The rift remained.

A vast fissure split the earth, like a wound inflicted on the world itself. The surrounding soil, corroded by the Abyssal aura, cracked inch by inch; charred fissures spiderwebbed outward, swallowing the once-fertile land. Some crevices plunged into bottomless darkness, faint glimmers flickering far below. Occasionally a purple mist seeped from the chasm, exuding an evil, chaotic scent.

Snow fell around the rift, white flakes covering the blackened cracks yet unable to mask the corruption seeping up from the depths. It breathed like a living thing, slow and persistent, constantly spreading outward.

“How should the Northern Borders handle this rift?”

Aphra did not leave at once.

She stopped opposite the Red Iron Dragon, her robe snapping in the biting wind. Her silver hair was blown loose, yet held by some invisible force so it did not become entirely disheveled. She tilted her head slightly and asked,

“Your Majesty intends to do the same as last time, flatten it completely? Or take a gentler approach, dispersing it bit by bit?” 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎

The rift itself was merely a passageway.

The real danger lay in the chaotic demons on the other side.

Now that a Great Demon had been slain and the Demon Generals executed, others had either fled or died; the lone rift seemed temporarily harmless. No demons poured from it, only occasional surges of evil aura, proof of its lingering connection to the Abyss.

But that was only the surface.

In the Dragon Legacy knowledge, there was a technical term for this phenomenon:

chaos level.

Whenever an Abyssal Rift takes root in the Material Plane, the world’s chaos level rises accordingly. Like an infected wound, the higher the chaos level, the easier it becomes for new Abyssal Rifts to spawn. They are the world’s sores, attracting and reinforcing one another.

Not only that.

Large-scale wars, natural disasters, cataclysms...

these upheavals also drive the world’s chaos level up.

In short, a world with a higher chaos level is more susceptible to invasion by demons or other evil beings from lower planes. Once an invasion begins, if the root causes cannot be immediately resolved and the chaos level lowered, the conflict expands, accelerating chaos and drawing more Abyssal attention, spawning yet more rifts...

Ultimately forming a self-reinforcing vicious cycle.

This was the typical path a world takes toward destruction.

“Atlan—no. Because of the three great empires’ actions, the entire Bernardo’s chaos level has risen.”

“Every day, every night, almost every minute and second it increases. According to the summaries in the legacy, Bernardo’s chaos level has already exceeded forty percent.”

The Red Iron Dragon was silent inwardly, calculating the world’s chaos level.

What did a forty percent chaos level mean?

It meant continuous warfare across the world, frequent natural disasters, demons beginning organized incursions; kingdom borders burning, city-states attacking each other, fields laid waste, refugees displaced.

Some fragile regions had already turned to scorched earth.

If it rose further, past sixty percent... even empire-level powers would begin to wobble.

Those once-indomitable behemoths would crumble under internal and external pressures, falling into ruin amid ceaseless warfare.

Beneath empires, kingdoms would endure mortal peril; kingdoms could collapse, city-states vanish, countless lives be consumed, the sparks of civilization flicker in darkness, ready to be snuffed out at any moment.

Bernardo was not yet a sputtering candle in the wind, but it had already reached the cliff’s edge.

However, as long as the chaos level stayed below eighty percent, and the world’s coordinates had not been irrevocably marked by the Abyss, making reversal impossible, demons could not yet pour in unchecked on a massive scale...

Then there remained a chance to turn things around.

“If the world’s chaos level surpasses sixty percent and I still haven’t broken through to crown-level...”

“Then we’ll have to consider evacuation plans to the Serene Spirit Wilderness.”

Garoth calculated this worst-case scenario in his mind.

He gathered his senses, bowed his head slightly, and reexamined the Abyssal Rift.

Flatten it outright, or handle it gently over time?

That was the question.

The former was straightforward and brutal, decisive and final.

One Dragon Emperor Interdimension strike and nothing would remain. Rift, debris, traces of demonic residue—all turned to dust. The Abyssal aura would be completely driven off; the contamination erased.

But the cost: the affected land would be gone. The surface structure would suffer catastrophic destruction.

The latter required long-term deployment: setting formations, gradually purifying, dispersing the Abyssal aura bit by bit.

This took years, with the stationed forces having to guard against lingering demons, the rift reigniting, demons slipping in from other fissures, and evil things drawn by Abyssal energy. The stationed warriors would endure long-term corrosion; both mind and body would be tested.

The benefit: the land would not be annihilated. Once purification completed, life could return relatively quickly. Contaminated soil could be treated, the Abyssal aura eliminated, and within years grasses, then shrubs, then trees would regrow... the cycle of life would restart.

