Chapter 165: Slave Sister
Several hours later: In the vast disfigured and sterilized plain where once stood the international airport of Roissy-Charles-de-Gaulle, with its runways that had once welcomed millions of hopeful travelers, the black waterproof canvas tents and dark steel structures of the Central Sorting Camp now rose like purulent metallic warts on France’s wounded earth. The very architecture of this place seemed designed to crush the human soul: electrified barbed wire, watchtowers where draconic guards kept vigil, windowless buildings with walls oozing humidity.
The air was perpetually saturated with a sickening mixture of metallic dust, rancid sweat, dried blood that stuck to the nostrils, and a burning, corrosive mana that only dragons could perceive without faltering. A cursed place where cries of distress had become the permanent background sound, where whispered prayers were nothing more than a lost echo in a sky perpetually covered with black clouds.
King Maelor, still clad in his regal armor of obsidian scales engraved with ancient fire by the best artisan-smiths of his kingdom, walked with heavy but implacably dignified steps through the heart of the camp. Every detail of his presence commanded respect and terror, the way his purple cape swept the ground without ever getting dirty, how his golden eyes seemed to pierce souls, how his mere breathing made the ambient air vibrate.
At his side, displaying the tranquil and imperial gaze of one who has seen entire civilizations born and die, the former king Eldorath bore that hard and implacable wisdom of historical conquerors, that assurance of one who knows that time and History always prove him right. His hair white as the eternal snow of draconic peaks framed a face weathered by centuries, where each wrinkle told of a battle, each scar a victory. Behind them, in perfect order that testified to their military education, some high-ranking nobles recently arrived with the Draconic Court followed in silence, their armor clicking in rhythm on the stony ground.
A steward in worn leather robes, whose yellowed fangs protruded like talons dulled by age and use, awaited them at the center of the main courtyard, a thick iron-bound register in hand and eyes bright with zealous servility that bordered on obscenity. His movements betrayed palpable nervousness - serving the royal family directly was an honor as much as a mortal danger in case of error.
- "Majesty," he articulated while bowing so low that his forehead nearly touched the ground, "all reports from the weekly sortings are compiled and gathered according to your requirements. From the six large concentration camps currently under our direct jurisdiction, distributed across the entire French territory, we have recorded and catalogued a total of 314,000 humans captured alive during cleansing operations."
The king stopped abruptly, his golden eyes fixing on the steward with an intensity that made the latter pale.
- "How many useful ones among this livestock?" he asked in a voice where no emotion could be perceived.
- "Approximately 198,000, Majesty. After thorough examinations by our specialized veterinarians, we have sorted the specimens according to their physical capabilities, technical skills, age and reproductive potential. The others are... weak, old, sick, disabled, or simply without strategic or genetic interest for the empire."