chsdbacks Page 129
Page 129
It let out a deafening dragon roar, the sound waves carrying for kilometers across the vast desert. The victorious tribesmen were immediately thrown into panic. Some threw down their weapons and fled in all directions, while others knelt on the ground, burying their foreheads deep in the sand. Many more were paralyzed, trembling on the ground, unable to move.
The ancient red dragon unleashed its full dragon might, and this fear-inducing effect originating from its body spread outwards like tangible ripples. All humanoid beings, victors and captive slaves alike, were instantly gripped by extreme terror. Some even became paralyzed, incontinent, or fainted from the sheer horror.
"Crystal Dragon, stay where you are," Old Roar commanded, then descended alone to the center of the oasis, granting himself a command to speak the language, his scales gleaming majestically in the firelight.
The large tribal chief who had detected the fluctuations in the psionic barrier trembled as he raised his head, his eyes filled with unbelievable fear: "A...a great being..." He couldn't even find the right words to address this suddenly appearing behemoth.
The old roar surveyed its surroundings, pausing deliberately for a long time to allow fear to take root in the hearts of these humanoid creatures before finally speaking:
"Do you know who I am?" Its voice was deep and indistinct, like a whisper from the abyss. It had only just learned the language of this world, only just come into contact with the omnipresent psionic energy, and had already combined the two: "I am the symbol of power, the embodiment of fear. I came here, I saw you, and then, I will conquer... I will create a new order."
It slowly raised its paw and casually cast a small spell. Black energy surged from the ground, instantly draining the warrior who had just executed his comrade into a dried-up corpse, leaving only a skeletal shell. At the same time, a personal guard beside the tribal chief suddenly exploded into a cloud of blood mist, scattering flesh and bone fragments everywhere, covering those around him.
The bloody display of blasphemous magic subdued everyone. No one dared to look Old Roar in the eye again; they all prostrated themselves on the ground, their foreheads pressed against the sand.
"From this day forward, you will all become my servants," the old roar declared, an unquestionable command. "You will gather information about this world for me, seek out more followers for me, and establish my own territory. In return, I will grant you everything you need to survive—water, food, and the power you seek!"
It turned to the tribal chief: "You will continue to rule your tribe, but all major decisions must be made with my permission. Anyone who betrays me..." It glanced meaningfully at the desiccated corpse and the bloodied ground.
The tribal chief immediately bowed, pressing his forehead deeply to the ground: "Great...Witch King, we, the Uduru tribe, are willing to become your servants. Your commands are our lives."
"The Witch King?" Old Roar muttered to himself, nodding in satisfaction. He then looked at the captured enemies: "As for them... let them live. Under my rule, every life has value... as a source of my power and the vanguard of my army."
The ancient dragon surveyed its kneeling tribesmen, its conquering dragon soul, brimming with the power of the red dragon, feeding back into its unified spiritual entity: "Your task now is to find more tribes like yourselves and bring them under my control. Then, we will establish our own strongholds and city-states, developing our strength. Ultimately, we will challenge the Witch King who rules this desert, and show him... the true power of a dragon!"
The members of the Uduru tribe dared not utter a sound, only repeatedly bowing in obedience. The Primordial Red Dragon stood by the campfire, its red scales reflecting the firelight, resembling a demon crawling out of hell. Its gaze swept across the oasis, landing on the Crystal Dragon hidden in the distance, a cruel smile playing on its lips.
The first batch of pieces are in place, and the conquest of this world has only just begun. At the same time, its darkest ambition is also awakening—the nature of the ancient red dragon within Casalos's avatar has been fully unleashed. In this world without gods or constraints, it may unleash the most brutal side of a dragon.
20. New Conflicts
The outline of a new city-state is emerging.
Two local weeks ago, this place was a tiny oasis in a barren saline desert, but now it has become a busy military fortress.
Dozens of low buildings constructed from sintered mud bricks and obsidian radiate outwards from the water source. The outermost ring consists of simple defensive fortifications made of obsidian spikes, where dozens of alien warriors patrol, their bodies covered with red totems—a symbol of their submission to the "Witch King" Klaus.