The first option was blunt and decisive, with a clear cost; the second was cautious and conservative but introduced more variables.

The Red Iron Dragon weighed the choices and answered in two words.

“Flatten it.”

Aphra raised an eyebrow.

Her brows were fine, shaped into carefully maintained arcs. The lift conveyed a subtle surprise; a tiny change of expression but enough to show her astonishment.

“Your Majesty has decided?”

“Yes.”

“But...” The Crown of Magic paused, choosing her words, then continued, “The scars left by the last time you flattened a rift are still there, you know?”

Garoth did not reply, only watched her.

Under the dragon’s gaze, Aphra spoke plainly:

“No plants grow there, the soil is charred. The surface formed a glass-like hard crust; even the underground water veins were evaporated. Nearly a year has passed, and there is no sign of life—no moss, not a single microorganism or insect. No sign of when it might recover.”

“If you strike again, that land will become the same.”

She lifted her hand and pointed to the battlefield beneath their feet where the fighting had just ended.

“The territory the Northern Borders just gained will be destroyed—wouldn’t that be a pity? Besides, I can faintly sense Atlan’s pain; the land has been grievously wounded and it is moaning.”

Garoth’s draconic face betrayed little.

Muscle lay under plated scales; when he was expressionless it was hard to read his feelings.

“A pity.”

He said.

“Still...”

“Time heals everything.”

Garoth interrupted her.

Aphra was stunned for a moment.

The Red Iron Dragon’s gaze dropped to the blackened ground, then rose to the distance.

Through the wind and snow one could faintly make out distant mountain silhouettes and forests yet untouched by war. Those trees still wore deep green, crowns dusted with snow; occasionally a cold-tolerant bird skimmed the treetops and left a fleeting shadow on the gray sky.

“What you see now is destroyed land.”

The dragon spoke slowly, his voice low and steady, “What I see is the first cold-resistant grass sprouting here in ten years; in fifty years, shrubs will cover the ground—moss and lichens will return first; in a hundred years, the forest will be lush again and animals will migrate back....”

“In two hundred years, no one will remember this place was ever harmed.”

Aphra fell silent, saying no more.

The long-lived dragons’ perspective differed fundamentally from humans’. Even as a crown-level spellcaster with a lifespan far beyond ordinary humans, a hundred years was still a long time to her. She could not imagine thinking in centuries the way a dragon did, yet she could understand the mindset gap.

“Your Majesty sees far ahead. I was presumptuous.”

She bowed slightly, offering a simple mage’s salute.

The Red Iron Dragon did not respond, returning his gaze to the rift.

“If Your Majesty prefers gradual dispersal, I can send people to assist.”

Aphra said, “Formations, purification rituals, long-term garrisoning—we can do it. We have a dedicated Abyss countermeasure team. They’ve handled similar rifts many times—though not on this scale, they have experience.”

“We can provide spell support and send personnel to rotate the watch.”

After she spoke, she turned and flew southward.

The floating magic tower followed, carrying numerous legendary spellcasters. In the wind and snow the tower shrank to a blur of light until it vanished on the horizon.

Garoth watched the direction she left, then turned to the other side.

A massive, sturdy figure approached.

The Ancient Blue Dragon, Lord of Thunder, Lamorein.

He beat his wings at an unhurried pace, fine arcs of electricity dancing across the wingspan. Each flap made nearby snowflakes tremble; when he drew nearer a low thunderous rumble could be heard rolling between his scales.

“Garoth.”

He greeted him by name, eyes sweeping over the Red Iron Dragon’s body.

Garoth’s wounds had healed for about a day and a half.

New scales covered most of the exposed flesh, slightly lighter in hue than the older surrounding scales. Yet in the deepest wounds the newly forming bone was faintly visible.

Even so, Garoth’s aura remained steady, not at all like someone who had just fought a life-or-death battle. He had slain a Great Demon and yet did not appear weakened.

“Nice fight.”

Lamorein said, genuine admiration in his voice, “That Great Demon, reduced to near-crown level and still dangerous, would have cost me dearly. You seem to have avoided irreversible damage.”

Garoth watched him.

In his ember-dark dragon pupils there was no clear emotion.

“Did you come just to praise me?”

He said.

Lamorein split his maw in what resembled a smile, sharp teeth glinting in the snowlight.

“Praise is sincere, but not the whole reason.”

He paused, his gaze drifting from Garoth to the east where the Eastern Alliance legends had departed—Varta and the others had already flown off toward the eastern horizon.

“Did you notice the look that monk gave you before he left?”

