The next day, the death march resumed.
They pressed deeper along the Dragonroad, where ruins of cities stretched before them.
Gray-white marble and black basalt lay toppled together, charred beams stabbing through the fog.
The sailors and slaves marched in silence, broken only by the crunch of boots grinding brittle bones underfoot.
Lo Quen's thoughts, however, drifted to fragments of memory from his past life about the ruins of Valyria.
Legend said that deep within the Smoking Sea there were two Valyrian cities—Oros and Tyria—where survivors might still live.
He had no idea where they were now, though at least he had seen no signs of life nearby.
Lo Quen would wager Gerion, that madman, had no intention of seeking Oros or Tyria. He was surely aiming straight for Valyria itself.
The Valyrian capital lay at the heart of the Fourteen Flames, where the truth of the civilization's fall remained buried. And there, something unspeakably dangerous surely awaited.
Lo Quen hesitated. Should he take the chance to slip away? At the very least, he couldn't afford to march boldly into Valyria alongside the main force.
Yet what held him back was doubt—did he have enough magic to survive alone in a land filled with danger?
For now, the Ultimate Skill of dragon transformation was beyond his reach, requiring at least a thousand Magic. What he could use were only [Dragonflame Breath] and [Blazing Inferno].
Would those two skills really be enough to keep him alive on his own?
He felt uncertain. He hadn't had the system for long, and Gerion's hunger for treasure was far greater than he had imagined. He couldn't gamble his life so recklessly.
After much thought, Lo Quen made his decision.
If, before reaching Valyria, he couldn't gather enough Dragon's Soul and Magic to unlock the Ultimate Skill, he would slip away.
Lost in thought, he was jolted back by commotion ahead. The group had halted in a plaza scattered with massive building foundations.
Before their ragged breaths could settle, a chilling sound tore through the air.
"Eee—ya!!!"
A shriek, sharp as nails on glass and far too cruel to be human, exploded from the dense woods to their right.
Everyone's hair stood on end.
Then came the sound of dry branches snapping under immense force, scraping together as the fog churned. Something moved among the twisted trunks.
"You! Go look!"
Gerion's brow furrowed as he pointed at the guard nearest the woods.
The man's face drained of color, his lips trembling. Under Gerion's cold gaze, he had no choice but to grip his spear tight and edge step by step toward the wall of dead trees.
He was just a few paces from the edge when—
Crash!
A dark teal shadow burst from the branches, carrying the stench of rot. It slammed into the guard, hurling him to the ground.
Cries of alarm rang out as the others finally saw the creature clearly.
It had a hunched, manlike torso, but its body was armored in heavy, crocodile-dark scales.
Its limbs were grotesquely long and twisted, each ending in black talons that gleamed with a cold light.
Its bald skull was crowned not with hair but with ridges of hornlike growths.
Two blood-red vertical pupils burned in its face, filled with hatred and hunger.
Its gaping maw, split back to the ears and lined with rows of jagged fangs, poured streams of thick yellow drool that splattered to the ground like a waterfall.
"Shhhhhh—!"
Drool landed on the fallen guard's face, releasing a hiss of acrid smoke. His skin melted like hot wax, exposing the stark white of his cheekbone.
The man screamed in unbearable agony.
"Loose!"
Gerion roared.
Arrows whistled down like rain.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Sparks burst from the creature's scales.
The arrowheads struck with the ring of steel, only to bounce off or snap uselessly.
A cold dread gripped the group. The monster's scales were harder than iron.
"Charge! Cut it down!" Gerion bellowed at his guards.
But the soldiers, men who were usually sharp and disciplined, felt as though their legs had turned to lead. Not one dared move forward.
In that frozen stalemate, another desperate scream rose from behind the slaves.
The crowd turned in horror.
A smaller monster had slipped down from the top of a massive dead tree, clinging like a lizard. No one had noticed it until now.
With skeletal claws, it casually pried open a slave's skull. Lowering its mouth to the red-and-white mess inside, it drank greedily, emitting a nauseating slurping sound.
Hiss… hiss… hiss…
The sound of scraping, sharp enough to chill the marrow, came from every direction.
Within the fog-choked forest, pairs of blood-red pupils lit up in clusters.
Dark blue, ashen gray, iron black…
Scales of every shade flickered between the branches.
They stepped out together, hunched silhouettes forming a shifting wall of scales in the mist, encircling the tiny company upon the ashen Dragonroad.
Those blood-red eyes locked onto every scrap of living flesh.
Lo Quen's heart sank.
He had thought the things lurking in the forest were no more than beasts—jackals perhaps—too wary of their numbers to attack.
