Voraksa's four eyes swept over the humans as though passing over a few insignificant specks of dust. His gaze did not linger on them for even a second.
"Now, this era belongs to me!"
He strode toward the ground above the pit. Every step shook the earth, every step left deep claw marks in the rock.
"I am the master of this era!"
His voice traveled out of the pit, across the ground, into the sky, and into every corner.
Voraksa leaped out of the pit, his enormous wings beating fiercely and whipping up a hurricane. He took flight. His vast, dark-red wings spread across the sky, their span exceeding a hundred meters, blocking out most of the sunlight.
He flew higher and higher, until the entire stretch of ruins, the entire mine, and the entire forest destroyed by the storm lay within his sight.
"It has been far too long..."
He drew a deep breath, feeling the air pass down his throat and into his lungs. Fresh air, untainted by the presence of the gods, belonging purely to this era. It smelled good.
Let flames sweep across the earth, let blood stain the rivers red, let humanity's wails become the ceremonial salute to his return.
Voraksa soared high into the sky, his four dark-red eyes scanning the land below. He needed a target-a city large enough, an opponent strong enough, an act of destruction shocking enough to announce his return.
His four eyes turned toward the distance. There were plains, rivers, cities, and humans there. Millions of tiny, fragile humans who could not withstand a single blow.
"Then let it begin with destruction."
A dark-red glow lit up deep in Voraksa's throat. He opened his mouth, preparing to spew his fury over those plains.
Then he saw something.
-No, he did not see it. He sensed it.
There was something directly ahead of him, a few dozen li away. It was not a human, not a monster, nor any creature he recognized.
Its energy fluctuations were strange, unlike anything of this world, unlike those of the gods, unlike any known system of power. Those fluctuations were faint, so faint that he would never have noticed them if the other party had deliberately concealed them.
But its size...
Voraksa narrowed all four eyes.
So big.
"A powerhouse of this age?"
He muttered to himself, a trace of contempt flashing through his four eyes. The aura of a powerhouse? He sensed no such aura at all.
Although the thing was enormous, its energy fluctuations were as thin as a veil of mist, nowhere near enough to threaten him.
"Good. I'll start with him."
Voraksa changed course and flew toward the thing. His enormous dark-red wings traced an arc through the air, his speed tremendous, like a streak of blood-red lightning flashing across the heavens.
-Then.
There was no then.
-No, there was a then.
A few minutes later.
"So... that's what happened?"
King Ghidorah's middle head dipped slightly, his golden slit pupils looking down at the enormous black dragon beneath his feet, whom he had slapped half to death. His tone was as casual as if he were asking about the weather.
Voraksa lay on the ground.
Not because he wanted to. His body no longer allowed him to stand.
His left wing-no, he had once had a left wing. Now there was nothing there but a charred, still-smoking stump severed at the root. It had been reduced to nothing, not even a scrap remaining.
His breastbone was shattered. Not cracked, not broken, but shattered. Like a pane of glass struck by a hammer, it had fragmented into countless pieces, each stabbing about inside his chest, the pain so great he dared not even breathe hard.
Several vertebrae were dislocated, the joints of his hind legs twisted at impossible angles. Two of the bony spikes at the end of his tail had snapped off, and the remaining one drooped crookedly, like a flag of surrender.
He barely managed to raise his head, looking at the enormous golden beast before him with his four dark-red eyes.
King Ghidorah stood there.
Just one of his foreclaws was larger than Voraksa's entire head. His golden scales shone blindingly in the sunlight, his three long, slender heads raised high like three golden towers overlooking all living things.
His wings were not fully spread, merely half-folded at his sides, but even so, the shadow of half a wing alone was enough to envelop Voraksa's entire body.
Voraksa's eyelid twitched.
A few minutes earlier.
He flew toward the thing, drawing closer and closer. Then he made out its silhouette-golden, enormous, three-headed.
His first reaction was: What the hell is that?
He had lived for so long in the age of the gods and seen countless dragons: gold dragons, black dragons, green dragons, red dragons, silver dragons, blue dragons, two-legged wyverns, four-legged flying dragons, feathered serpents, sea dragons, and earth dragons.
He had never seen a dragon with three heads, much less one with three heads whose outstretched wings could block out half the sky. What is this? A super-colossal mutated golden wyvern after its ultimate growth? What kind of creature looks like that?