He refocused on Garoth and asked.

Garoth’s pupils narrowed slightly. “What are you getting at?”

“He wanted that Tear of the Immortal. You refused. He showed little on the surface, but inside...”

The Ancient Dragon shook his head, his dragon lips parting to expose a row of sharp teeth.

“Humans are like that—polite outwardly but holding grudges inside.”

“Especially those old things who have lived hundreds of years. They’re cunning. They won’t flip out on the spot or show their displeasure, but they remember.”

“One day, a month, a year, ten years...whenever they have the chance, they’ll bring that grudge out.”

“When you are at your weakest, they won’t hesitate to stab you.”

He looked at Garoth frankly, “That monk’s talent on the Martial Monk path is considerable—three-way integration, almost touching Mandate-level, in some areas surpassing ours.”

“But given his situation, truly reaching Mandate is almost impossible.”

Breakthroughs above crown-level depend heavily on lifespan and one’s condition. Breaking into Mandate needed perfect timing and preparation at a peak state; a failed first attempt greatly diminished future chances.

“Imagine your lifespan is limited, breakthrough seems impossible, and your lifelong pursuit sits just out of reach.”

Lamorein said, “Then something appears that can let you reach a new realm and renew your life—would you not use every means to get it?”

“Hah, he won’t truly give up.”

“Humans’ memory can be amazing, especially when they bear grudges.”

“So?”

“So you should consider how to deal with potential enemies.”

Lamorein lowered his voice, leaning forward as if confiding, “Last time I acted too hastily. Later I realized these human crown-levels are not to be underestimated; they might hide strong trump cards.”

“But I’m sure that if we join forces, nothing stands in our way.”

“You and I combine strength, strike them at the right opportunity and wipe them out. Once they’re all gone, Atlan will be our dragons’ domain.”

He traced a large arc in the air with a claw, lightning dancing at the talons and sketching a vague outline.

“You take the Northern Borders; I take the west; we co-rule Atlan, isn’t that better than always having to guard against them?”

He gestured east toward the Eastern Lands and then to the Southern Domain. “When you were fighting that Great Demon, what were they doing? They were hoping you and the demon would take each other out so they could pick up the spoils. You know that, I know that.”

“What’s the point of keeping such people around?”

“Today they watch you die; tomorrow they watch the Abyss swallow the continent. Rather than rely on them, we should do it ourselves.”

Those words...

The Red Iron Dragon revealed an amused expression.

“Oh? Am I mistaken? You didn’t fight the Demon Generals seriously either.”

The Ancient Blue Dragon’s face remained composed.

He spoke earnestly: “That’s where you’re mistaken.”

“As noble and powerful dragons, how could I leave you to fight alone? I mainly held back to guard against those humans, so that if they suddenly struck I would have enough power to respond, right?”

He spread his claw in apparent candor.

“Mm, sure.”

Garoth nodded, then shifted tone, “However, your proposal still won’t do.”

Lamorein’s brow—more precisely, the scales between his brows—knit slightly.

Dragons had no eyebrows; this habit came from their humanoid posture. Even in true form they unconsciously made similar expressions.

“Why not?”

“Because Atlan is too vast.”

Garoth lifted a claw, pointing at the land beneath and then to the distance.

In the wind and snow the endless mountain ranges and plains could be faintly seen—the lands recently divvied up. Some already had occupants; others lay fallow, waiting for new rulers to develop them.

“Look at this ground.”

“The Northern Borders, West, Eastern Kingdoms, Southern Domain...are any of them not many times larger than our original territories?”

“Given Aola’s current size, even if we wiped out other powers, we couldn’t govern it all.”

“Administration requires manpower, time, and stable order. We haven’t even digested our newly acquired lands. How could we possibly have the capacity to swallow the entire continent?”

Garoth had never been one for grandiose dreams.

The current Northern Borders alone would provide Aola with many decades of development work—likely more than the kingdom could handle. Gaining all of Atlan would be a heavy burden: a bottomless pit requiring vast resources while producing little return.

“Also, there are things overhead.”

Garoth lifted a claw and pointed up.

Above the cloud layer, Sky Cities hovered faintly.

Those silent behemoths still floated over the Central Continent, casting vast shadows day after day like Damocles’ swords over everyone’s heads.

“It’s almost certain that once a Sky City falls, it will trigger rifts.”

“And judging from signs, I think more Sky Cities will crash.”

“If too many crown-level surface beings die, the next time a Great Demon and high-ranking Demon General appear together, I cannot guarantee I could withstand them alone. Neither could you.”

