Everyone's breathing was very low, and only the occasional cough - the sound of dust choking into the throat - broke the oppressive silence.
At the end of the foyer, on the stairs leading to the second floor, there were several people standing.
The black-robed leader stood at the front.
His black robe had been stained gray-white by dust and gravel, and a hole was torn at the hem, revealing the black lining inside.
His gray hair was covered with white gypsum powder, making him look like he had suddenly aged several years.
But his standing posture was still straight, his shoulders were still flat, and his chin was still slightly raised, as if he was reviewing his own troops rather than being surrounded by enemies.
Behind him, on the platform above the stairs, several corpses were lying in a mess.
Those were his men - the men in black robes who set out from Citadel with him, assembled firecrackers together, and aimed at the giant beast in the sky.
At this moment, they were lying on the cold stone slab, with different postures, but their expressions were surprisingly similar - their eyes were half closed and their mouths were slightly open, as if they had seen something incredible at the last moment.
Their causes of death varied.
Some people were hit on the head by flying stones, their skulls were sunken, and dark red blood flowed from the wounds and pooled in a small pool on the stone floor.
Some people were hit by collapsing beams, and their entire bodies were crushed out of shape, with their limbs twisted at unnatural angles.
There were some people who didn't see any external injuries and just lay there quietly, as if they were asleep - but Dawg Russ knew that those people's internal organs were shattered in the aftermath of Gravity Beams. The outside was intact, but the inside was turned into a mass of paste.
Not dying in battle.
It's bad luck.
This realization made Dawg ras feel an indescribable complex emotion in his heart.
These people - these men in black robes - they prepared firecrackers, prepared artillery, and prepared all the weapons they thought could kill the dragon.
They thought they had a chance, thought they could fight against the Dragon King riding the golden beast.
But in the end, most of them were killed by falling rubble and beams before they even had time to pull the trigger.
Their weapons lay intact beside them, the barrels were shiny, the gunpowder pool still contained unburned powder, and the striker was cocked, ready to fire at any time - but the hand holding the weapon was already cold.
Dawg Las's soldiers surrounded him from both sides and surrounded the stairs up and down.
The shield bearers formed a semicircular shield wall at the entrance of the stairs. The spear bearers poked out the tip of their spears from the gaps in the shields and pointed at the black-robed leader on the stairs.
The crossbowman retreated to the square outside the foyer, and set up his crossbow at a high place. The tip of the arrow was firmly locked on the only black-robed figure still standing.
The black-robed leader was surrounded.
But he didn't panic.
He didn't even move.
He just stood on the stairs, one hand hanging by his side, the other hand resting on the handrail of the stairs, his eyes calmly scanning the soldiers surrounding him.
There was no fear, no anger, or even tension in his eyes. There was only an indifferent, almost relieved calmness.
That kind of calmness made Dawg Russ feel uneasy - he had seen too many expressions of dying people on the battlefield, some crying, some begging for mercy, some fighting to the death, and some collapsing.
But for a man like this, who was as calm in the face of death as if he were going to a dinner party, he could count them all on one hand.
"Put down your weapons!" Dawg Russ's voice echoed in the empty foyer, carrying an echo, "You can't run away!"
The black-robed leader glanced at him, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. It was not a smile, or even a mockery, but an almost instinctive physiological reaction to the words "put down your weapons."
There was no weapon in his hand - at least not officially.
His hands hang empty by his sides, there are no bulging bulges on his black robe, and there is no scabbard or leather belt around his waist.
He looked like an unarmed old man surrounded by a group of heavily armed soldiers in the ruins.
But Dawg Russ didn't let down his guard.
An old man who could still stand under the attack of a giant dragon, who had all his men killed but remained unscathed, and who remained calm despite being surrounded - this man was either really not afraid of death, or he felt that he still had a chance.
The black-robed leader looked away from Dawg Russ, looked over his shoulder and looked out the door.
Outside the door, in the square, soldiers were lining up. More people were coming from the direction of the dock, and the sounds of footsteps, passwords, and metal collisions mingled together.
And higher up, above the square, the golden figure was slowly descending.
King Ghidorah's wings spread out, blocking the sunlight above the head and casting a huge, moving shadow on the square.
Three heads were lowered, and six golden eyes were staring at the broken palace, as if they were examining their trophies.
Redd jumped off the dragon's back.
His boots landed on the stone floor of the square, making a crisp sound.
The cloak flew behind him for a moment, then fell down quietly.
He stood up straight and looked around - the soldiers lined up, the broken windows, the logistics personnel carrying corpses out of the palace, and the Lys civilians poking their heads in the far corner.
His eyes finally fell on the open palace door, and on the dim ruins inside, filled with dust and gunpowder smoke.
He started walking forward.
The pace is neither fast nor slow, as calm as walking into your own garden.
The hem of the cloak swayed gently behind him, and every step stepped on the gravel and broken glass, making an even and rhythmic sound.
The soldiers bowed their heads to give way as he passed by, the shield bearers put away their shields, the spearmen raised their spears, and the crossbowmen lowered their crossbows.
No one dared to look at him, no one dared to stand in his way.
Dawg Hearing the footsteps behind him, Russ stepped aside and stepped aside with his head lowered. His lips moved, trying to say "Your Highness, be careful", but he swallowed the words again.
Be careful of what? Be careful of the defenseless old man? Be careful of this half-collapsed palace?
After seeing the power of that dragon, the word "be careful" from anyone's mouth would seem ridiculous in front of Redd.
Redd walked into the palace.
He walked through the hall, through the rubble and broken glass, through the bodies scattered about.
His eyes lingered on the corpses for a moment - black robes, white robes, and several corpses of officials in the Governor's Palace who were dressed in gorgeous silks.
Their deaths were ugly, some were smashed beyond recognition, some were crushed until only half of their bodies were left, and some curled up in a ball, as if trying to find a corner to hide at the last moment.