Now he realized his mistake. In Valyria, common sense was useless. Here, reality punished arrogance.
Could they run?
Lo Quen was no foolhardy youth. The moment the creatures had shown themselves, he'd already moved to shield those around him, ready to slip away at the first chance.
Survival came first. Nothing outweighed his own life.
But the thought of fleeing was crushed at once. Behind them, the same heavy, rasping breaths could be heard—more of the creatures.
They were surrounded.
Behind lay the devouring Black Forest, before them the churning fog like a gray sea.
Lo Quen's grip tightened around his scavenged wooden stick, knuckles whitening.
His focus sank into the hidden realm only he could see—the strange "Panel."
Magic Power: 500.
In human form, [Dragonflame Breath] drained 1 point per second, [Blazing Inferno] drained 2.
Enough perhaps to kill a handful. But in the shifting mist ahead, countless figures emerged—far too many for him to face.
At least his Dragon Bloodline's passive skill [True Dragon Physique] granted him raw strength like never before. He felt the power surging in his muscles. Even in human shape, he wielded brute force that rivaled many.
He kept his eyes on Gerion and his men, already planning. First, seize a real weapon. Then, with sheer strength, hold the beasts back long enough to dive into the forest when the battle turned chaotic.
If they chased him, he would use the trees for cover and unleash [Dragonflame Breath] to hold them at bay.
That was the best plan.
But in the face of death, even thought was a luxury.
A shriek tore apart the silence.
The monsters surged forward—not probing, but in a wave of hunger and frenzy that crashed over the outer ranks.
Screams followed at once.
Sailors and slaves, armed with nothing but bare hands or crude clubs, were paper-thin before the scaled creatures.
A young sailor went down, hooked claws ripping his linen tunic and flesh apart. He kicked in vain before the monster's jaws snapped shut on his neck, spraying blood across the ashen ground.
Another slave swung his wooden club. It struck the beast's back with a dull thud, leaving not even a mark. The strike only enraged it. With a sweep of its claws, half the man's face—eye and all—was torn away.
In the chaos of slaughter, only Gerion Lannister and his guards held like stone.
The clash of steel rang sharp and constant.
The trained men closed ranks swiftly, backs pressed together, forming a tight circle.
At its front stood Gerion himself, clad in polished half-plate over chainmail, his gaze unwavering.
"Hold steady! Aim for the joints!"
Gerion shouted the command.
His sword hacked down at the joint of a lunging monster's foreleg. With a sharp crack, the dark green shell split open, exposing gray, rotting sinew and black, sap-like blood that seeped out foul and thick.
The creature shrieked in pain, its movements faltering for a heartbeat before it surged forward again, throwing itself back into the fight.
Meanwhile, Lo Quen was searching for his chance.
His sharp gaze caught sight of a guard locked in combat with an unusually massive beast, too distracted to notice anything else.
Lo Quen ducked low and dashed in, fingers closing with precision around the hilt of the spare longsword at the guard's waist.
He recognized the scabbard's worn marks—it had belonged to Lened, the unlucky man devoured by red maggots the night before.
The cold hilt felt heavy, reeking of blood, but it gave him a grim sense of reassurance.
Almost at once, a wave of stench hit him.
One of the monsters abandoned the wounded slave at its feet and hurled itself at this new threat carrying steel.
Lo Quen had no time for stances. Relying only on instinct and the flood of strength in his body, he gripped the sword with both hands and swung upward with everything he had.
Clang!
The shriek of clashing steel rang out.
The recoil numbed his palms, his arms shuddering under the shock.
His blade struck the monster's hooked claw as it blocked, sparks bursting into the air.
The creature staggered back under the blow, its ghostly green eyes flashing with what looked like surprise.
Lo Quen himself stumbled half a step, his chest roiling with surging blood.
Such power!
He could feel clearly how much his body had changed.
This was nothing like the frail body he had once lived in—it was the gift of the [True Dragon Physique].
But in that same instant, he saw his weakness.
He had strength, but no skill.
His swings were crude, wide arcs, every strike consuming his full effort, draining him fast. He fought nothing like Gerion's veterans, who parried with precision, turned aside force, and probed for weak points with efficient economy.
And yet, that very clumsy, jarring style made him stand out in the chaos of the battlefield.
Gerion Lannister's emerald eyes swept the melee between sword strikes.
He saw the black-haired, dark-eyed Eastern slave driving a monster back with brute strength alone, and for the first time, his calm wavered.
Where did this Yi Ti man gain such power?
It made no sense.
Eastern slaves weren't rare in the Free Cities, but never had Gerion heard of one with such skill—or the will to fight like this.