Chapter 74: Because It Is All Too Fragile (4)
Countless forms of life inhabit the Azerlisia Mountain Range. From the smallest insects to colossal monsters, the entire range forms a vast ecosystem that thrives and circulates as one.
At its peak, two forces vie for supremacy. At the summit of such a massive ecosystem, beings of higher intelligence and extraordinary power reign, utterly distinct from ordinary monsters.
Yet, in the present age, it is not one, but two rulers that stand at the apex of the range.
In the north dwell the giants, beings named after their form and abilities—the Frost Giants. Though humanoid in shape, once grown, their height exceeds five meters. With sharp intellect, immense resistance to cold, formidable magic resistance, mastery over ice, and unparalleled physical might, these beings dominate the northern expanse as sovereigns.
The central and southern reaches are shrouded in secrecy, yet in recent years the Quagoa clans have risen greatly in power, driving the dwarves to their last bastions. Still, the Quagoa elders, and above all their clan king Periyuro, know full well the true masters they serve.
They are the Frost Dragons—also called Ice Dragons, or White Dragons. This lineage of dragonkind dwells upon the highest peaks of the range, blessed with absolute resistance to cold. With vast bodies and overwhelming might, they hold sway over nearly the entire range. Yet, aside from their clashes with the Frost Giants of the north, they rarely reveal themselves to the wider world.
"How tedious. How dull. How much longer must I repeat such pitiful skirmishes?"
So spoke the ruler of this generation's Frost Dragons—the one who styled himself the White Dragon Lord, Olasird'arc Haylilyal. Wearied of the endless, fruitless struggle against the Frost Giants for control of the range, he now burned with dissatisfaction.
The power of dragon and giant stood nearly equal. Thus, neither side had dared launch a full-scale war, trading instead in probing clashes and measured skirmishes. But to Olasird'arc, this was intolerable.
He was of the exalted dragon race—lord of the mountains, and destined to place the world beneath his claws. To think that such a being should waste eternity in a stale contest against mere giants—an affront beyond forgiveness.
He needed greater strength. Overwhelming force to crush the giants outright. For that, he needed numbers. When Olasird'arc had reached maturity, his kin numbered no more than ten at best—far too few. So he resolved to increase their strength by other means.
He had already taken three mates, and sired many offspring. Yet raising them to true power would take too long. Even by the long measure of dragonkind, the wait was intolerable. Thus, he sought another path.
"It cannot be helped. To destroy the giants, our brood alone is insufficient."
And so, he conceived a scheme. Ordinarily, dragons disdained guile and stratagems, for their innate might made such devices beneath them. But for this one aim—subjugating the Frost Giants—Olasird'arc would make an exception.
He searched for pawns among the other denizens of the range: ogres, trolls, lamias, lizardmen, orcs, goblins. Then, he found them—the Quagoa. A lowly race, but with scraps of intelligence and culture.
Numerous. Weak, but able to move as one. Most importantly, fatally vulnerable to cold. That weakness ensured that should they ever rebel, they could be destroyed with ease.
They were perfect.
The Quagoa would never win against giants. But Olasird'arc did not need allies—he needed expendable pawns.
"I must not stir too soon…"
To provoke the Frost Giants recklessly would be unwise. For though dragon and giant alike stood atop the predator's caste of the range, the Frost Giants' total immunity to cold robbed the dragons' breath of its edge. Their massive weapons could wound even dragonkind. If their numbers surged, defeat was possible. Indeed, some dragons had already fallen, reduced to guard dogs for the giants.
No, caution was needed. He would not rear the Quagoa out of benevolence. He would fatten them as fodder, unleash them against the giants, and watch both sides bleed. If any survived with hatred in their hearts, so be it—Quagoa were but frail vermin, trembling and freezing at a mere exhalation of his breath.
Having resolved himself, Olasird'arc turned his eyes toward the Quagoa. He began by observing. What sort of creatures were they? How did they live? What strength did they possess? His judgment was swift—they were contemptible. Yet, gathered in great numbers, they might serve as pawns. That was enough.
"Very well. I shall raise these wretches for a time."
So he scattered ores near their burrows, ores he had hoarded. The Quagoa, foolish as ever, carried them to their young. The minerals warped their growth, birthing mutant strains of heightened power.
And among them emerged a miracle beyond even Olasird'arc's foresight: a Quagoa with not only strength, but rare intellect and cunning—an aberration among aberrations. This was Periyuro, the hero of the Quagoa.
With Periyuro's rise, the clans united. All eight clans together—nearly 80,000 strong. Even Olasird'arc felt a flicker of tension at such numbers. And under Periyuro's command, they surged forth to claim the mountain range as their own. Their first prey: the monsters of the depths, and the dwarves with their cities and fortresses carved into the stone.
The Quagoa swarmed the dwarves, seizing their capital and burning their cities. They enslaved the survivors, building power until at last, they forged a kingdom and raised armies. Then, before them, Olasird'arc revealed himself.
"Hmph. Baseborn creatures. I shall deign to rule you. Rejoice."
