The seven spellcasting monsters—each an Orson clone—furiously swung their staves, unleashing a torrent of Chaos Magic Balls that merged into a sea of arcane destruction, swallowing the crater where Daloré lay.
In just a dozen seconds, a thunderous detonation sounded.
Daloré’s shield—gone.
A piercing, guttural scream tore through the skies as violet-gold energy erupted upward. Daloré had suffered mana backlash.
And the stronger the spell being interrupted, the more devastating the backlash.
Mana Backlash – 90 million!
Everyone present gulped in unison. This was the so-called “God of the Skies”?
Right now, he couldn’t even crawl convincingly.
The Purple-Gold Dragon King soared up from the crater in dragon form, his scales shredded and bleeding profusely.
Violet-gold energy flared around him as he activated Dragon Body, beginning to regenerate. His HP started to climb.
Daloré glanced at the glowing barrier enclosing the Garden of Ten Thousand Flowers, muttering in ancient dragon tongue:
“So… His Majesty intends to finish me himself?”
He spoke absently. But to Orson—who understood dragon speech—it was a shocking revelation.
“Wait… It wasn’t Tulikiki behind this?”
Orson raised a brow in disbelief. He’d always figured the cowardly emperor was the kind to set traps but lacked the spine to follow through.
But now, it looked like someone even more dangerous was pulling the strings.
“Death God Dragon King—do you dare face me in single combat?!”
Daloré’s eyes gleamed with poison. The spines on his back bristled with rage.
“I’m a War God of the Dragon Empire! Let me die with honor!”
Orson turned, mildly amused. “Well? He’s talking to you.”
The Crimson Lizard King opened her mouth to accept—
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
Orson smacked her on the snout three times with his magic staff.
She let out a low, disgruntled growl, and raised her chin arrogantly:
“I refuse to duel the already dead.”
“You shame your kind!” Daloré roared in fury.
“I have no kin.”
“The dead cannot feel shame.”
Her voice turned sly.
Daloré froze midair, stunned by her unexpected twist of logic.
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!”
Orson struggled not to laugh.
Madman: “Bro, I’m gonna explode from laughing!”
Bradley: “Crimson Lizard King, IQ score: 99. Took off a point so she doesn’t get cocky!”
Blank: “Like master, like beast.”
Denoka: “Is this… really proper? Shouldn’t dragons die by claw and spell?”
Drunken Dream: “Uh… I don’t really know dragon etiquette.”
Dragon kin typically despised cowardice. If a peer refused a fair duel, they would be mocked for generations.
But the Crimson Lizard King was the last of the Death God Dragon Clan.
She didn’t have to care.
With her domain effect in play—and the mana-devouring little lamb on standby—Daloré’s fate was sealed.
Orson rode on the Crimson Lizard King, hovering overhead. His expression unreadable as he cast spell after spell, carving burning scars across the earth and chipping away at Daloré’s HP.
“Adventurer… Die!”
Daloré roared, lunging upward in desperation, attempting to drag the fight into melee where he might stand a chance.
“Ice Prison Ring.”
Orson’s tone turned icy.
Frozen mist surged from his staff, instantly flash-freezing the withered flora around the Garden. A layer of rime crept up Daloré’s body, slowing his flight.
Magic Eye.
Mirror of Folding.
A portal shimmered into existence.
The Crimson Lizard King dove through it effortlessly, creating distance in an instant.
Orson kept up the pressure, landing heavy crits and burn damage from afar.
Violet-Gold Dragon Breath!
Daloré, in rage, belched forth his breath attack.
Drunken Dream: “Did you forget I exist?”
Dragon Rider Technique: Space Reversal!
The breath was rerouted mid-air, redirected harmlessly.
Daloré, nearly out of options, charged at the players like a headless chicken.
“Pathetic.”
With a flick of Orson’s finger, spatial portals teleported his allies out of harm’s way—again and again—until it looked less like a battle and more like a sadistic game of cat and mouse.
Daloré’s raw strength meant nothing.
“I’ll kill you all! I’ll burn your bones to ash!”
The Purple-Gold Dragon King’s wings were shredded. His HP dropped below 50 million. Bleeding and broken, he struggled to rise.
But he kept trying. A Dragon King could not—would not—die cowering.
“You’ll all pay for this! I’ll burn your cities to the ground!”
But then he looked behind him.
At the glowing barrier.
With a grunt, he staggered into the air and flapped his ruined wings, desperately making for the edge of the Garden.
Stewart: “Don’t let him escape! Focus fire!”
A fleeing Dragon King was a loot piñata. No one wanted to miss that final hit.
Everyone prepared to attack—
Orson: “Hold your fire.”
Bradley stared. “What? He regenerates HP and mana fast. If we don’t kill him now, he’ll recover!”
Madman: “Do it.”
If anyone could claim the title of second-most devious in Godslayer Guild, it was Madman.
The only one above him? Orson.
So when Orson said wait, that meant the prey was already halfway in the frying pan.
Orson: “We can maximize our gains.”
He grinned darkly.
Blank and Drunken Dream felt a chill run down their spines.
Letting a Dragon King escape? That kind of arrogance was…
Unthinkable.
Daloré, now in human form, stumbled to the Light Barrier and pulled out a stone-carved key.
He jammed it into the center of the barrier and turned.
“A one-time-use artifact: Dispel Key…”
Drunken Dream muttered, eyes wide. He had seen this item once, in the treasure vault of the Xian family.
It was absurdly rare.
The key shattered. Purple light pulsed outward.
Ancient runes swirled, forming a galactic pattern across the surface of the barrier.
“Unlock!”
Daloré twisted his wrist.
A hole opened in the Light Barrier.
Without looking back, he dove through it and fled.
[System Notice]
Purple-Gold Dragon King Daloré now holds a grudge against you.
Your guild/family has entered Hostile Status with Purple-Gold Dragons and the Purple-Gold Family.
Everyone had expected something like this.
But when it became official, it still felt like a ton of bricks landing on their chests.
Two of the empire’s most powerful factions… now hunting them.
Orson: “Let them come. Dying empires don’t scare me.”
He soared after Daloré, mounted on the Crimson Lizard King.
The Dragon King fled, wings flapping weakly, passing over countless palace districts.
More than a dozen immense auras stirred—each one unmistakably King-ranked.
They looked up in shock as Daloré, bloodied and burned, streaked overhead.
But none of them moved.
Not a single one lifted a hand to help.
It was as if… some private understanding had already been made.
“You… Velorith! You stood beside me in countless battles—will you watch me die now?!”
Daloré’s roar echoed across the sky.
But silence answered him.