"Progress is much faster than expected," the ancient red dragon muttered to itself, its front claws unconsciously scraping deep marks in the sand. It looked at its new territory with satisfaction, its dragon instincts giving it the most primal satisfaction in possessing the land.
This may not be Grommash's true personality, but rather the influence of the fusion of Casaroz's psychic form and the ancient red dragon's soul. However, compared to the original Grommash, Casaroz has a more pronounced tendency towards rage and cruelty, and a greater desire for domination—which, to some extent, perfectly aligns with Casaroz's current needs.
"Please forgive my intrusion, Lord Witch-King." A sharp, cautious voice came from behind. It was a Slickling, a humanoid creature with four strong, scythe-like forelimbs, a hard chitinous exoskeleton that gleamed with a dark green sheen, and a head resembling a giant praying mantis, its compound eyes gleaming metallically in the sunlight. This Slickling guard was named Tark, and was now one of Old Howl's most powerful subordinates—as for loyalty… that word seemed to be nonexistent in this world.
But so what?
"Speak." Old Roar didn't turn his head, continuing to observe the city-state construction below.
"Our scouts report that the pterosaur tribe to the north has accepted our... 'invitation'."
Due to the unique structure of their mouthparts, the Slicklings don't actually "speak." Their voices are produced through a vocal organ under their dorsal elytra. The vibrations from the friction and collision of the vocal file and scraper are amplified through resonance via a mirror membrane. Thus, the Tak's voice has a distinctive clicking sound, like two pieces of metal striking each other. "After we killed half of them, their leader agreed to bring the tribal elders to meet the great witch king tomorrow."
How many people?
"About sixty people, including about twenty-five warriors and three wind riders—those with membrane-like wings on their backs, skilled in aerial attacks, and each warrior is proficient in using poison."
The Ancient Red Dragon nodded in satisfaction. This was the sixth alien tribe to "submit" since it had tamed the Uduru tribe of Tak. In just two weeks, its forces had grown to include the Slicklins, half-giants, half-human cannibals, hybrid dwarves, and a small number of human tribes, totaling over three hundred people, including more than one hundred and twenty warriors. And this was only information it had personally confirmed; in reality, the feral people outside the city in this desolate world were far more scattered and hidden than imagined.
"Have Zoka lead the ceremonial team to prepare." The old man swung his tail, yawned, and revealed a row of sharp fangs that resembled spearheads.
Upon hearing this, Tucker tensed slightly, his scythe-like forelimbs involuntarily clattering together with a soft clicking sound, but he quickly regained his respectful posture: "Yes, Witch King. I will arrange it immediately."
As Tucker swiftly retreated, Grommash finally turned around, his gaze landing on Serendella not far away. The Crystal Dragon lay quietly on a black rock, her transparent scales shimmering with rainbow-like light in the dark red sunlight. She looked extremely tired; the luster between her scales had noticeably dimmed, a symptom of overuse of her mental powers.
"You look like you need a rest." Old Roar was clearly in a good mood. It strolled over to the Crystal Dragon and spoke to it with an unusually warm tone.
Celine Della jerked her head up, her transparent dragon eyes contracting sharply, but she quickly regained her composure: "Yes...yes, my...master." She carefully chose her words, weighing each syllable, "It's just that I've been performing spiritual awakenings for so many people these past few days, and I'm feeling...overwhelmed."
Old Roar didn't respond immediately. Instead, he cast a spell to block perception, ensuring no one could eavesdrop, before looking down at the crystal dragon and saying, "We all know this isn't just a matter of fatigue." He turned to the ruins of the once-glorious stone walls of the dwarves outside the oasis, now buried beneath the dunes, with only a small portion of the tops recently unearthed by slaves. "These may not seem like much in Faerûn, but in this world, such intricate stone construction is proof enough that they once built a civilization no less powerful than the cities of the Sword Coast."
"And then they turned their world into what it is now," Celine Della whispered, a look of disgust flashing in her eyes.
"Yes, the magic that drains life, the ritual that devours the hearts of others." Old Roar surveyed the crystal dragon's body. "You'll get used to it eventually."
