen for hundreds of years. I wonder if he buried his head in that moon elf's chest and cried."
Elminster rolled his eyes and turned his head away, muttering in a voice no one could hear, "What a coward! He calls my mentor 'Moon Elf,' why doesn't he just keep calling him Pointy Ears..."
Iron Dragon ignored the old man's silent provocation. Its voice suddenly turned serious: "Do you know the consequences of your 'concern'? Cyric, the hero who just fought to the death to protect Shadow Valley, watched as his trusted comrade was framed, and as the so-called embodiment of justice so hastily convicted him. His faith has crumbled, and his understanding of justice has been completely overturned."
Storm wanted to continue arguing, his voice filled with anger and defiance: "So what? What can the opinion of a nobody change? Do I, Storm Silverhand, need to explain myself to a thief?"
"You can explain your excuses to the Goddess of Magic later!" Casaroz's voice regained its calmness, but there was a wicked pleasure in his tone. "The murderer of Ilminster, whom you accused of 'witnessing' him, is now the Goddess of Magic! I'm curious how Isis and Midnight will deal with you, this 'righteous' harpist master, after they've completed their handover. I don't even have Silverfire yet..."
These words struck Storm's Heart like a heavy hammer. Her expression finally changed, from anger to shock, and then from shock to pallor. Yes, the "murderer" she had accused was now the goddess who controlled the magic network. The weight of this fact was something even she could not bear.
"But now is not the time to settle old scores." Casalos abruptly changed the subject: "Let's think about how to deal with this 'Death Hunter.' Sultanza's barrier won't stop this monstrous thing—the Lost Dragons are no ordinary dragons; they are extensions of the River Styx, and even the Grim Reaper may not have as profound an understanding of the power of death as the Lost Dragons."
Cyric continued to close in, and in the brief exchange, only a few kilometers remained, but the oppressive pressure of death had already made the air heavy. Each time it flickered between reality and nothingness, everyone's heart skipped a beat.
Tie Long's gaze was fixed on the storm, his tone laced with malicious anticipation: "Do you think it will let you go?"
20. Unexpected
"That mad dragon will never let me go; I can feel its murderous intent towards me."
Storm said through gritted teeth, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth.
Paranoiacs understand paranoiacs best. The bard, harpist, and master, her silver eyes burning with resentful rage, gripped her sword hilt so tightly her knuckles turned white. As a fanatical idealist, she hated nothing more than having her judgment questioned, especially by an iron dragon she had never liked. But now, facing the death hunter closing in on the magic ship, she had to admit—this mad dragon was indeed partly after her.
Elasdra immediately stood beside her sister, her long silver hair swaying slightly in the invisible magic: "I will not let anyone harm my sister, not even a lost dragon."
"We're family. Anyone who wants to stir up the storm has to get past us first." Lyra Silverhand gripped her staff tightly. As the youngest of the seven sisters, she had never experienced the boring rivalries between them and had deep feelings for them.
Elminster let out a complex sigh. The old sage was filled with mixed emotions—he knew Storm's actions were indeed problematic, but she was, after all, his "adopted daughter" whom he had watched grow up, and protecting her was in his nature. His white beard trembled in the wind, and his aged voice carried an undeniable resolve: "No matter what, I will not stand by and watch Cyric harm Storm."
Without hesitation, Kelburn stood beside his wife, his eyes filled with the unwavering resolve of a devoted husband: "Wherever Lyra is, I will be. Anything that threatens her safety is my enemy."
The old treant Tulang's wooden body creaked deeply, his voice like the wind rustling through the treetops: "If the Death Hunters jeopardize our plan to completely eliminate the threat of Hellgate Fortress, the High Forest will face even greater danger. I cannot allow that to happen."
The green eyes of the Golden Dragon Druid, Eros Krujipala, surged with the power of nature: "I agree with Tulang's point of view. Now is not the time for infighting; the threat of Hellgate Fortress has not yet been eliminated."
Even the usually enigmatic Lord of the Mist spoke in a steady voice from beneath his cloak: "My fortress is near Hellgate Fortress, and I want to end this crisis as soon as possible more than anyone else. If that Lost Dragon gets in the way of our plans..."
Forrell Blackhammer gripped his warhammer, "Skullcrusher," a fierce expression on his rugged face: "Whatever dragon it is, if it dares to block our path, we'll kill it! The warriors of the Three Piglands never back down!"
"The dwarves of Sandaba are willing to fight alongside you. The honor of the Sons of the Mountain must not be tarnished!" Helm the Dwarf Friend patted the warhammer "Mountain Collapse" at his waist, his braid in his beard swaying slightly.
With everyone united in their resolve, the atmosphere on the magic ship quickly became tense yet orderly. These people may have had their own disagreements in the past, but when faced with a common threat, they demonstrated the professionalism expected of the top warriors of the Forgotten Realms.
Elminster was the first to act. He tucked his spellbook under his arm and began to draw intricate magical runes with his hands. His aged but still nimble fingers danced in the air, weaving ancient and powerful arcane magic. A protective barrier against blasphemy and evil unfolded with his movements and incantations, and a pale golden light instantly enveloped the entire magical ship. Runes outlined by silver flames flowed across the surface of the light, each character radiating an otherworldly, magnificent power—the primordial power bestowed upon her chosen ones by Mystra, the fallen second-generation goddess of magic.
With the support of Silverfire, this high-level arcane barrier, specifically designed to counter the powers of death and blasphemy, can even exert limited resistance to corresponding divine power.
