The son of the God-Emperor in Warhammer Fantasy

"I need your Blood Dragon offspring to swear that they will never return to the knightly kingdom," Ryan said with some difficulty, swallowing hard as he was dazzled by the wealth before him. "Otherwise, this agreement is meaningless."

"Agreed," Ebo Wallace's face was filled with arrogance and confidence. Ryan had rarely seen anyone with such extreme self-assurance and arrogance; Ebo Wallace was one, his brother Angron was another, and Landuin was yet another.

The Blood Dragon Patriarch standing before him had absolute confidence in his own strength. The confidence in his eyes supported any decision he made and any plan he conceived. Simply put, Ebo Wallace, like Angron and Landuin, believed that their martial prowess could overcome any obstacle and destroy any enemy.

Only those who had endured countless trials and withstood all imaginable challenges could develop such confidence.

Ryan suddenly felt a pang of regret, recalling his unfinished duel with Landuin.

Indeed, it was an unfinished duel.

In truth, Ryan and Landuin's duel was not fair. It was unfair because Landuin, with his near-demigod peak Saint power, faced Ryan, an early-stage Saint Holy Grail knight. It was also unfair because Ryan, as a living being, could infinitely recover his stamina and injuries, thanks to his powerful Primarch regenerative abilities.

But Landuin, whether his stamina or injuries, could not recover, as he was already dead. The power of the Lady of the Lake could only temporarily revive him, not truly restore him to life. This meant that Landuin would only grow weaker the longer they fought; his injuries would only worsen, and his stamina would only deplete.

So, to put it bluntly, Ryan relied on his resilience to outlast Landuin's stamina, barely defeating him. If Landuin had been alive, who knew how long the battle would have lasted before a victor was decided.

"Very well, we have a deal." Ryan breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Ebo Wallace nod. "How do you plan to take your offspring away? I know that there are not only Blood Dragon vampires in Mousillon. I agreed to spare the Blood Dragon vampires, but not all the undead."

"When you break through Mousillon, I will naturally enter the city and take away all my offspring," Ebo Wallace said with absolute confidence, his voice calm. "Just proceed with your siege."

"I understand," Ryan nodded, looking cautiously at the Blood Dragon Patriarch, as if hesitating whether to leave now or call people to transport the wealth.

"Leave it to me," the ethereal voice of the Green Knight came through. "I will transport these treasures to your castle in Jean with the help of the Lost Sons."

"Thank you very much, Green Knight," Ryan quickly expressed his gratitude.

"Go, conquer Mousillon, and fulfill Landuin's wish. This land has been lost for too long and deserves redemption," the Green Knight nodded slowly, indicating that Ryan should prepare for the siege.

"Young knight," the Blood Dragon Patriarch spoke as Ryan turned to leave. "I look forward to a duel with you. We will inevitably have a showdown."

"But not now," Ryan replied, knowing that Ebo Wallace had taken a keen interest in him.

This was the nature of the Blood Dragons; Ebo Wallace's life credo was the perfect mastery of the art of combat. Unlike other vampires who sought pleasure, power, and magic, the Blood Dragons cared only for battle. They believed their pursuit of purity would bring them everything, allowing them to become ultimate warriors and surpass the constraints of vampirism, touching upon divinity.

Just like Ebo Wallace, who once stood atop a mountain, lifting a red dragon with his mortal arms and hurling it down the cliff.

"Without tasting blood, there is no sharp blade."

– Ebo Wallace, Blood Dragon Patriarch

"Indeed, not now," Ebo Wallace's voice carried excitement. "I already had a gratifying fight with those golden corn stalks in your domain. I enjoyed it immensely. I appreciate worthy opponents."

"???!!!"

"Go, break through Mousillon. I will appear when the time comes," the Blood Dragon Patriarch said no more, signaling that Ryan could leave. "Besides my offspring, you may deal with the rest of the undead in Mousillon as you see fit."

"I understand," Ryan said, glancing again at the immense wealth in the chests. He chuckled self-deprecatingly, a flash of understanding in his eyes. He realized why even the Emperor would sometimes compromise on certain issues.

Because circumstances were stronger than individuals. Even the ruler of humanity faced painful choices on many issues. Ideals often remained mere slogans if they couldn't be grounded in reality.

This was what his father-in-law had always taught him: in diplomacy and internal affairs, some things needed to be upheld, while others required compromise.

At this critical juncture, Ryan desperately needed money, and faced with such a sum, he had to compromise.

Allowing the Blood Dragon Patriarch to take his offspring was a compromise.

Making them swear never to return to the knightly kingdom was an insistence.

"Rituals have their constants and their flexibilities," Ryan murmured, his figure disappearing into the depths of the forest.

"Perhaps you are right," Ebo Wallace's face showed a hint of reminiscence. "He has changed this kingdom."

"…This kingdom needs new strength," the Green Knight's voice held a touch of sadness. "Landuin has entrusted everything to Ryan. Time will prove everything."

...I am the line proving everything...

Three days later, inside the Mousillon siege army camp.

Several spiked iron balls were placed before the dwarf craftsmen. Dwarf engineer Dugan Ironhand was covered in gray, exuding a strong smell of black powder. Many onlookers suspected that even a tiny spark could cause the engineer to explode on the spot.

Opening the glass bottle's stopper, the last bit of black powder was poured into the iron balls. Dugan Ironhand nodded, "Well, that should do it."

"Hahaha~ This is our entire stockpile, enough to make those damned undead taste the anger of the dwarves," Haralf Goldseeker, the chief engineer of the Angrund clan, said. "This is dwarven magic."

"Huh? I heard dwarven magic was rune magic," Ryan observed from the side.