The crystal dragon quickly lowered its head, unable to look directly at the red dragon's molten eyeballs: "I...I will try my best to adapt."
His tone was full of submission and helplessness.
"Very good. Once you complete this batch of mental imprints, you can take a break for a while."
Mind Imprinting is a spell developed by "Old Howl" based on the arcane rules of this world. It is essentially a soul contract combining prophetic magic and psychic energy. Through this contract, Old Howl can not only constantly monitor the thoughts of each person branded with the mark, seeing their possible future, but also use psychic energy to distort the mind, stripping away any potential for disloyalty from that person's soul and subconscious, retaining only those who are loyal to the "Witch King" Klaus. The imprinting process is extremely painful and permanently alters the soul.
This control was almost perfect; those branded retained some free will, only deprived of the possibility of betraying Grommash Hellscream. This delicate balance was, of course, deliberately designed by Casalos—pure slaves were utterly devoid of creativity, far less desirable than golems or constructs. It needed followers capable of independent thought, and engineers who could contribute to the development of Dragonflight.
Seeing the Crystal Dragon's fearful expression, Roaring couldn't help but feel a pang of pity. Just a pang, and it was hard to say whether it was Casalos's positive influence on the Red Dragon's soul or Roaring's true nature... Among the Red Dragons, Roaring wasn't originally considered the most evil. After all, this guy had a bizarre story of suddenly having a change of heart and rescuing an infant orphan from an elven village that had been massacred by orcs, personally returning him to his distant elven relatives.
"As for the spirit awakening, let's pause for today. Tomorrow, we only need to awaken the spirits for the pterosaur leader and the two wind riders." Old Roar returned to the main topic, "Their wind manipulation abilities are very valuable."
"As you wish," the crystal dragon replied mechanically.
The ancient red dragon suddenly stretched out its tail and gently stroked the crystal dragon's back. Serendella immediately tensed up, but dared not move an inch.
"Relax, Lady of the Jeweled Cloak," the old roar's voice held a dangerous intimacy. "This isn't Faerûn. There's no Golden Dragon Court, no gods, no so-called righteous people to judge our actions. Here, we are the rule-makers. You should try to put aside your naive kindness and face the more fundamental things."
Celine didn't respond, but instead turned her gaze to the distant horizon, where the yellow sand mingled with the olive sky. For some reason, she suddenly thought of the dwarves of Mibala, and the scene of them drinking and singing around the furnace. Now, those memories seemed very distant.
Seeing that she didn't respond, the old roar didn't force its way in. It simply flapped its wings to shake off the sand and dust: "Any recent discoveries from Zoka's side?"
"She said she had deciphered some of the rituals used by the shamans," the crystal dragon replied, barely managing to concentrate. "The arcane spellcasters of this world are different from those of Faerûn; their power originates from an intrinsic connection between life itself and the elemental planes. This connection allows them to channel the power of the elemental planes through the sacrifice of life."
"The connection between life and the elemental realm?" The ancient red dragon narrowed its eyes. The true Roar might not understand what this meant, but Casalos, as a fully-fledged master of the elements who had built the pseudo-Laplace's demon dragon based on this, grasped the essence through this clue. "It seems I will soon be able to master this power."
A light appeared on a distant sand dune—a rudimentary signal indicating important intelligence needed to be reported. Old Roar released its tail from around Crystal's neck, gently flapped its wings, and soared into the air, flying towards the signal.
The signal came from a scouting party that had just returned, composed of the Slicklin's most elite hunters. Clad in sand-colored camouflage cloaks, they could move swiftly and remain undetected in the desert. Seeing the Old Howler land, the party leader immediately dropped to the ground, all six limbs pressed against the sand: "Great Witch-King, we have discovered a druid party."
"Druids?" Grommash repeated the name. The druids of this world were similar to those of Faerûn; they allied themselves with the various spirits of the land, sharing their power and nourishing the geographical types the spirits clung to. In fact, every landscape in this land was protected by a druid, but they rarely interacted with their fellow druids. They served alone, leading patient, solitary lives, dedicated to protecting this land.