Elasdra followed closely behind, raising her staff. The silver gem at the top shone brightly, and multiple divine protections transformed into protective halos that lit up on everyone in turn—protection against evil, protection against instant death, resistance to negative energy, mental barrier... Each spell was carefully chosen to counter the attack methods that the Lost Dragon might use.
Kelben Black Staff wasn't idle either; deep blue arcane light surrounded his hands, replenishing the last bit of spell resistance and providing additional protection for everyone, especially the melee classes. Although there were various unpleasant incidents and verbal conflicts on the magic ship, who among those present wasn't a seasoned veteran with extensive combat experience?
They knew perfectly well that if Casalos couldn't hold off the Lost Dragon, then they, burdened with the double vulnerability debuff of humanoid mages, wouldn't last a single round on this magic ship.
Lyra Silverhand began chanting a war song, its melodious tune imbued with magic to boost morale and enhance combat power. The Lord of the Mist retrieved a crystal ball from his cloak, its surface shrouded in an eerie mist, and proclaimed his masterpiece with a childish shout: "Illusory Barrier, deploy. We need some... insurance."
A translucent mist began to spread around the magic ship, which not only interfered with the enemy's vision but also provided extra cover at crucial moments.
Even the old tree spirit Tulang stretched out his thick branches, beginning to summon the power of nature to bless the weapons and armor of everyone present! A pale green light covered everyone's weapons, a blessing from nature that could give ordinary weapons the ability to harm supernatural creatures. As for the added value—a highly skilled druid could use ordinary tree branches to fight against divine artifacts.
Of course, the artifacts referred to here are not artifacts like the Miser Core, but rather the Faerûn's general term for magical weapons with special effects.
Casalos, determined to use this rare gathering of Faerûn's top arcane warriors, united for the sake of Hellgate, to completely eliminate the troublesome Cyric. Arcs of electricity began to crackle and leap in the flames from the iron dragon's body, its silvery-white scales slightly raised, each one like a sharp blade poised to strike. Its indigo vertical pupils locked onto the rapidly approaching black shadow in the sky, and the battle intent deep within its dragon soul began to boil.
"Gentlemen, prepare for battle!" The old sage's white beard flew wildly, his voice echoing like thunder across the deck. "Let this mad dragon see what teamwork truly means!"
However, just as everyone was on high alert, preparing for a fierce battle...
When the Death Hunter was five thousand meters away from the magic ship, it suddenly made a move that no one expected.
The super-sized Lost Dragon, exceeding sixty meters in length, abruptly changed direction. Its body, which had been hurtling towards the magic ship, traced a strange arc in the air and flew directly towards Hellgate Fortress. It didn't even glance at the group of people, as if the top experts from the Forgotten Realms on the magic ship were less than ants in its eyes.
"What's going on?" Forel Blackhammer was stunned. His rough hands were still gripping the warhammer tightly, but the expression on his face changed from being full of fighting spirit to being completely bewildered.
Helm the Dwarf blinked, his braid in his beard ceasing to sway: "It...isn't here to cause us trouble?"
Cyric had already flown above Hellgate Fortress, its translucent wing membranes gleaming with a deathly sheen in the sunlight. Suddenly, the Lost Dragon opened its massive beak and took a deep breath.
The next moment, an overclocked, explosive breath, based on some kind of psionic effect, spewed out from its mouth.
Like a deathly roar played by the surging waves of the River Styx, the invisible sound waves carried a power strong enough to shatter the soul, piercing through the blasphemous barrier guarding the Gate of Hell without a second thought—that powerful barrier that even Sultanza's disintegration beams needed to bombard continuously to shake, was as if it did not exist in the face of Cyric's breath, literally non-existent.
boom!
The shockwave exploded within Hellgate Keep, sending shattering shockwaves through the sulfur and lava. The entire fortress trembled violently under the force of the impact, its twisted spires groaning under the strain.
The demons' roars and the Styx's wails intertwined, creating a deathly symphony from hell. The lowly demons who had been guarding the portal were instantly torn to shreds by the explosive breath, turning into ashes before they could even scream.
"My God..." Lyra Silver covered her mouth with her hand, her silver eyes filled with shock.
Elasra's eyes widened, his elegant demeanor completely vanishing in that instant: "This power..."
Everyone was stunned by what they saw. They had expected a tough battle, but the Death Hunter didn't even seem to care about them.
"What's going on?" Elminster's voice trembled slightly, his white beard fluttering wildly in the wind. Even as a wise man who had witnessed countless grand scenes, he was completely bewildered by the situation before him.
Casalos withdrew the arcs of electricity and flames from its body, and its silvery-white scales reattached themselves. Its indigo vertical pupils reflected the same confusion: "How should I know?"
Storm Silverhand turned and glared at Iron Dragon, his silver eyes filled with displeasure: "I thought you knew everything. Didn't you have a lot of secrets? How come you're confused now?"
Casalos clicked his iron beak, his tone clearly impatient: "I can't understand a madman's thinking, because I'm not a madman. You could try to put yourself in his shoes and think about what this mad dragon is doing."
At this moment, Cyric had fully displayed its terrifying power as a lost dragon. Using its explosive breath to clear a path, this death hunter flickered between reality and nothingness, charging into the horde of demons.
Beneath its feet, the remains of demons slain by its breath began to undergo a bizarre transformation. The power of death writhed like a living thing, piecing together and reassembling these shattered corpses, creating a multitude of high-level infernal undead creatures. Skeleton warriors, ghost mages, death knights... these beings, which originally required powerful necromancers to summon, sprang up like mushrooms after rain under Cyric's power.
Cyric let out a chilling dragon roar, a sound containing a curse from the River Styx.