Ashen Dragon

This is far more than a mere coup—it is a war. A war we must win. That powerful Gold Dragon should be able to provide us with significant aid.

On the day of the Holy Sun, the dark clouds shrouding Serinia will finally dissipate, and the sacred moonlight will once again bathe the earth."

Catherine lifted her head and gazed at the majestic, towering Holy Tree in the distance, her violet pupils radiating an unprecedented brilliance.

An era of turmoil is about to arrive.

And she will lead Serinia and her elven people—to find a bright new path in this war-ridden, tumultuous world.

But the Elf Queen could never have anticipated that one casual remark of hers would herald the beginning of a catastrophe within her own home.

...

Wuge Prairie.

The vast prairie was nearly overtaken by green, but it wasn't the pale green of wild grass mingled with yellow—it was an overwhelming, nauseating deep green.

Patches of green mushrooms grew dense and unchecked, greedily siphoning the energy of the earth, reducing everything in reach into nutrient fodder for breeding Orcs.

"Snap."

Suddenly, sharp fissures tore through the membranes beneath the mushroom caps, followed by the abrupt upheaval of soil mounds. Deep green hands surfaced, slick with mucus, breaking through the earth.

One by one, burly, ferocious Orcs emerged from underground. Quickly, these "newborns" adapted to the outside world and raised their heads to the sky, unleashing thunderous, manic roars.

"WAAAGH!!!"

In only a moment, hundreds of Orcs emerged on the field. Their rate of reproduction was astounding, and the prairie they were born into had already been reduced to barren sand.

The newly spawned Orcs instinctively began running along the black river, surging toward the valley like a tidal wave...

"Excellent, excellent! Hahaha! Our warriors grow stronger in number! The Red Blood Tribe has never been so prosperous! Praise be to Father God Guosh!" Solo stood atop the hill, laughing maniacally.

At this moment, the Beastman Chief had taken on an even more grotesque form, long surpassing the genetic limits of the Orcs.

His towering frame stood nearly six meters tall, his knotted muscles encased in a patchwork of shabby armor—rusty scraps of metal and mismatched scales from hunted beasts—daubed in garish paints. Massive claws adorned his hands.

Through some mysterious modification, this once-soft-spoken temporary chieftain had undergone a drastic transformation, his temperament now consumed by volatility and rage.

In truth, it wasn't just him. All the Orcs had become stronger, more zealous in battle, and utterly fearless—transforming into living weapons.

Solo looked around the scene. Below him, a sea of heads clamored noisily amidst a stench so rancid it permeated the heavens—the valley was utterly packed with Green-skin Orcs, their number beyond estimation.

Solo imagined the dwarves trembling with fright if faced with such an Orc tide. In his mind, he could already picture the glorious image of dwarves being torn apart, their dead bodies littering the ground as the Orcs cheered atop Aivendel City's walls.

What a marvelous vision! He would fulfill his people's millennia-old longing and become a hero among the Orcs!

Indeed, if Batu himself rose from the dead and witnessed such sights, he would undoubtedly bow respectfully and address Solo as "Chieftain."

Thinking of this, Solo became even more intoxicated by the scene, drooling stinking saliva from the corners of his mouth.

"We have amassed such power. Naturally, we deserve to claim more living space! The great Beastman Guosh has bestowed upon us the divine right to plunder!

We are born to wage war, to drive the weak from their lands, and take everything they have!"

The Beastman Chief raised the colossal claw in his hand high, roaring with deafening intensity: "My tribesmen, do you wish to storm Aivendel City and slaughter those damned dwarves?!"

"Yes!"

"WAAGH!"

"Great! There will be battle! I shall smash those little dwarves into meat pies!"

Suddenly, an Orc riding a Worg approached from the distance, shouting: "Chieftain! Chieftain! Aivendel City has fallen! The High Mountain Kingdom is no more!"

"What?"

Solo froze, caught between confusion and shock. He hadn't even set out yet—how could Aivendel City have already fallen?

No, not him! Not even his Orcs!

Anger surged through him as he roared in disbelief: "Who? Who did this?! That land belongs to the Orcs!

How dare someone seize Aivendel City before us?! This is a brazen humiliation! A provocation against the greatness of our Orc tribe!"

The Orc messenger replied, "It's... it's the Ashen Empire!"

"Boom!"

In a fit of rage, Solo slammed his fist into the rock beneath him, causing debris and shrapnel to spray outward, forming a massive crater.

"Damn it! Those cursed dwarven mongrels! The Ashen Empire! They not only killed our emissaries but also stole the glory that should have been ours—the glory that belongs to the Orcs!"

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

Solo threw punch after furious punch, the hill groaning under the relentless assault, cracks spreading across its surface.

His fury burned stronger because the Ashen Empire had accomplished something the Orcs had failed to achieve in thousands of years—taking Aivendel City.

After all, Aivendel City, hailed as the "Unfallen City," was the capital of the Shield Dwarves.

For millennia, Orcs and dwarves had waged bitter battles over this city, with casualties on the Orc side amounting to millions. The valleys along the Road of Glory bore witness, littered with bone rivers.

Yet it wasn't the Orcs who finally seized Aivendel City—it was the Ashen Empire, emerging seemingly out of nowhere. How could Solo not be consumed by rage?

"Kill them all!"

"Take everything from them!"

"We'll reclaim Aivendel City!"

Even the newborn Green-skin Orcs below were incensed, roaring in anger despite having no understanding of what "Aivendel City" or the "Ashen Empire" were.

But one thing they knew: there was going to be a battle!

In just a month, the Wuge Prairie had spawned over a million Green-skin Orcs. Like a locust swarm, they devoured everything in their path—grass, beasts, monsters—leaving nothing untouched.

Now, what they desired above all else was a recklessly violent war—a stage to unleash the killing instinct ingrained in each of their cells.

Solo's bloodshot eyes gleamed as he pulled out the long spear beside him, lifting it high with a ferocious roar: "Since the High Mountain Kingdom is destroyed, our next target will be the Ashen Empire!

I hear their Emperor is a Dragon. Then we shall sever that overgrown lizard's head, use it as decoration! We'll tear off his wings to build tents, dismember his limbs and tail, and cook them into stew!

For Father God Guosh!"

"WAAGH!!"

"For Father God Guosh!"

"Destroy the Ashen Empire!"

"Hahaha! I'll relish the taste of dragon flesh and blood!"

At the news of war, the Green-skin Orcs erupted in thunderous cheers and roars, their excitement boiling over as if they were preparing for a grand feast.

Beastman spores swirled in the valley, and in their collective frenzy, the eyes of these Green-skin Orcs glistened with crimson.

Just as locust swarms behave, when Green-skin Orcs reach a critical population density, their bodies start releasing a variety of chemical toxins, causing genetic mutations.

They become even wilder, more violent, immune to pain, and fully transformed into biological weapons—this is what will be remembered by later generations as the terrifying "Beast Tide."

But these Orcs were unaware they would soon become test subjects for the Ashen Empire's new weapons.