Its shadow was like a moving dark cloud, sliding quickly over the streets and rooftops. Wherever it passed, pedestrians on the street screamed and ran away.
The windows were closed one after another, the door panels were pushed shut from the inside, and the entire street became deserted in a few breaths.
Redd stood on the back of the dragon, overlooking the city trembling beneath his feet.
He could see the eyes peeking behind the windows, the trembling figures hiding behind the door panels, and the people running on the roof, trying to find a place to hide.
This city is too big, too big to be completely evacuated in a short time; this city is also too prosperous, so prosperous that no one wants to leave.
They can only hide.
Hide at home, hide in the cellar, hide wherever you can hide a person, praying that the soldiers coming from the sea will not kick down their door.
Redd's eyes swept over those frightened faces one by one, and finally landed on the red dome deep in the city.
"Over there." He patted King Ghidorah's neck, "Fly over and have a look."
King Ghidorah The wings flapped, and the huge body drew an arc over the city, flying towards the direction of the Governor's Mansion.
On the ground, Dawg Russ's middle troops are advancing rapidly.
The doors and windows of the houses on both sides of the street were closed, and occasionally there were a few abandoned cats and dogs running around in the alleys.
There is a strange smell in the air - barbecue, spices, sewage, fear, all kinds of smells are mixed together, and are stinky by the afternoon sun.
The soldiers' boots made neat footsteps on the stone road, and the sound echoed in the narrow streets, like the beat of some ancient marching drum.
There is a crossroads ahead.
Dawg Russ raised his fist and the team stopped.
He poked his head and took a look outside the intersection - a horizontal street with closed houses on both sides, and a few figures running vaguely in the distance.
"Keep going." He put down his fist and was about to take a step--
"Whoosh--"
An arrow was shot from the roof on the left, and it was nailed to the stone road less than three feet away from his feet. The arrow collided with the stone and splashed out sparks.
"There is an ambush!" The shield bearers raised their shields almost instinctively, forming a shield wall in front and on both sides of the team.
The crossbowmen crouched behind the shield wall, pointing their arrows in the direction from which the arrows came.
Dawg Lars didn't hide. He didn't even lower his head to look at the arrow.
His eyes were fixed on the roof of the house on the left - a man wearing old leather armor was crouching behind the chimney, holding a crossbow in his hand and hurriedly stringing it.
The man's face was pale, his fingers were trembling, and the crossbow string could not be hooked.
Dawg Lars recognized the man's attire.
Those were not the uniforms of the regular army, but those of the militia - or rather, civilians who were temporarily recruited to make up the numbers.
The thing on his waist is not a saber, but a wheat-cutting sickle.
"One." Dawg Russ's voice was terrifyingly calm, "Just one?"
He waved his hand. Two crossbowmen leaned half out from behind the shield wall and fired two arrows.
Before the man squatting on the roof had time to react, he was shot through the shoulder by an arrow. He screamed and rolled down from the roof, hitting the stone pavement below with a dull crashing sound.
He lay on the ground, curled up in pain, and let out inarticulate moans.
Dawg Russ walked over and looked down at the man.
His shoulder was pierced by an arrow, and blood gushed out from the wound, forming a small puddle on the gray stone slab.
His eyes were full of fear and despair, and his lips were trembling, as if he was saying "Don't kill me."
"Where is Daemon?" Dawg Russ asked.
The man shook his head desperately and uttered mixed syllables.
"The man in black robe. The man in black robe. Where is he?"
The man still shook his head.
Dawg Russ looked at him for two breaths, then turned and walked away, leaving behind a sentence: "Tie him up and take him away. Don't let him die."
Two soldiers stepped forward, dragged the groaning man from the ground, tied his wrists with ropes, and pushed him to the middle of the team.
Dawg Russ continued to move forward, the pace faster than before.
He didn't expect a militiaman to know the whereabouts of Daemon.
But he needs to know how many such militiamen there are in this city, and how many people are willing to sacrifice their lives for Daemon and those men in black robes.
If there was one such person at every intersection, his advancement speed would be greatly reduced.
He looked up at the sky.
The figure of King Ghidorah is hovering over the city, with three heads lowered, as if watching something.
Dawg Russ looked in that direction - that was the direction of the Governor's Palace.
"Speed up." He turned around and shouted to the team behind him, "His Highness has already passed! Don't let His Highness wait!"
The marching speed of the team obviously accelerated. The soldiers were almost half running forward, their shields swaying on their arms, and their spears swaying above their heads.
Their breathing became rapid and sweat flowed down their cheeks, but no one stopped and no one fell behind.
Because they all know that their Dragon King is waiting for them ahead.
And under the red dome, deep in the white palace, someone was looking through the window at the golden figure getting closer and closer in the sky.
The man was wearing a black robe from head to toe, and even his face could not be seen clearly.
His fingers clenched the window lattice so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
In the room behind him, there were several other people in the same attire. They were talking in low voices around a table covered with maps and documents.
The door was suddenly pushed open.
A middle-aged man in rich clothes rushed in, his face was pale and his forehead was covered with sweat.
He is the governor of Lys--Menander.
At this moment, the usually aloof and responsive leader of the city-state looked like a mouse cornered by a hound.
"Here he comes!" Menander's voice trembled, almost breaking. "That dragon - it's coming this way!"
The man in black robe did not look back.
The man standing in front of the window slowly let go of the window lattice and turned around.
Under the hood of the black robe, only a pale chin and a pair of deep, emotionless eyes could be seen.
"We know." His voice was very calm, as calm as if he was talking about a trivial matter, "It's waiting."
"What are you waiting for?" Menander's voice rose a little higher, "What are you waiting for?
Your ballistae is useless! Your murlocs are useless! Your--"
"Wait for us to make a choice." The man in black robe interrupted him, his voice still calm, but with a hint of something chilling on the spine, "Run, or fight."
Menander's lips trembled. "Then... what do you choose?"