Chapter 77: Because It Is All Too Fragile (7)
A crushing sense of darkness bore down from above, and Olasird'arc's body trembled. His entire frame creaked under the pressure; scales shattered, bodily fluids seeped out through the cracks in his hide, yet the suffocating weight and despair pressing upon him were so immense that he could not even register the pain.
But Olasird'arc had not yet given up.
With desperate effort, he forced his jaws open. He could not—must not—acknowledge defeat. He was the White Dragon King, ruler of the greatest territory in these mountains, the sovereign destined to one day place the world beneath his claws. For such a being to yield to a sudden calamity like this was unthinkable.
"D-Don't… mock me!!"
From between his fangs, a white radiance surged. The ultimate weapon of dragonkind—the Breath Weapon. A deadly chill condensed in his throat, so fierce that even his wives, his daughters, and his sons, all pressed to the ground under the oppressive force, shuddered at the frigid aura. The full might of a Frost Dragon, a strike worthy of one who claimed the title of White Dragon King, gathered into a single blow. Frost spread across the ground, the very air freezing over.
Yet Tiamat only gave a faint, amused laugh.
"A Breath? Very well. I'll permit it. Go ahead—use it."
He even stepped back, as though to say he wouldn't interfere. Hope flared in Olasird'arc's bloodshot eyes. To scorn him went only so far—surely not even this monster could ignore the power of a dragon's breath.
For Olasird'arc knew well the true nature of that weapon: the final, greatest armament of his kind. It was not merely elemental force—it was destruction itself, an explosion of power that transcended attributes.
Long ago, when Olasird'arc had been young and foolish, he had nearly died wandering recklessly, stumbling upon a frost giant. He had been moments away from death or capture, from being broken and raised as a slave. It was his desperate Breath Weapon that had saved him.
Even that giant, resistant to cold, could not withstand it. The blast had pierced its chest, leaving a massive hole. That was the unrivaled supremacy of dragonkind's breath—a force none dared belittle.
Now, far stronger than in his youth, with his full might poured into it, his breath was beyond measure. Gathering every ounce of power into a single point, Olasird'arc unleashed it.
A pillar of white light erupted, a beam that froze and annihilated everything it touched. The Frost Dragon clan, watching, felt a surge of hope. Surely this was victory.
But—
"H-How… how is this possible…?"
Olasird'arc's wives—Mianatalon Hubines, Munwinia Iris Slim, and Kilistran Denshusha—all stared in shock, their voices trembling, unable to close their gaping mouths.
The breath, that absolute power, blazed forth in a torrent of white. Yet before the black scales of Tiamat, it faltered. The shining aura failed even to frost over his obsidian armor. It merely streamed uselessly, dissipating like mist.
Olasird'arc emptied his strength in vain, collapsing under the relentless pressure, his body prone on the ground. Above him, golden eyes curved in mocking amusement.
"So this is what it feels like to take damage. Cold, numbing… bothersome."
"B-Bothersome…? My Breath… my life's very breath, dismissed as nothing but—"
Olasird'arc muttered in despair. His ultimate weapon, the sovereign roar of his kind, had been reduced to a trifling nuisance.
Before him, massive jaws opened wide, as though ready to swallow him whole.
Tiamat had never even intended to fight seriously. That fleeting sensation—the novelty of actually feeling damage—was, unexpectedly, even enjoyable. It wasn't pain. More like the mild chill of pressing ice against one's skin: a little cold, a little numbing, nothing more.
And yet… something else pressed upon his mind. A subtle, ominous awareness—that remaining in "this form" too long was dangerous. As if something vital would be overlaid, altered. He decided to end it quickly.
"Then… it's my turn. Take this."
Within his crimson maw, molten like lava, a deeper black swirled. A darkness darker still coiled within that void, ready to erupt.
Holding back—far less than the force he had used to carve a hole through the mountains—he exhaled almost lazily, a soft gust of breath.
Tiamat's Breath Weapon.
An inky-black aurora spilled forth, swallowing light, devouring space.
The Frost Dragons tried to flee. But the Dragon Fear still shackled them. Even the attempt to escape was denied. Pinned beneath that crushing weight, they knew only the despair of insects about to be crushed.
A chorus of "No—"
"Ah—"
"Save—"
A black aurora spread in waves and blanketed the area. Before the Frost clan could even fall into despair, the spreading black light swallowed them and their consciousness quietly sank into darkness.
And shortly after.
Where everything had ended, Tiamat scratched his head awkwardly after slipping the Tarnhelm back on and returning to human form.
"Was that a bit much?"
"A little excessive, Master."
Ea's reproachful voice reached him, and Tiamat's hand scratched his head even faster.
After transforming into a dragon, in that brief span he had done something outrageous. The tone he'd used—honestly, he'd feel embarrassed thinking about it now, but at that moment it had felt perfectly natural.
He had spoken like a movie dragon, like a tyrant—disdainful, crushing, humiliating. It had felt only right to belittle and trample the other.
But, in another corner of his mind, he realized that if he kept that up something fundamental about him might change. So he hurriedly put the Tarnhelm back on and returned to his human form. Only then did he grasp how dangerously close to a tipping point he'd been.
That mindset—the feeling of the human who was Tiamat becoming the dragon Tiamat, the sense of 'not being myself'—was not unpleasant.
The feeling of shedding all constraints felt like enormous joy and fullness. It was like being lifted up, like becoming something greater—an intoxicating sensation. Like the first time tasting alcohol in real life: a light, buoyant euphoria and inexplicable omnipotence filled him.
