The Borderlands, northeast, Poison Tail Tribe border outpost, dawn.
The grey-blue sky, like ink-soaked silk, spread over the Ten Thousand Snakes Swamp.
The Morning Star had not yet faded, the eastern horizon was just turning white, the sun hadn't risen, humid mist flowed over the land, shrouding the border in haze.
Sentinel Captain Kexos perched on the top of the snake-shaped watchtower, his grey-green scales blending perfectly with the mossy wooden railing.
His thick snake tail tapped against the weathered masonry, making a rhythmic "tap-tap" sound.
As a veteran who had shed his skin four times, his amber slit pupils could capture any anomaly even in the dimmest light.
"Naj, your scale gaps are reflecting light."
Kexos hissed suddenly, his forked tongue flicking rapidly to capture pheromones in the air.
His gaze locked onto the young sentinel's neck below—there, two newborn snake scales were exuding pale pink courtship pheromones, shimmering in the morning light.
"Thinking of sneaking off to the Sacred Nest to find that maid in her molting period again?"
The snake sentinel captain's voice carried a playful hiss, the tail end echoing in the humid air.
The recruit Naj curled up as if his tail had been stepped on, his scales instantly turning a mud-brown to match the environment, and he stammered in defense: "No, no nonsense! I am dedicated to guarding the tribe, how could I..."
A hoarse sneer suddenly came from the shadows.
Dark sentinel Sephus stuck half his head out from the darkness of the watchtower, his amber slit pupils as sharp as poisoned daggers.
This veteran, who had also shed his skin four times, lowered his voice: "Give it a rest, kid. The maids of the Six-Armed Snake Woman have high standards; they only look at warriors who have shed their skin more than five times."
"You've only shed your skin twice, your poison glands aren't even fully developed."
Another veteran added, his scales vibrating slightly with laughter: "If you really can't help it, the giant pythons in the swamp are a decent choice. Although they're a bit rough, the taste..."
A few snake veteran soldiers teased the young snake person, the atmosphere seemingly relaxed and pleasant on the surface.
However, a careful observer would notice that these experienced warriors frequently flicked their tongues, making dense "hissing" sounds—this was a typical way for snake people to release inner pressure.
Their tail tips were unconsciously tensed, muscles in a state ready to explode at any moment.
This seemingly relaxed chat was just a way for the veterans to relieve their inner tension.
In this pre-dawn silence, a kind of invisible pressure was gathering on the border line.
Suddenly, dark sentinel Sephus's long tongue shot out like lightning, precisely piercing a passing moth.
The scales on his throat bulged, and after swallowing the prey, he deliberately lowered his voice: "I heard... the Iron Dragon of the Molten Iron Legion refused our allegiance. Those dragons... are angry."
This sentence was like a piece of ice falling into boiling water; the surrounding air instantly solidified.
All the snake people's scales stood up involuntarily, their tails stiffly pressed against the ground.
Sephus continued in a whisper that was barely audible: "The Six-Armed Snake Woman shouldn't have..."
"Shut up!"
Sentinel Captain Kexos's hiss suddenly sharpened, his tail whip striking the masonry heavily, splashing a few gravel stones.
"The decisions of the tribe's top brass are not for us to discuss! Guard your post, keep your tongue in check!"
Unexpectedly, the dark sentinel who usually loved to talk back did not refute this time.
The old snake person turned his head in confusion, only to find Sephus staring fixedly at the distance, his tail taut, fine cold sweat oozing from his humanoid face, his pupils constricted into thin lines.
Following the dark sentinel's gaze, Kexos's expression instantly froze.
Under the grey-blue sky, a black tide-like legion was crushing the morning dew as it approached.
The Iron Hoof of the Centaur Warriors kicked up a sky full of dust, the heavy footsteps of the Ogre Warriors made the swamp water ripple, and the werewolf's ghostly green eyes were like floating will-o'-the-wisps.
Even more terrifying were the dragon shadows circling in the sky, and that giant white tiger that made the earth tremble with every step—that was the legendary Wild Monster Lord capable of tearing giants apart.
"Surrender! We surrender!"
The alarm bell didn't even have time to ring; faced with an absolute gap in strength, the snake guards chose to submit without hesitation.
They walked out of the outpost one after another, discarding their weapons in the mud.
However, it was too late.
"Kill all who resist."
The Iron Dragon's cold voice came from the sky.
"Kill half of the rest randomly, keep half."
Solrog's order was like the judgment of the Grim Reaper, devoid of any emotion.
As a ruler of the lawful faction, he didn't like overly cruel methods, but the previous fickleness of the Poison Tail Tribe had to be washed away with blood.
If this cleansing didn't happen, these snake people would likely harbor ulterior motives again.
Perhaps out of fear of death, most snake people chose to obey.
A few hot-blooded young warriors had just raised their weapons when they were nailed to the watchtower by whistling arrows.
The rest huddled together, trembling, silently praying that the butcher's knife would not fall on their own heads.
The fall of this border outpost was merely the beginning of the disaster.
The Molten Iron Legion advanced toward the heart of the Poison Tail Tribe with an unhurried yet unstoppable posture, like a hot knife cutting through butter.
