Little Blackie spread his wings and rose into the sky, the airflow sweeping up fine ash from the ground of Black Stone Forest.
He cast one last glance at the Flame Lord, sprawled limply on the ground with vacant eyes.
After confirming that her life was not in immediate danger, he turned and flew toward the wasteland where the main battlefield lay.
The black wing membranes billowed with the wind, while below stretched a landscape of jagged, sharp black rocks.
Farther away, the Scorching Rift, cultivated by the red dragon for centuries, showed a dark-red outline amid the rising heatwaves.
The lingering thrill of victory still surged through his blood, intertwined with the sense of power granted by the Chaos God's favor and the pleasure of conquering a formidable foe.
It made scorching satisfaction flow beneath every scale of Little Blackie's body.
When his massive black figure reappeared over the wasteland.
The scene below had already changed.
The Red Dragon Legion, previously bristling with hostility and murderous intent, had now fallen into silent confusion.
The Dragon Blood orcs, fire lizardfolk, and massive volcanic drakes.
As well as the circling fire bats and lava colossi, all stood frozen in place.
Many of the orcs' heavy axes and spears slipped from their hands, striking the ground with dull thuds.
The sight of their invincible lord dragon, the Flame Lord, as violent as molten lava, being defeated and carried away by that black dragon had shattered their Battle Intent and pride.
Even the air, once thick with the smell of sulfur and gunpowder, now seemed tinged with a cold, ashen despair.
The black dragon retinue under Little Blackie's command quickly recovered from their brief shock.
The half-dragon heavy infantry commander, a tall warrior with twin horns on his forehead and dark scales covering