Chapter 175: The Shadow Strike
The Ignivara mothership was a floating cathedral of war, an aerial fortress whose architectural complexity defied understanding. Its labyrinthine corridors, ten meters wide and four meters high, stretched for several kilometers through the metallic carcass of the flying behemoth. The polished black steel walls, forged in the draconic blast furnaces of the Infernus mountains, reflected the bluish light of luminescent crystals embedded at regular intervals. These magical gems, as large as a man’s fist, pulsed with a constant glow that cast dancing shadows on the metallic surfaces.
The air vibrated with the incessant murmur of military activities: the metallic clatter of iron-shod boots on the steel floor, orders barked in the guttural draconic language, the hissing of pneumatic messages circulating through communication conduits, and above all, the dull humming of mana engines that kept this titanic mass airborne. The smell of heated metal mingled with the natural sulfur emanations that dragons gave off, creating a heavy and oppressive atmosphere.
Mordred advanced through the heart of this organized chaos with the measured gait of a predator observing its prey. His dark scales, of a deep black tinted with purple reflections, blended perfectly among those of the dragon soldiers surrounding him. His transformation was so perfect that even his own human brethren would have had difficulty recognizing him. His horns, elegantly curved backward, bore the ritual engravings typical of minor draconic nobility, a detail he had carefully reproduced after hours of observation.
Every step was calculated, every breath controlled. He had spent weeks studying the habits, speech patterns, postures, and even the specific gait of draconic military messengers. His cover was so deep that he even thought in their language, unconsciously modulating his facial expressions to reproduce their natural arrogance.
At his reinforced leather belt hung the enchanted scrolls he had recovered from the messenger he had intercepted three hours earlier. The elimination had been silent and efficient: a single strike to the base of the skull with surgical precision, the body hidden in a rocky ravine where it wouldn’t be discovered for several days. The scrolls were sealed by complex protection runes, but Mordred had taken the time to decipher them during his ascent to the upper deck, using his deep knowledge of draconic magic.
The content of these documents was invaluable. They detailed with military precision the current situation at the front: exact positions of the last human resistance units, state of enemy fortifications, assessment of the combat power of surviving S-rank hunters, available mana reserves, identified weak points in the defenses, everything the supreme commanders needed to deliver the final blow to human resistance.
Even more worrying, the reports indicated that human resistance was much weaker than he had imagined. The losses were catastrophic, food and ammunition reserves practically exhausted. According to draconic estimates, the final fall was only a matter of hours, not days.
Mordred climbed the last stairs leading to the command bridge, his claws clicking slightly on the ridged metal. The elite guards posted at checkpoints saluted him respectfully, recognizing without hesitation the uniform and insignia he wore. His disguise was so perfect that he naturally emanated the aura of authority of an experienced messenger accustomed to rubbing shoulders with high-ranking leaders.
The heavy armored doors of the command bridge opened before him with a hydraulic whisper, revealing one of the most impressive rooms on the ship. The space was gigantic, circular, with a vaulted ceiling that rose fifteen meters high. Elevated observation balconies allowed subordinate officers to monitor operations from the upper levels. At the center stood a six-meter-diameter holographic tactical table, where a three-dimensional model of the battlefield slowly rotated, marked with thousands of luminous points representing moving units.
Varnor Ignivara dominated this room with his imposing presence. The patriarch of House Ignivara was a dragon of exceptional stature, even by the standards of his race. His deep red scales like molten lava reflected the light from the hologram, creating plays of shadows and reflections that accentuated his aura of power. His horns, a meter long and adorned with gold rings engraved with family coats of arms, testified to centuries of undisputed domination. His eyes, amber yellow with reptilian pupils, analyzed every detail of the battlefield with the acuity of a consummate military strategist.
He stood upright, arms crossed, in a posture that expressed both absolute confidence and indisputable authority. Every line of his massive body breathed power and contained violence. His powerful tail, three meters long and thick as an oak trunk, swayed slowly behind him, a sign of intense concentration.
At his side stood his daughter, Syléane Ignivara, heir to the lineage and formidable warrior in her own right. Smaller than her father but no less impressive, she possessed the deadly grace of a born fighter. Her slightly lighter red scales were marked with golden streaks that drew complex patterns along her arms and neck, a sign of her noble lineage. Her eyes, identical to her father’s, shone with keen intelligence and devouring ambition. She wore light but elegant armor, adapted to her fast and precise fighting style, and a draconic sword forged from stellar steel hung at her right hip.