Heaven and earth sank into an eerie, absolute silence.
The Dead Dragon's roar that seemed able to tear the soul, the earth-shaking rumble of collapsing ground, the bubbling of Blood Lake as it boiled—
All that clamor was instantly stripped away, swallowed, erased beneath the dreadful pressure descending from the black clouds.
What remained was a silence more terrifying than any sound.
Henry knelt in the mud, feeling his breath about to stop. The heart in his chest pounded like a mad drum, every beat threatening to shatter his ribs and burst out.
He opened his mouth but could draw no air—air seemed to solidify into thick gel, clogging his nose, throat, lungs.
In his ears there was only the muffled thud of his own heartbeat and…the faint crackle of embers still burning in the ruins.
Those sounds, magnified infinitely in this absolute silence, were so clear they made the skin crawl.
Carl lay not far away, his lean body rigid as stone.
Time lost all meaning in this deathly hush.
Perhaps an instant, perhaps a quarter of an hour.
Until—
Clack.
A crisp boot-heel striking the ground shattered the frozen silence.
The sound was not loud, even a little dull, yet in this utter stillness it cracked like thunder, smashing into every ear, heart, soul.
Henry jerked violently, turning his head with painful slowness.
A soft crack came from his neck.
His gaze crossed broken stones, corpses, congealed pools of blood, toward the burning blue embers deep in the ruins.
A figure walked slowly out of the churning flames and smoke.
His steps, impossibly steady.
It was Aegon.
The edges of his Valyrian Steel armor glowed dark red from the fire, like a divine weapon pulled from a forge and quenched.
The flowing dark-red sheen on the plates had not dimmed; tempered by the heat, it looked deeper, quieter, the dragon reliefs seeming to awaken and breathe.
His helm was gone, nowhere to be seen.
Silver-white hair flew wildly in the heat, its tips flickering with sparks.
His angular face was streaked with soot and dried blood, but the blade-sharp outline and those—
Those violet eyes—
Henry met them.
In an instant he felt his very blood freeze.
This was not the gaze of his brother Hain—though Hain's eyes were always cool, watchful, sometimes world-weary and detached.
In these violet pupils there was no exhaustion, no relief at survival, not even habitual calm.
There was only…a godlike indifference Henry could not name.
As though what had just passed was no life-and-death struggle but the casual brushing of dust from a sleeve.
As though the mountain of corpses, the burning hell behind him, the low oppressive clouds and the horror looming within were merely scenery.
In Aegon's hand hung a sword.
The blade was blood-red, as if fresh from the furnace, wrapped in cold blue-white flames.
The fire burned silently, giving off no heat, yet the air around it shimmered and light bent strangely nearby.
Thus, carrying that burning sword, he stepped across scorched earth and through blood.
He passed Henry.
Without stopping.
Without even glancing at the fat man kneeling, face streaked with tears and blood, staring up in trembling, incredulous joy and dread.
He passed Carl.
Carl opened his mouth, a faint meaningless sound in his throat.
He wanted to ask, to confirm, but every word stuck, turning into silent tremors.
Aegon's gaze did not linger on him for even a moment.
His eyes remained calmly, steadily fixed ahead—
On the creature crouched at the edge of Blood Lake, head lowered, rotting flesh quivering, two gaping sockets burning with ghastly green soul-fire that "stared" straight at him—
The Dead Dragon.
Henry's heart clenched.
What…what was he going to do?!
He tried to shout, to warn, to stop—the monster had just vaporized half the altar with one blast of flame!
Yet as his throat tensed to voice a ragged cry—
A filthy, mud-caked hand with cracked nails but steady as iron settled gently on his shoulder.
It was Carl.
Karl had somehow struggled into a half-sitting position. His face was bloodless, sweat beaded on his forehead, yet the eyes that had always sparkled with cunning now held only a deep, reverent clarity.
He met Henry's puzzled, anxious stare and, very slowly, gave the tiniest shake of his head.
The gesture was small, but its meaning unmistakable:
Don't move.
Don't speak.
Don't… disturb him.
Karl had seen it.
The Aegon before them now was no longer the Hain they knew.
He exuded an indescribable aura—something that made every instinct scream to flee even as it compelled every knee to bend.
It was more than power.
It was… station.
The natural suppression of those at the apex of the food chain over every lesser life below.
Yet not everyone retained, as Karl did, a sliver of reason amid the shock and terror.
"Hah… hahaha…"
A strange, wheezing laugh drifted from behind a pile of rubble on the far side of the platform.
Hoarse, dry, and filled with a hysterical, feverish excitement.
Every gaze snapped toward the sound.
Corleone dragged himself out from beneath collapsed boulders.
His velvet robe was shredded to rags, soaked in black-and-red filth.
Several stone shards had split his face, blood and dust masking his features, but he seemed not to notice.
One arm bent at a grotesque angle, clearly broken; with the other, he clawed at the ground, inch by inch, pulling himself free.
His eyes, pinned on Aegon as the prince strode toward the Dead Dragon, had shrunk to pinpricks—pupils blazing with a mixture of venomous jealousy, mad hatred, and a twisted ecstasy Henry could not fathom.
"Yes… yes!" Corleone muttered, voice rising. "I knew it—the ritual didn't fail! It succeeded! It awakened the true—hahaha!"
He cackled, tried to stand, but pain and exhaustion sent him lurching sideways.
The guard-captain, equally battered and stationed nearby, glanced around and seized Corleone's sleeve. "My lord, while we can—let's go!"
His words died.
Corleone whirled and, with impossible speed, snatched the captain's sword from its scabbard with his good hand.
"My lord? You—" The captain froze, bewilderment and dread flickering across his face.
The next instant:
A wet, ripping hiss.
Corleone gripped the hilt in both fists and drove the blade deep into the side of the captain's neck, then wrenched it sideways.
Blood fountained, drenching Corleone's face, turning his already-grim visage into a devil's mask.
The captain staggered, hands clawing at the gaping wound, eyes wide with disbelief and dying agony.
He tried to speak; only frothy scarlet bubbled out.
Thud.
The body hit the ground, twitched, and lay still.
It had happened too fast.
The handful of surviving guards stood paralyzed, watching their commander fall, too stunned to react.
Corleone lifted the gore-streaked sword, never glancing at the corpse.
He licked a warm drop from his lip, a rapturous, manic grin stretching his mouth.
"No one… no one will stop me…" he rasped, swaying upright. Then, spinning toward the distant Aegon, he screamed with earth-shaking fury:
"You—!!!!"
The cry tore through the air like a night-owl's shriek.
"You silver-haired bastard! Thief of thieves!!"
Roaring, he lurched toward the Dead Dragon and Aegon, seeming to forget every danger, his shattered arm, every wound.
"You ruined my ritual! Stole Torregar's glory—my progenitor! My power! Mine—!!!"
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn luffy1898