"It isn't," Belagar stroked his long beard, shaking his head. "In history, there were once dwarf wizards, a very ancient story from the early days of the Eight Peaks Mountain. You know, Ryan brother, the Eight Peaks Mountain was the first fortress of the dwarves, its history older than that of Karaz-a-Karak."

"Mm-hmm~ So what caused you to lose your magic?" Araloth, the wood elf lord, disliked the steel and gunpowder-filled workshop but was curious about this history.

Wood elf history was mostly passed down orally. After eating and drinking, the Asrai would gather around a campfire and start telling stories. Their history was preserved this way, but over time, it was intentionally distorted and altered. All wood elves knew this.

Even the most ascetic wood elves had their biases. The inglorious and shameful past would be gradually erased and omitted, while the glorious, interesting, and commemorative history would be exaggerated and expanded, with many details added artificially.

Araloth was a victim of this. When he met Lilith, he was so excited that he told all the wood elves about it. The story evolved into countless versions, some saying the goddess offered herself in gratitude, others saying she gave Araloth her clothes to bandage his wounds, and some even claimed they consummated their love in the wild.

Araloth felt both proud and frustrated. On the one hand, he felt the goddess truly favored him; on the other, in reality, he had just walked under the moonlight with Lilith. The high elf moon goddess told him about her "new world" plan and hoped Araloth would become the new world's Asuryan.

Unfortunately, Araloth was too young, too innocent, too naive at the time to understand what Lilith was saying.

In contrast, the dwarves' record-keeping was much more reliable. They used their language to record all events on stone tablets and scrolls. While not completely unbiased, their history was generally sincere and credible, especially the Book of Grudges.

"The Winds of Magic are not kind to dwarves," Belagar said gruffly. "Even if a dwarf wizard used magic, they would soon turn to stone."

"That's like many spellweavers in Athel Loren," Araloth remarked. "Some summon chaos demons when their spells fail."

"But our ancestors discovered that magic doesn't have to use the body as a medium and isn't only for attacking enemies," Belagar nodded. "So, they began fixing the Winds of Magic on stones and anvils, leading to..."

"The birth of rune smiths," Ryan understood. "So that's how rune smiths came to be."

"Exactly," Belagar felt proud. The dwarves' heritage was much deeper than these pointy-eared and "inferior product makers." He thought, "A little ancient knowledge from us, and they have no choice but to listen."

Sealing the iron balls, Dugan Ironhand said gruffly, "Good, it's ready. Let's start!"

"Yes! Let's begin!"

Thirty minutes later, the siege army finally sounded the horn for the final assault.

This time, Ryan held nothing back. He ordered the entire army to advance. All soldiers, whether serfs or knights, had to participate in this assault. The entire army had to take Mousillon in one go!

The dark mass of multicolored siege troops began their assault. Several heavily reinforced siege towers, protected by knights, advanced. Dozens of cannons fired

 continuously. Imperial Great Cannons, Hellblaster Volley Guns, Hellstorm Rocket Batteries, dwarf cannons, and organ guns fired in unison. The whistling shells drew smoky trails, crashing into the walls, blasting defenders off the battlements.

"Fire! Fire!" The wood elves and dwarves joined the battle. Dwarf thunderers poured ammunition furiously, while the wood elves' Glade Guard, Waywatchers, and Rangers shot without regard for their arrow supplies, firing at full speed.

At this moment, the weak point of the undead defenders in Mousillon was exposed to the besieging army.

Vampires had no ranged capabilities, forcing the undead to passively endure the assault.

At this moment, Araloth, leading the Talas Hawk Riders, and François, leading the Quenelles Champion Knights, joined the battle! The air force, riding giant eagles and pegasi, dove from the sky, sweeping the undead off the walls in waves!

"For Orion and Ariel! For Athel Loren!" Araloth, riding his warhawk, drew his bow. An arrow imbued with starlight struck a Grave Guard's shoulder plate, sending the guard crashing down.

"For the Lady! For Mousillon!" Ryan also joined the fight, wielding Thor's Hammer. The Lady's chosen champion moved like lightning, a bolt striking the walls, reducing dozens of zombies to ashes. His griffon, Impryis, roared, spitting lightning and charging around, avoiding the undead wizards' spells. It had just feasted and now was ready for some post-meal exercise!

"Roar! Roar~~" Even the Twilight Sisters joined the battle, a forest dragon taking to the sky, spewing deadly breath.

Belagar also personally led the siege tower's assault on the gates. The Angrund Oathkeepers clustered together, forming a tight shield wall.

The siege tower gradually approached Mousillon's gate. The battering ram, carved with Grimnir's visage, pounded the gate, causing deep, resounding booms.

Yet the gate remained impregnable. The Mousillon castle, maintained by the undead for two to three hundred years, had a heavily fortified gate. Coupled with the undead wizards' constant enchantments, even a dwarf-made battering ram couldn't budge it.

On the wall, a Blood Dragon vampire baron roared, "Keep going! Keep attacking! Is this all you've got? It's not enough! Not nearly enough!"

"Show me everything you've got!"

The undead of Mousillon had reason to be proud. Despite the intense assault, the castle showed no signs of falling. The air force's presence was fleeting, as pegasi and warhawks couldn't stay aloft for long, tiring quickly under their armored riders or wood elf guards.

However, due to the previous battles, the undead defenders in Mousillon were at their lowest numbers in two hundred years. Many areas lacked adequate guards, and in the face of the frontal assault, some spots were overlooked.

Beneath Mousillon, under the walls, within the conduit.

The once fiercely flowing conduit had been completely frozen by the sorceress's power, revealing a damp, hollow pathway.

Several dwarf engineers carried the large iron balls filled with explosives into the conduit. They carefully measured distances, positions, and angles for detonation.

"Done!" After multiple checks, the dwarf engineer finally gave a thumbs up. "No problem!"

"Let's get started!"

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