"Yes, Lord Witch-King. They are establishing a treant energy gathering point, less than a day's journey from our newly built city-state," the squad leader said nervously. "From what we've observed, there are over a dozen druids and more than thirty armed guards there."
Have they found you?
"No, Witch King. We've maintained our distance, observing from the cover of the dunes. But one thing is strange—they seem to be building some kind of enormous contraption that can guide plant growth, even creating oases in the desert."
Old Roar fell into deep thought. The appearance of druids in swarms usually only occurred for one reason: an action against the Witch-King. But this oasis was several months' walk from the nearest city-state. What were the druids doing here?
"Strengthen the city-state's defenses." Having drained a fraction of the oasis's life force once more, Old Roar made a limited prophecy, then commanded, "Send out more scouts. I need to know everything about those druids—their numbers, equipment, daily activity patterns—not a single detail can be overlooked."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Furthermore, have Tak summon all the tribal chiefs; we need to speed up the integration process." Longwei slowly cast a spell. "Tell Zoka that we've lost the luxury of time. She must complete the analysis of the shamanic ritual within three days."
The harsh orders, under the dragon's imposing presence, instilled fear in the scout team.
Zoka, the chief witch of the halfling tribe, now serves as the chief advisor and ritual officer to the Old Howler. She needs weeks to decipher complex shamanic rituals, but is now required to complete them in three days—a near-impossible task. And someone unable to complete the task is clearly of no value to the Witch-King.
"Don't be nervous. As long as she does her best, I'll make sure she completes the mission." Old Roar's hoarse voice carried an ominous undertone. "Now, go and fulfill your mission."
As the scouts filed away, the old howler returned to the air, circling above the oasis. It could see hundreds of alien creatures toiling in the desert, most of them ordinary members of tribes it had violently conquered. They were building fortifications, digging irrigation ditches, and sintering sand to make weapons and armor. Only a small, elite force, imprinted in their minds, were undergoing intensive combat training in specially designed training grounds.
The Slicklings' scythe-like forelimbs and mantis-like agility made them perfect scouts and assassins; the half-giants' strength and stamina made them ideal for guarding city walls and wielding heavy weapons; and the cannibalistic halflings' cruelty and cunning made them perfect for interrogators and hunters. Each race possessed unique strengths, resulting in a diverse army.
In the heart of the city-state, a small but sturdy pyramid was taking shape. It was the dwelling that the old man had built for himself, and a symbol of the power he planned to attain. Each brick was made of mortar mixed with clay, and then baked at high temperatures to form a hardened structure similar to ceramic.
The druids arrived with hostility, and Grommash Hellscream's blasphemous spells attracted these guardians of nature, who saw him as a vanguard for some Witch-king. In the long run, conflict between Grommash Hellscream and the druids, as well as the seven city-states of Atarth, was inevitable—development required space, and every place in this world where life still existed was categorized under the control of a certain power, even this seemingly barren desert.
"How ironic," Old Roar muttered to himself, "a world on the verge of death, yet still unable to escape the most primal conflict of 'territorial disputes.'"
21. The opposing side
The outpost of the city-state of Agmar stood atop a sand dune, its bizarre structure resembling a combination of an insect hive and a demon's lair. The tower was not built of stone or wood, but rather of countless human skeletons and chitinous carapaces interwoven layer upon layer, forming the skeletal shape of some colossal creature. These skeletons mostly belonged to those who dared to defy the Witch King's will, those unable to pay the life force tax, or the unfortunate souls whose lives had been drained by that cruel tax.
In the legends of the city-state, under the rule of Agmar, death never meant the end, but rather the beginning of a new life—the skeletons became part of the city-state's eternal architecture, which could be considered a kind of rebirth. As for whether those unfortunate souls themselves thought so, that remains to be seen.
An ominous green light flickered atop the watchtower, the unique symbol of the Witch King Agmar, representing his absolute sovereignty over the oasis and underground water sources of this vast sandy land. This light never extinguished, day or night, beckoning desert travelers like an evil star in the darkness. However, most travelers struggling to survive in the wild preferred to stay away from this light, for approaching it meant either becoming slaves or offerings for the life-force tax. (The last sentence appears to be unrelated and possibly a separate thought: "Mei has thought of Lin Mei, but Mei is busy. Lin is here, is she...?")