Lamorein’s gaze darkened. “You truly don’t trust yourself?”

“I trust myself.”

The Red Iron Dragon said, “But I don’t fight battles without confidence.”

Lamorein fell silent.

Wind and snow howled between them, stirring drifts from the ground into small whirlpools in the airflow from their wings.

Then Garoth asked a seemingly unrelated question.

“Lamorein, how did you know in advance that a Sky City would fall? Tell me your source.”

“No.”

The Blue Dragon answered curtly, without hesitation.

Garoth pressed, “You hide even basic sources of information, how am I to trust you?”

Lamorein shook his head; the scales on his neck rubbed together with a metallic sound. “It’s not important. We have a common goal. That’s enough; you know I wouldn’t harm you.”

Since he refused to speak, Garoth didn’t pursue the matter.

Forcing answers from an Ancient Dragon was pointless, especially when they were determined to conceal something.

Still, on this alone Garoth was unwilling to cooperate deeply with the Lord of Thunder.

Though there was no evidence, Garoth had a persistent feeling that this dragon was scheming something untrustworthy. He preferred to be wary of this crown-level dragon even more than of human crown-levels.

Garoth thought for a moment, then asked, “I’ll ask you a question.”

“Say it.”

“When we truly deal with those human crown-levels, aren’t you afraid I’ll turn my weapons on you?”

Lamorein was stunned for a moment, then laughed loudly. His roar echoed through the wind and snow.

“Afraid?”

The dragon laughed heartily; the wing membranes trembled as he laughed. “Of course I’m afraid. You are so powerful you killed a Great Demon alone—even an impaired Great Demon—and that’s not something an ordinary crown-level dragon could match.”

“I’ve calculated that if we fought to the death, my chances of victory would be only thirty-seven percent.”

“How could I not be afraid?”

Then he reined in his laughter and regarded Garoth. Lightning condensed in his eyes into sharp points of light.

“Garoth Ignas, I’ve seen your strength. You’re stronger than I expected—strong enough that I must reassess the outcome of being your enemy.”

“So I’ve decided—I won’t bother with talk of co-rule.”

The Ancient Blue Dragon declared boldly, “First we unite to eliminate the others.”

“When only the two of us remain, we fight. A battle just for us. Let our kin and subjects bear witness.”

“Whoever wins will become king of Atlan.”

“If I lose, I will swear fealty to you and serve you, in the name of our dragon gods. My clan and all my dragons will bend the knee to you.”

Garoth narrowed his self-light and looked at the Ancient Blue Dragon, into those lightning-flashing eyes.

There was something fervent in them—not exactly a lie, but not entirely sincere. A bold, willful Ancient Dragon like Lamorein would not readily accept subordinating himself to another dragon.

No, highly unlikely.

He probably had a backup plan or some confidence that he could win a duel.

Regardless of Lamorein’s true intentions or his apparent earnestness, Garoth would not agree to ally with him given his mistrust.

So he replied calmly: “My aim is not to quarrel.”

Garoth raised his head and looked to the sky.

Beyond the clouds, Sky Cities hovered and beyond them the endless firmament and distant space where the stars lay.

His self-light seemed to pierce the clouds and atmosphere, seeing far-off things.

“This fight with the Great Demon taught me much.”

“Once I digest it all and accumulate enough power to step toward the crown-level gate...that is my current priority. Ruling and domination can wait.”

Garoth withdrew his self-light and addressed the blue dragon in a peaceful tone.

“Once I reach crown-level and further develop the kingdom, I will act then. At that time, if you are willing, we need not be enemies.”

“Being alone at the summit would be lonely. I would gladly rule Atlan alongside other dragons, to show the world that so-called evil dragons can coexist harmoniously. Who says a continent cannot have two dragon kings?”

“We can delineate boundaries, govern our realms, and respect each other.”

His words sounded more sincere than Lamorein’s, but they carried a slight condescension.

The blue dragon was silent for several seconds, then grinned.

“All right. Given your growth potential, by the time you break into crown-level I likely won’t be your match anymore, haha. I won’t embarrass myself by challenging you; my win chance may not even be ten percent.”

“As for co-ruling Atlan—don’t mention it again.”

“I’ve always wanted to see dragons great again.”

“If you can single-handedly sweep aside the other kingdoms and restore our dragons’ glory on this continent, Lamorein will swear by his name and lead the Helmod Dragonflight to serve under your wings.”

Garoth smiled amiably, “Fine.”

“I guarantee Aola Kingdom will reserve you a position, and it will be no lesser than the rank of my blood relatives.”

