"BOOM————!!!"
It wasn't an explosion, nor was it thunder.
Instead, it was a heavier, more tyrannical roar—as if the earth itself was screaming—that suddenly erupted from the depths of the night outside the tent.
The ground shook violently.
The glass wine cups on the table clattered, spilling their contents, and the torches fixed to the pillars flickered wildly, casting shadows that danced like crazed demons.
The Blackfire Officerss, who had just drawn their blades with ferocious expressions, all froze simultaneously.
It wasn't because they wanted to stop.
It was the vibration.
The shaking was so intense that it made the floor beneath their feet jump, their knees go weak, and the grip of their sword hands involuntarily loosen.
"An... an earthquake?" a young officer asked with a trembling voice, his tone filled with shock and suspicion.
"No..." The officer with graying temples stared fixedly at the tent wall, his face pale in the firelight.
Because following that massive roar were footsteps.
Heavy, slow, and rhythmic—
"Thump... Thump... Thump..."
With every step, the ground sank slightly.
With every step, a heartbeat skipped.
The sound was approaching.
From outside the tent, from the deep night, it drew closer step by step toward this brightly lit, peril-filled command tent.
"Look... Look at the wall!" someone hissed in a low cry.
Everyone's gaze instinctively turned toward the western canvas wall of the tent.
There, the light from the camp torches projected the scene outside the tent into a distorted... shadow.
An unimaginably massive shadow was slowly approaching the canvas.
What first came into view were slender, winding shadows of necks, like ancient giant serpents emerging from a mythological abyss.
They swayed slowly outside the tent, and every tiny movement caused the shadows on the canvas to stretch into heart-stopping arcs.
Then came the silhouette of a head.
The shadow, covered in hideous bony armor, was large enough to shroud an entire canvas wall.
"The east... there's one on the east too!" someone screamed.
As the shadow pressed completely against the tent, under the reflection of the firelight, everyone could even see the faint shadows of scale textures—dense, hard, and inhuman, like a creation that should only exist in the depths of a nightmare.
"What... what is that..." Harry Strickland knelt on the ground, head tilted back, staring blankly at the projection of the three slowly turning heads on the wall, his throat making a wheezing sound as if he were being strangled.
No one answered.
Because the answer was already obvious, yet no one dared to say it aloud.
A creature that only existed in faded murals, the fragments of minstrels' songs, and the mad ramblings of drunks... a dragon.
And it was... a three-headed dragon.
The silhouette of a body as massive as a mountain range was projected onto the canvas wall by the campfires.
It shrouded the entire command tent within its shadow and presence.
"Ugh..." An officer's legs gave way, and he slumped directly onto the ground, his sword falling with a 'clang.'
Fear, like cold, viscous pitch, rose from the soles of everyone's feet at this moment, washing over their knees, submerging their waists and abdomens, and finally tightening its grip on their throats and hearts.
It wasn't a fear of blades, nor a fear of death.
It was the crushing weight of a superior life form.
It was an ant looking up at a mountain, a blade of grass facing a hurricane, a speck of dust glimpsing the stars... it was an irresistible humility before a higher existence, etched deep into the marrow of their bones and unmarred by millions of years of evolution.
In the dead silence, Aegon's gaze, cold as a blade, scraped across every face filled with fear.
He spoke slowly, each word sounding like he was reading a long-written verdict:
"A hundred-year dream... it is time to wake up."
"And what wakes you..."
He looked up, as if he could see Ghidorah outside through the tent.
"...will be thunder."
A brief, dead silence.
The officer with graying temples was one of the few remaining Blackfyre veterans, having even personally participated in the Blackfyre Rebellion and known for his stubbornness and bigotry. He snapped his head up, the last bit of reason in his eyes swallowed by madness.
It's all because of him! This silver-haired fraud! This sorcerer who brought a monster! Kill him! If he's killed, maybe all this will end! The monster will disappear! Blackfyre... there is still hope.
Fear gave birth to a distorted courage. He roared, his hands shaking so much he could barely hold his blade, yet he still stumbled toward Aegon.
