Anglo-Saxon Despair

Some still could not believe what they were seeing and looked around in all directions. "Where are Sir William and Louis? And those Holy Shield Knights? They must have left through the teleportation array, right?"

The leader of the Royal Mage corps shook his head. "No one could still cast spatial teleportation under dragonfire of that magnitude."

The atmosphere grew even more oppressive.

Someone cried out, "So that means they're all dead? Impossible! That was an entire squad of Holy Shield Knights. Even the King's Shield Guards wouldn't have much stronger defenses with equal numbers!"

"Right, impossible! Those two were known as the spellcasters most likely to step into the legendary realm this century. How could they simply be gone?"

It was not merely the fall of two lofty figures who had always looked down on them that chilled the Royal Mages. More terrifying was the dreadful regenerative power the demonic dragon had displayed. Their all-out strike had taken it only a few moments to recover from completely.

How were they supposed to fight this?

In the sky, there were no fewer than two hundred paladins, clergy, and spellcasters of every kind, yet it now felt as though the enemy were the side with overwhelming numbers.

The Lone Star Flag still flew high above Wolfsborg—the flag they had planned to tear down today—while Union Jacks burned amid the flames of war.

At that moment, the colossal beast, comparable in size to the London, slowly beat its wings and approached.

This time, no one thought its slow flight made it a moving target. It flew slowly, but the pressure it brought was like Death's footsteps: drawing ever closer, with nowhere to escape.

"Long live! Praise the great Dragon God!"

"Praise Lord Lothar! Praise the guardian Dragon God!"

Within the mountain city,