But when he reverted to human form that fullness vanished. In its place came a strong sense of danger. The dragon form is his true form now, but staying in it too long seemed perilous in many ways.
"Hmm—seal the dragon form for a while."
The urge to taste that fullness again tugged at him, but the sense of losing himself if he stayed that way was too risky. He might do things without a second thought.
Around Tiamat—the area he'd swept over—was utterly devastated. Even controlling his power, the surrounding hundred-odd meters had become shallow craters. The frost-bitten, mangled Frost Dragons strewn about were proof.
The chief white dragon at the center had been struck by Tiamat's Breath Weapon with as little augmentation as possible; Tiamat had deliberately held back and used no boosts, yet the leader had been erased without so much as ash remaining. Because the blow had been concentrated on that one target, some other Frost Dragons had survived. That made disposal tricky.
"What should we do with the survivors?"
If they'd all been dead, it would be simpler; the fact some had survived left him uneasy. Should he just kill them all? He considered it—but now that he was back to human form, he felt a twinge of pity.
Thinking it through—he had come merely to look around, taken some insults, lost his temper, then savagely beat them and ended up killing some. At the time, their scornful looks and attempts to steal items had angered him—the feeling of wanting to show "I'm the bigger one" had made him remove the Tarnhelm and reveal himself, and that had revealed how dangerous the dragon form was.
In dragon form, human sensibilities vanished. It was as if every limiter shattered. No matter how many self-imposed restrictions he set, Tiamat himself was practically an eldritch calamity in that shape; in it he became a tyrant who could wield force and violence without hesitation.
The Frost Dragons had been the victims. Well—those dragons weren't exactly peacefully occupying the Dwarf capital, so one could call it karmic payback—but the party you hold responsible isn't the dragons; it's the Dwarves. He did feel a pang of conscience for killing them at will.
"What shall we do with these ones, Ea?"
"Bring them into Shinshi?"
"Is that okay?"
There would be concerns—feed, space for rearing—Shinshi large, but accommodating twenty-odd dragons at will is a bit much. But Ea answered matter-of-factly.
"Even if they're monstrous, they're still dragons. They'll be useful in various places, I think."
"Is that so…? Then handle it as you see fit."
"Understood, Master. Holstein will be delighted—he wanted new livestock."
"Livestock…?"
— Yes. I believe that's a fitting treatment for them.
The thought of turning dragons into livestock felt questionable at first, but Tiamat soon nodded. These half-broken creatures were weak anyway. Having witnessed his true form, they couldn't simply be left roaming free. Better to have them taken in by Shinshi.
And, truthfully, the idea piqued his curiosity. Dragons, as livestock—how ironic. In Yggdrasil, dragons were treasures in their own right: their hides, bones, blood, and drop items—all of it carried immense value. If such resources could be harvested regularly through breeding and domestication, it would be nothing short of a boon.
— And as for the things within this city, I will arrange for their disposal. Is that acceptable?
"Hm… so long as Shinshi's prosperity won't be harmed, leave the dwarves' possessions untouched."
— Understood. Then I will handle everything else aside from the dwarves' belongings.
"Fine, then I'll leave the rest to you, Ea."
— Yes, Master! And please, contact me whenever you require anything.
"…Right."
Always watching me, and yet telling me to 'contact' her? Suppressing his unease, Tiamat gave a stiff reply before opening a Gate. It was time to return. He had only stepped outside briefly, but far too much time had slipped away. The others were probably growing concerned.
He recalled seeing Colton and the dwarven landlord already drunk out of their minds, while that fellow named Rohaim still couldn't seem to relax. I suppose I'll just smooth things over somehow, he thought, stepping into the dimensional gate.
....
Meanwhile, Dean had just concluded negotiations with the dwarven Commander.
From the start, the Commander had tried to conceal the truth, but Dean had pried every secret out of him through relentless pressure and intimidation. The information he obtained was as follows:
1. The Quagoa were preparing to unleash their full might to annihilate this dwarven city.
2. The dwarves had no military strength capable of stopping them.
3. The dwarves, realizing this, had intended to secretly hire the Dragon's Dream party, hiding the truth while driving away the Quagoa at minimal cost.
Dean had dragged this information out of a half-broken commander, and afterward, filled with irritation and contempt, briefly considered leaving immediately. But he decided such a choice would wait until he had heard his lord's opinion.
"W-wait, you can't just leave like this—!"
"Silence."
"…Ugh."
The murderous intent that flared from Dean belonged to one who had stepped beyond mortal limits.
Compared to that, the Commander was utterly insignificant. Faced with such overwhelming killing intent, he shrank back in fear.
Is this truly the killing intent of a human? The two adventurers before him had been powerful enough, but the presence of this party leader was on an entirely different level.
That sheer aura alone stole the breath from his lungs and left his mind clouded. So this is the power of a great house…
Damn it… If only I had been honest from the beginning—!
The Commander cursed himself for trying to deceive them and for the Regent Council's foolish decision.
But the hammer had already fallen. He could do nothing but watch blankly as Dean walked away. Soon, the party would gather and depart the dwarven kingdom. And he had no strength to stop them.
For the dwarves, it was effectively the end. Once these people left, they would have no means to resist the Quagoa's onslaught, and the kingdom would inevitably fall.
What the Commander did not yet know—
was that all the threats driving the dwarves to the brink of destruction… had already vanished from the mountains without a trace.
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