"What?! You monster!"
"Monster? It seems you lesser breeds are in need of education."
With but a breath, he slew the defiant. Quagoa, frail against cold, shivered at his mere exhalation—some froze to death where they stood. Resistance crumbled into submission. Kneeling, pressing their snouts to the ground, they swore allegiance.
"We… we pledge our fealty. Rule us, mighty one."
"Accepted."
So Olasird'arc claimed dominion, in boundless arrogance. Periyuro bent the knee, though his obedience was hollow. Olasird'arc knew this well—but what did it matter? They were expendable. And already he had designs for his next slaves.
As he studied the Quagoa, he turned his gaze also upon the dwarves. And what he saw impressed him. Weak in body, but gifted with craft—smiths of enchanted weapons, artisans of tools that magnified their power beyond measure. A race of great potential.
Too dangerous to subjugate hastily. He deemed it unwise to attempt their domination before erasing all will to resist.
First, he would break them with Quagoa. Enslave them through Quagoa hands. When the vermin were spent, cast into the jaws of the Frost Giants, he would step forth as the magnanimous conqueror, granting the dwarves "mercy" in exchange for their chains.
The whip, and the carrot. Hatred sown through Quagoa cruelty; loyalty reaped through his feigned benevolence. A perfect plan, or so he thought. With smug contempt, Olasird'arc smiled at the thought of his pawns.
The scheme was in motion. Soon the dwarves would kneel, the Quagoa would bleed, and the Frost Giants would fall. With the creatures of the mountains forged into his army, he would conquer the world. That day was not far, and Olasird'arc reveled in the dream.
And yet…
Who could have foreseen the day that awaited him?
"What… did you say?"
Olasird'arc was shaken.
Before his eyes, the Clan King of the Quagoa, Periyuro, lay prostrate on the ground. His face was twisted in ruinous emotion, his limbs drawn in, his head pressed to the floor with not a trace of pride or dignity.
From his eyes flowed not tears, but blood—red liquid spilling like weeping wounds. With crimson eyes streaming, Periyuro shrieked like a mad beast:
"Red Dragons! The Red Dragons appeared—and slaughtered my clans to the last!"
"The Red tribe? Why would they appear here…?"
Olasird'arc's thoughts turned blank. He knew the Red Dragons well—kin of fire, the very opposite of his own kind. Yet they did not dwell in these mountains.
By nature, dragonkind did not live alongside other breeds, and least of all those of opposing elements.
And though the range held a lava gorge fit for fire creatures, it was far too narrow, too meager to house dragons. No—the Red tribe's dwelling must lie far away, in volcanic lands or deserts where heat smoldered unending.
Across his long life, Olasird'arc had never once met them. They were a separate line, foreign and distant. For them to suddenly appear here—he almost asked why, but Periyuro was in no state to answer.
"Why have they come?"
"Th-they killed us! All of us! Six clans are nearly extinct! We don't even know how many remain! O White Dragon Lord, please—save us—"
"Answer me."
A breath of frost escaped his maw. Instantly, the blood running from Periyuro's eyes froze, frost gathering across his fur and skin. The burning frenzy in the Quagoa king's mind was snuffed out, chilled into sharp awareness.
"U-ugh…"
"Explain. Speak clearly. What of the Red tribe?"
"They—they came and… slaughtered—"
"And yet I did not feel it."
"…Wh-what?"
Periyuro's eyes widened in horror. However vast the palace might be, such chaos outside should have shaken it. The Reds had unleashed carnage in the very skies above the capital. How could the palace remain untouched?
His terror and Olasird'arc's suspicion could not align. The White Dragon Lord's face hardened with wrath. Did this wretch dare mock him with lies?
"You dare? You crawl here to spew falsehoods before me?"
"I-I-it's true! The Red Dragons appeared, I swear—!"
"Then how could I, of all beings, not know? Speak your true purpose. What is your aim in coming here, babbling lies before your lord?"
The weight of Dragon Fear descended, fury and dread pouring over Periyuro like a crushing tide. Terror seized every vein, robbing him of breath.
The Red Dragons that had rained white death from the sky were terrifying—but this White Dragon, burning with rage, was no less. In his despair, Periyuro's thoughts twisted: Why? Why this madness? Why had the Reds come? Why strike us down? If death was our fate, why not drag these cursed White Dragons to the grave as well? He seethed with hatred for some unseen hand, and his will crumbled into surrender.
And then—
Step. Step.
Soft footsteps echoed across the polished floor of the throne room.
The sound was faint, yet even Periyuro's ears caught it. Olasird'arc heard it too. Too small to be a dragon. Perhaps another Quagoa? The White Dragon's vast eyes narrowed.
But the intruder was not Quagoa. Nor was it any creature native to these mountains.
"So this is the palace, then. Quite impressive."
The figure was draped in black cloth, its entire body swathed save for the upper head. Speaking in a leisurely tone, it strode unhurriedly into the hall.
From beneath the shrouded hood, golden eyes gleamed with a spark of amusement.
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