Chapter 153: In 7 Days, Resistance Will Die Out
The Throne of Conquest
The Palace of Burning Fangs rose like a cathedral of war at the heart of the Draconic Lands, its towers of black obsidian piercing the scarlet clouds of a perpetually blazing sky. Within its volcanic stone entrails, the air vibrated with electric tension, charged with raw magic and titanic ambitions. The echoes of footsteps on black marble resonated like death sentences, carrying with them the weight of a nascent empire.
The throne room, defying all human measure, stretched nearly a hundred meters, its vaults lost in mystical darkness. Twisted columns, carved from a single block of draconic basalt, supported a ceiling where ancestral conquest bas-reliefs intertwined with prophecies engraved in fire runes. Braziers suspended by runic levitation cast dancing shadows that seemed to narrate the bloody history of the draconic race, their blue and gold flames creating an atmosphere both majestic and unsettling.
Upon the draconic iron throne, forged from the bones of the first Leviathan defeated by their ancestors, sat Maelor, barely twenty-three years old, but already bearing the burden of a multidimensional empire. His amaranth-black scales caught the light like cut gems, each telling the genetic story of a millennial royal lineage. His golden eyes, heritage of the Great Dragons of the Ice Age, burned with cold and calculating intelligence. In that gaze resided something more terrifying than rage: the methodical patience of a born predator.
To his right, like a pillar of protective shadow, stood Elystria. Her silent presence was not passive but strategic. Each blink of her eyelids analyzed, each tilt of her head calculated. Her silver-gray scales reflected light like war armor, and her violet eyes rarest genetic mutation of the royal lineage scrutinized the assembly with the acuity of a born spy. She was the blade in the shadow of the throne, the intelligence that completed her brother’s brute force.
Below, leaning against the black granite base that elevated the throne above common mortals, Eldorath embodied absolute authority even in abdication. The former king had not renounced power; he had delegated it. His antique bronze-colored scales bore the scars of a thousand battles, and his eyes, deep red like liquid rubies, never left his son. Each gesture from Maelor was weighed, evaluated, approved or disapproved by that merciless paternal gaze. The message was clear: reign, but govern only if you are worthy.
The first counselor advanced, his midnight blue scales glittering under his runic war armor. General Vorthak, veteran of three dimensional invasions, bore on his elongated snout the ritual marks of World Killers. His voice, deep and metallic, filled the hall:
- "Majesty, our spy networks confirm the total collapse of French resistance. Paris fell in forty-eight hours. Lyon and Marseille capitulated without a fight. The last rebel pockets in the Alps and Brittany survive only thanks to pathetic camouflage spells. Our legions crush them methodically, village by village."
He unfurled a holographic map that materialized in the air, showing Europe in bloody hues. Red dots blinked: conquered territories. Orange dots: weak resistance. Only a few green dots remained, pathetically isolated.
- "But," continued Vorthak, his tone hardening, "the United States and China oppose us with unexpected coordinated resistance. Their S-Ranks fight with desperation bordering on madness. They have transformed their megalopolises into magical fortresses, using war techniques our scouts had never catalogued."
Maelor slowly crossed his claws on his throne’s armrest, the metal grinding against stone. This sound, sharp and unpleasant, froze the assembly.