"Stop... stop playing tricks!"
Aegon watched him charge, his purple eyes showing not a single ripple, only a deep indifference.
"Your loyalty to Blackfyre is truly impressive."
He looked up, his gaze sweeping over the other Blackfire Officerss in the tent who still held weapons, their eyes flickering with a similar mad light.
"Since you are so loyal..."
His voice was clear and cold, like the blade of a guillotine falling:
"...I shall grant your wish."
BOOM! Sizzle sizzle—!
Without warning.
The dome of the command tent and the canvas walls on both sides were torn apart and consumed in an instant by golden thunder piercing in from the outside.
Three golden beams of light converged and poured in, annihilating everything.
Only a blinding gold and white remained in their field of vision.
The sturdy wooden beams, the heavy canvas, the exquisite silverware, the magnificent armor, the hideous faces, the clenched swords, the boiling ambition, the century-long obsession... everything turned into the most primal light and heat, then returned to nothingness.
Sound was drowned out by the higher-frequency hiss of annihilation.
Time lost its meaning.
When the golden light began to dim and dissipate... only a charred, glass-like ground remained, its edges radiating outwards, smooth as a mirror, emitting blue smoke and the pungent smell of burning at high temperatures.
In the center of the scorched earth, a circular area only two paces in diameter remained perfectly intact.
Aegon stood calmly, the hem of his black robe untainted by dust.
Jon Clinton was half a step beside him, his face pale, his fists clenched tight as he forced himself not to collapse.
"Is this a dragon? Why is it... different from the dragons he knew and heard of in legends?!"
Beyond the scorched earth, everything in the tent—the long table, the food and wine, the weapons, and those fifty-plus Blackfire Officerss, including the kneeling Harry and the gray-haired officer who had charged halfway—all those faces... had completely vanished.
No remains, no ashes.
Only this glass-like scorched earth, still sizzling, spoke of how thorough the 'fulfillment' had been.
A dead silence loomed.
"Shuffling..."
"Clang!"
The sound of messy footsteps and weapons hitting the ground came from the edge of the scorched earth.
The Golden Company Soldiers drawn by the commotion froze in place, spears and swords slipping from their hands, eyes wide, mouths agape, their faces filled with nothing but hollow horror.
What were they seeing?
The main tent was gone, replaced by a smoking glass pit.
The two figures in the center of the pit.
And... "ROAR————!!"
A low growl tore through the silence, crushing the last shred of sanity.
Ghidorah's massive, pale-gold body fully revealed itself from behind the ruins.
Three pairs of long, winding necks, like giant pillars supporting the heavens, slowly rose and let out a soul-shaking roar toward the sky.
The pair of massive, pale-gold wing membranes, large enough to obscure the stars and moon, fully extended behind it, every slight flap bringing a gale that made the earth tremble!
Flames rose at the edge of the glass pit and on the wreckage, illuminating this nightmarish scene.
Aegon moved.
Holding the blackfyre, he stepped across the edge of the scorched earth, the soles of his boots clicking against the scalding glass with a 'crack.'
The hem of his black robe brushed past a flame, catching fire at the corner and trailing a fleeting spark in the night wind.
Step by step, he walked out from the flames and blue smoke.
His pace was steady and composed.
It was as if the destruction just now had nothing to do with him, and the dead land beneath his feet was just an ordinary path.
Behind him, Ghidorah's six molten-gold vertical pupils were like cold suns, looking down at the ants below.
The shadow of the dragon's wings covered most of the training grounds and the dumbfounded Soldiers.
What did they see...?
A black-robed figure walking out of fire and destruction.
A three-headed demonic dragon standing between heaven and earth.
This scene was like the most ancient bloody totem, branded into the depths of the soul of every witness.
"Clatter! Thud..."
The sound of weapons falling to the ground became a continuous wave.
At the edge of the scorched earth, between the barracks, and on the watchtowers, every Soldier startled into looking over was struck as if by a heavy blow the moment they saw the dragon and the figure.
There was no riot, no fleeing.
There wasn't even any thought.
Only the most primal, most humble instinct—
Submission.
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