Of course, being far from the city-state's rule didn't guarantee survival. In fact, the chances of survival in the wild were far lower than becoming a slave to a city-state. Slender, cruel, pointy-eared bandits; cannibalistic half-human races that fed on humans; the immensely strong Goliathian giants; mantis-men lurking beneath the sand… all were deadly creatures. And the greater threat was this dying world itself.
Living in the wild, their only advantage over city-state residents is "freedom".
As the orange-red rays of dawn pierced the olive-green sky, the Templar Commander Grimm at the outpost sensed something amiss. This humanoid being, a hybrid of human and reptilian lineage created through alterations, possessed exceptionally keen senses. Gray-green scales covered most of his body, giving him an advantage in surviving the desert. He wore a badge on his chest made of bone and green gemstones, the symbol of the Templars, signifying his authority to decide the life or death of any non-citizen.
"There's something amiss in the south," he whispered to his adjutant beside him, his nictitating membrane blinking rapidly to clear the sand from his eyes. "The wind carries the lingering effects of magic—the vestiges of blasphemous magic."
The lieutenant nodded and quickly climbed to the top of the watchtower. There stood a short, humanoid creature covered in black feathers, with eyes like an owl's, capable of seeing in the dark. He, too, had undergone magical genetic modification by the witches under the Witch King Agmar, becoming a "loyal" Templar warrior. Under Agmar's rule, pure human blood was becoming increasingly rare, and most Templar Knights had undergone some form of modification to adapt to the deteriorating world.
"There have been no fewer than five similar reports in the last two weeks," the adjutant replied, peering at the southern horizon with his enhanced vision. "I have a bad feeling."
In an oasis region a hundred miles to the south, some kind of unauthorized gathering is taking place. At first, the city-state's observers thought it was just another group of poor wretches trying to survive in the desert, destined to perish in the harsh environment. But as time went on, the "poor wretches" not only did not perish, but instead showed signs of organization, and even began to construct permanent buildings.
"It seems I need to report to the Witch King's envoy." Grimm licked his eyelids with his long, thin tongue. He knew that once the Witch King's envoy intervened, it would mean rivers of blood would flow—he liked the smell of blood.
Grimm returned to the watchtower, where a black crystal ball silently floated on the central platform. This was the Witch King's eye, used to monitor all activities within the outpost's territory. The Templar Commander in charge of the watchtower carefully touched the crystal ball, transmitting the latest information to the city-state of Agmar: "The outpost commander's seventh daily report: the southern settlement continues to expand, and various non-human creature activities have been detected, suspected to contain powerful magical traces."
The crystal ball flickered a few times, then turned dark red, indicating that the message had been received. Grimm nodded in satisfaction; as usual, the Witch King's response would arrive before sunset.
"Continue the surveillance," he ordered his adjutant. "Double the patrol frequency. Kill any creature that approaches within three miles of the outpost. If a psionicist is found, capture them immediately—the Witch King needs new psychic energy."
The message transmitted by the black crystal ball was received by Yalva, the Witch King's special envoy. As one of the high-ranking shamans of the city-state of Agmar, Yalva possessed the privilege of communicating directly with the Witch King. Yalva was nearly seven feet tall, his entire body covered in desert-adapted tan skin, and he had a pair of sharp beaks resembling those of a falcon on his head—a special mark bestowed upon him by the Witch King. His eyes shone with an unnatural gold, capable of seeing through sandstorms and the darkness of night.
The envoy stood in the receiving chamber of the highest tower in the city-state of Agmar, where dozens of crystal balls connected to the outpost were displayed. When Grimm's message arrived, he was performing his daily Elemental Prayer ritual—a meditation unique to all Witch-King's envoys, capable of maintaining and strengthening their connection with the elemental realm.
"Trouble from the South again," Yalva muttered to himself, his golden eyes narrowing into slits as he deciphered the shimmering images in the crystal ball. "This time seems different."