The outposts along the way were ruthlessly crushed, and the snake guards faced the cruel choice of "kill one, keep one."
For individual strongholds with fierce resistance, the Iron Dragon showed no mercy in wiping them out completely—buildings were razed, guards were slaughtered, not even giving them a chance to surrender.
Solrog knew very well that such Ironblood tactics would cause some trouble for future rule.
But compared to leaving hidden dangers, he would rather spend more time rebuilding order.
The snake people of the Poison Tail Tribe were too naive; their little cleverness was not worth mentioning in the face of absolute strength.
Since they chose to play both sides, they had to pay the corresponding price.
As time passed, this unstoppable legion finally approached the core of the Poison Tail Tribe—the Ten Thousand Snakes Swamp.
On the outskirts of the swamp, led by the Six-Armed Snake Woman Naris, the Poison Tail Tribe had gathered all its strength.
The poison mist summoned by the warlocks swirled over the swamp, the giant snakes tamed by the shamans lurked underwater, and the fully armed snake warriors were ready for battle.
Yet, strangely, not a single blade was unsheathed.
Opposite them, the lineup of the Molten Iron Legion was even more terrifying.
Well-equipped Centaur heavy cavalry formed a charge formation, Ogre Warriors carried giant spiked clubs, and the Alchemy Golem's eyes flashed with dangerous red light.
Not to mention the Wild Monster Lord pressing the formation and the giant dragons circling in the sky.
The snake people's tails tapped the mud uneasily, their forked tongues flicking rapidly, trying to relieve their inner fear.
Facing the Molten Iron giant beast that had fully bared its fangs, even the bravest warriors felt a profound sense of oppression.
The two sides confronted each other from thousands of meters away.
"Halt!"
With the Iron Dragon's roar mixed with mental shock, the monster legion stopped in unison.
But the eyes of these bloodthirsty warriors still burned with Battle Intent, their sharp claws and weapons gleaming in the morning light; consecutive victories had made them eager to tear apart more enemy flesh.
Whoosh—!
Solrog's wings retracted violently like steel gates, his massive body turned into a shadow and descended from the sky.
When he was less than thirty meters from the ground, his dragon wings suddenly spread out, kicking up a gale, precisely controlling the momentum of the fall.
With a muffled "boom," the heavy dragon body landed steadily on the hard ground at the edge of the swamp.
Shockingly, he had actually come to the front of the enemy line alone!
The snake warriors tensed their bodies in unison, the "rustling" sound of scales rubbing together connected into one.
Some young warriors' tails curled up unconsciously; this was an instinctive reaction when snake people felt extreme tension.
The Iron Dragon walked slowly toward the Six-Armed Snake Woman who was ready for battle with vigorous and steady steps.
He raised his well-defined dragon snout, looking down at the tribal leader, dangerous sparks dancing in his slit pupils.
"Our second meeting, Naris."
Solrog's voice carried a unique metallic resonance, his dragon snout slightly raised, revealing sharp white teeth: "Is this scene as you wished?"
His gaze swept over the blade of the sword that was trembling slightly due to the Snake Woman's tension.
Those Sharp Weapons that could carve a hundred scars on dragon scales were now bound as if by invisible chains, hesitant to leave their sheaths.
Opposite the Iron Dragon, the Six-Armed Snake Woman Naris displayed a breathtaking combat stance.
Her six arms stretched out like blooming petals, each hand tightly gripping a cold-glinting cold iron longsword.
The sharp edge flowing on the blade seemed to be able to cut the air, and the surrounding air was slightly distorted by the existence of these Sharp Weapons.
As a Level 16 Six-Armed Snake Person Sword Saint, Naris's Life Level alone was equivalent to an adult Red Dragon.
And Solrog, as a 35-year-old adolescent Iron Dragon, had a Life Level of only around 12—although this was already an advanced, excellent individual among Iron Dragons, there was still a significant gap compared to the Snake Woman.
At this moment, the two were less than ten meters apart.
For a Sword Saint, this distance was fleeting.
Naris's sharp gaze could clearly see the blood vessels pulsating under the scales on the Iron Dragon's neck—a single sword strike there could trigger a waterfall of blood.
But she never made a move.
Naris knew better than anyone that the Dragonkin's perverted physical constitution was enough to smooth out the Rank gap.
Even if she could gain the upper hand, it was impossible to end the battle in a short time, and behind the Iron Dragon, there was the entire Molten Iron Legion eyeing them covetously, not to mention that Lord of the Crimson Wings who made her unable to even give birth to the heart of resistance.
Thinking of that terrifying existence who could complete a counter-kill in the ambush of the dawn and the Ironblood Tribe, Naris tightened her grip on the sword.
She really couldn't figure it out.
Why would a dragon with such strength still play tactics with those barbarians?
Wouldn't it be simpler to just crush them directly?
Unfortunately, she would never understand.
Garros was completely different from other young dragons.
This Lord of the Crimson Wings acted cautiously, always pursuing victory with minimal cost, never blindly charging due to arrogance, and this was the key factor that allowed him to grow to this day.