Lamorein nodded, wing membranes unfurling as lightning danced between the wing bones.

“I look forward to that day, but there are kingdom affairs to handle now. Until next time.”

“Fare well.”

The Ancient Dragon turned, his wings stirring a gale. He led the other waiting dragons to the west like a moving thundercloud and gradually vanished into the heavy snowfall.

Far away, long after Garoth’s figure had disappeared, a blue dragon beside Lamorein spoke softly,

“Big brother, are you truly willing to swear fealty under his wings?”

“That’s not like you.”

“How could we accept another dragon as king?”

Lamorein paused, then calmly replied, “Why not? We are both dragons with the same goals; if we can strive together toward that aim, why should we fight to the death?”

“He’s stronger and ascends; I am weaker and submit. What’s the problem?”

Yet the lightning around him became wilder.

Fine electric arcs leaped between scales with crackling pops. Snowflakes vaporized upon nearing him, creating a small snowless domain. The thundercloud around him thickened, almost drowning his form.

The other dragons remained silent, flying more orderly.

They had long followed the Lord of Thunder and knew his temperament. His emotions did not show, but when his tone was calm yet his thunderpower churned uncontrolled, that was his most dangerous state. Beneath the placid surface roiled anger or stirred murderous intent.

Meanwhile, to the east, about three hundred miles from the battlefield,

several legends gathered around Varta, the atmosphere heavy.

They flew low, almost level with the treetops. The monk’s robes snapped in the wind, but he stood like a statue; even a hair did not move.

“The Tear of the Immortal is your only chance to breakthrough.”

A human crown-level with less renown than Varta said in a low voice.

He was a crown-level warrior from the Farrel Kingdom, older with white beard and hair, his face carved by time.

“Varta, if you miss this, you almost certainly cannot breakthrough to Mandate relying solely on yourself.”

“And Farrel will lose the chance to have a Mandate-level figure stationed here. You know what that means—against future conflicts, we will be at a disadvantage.”

Varta’s gaze was calm as he stared into the distance, not answering immediately.

Another legend spoke.

A middle-aged man in heavy armor, carrying a greatsword nearly his height, his voice hoarse:

“Besides the Tear of the Immortal, that Red Emperor already is so strong he rivals crown-level. He even killed a Great Demon. Once he truly reaches crown-level, he may dare challenge true Mandate-levels.”

“If he turns hostile and tries to swallow us, who could stop him?”

“So I won’t wait until he reaches crown-level.”

Varta finally spoke, his voice slow.

“The previous situation was unforeseen and we lacked preparation. Direct confrontation then would have been inappropriate; if we turned hostile, Aphra might intervene and Lamorein might seize the chance to strike.”

“Too many variables.”

He paused and looked at his companions.

His eyes shone like polished obsidian—no anger, only deep thought.

“Now we can plan carefully.”

One of the legends couldn’t help asking, “What plan do you have?”

“He just killed a Great Demon alone. Though that demon wasn’t at full strength, it still proves his might. In a direct conflict we may not win, and even if we did, the cost would be enormous.”

“So do not confront him directly.”

Varta’s self-light deepened. He spoke deliberately, “Dragons have a weakness despite their might and long lifespans.”

“That weakness is sleep.”

The word made several legends blink.

Sleep? Isn’t that one of the dragons’ greatest gifts?

“Dragons periodically fall into sleep as part of their lifecycle. This mechanism is one reason for their strength: in sleep they grow stronger, wounds knit, and they can even break through bottlenecks.”

“But for them, sleep is not purely beneficial.”

“Everything has pros and cons.”

Varta’s eyes swept over his companions to ensure each person listened carefully.

“During sleep, dragons have instinctive early warnings, but are not fully alert.”

“Their perception drops to about ten percent of normal, and response speed greatly declines.”

“When they awaken, their aura is diminished and they are weak and hungry. This window is short—especially for a dragon-king who controls vast resources, it might be only days or even hours—but it exists.”

An old crown-level’s eyes lit up: “You mean...”

“He must sleep sometime.”

Varta’s tone remained calm. “Based on information we gathered and general dragon growth patterns, his next sleep won’t be far off and will require a long restorative period.”

“After great battles this process may be accelerated.”

“From my estimate his sleep may last around a century, and while he sleeps, his subordinate kingdom tends to become conservative and inward. This is common in dragon realms: the ruler sleeps, no single leader guides the rest, and the subordinate dragons and followers dare not act rashly.”

His voice fell and the monk’s gaze sharpened.

“At that time, we prepare in advance and strike precisely.”

“Catch him at his weakest and strike him down before he reaches crown-level.”