He quickly ended the ritual, removed a bracelet made of small skulls from his wrist, and recited an ancient incantation over it. The skulls on the bracelet began to glow green.
"My King, the seventh alarm has sounded from the outpost; the southern settlements continue to expand. According to Grimm's report, there may be powerful traces of magic there. I believe this requires your personal attention."
A green light flashed in the eye sockets of the skull on the bracelet, followed by the Witch King's response: "Come before me immediately."
Yalva took a deep breath and quickly straightened his ceremonial robes. As one of the Witch King's most trusted envoys, he possessed the power to manipulate the elements—a gift from the Witch King. Like all the Witch King's envoys, besides his exceptional talent, he was also cunning and cruel, having killed all his competitors in the trials before accepting the Witch King's transformation and blessing. Elementally enhanced blood flowed in his veins, and certain parts of his body were no longer purely human. But he was not truly satisfied; the half-dragon form like the Witch King's was his true goal. Yalva only had a vague understanding of the Witch King's dragon transformation technique, but he knew it was a most blasphemous power, capable of gradually transforming the caster into a dragon-like form and establishing a connection with the elemental realm—the fundamental reason why the Witch Kings' rule had endured to this day.
No envoy wanted to replace the Witch King, and the Witch King was well aware of the usurping ambitions in the hearts of each of his subordinates. However, the Witch King's rule could not be separated from his envoys. As long as the envoys continued to "faithfully" carry out his orders, this strange balance would not be broken.
Yalva descended the spiral staircase swiftly, passing through several elemental barriers, and arrived at the Witch King's private reception room. Two gigantic temple guards stood at the entrance, having completely abandoned their human forms, resembling some kind of ancient giant lizard, their bodies covered in thick green scales, wielding massive axes made of a special alloy. Metal resources were extremely scarce in the desert, and alloy weapons represented not only status but also tangible power. The special alloy of the Witch King's guards' weapons possessed the ability to sever the flow of mana, making them among the few weapons capable of directly harming elemental creatures. Before these giant lizardmen, shamans were as vulnerable as chicks.
"The Witch King is waiting for you," a guard said in a hoarse voice, then stepped aside to make way.
Yalva bowed respectfully, then pushed open the gate and entered the domain personally controlled by the Witch King.
"The unusual gathering in the southern desert has continued for two weeks, my king," the envoy whispered, kneeling before the Witch King's throne. "According to reports from the outposts, a new settlement is forming there, involving various creatures."
Ag, seated on the throne, had an upper body covered in red dragon scales. His arms had completely transformed into dragon claws, and two backward-spiraling horns grew from his head. His eyes were pure black without pupils. Whenever he spoke, faint sparks would emanate from his mouth, a characteristic of near-complete half-dragon transformation. His body seemed to resonate with the surrounding elements; whenever he moved, tiny sparks would appear in the air.
"Another bunch of fools who don't know their own mortality." The Witch King's voice was deep and hoarse, with a metallic quality. "How many of these oasis settlements have we cleared out? Ten? Twenty?"
"Since the last astrological shift, there have been twenty-seven in total, my king," Yalva replied respectfully. "But this time seems different. Observations from the outposts indicate that this settlement is far more organized than before, and its expansion is astonishing. They are even constructing structures resembling ceremonial buildings."
The Witch King narrowed his eyes, a hint of curiosity flashing in his dark pupils: "A ritual building? Someone is trying to challenge my authority?"
"This... is not yet certain, my king. But Outpost Commander Grim reports that he sensed an unusual fluctuation of blasphemous energy, very similar to the traces of your magic, yet different."
Agmar was silent for a moment, then stood up and walked to the window. The city-state of Agmar stretched out beneath his feet, thousands of buildings arranged in an orderly fashion, each block strictly divided according to the contribution of life force. The lowest level of the city was the slave district, where the residents were forced to work day and night until their life force was exhausted; the middle level was the ordinary citizens' district, where they regularly paid "life force tax" to maintain their citizenship; the highest level was the residence of the Templar Knights and nobles, who enjoyed the privileges bestowed by the Witch King, and were also the tools for maintaining the ruling order.
