"Don't be afraid." He whispered, as if to the dragon, but also to himself, "It will be over soon. No matter what the outcome is, it will be over soon."
Outside the window, the cannon's fuse was hissing, the white sparks almost invisible in the afternoon sun.
But that voice - that small, rapid voice, like a poisonous snake spitting a message - had already spread in the air.
In the distance, in the sky, the golden figure was slowly descending.
Daemon raised his head, his eyes passed through the dust on the glass, through the afternoon sun, through the smoke and fear in the air, and landed on the man standing on the dragon's back.
Redd.
His brother. His enemy. His mirror image.
"Don't let me down, Menander." Daemon's voice was so soft that it was almost inaudible, "Don't let me down either, Tormund."
His fingers tapped lightly on the dragon scale.
"It's time to get ready."
The dark red dragon raised its head, and the golden figure in the sky was reflected in its vertical pupils.
A low, suppressed roar rolled in its throat - not fear, not anger, but something more primitive and engraved deep in its blood.
That is the dignity of the dragon.
The dignity of the dragon challenged.
And under the red dome of the white palace, the fuse of the cannon finally burned to the end.
"Boom--"
A loud noise shattered the tranquility of the entire street.
The loud noise was different from the blast of any bowstring or the shot of any trebuchet.
It was duller and more violent, as if someone had torn a hole in the air and released a ball of anger that had been compressed to the extreme.
The sound waves bounced back and forth between the stone walls of the white palace, causing the glass on the windows to buzz and startling a group of white doves perched on the roof. They flew up in panic, their feathers fluttering like snow in the sunlight.
A ball of orange-red flame was ejected from the muzzle, and thick black smoke poured out from the barrel and quickly spread in front of the window.
The cast iron projectile came out of the smoke, piercing the air with an ear-piercing scream, and headed straight towards the golden figure in the sky.
The speed of the projectile is extremely fast, so fast that it is almost impossible to catch it with the naked eye.
It was like a burning meteor, leaving a faint, twisted trail in the sky.
The black smoke trailed behind the projectile into a long, gradually dissipating tail, like the first stroke of death written in the sky.
King Ghidorah The head in the middle reacted first.
The behemoth's senses were far beyond those of Superman. Its eyes could catch arrows flying at high speed, its ears could hear the sound of fish swimming several miles away, and its nose could distinguish thousands of subtle smells in the air.
There was a delay of nearly a breath from the ignition of the artillery to the projectile coming out of the barrel - the sound of the burning fuse, the hissing sound of the gunpowder being ignited, the metallic groan as the pressure built up in the barrel - all these sounds had already reached King Ghidorah's ears before the projectile had even left the barrel.
It didn't even turn around to look.
The head in the middle suddenly turned towards the direction of the cannon, and its golden eyes suddenly shrank in the sunlight.
Its mouth opened, and golden light condensed in its throat - but the Gravity Beams did not shoot out in the end.
It's too late.
The projectile has already flown in front of me.
King Ghidorah's body jerked in the air.
Its wings tilted to one side at the same time, and its three-hundred-ton body dodged to the left with an agility that defied physical intuition.
The golden light spurted out from its throat, but not in the direction of the projectile - while its body was dodging, its head was also moving. Gravity Beams passed three feet above the muzzle and shot towards the dome of the white palace.
The golden light beam hit the edge of the red dome, and the thick stone bricks were cut like butter in front of the light beam.
A huge piece of the dome fell from a height and hit the square in front of the palace, stirring up rubble and dust all over the sky.
There were screams and running sounds on the ground, and several servants who were watching in the square ran away with their heads in their hands.
But the projectile has already flown past the position where King Ghidorah dodges.
No, not completely flown by.
The cast-iron projectile inlaid with blue ice crystals grazed the tip of King Ghidorah's right wing.
Just a wipe.
But at this moment, the terrifying kinetic energy carried by the projectile tore apart the thin wing membrane on the wing tip.
A palm-sized membrane wing was torn open, and dark golden blood seeped out from the wound, glowing strangely in the sunlight.
King Ghidorah The right side of his head suddenly let out a sharp scream - not pain, but anger.
That sound penetrated the entire city and penetrated everyone's chest, as if someone had directly pierced everyone's eardrums with a red-hot iron needle.
On the ground, the advancing Dawg Lars and his soldiers covered their ears at the same time.
Some of the weak ones fell to their knees directly, with blood flowing from their ears.
Dawg Russ gritted his teeth, forced himself to stand up straight, and looked up at the sky.
He saw the small hole on the tip of King Ghidorah's right wing, and saw the dark golden blood shining in the sun.
His heart twitched violently.
That dragon - the dragon that slaughtered the entire murloc fleet, tore apart all the ballistae, and made the Lys people fearful - is injured?
"Speed up!" He almost shouted, his voice hoarse and broken, "Go at full speed! Your Highness needs support!"
His team went from half-running to running wildly.
The shield clanked on his arm, the spear swayed above his head, and his boots made a messy and rapid sound on the stone pavement.
No one spoke, no one shouted, and everyone had the same expression on their faces - not fear, but madness.
It's the kind of madness that knows you have no way back and can only move forward.
In the sky, King Ghidorah stabilized his figure.
Its wings re-opened, and the wound on the wing tip was still bleeding, but the extent of the tear in the wing membrane did not expand.
The giant beast circled in the air, its three heads turning in the direction of the white palace at the same time, its six golden eyes burning with blazing anger.
It's not pain. To King Ghidorah, that kind of scratch is like being bitten by a mosquito.
But what it was angry about was that that thing, that small, inconspicuous thing made by humans, actually hurt it.
How long has it lived? It can't even remember.
In the long years, it has only been harmed by a few things - the claws of other dragons, ancient sea beasts in the deep sea that have lived for thousands of years, and those beings with the power of gods that have disappeared in the long river of history.
But never - never - have been hurt by anything made by humans.