The city's perimeter is encircled by a massive barrier of red crystals—the Witch King's pride and a symbol of his rule—an elemental barrier capable of blocking any unauthorized intrusion. Its maintenance requires a constant supply of life force, the fundamental reason the city-state must continuously levy a life force tax. This harsh tax system may sound cruel, but in this world ravaged by the Cleansing War, it is a necessity for survival.
Agmar turned, his deep gaze sweeping over Yalva: "Tell me, envoy, what do you think this could be? Spy for the other six Witch Kings? Or yet another futile attempt by the Desert Wanderers?"
Yalva carefully organized his words: "My king, I dare not make a definitive conclusion. But there is one point I think is worth noting—the energy fluctuation pattern described by Grimm is somewhat similar to the legendary...dragon language."
The Witch King's expression suddenly turned serious: "Dragon language? Are you sure?"
"I'm not sure, my king. After all, we've only ever encountered the elemental power you bestowed upon us, and have never witnessed true dragon language. But according to the descriptions in the ancient texts, the fluctuations Grimm sensed match them."
Agmar's claws clenched unconsciously, his fingertips scraping against the throne armrest, leaving deep scratches. In Atas, Dragon Language was a mystical language used only by Witch-Kings who had mastered dragon transformation. It was directly connected to the essence of the elements, capable of commanding and shaping their flow. If someone used Dragon Language on his territory, it meant two things—either a challenge from another Witch-King, or...
Agmar's thoughts abruptly ceased the moment he touched upon that possibility. Some memories and ideas are taboo even for a Witch-King who has ruled for two thousand years. The existence, whereabouts, and secrets of the Great Witch-King are unspoken taboo topics among the seven Witch-Kings. Each Witch-King knows the truth, but never speaks of it, or even allows himself to contemplate it.
"Dispatch an elite force," the Witch King finally decided. "Twenty Templar Knights, fifty assassins, and one hundred ordinary warriors. Also, prepare three sandworms. You will lead the force yourself, Yalva. I need to know every detail of that settlement, including who the leaders are and what their objectives are. If any threat is found, eliminate it on the spot."
The envoy bowed deeply: "As you command, my king. We will depart tomorrow morning and reach our destination within five days."
"No need to wait until tomorrow." The Witch King raised his right hand, a ball of red flame appearing in his palm. "I will provide you with a shortcut. The Path of Elements will open tonight; you can go directly to the outpost and begin your operation from there. Remember, Yalva, I want prisoners, the more the better—the collection of the Life Force Tax requires a new source of energy."
The Witch King's claws traced a series of intricate runes in mid-air, while a string of strange syllables emanated from his mouth. It wasn't any known language, but rather some ancient and primal sound, seemingly capable of communicating directly with the elements themselves. This was a variant of Dragon Language, the power the Witch Kings wielded through dragon transformation. If Grommash were here, he would have noticed a significant difference between this variant and pure Dragon Language, just as their half-dragon forms couldn't compare to true dragons—of course, Casalos also knew that the dragons of Faerûn didn't speak pure Dragon Language either.
"Yes, Your Excellency, Great Agmar." The envoy bowed again, then quickly left the room to prepare for the raid.
After Yalva left, Agmar turned back to the window, his dark eyes gazing south. As the overlord who had ruled the city-state of Agmar for two thousand years, he had faced countless challenges, yet had never been shaken by any force. Among the seven city-states of Atas, the Witch Kings were eternal beings; from the moment of victory in the War of Purification, they had become the masters of this world.
Agmar maintained his half-dragon form for nearly a century, a rare achievement even among the Seven Witch Kings. Normally, after completing the dragon transformation ritual, a Witch King needs to continuously absorb a large amount of life energy to maintain his form; otherwise, he will degenerate into a dust aggregate—a pitiful existence somewhere between life and non-life.
Agmar controls a city-state with abundant underground water resources, a testament to his immense power.
"Eternal"—this is the most fitting description of the Witch-Kings in the world of Atas. In this decaying world, the Witch-Kings are the only unchanging beings. They have witnessed the collapse and reconstruction of civilizations, countless desperate struggles and surrenders. In this world, only one Witch-King can truly threaten another.