His second reaction was: Is this a dragon god?
There had indeed been dragon gods in the age of the gods-ancient dragons invested by the gods with control over certain authorities, somewhat larger and stronger than ordinary dragons, wearing crowns on their heads that served some unknown purpose.
But he knew all those dragon gods. Even those he had never met, he had heard of. This golden, three-headed, absurdly enormous fellow before him appeared nowhere in his memories.
Could it be an otherworldly entity?
Voraksa narrowed his four eyes. Otherworldly entities-he had heard of them in the age of the gods. Beings that did not belong to this world, that descended from the stars and were not bound by this world's rules.
The gods' attitude toward them was unanimous: expel them, seal them, or kill them. Otherworldly entities were uncontrollable, unpredictable, and untrustworthy.
His third reaction was: Whatever.
He was Voraksa. The Dragon of Destruction. The Lord of the Old World. The Silencer of the Gods. Even the gods dared not confront him head-on; even the God King yielded to him to some degree. Whatever the other party was, he would beat him up first.
He opened his mouth, a dark-red glow lighting up deep in his throat, preparing to give this golden, three-headed fellow of unknown species a blast of his breath.
Then he saw golden lightning.
Not lightning striking down from the clouds, but lightning bursting from the golden beast's scales, like electrical radiance compressed to its utmost limit, so dazzling that one could not keep their eyes open.
The bolt was too fast. Before Voraksa's reflexes could even transmit the signal from his eyes to his brain, it was already in front of him.
He instinctively twisted sideways.
His left wing-more precisely, the leading edge of his left wing-brushed past the edge of the lightning as he dodged it. The bolt did not strike his body directly, merely grazing the edge of his wing membrane.
Voraksa inwardly sighed in relief. He had lived so long that his wealth of combat experience could fill an encyclopedia. He knew how to evade attacks, how to deflect force, and how to withstand the greatest damage at the smallest cost.
It only grazed the edge of my wing membrane. Nothing serious. His wing membranes were thick and exceptionally tough. Even the gods' holy swords would leave no more than a shallow mark.
Then his left wing vanished.
As though someone had erased part of a painting, everything that made up his "left wing," from the edge of the membrane to its root, from bone to muscle, from blood vessels to nerves, turned to nothing in that instant. In the blink of an eye, his left wing was gone.
Voraksa did not even have time to scream. He merely stared blankly at his empty, still-smoking left shoulder, his mind utterly blank.
Then gravity took over.
His body began to fall, faster and faster. Wind howled past his ears, tearing his roars to shreds.
He flapped his right wing desperately, trying to slow his descent, but with half his wingspan gone, he was like a bird with a broken wing. No amount of struggling helped.
Boom.
He slammed into the ground. He did not land; he slammed. His body plowed a furrow hundreds of meters long through the earth, crushing rock, soil, and trees alike.
He did not even have time to get up.
An enormous golden foot, larger than his head, stepped onto him.
In an instant, countless images flashed through Voraksa's mind.
He remembered the long evenings when he was still a hatchling, waiting in the nest for his mother to bring back food. He remembered the day he first defeated his rivals and became the leader of his kind, sunlight shining on his wings as all his kin bowed their heads before him.
He remembered the dawn when he led his kind to war against the gods, the sky stained red by flames, the earth trembling beneath his feet, his roars making even the deities shudder.
He remembered the day the gods passed judgment on him.
The God King stood in a sacred temple among the clouds, pronouncing his crimes in an indifferent voice.
He admitted to none of those charges, but no one listened to his defense. Chains extended from the void, wrapping around his limbs, neck, wings, and tail, dragging him deep underground.
His life flashed before his eyes.
If King Ghidorah had known what Voraksa was experiencing at that moment, that was how he would have summed it up.
He barely raised his head, looking at the golden beast with four eyes that were on the verge of losing focus. All three of the beast's heads were watching him. Its six golden slit pupils held no killing intent, no anger, not even any emotion. It simply watched him calmly, as though looking at a rock beside the road.
King Ghidorah stood on Voraksa's chest, looking down at the enormous black, horned, four-eyed dragon beneath his foot. Nearly a hundred meters long, he was like a lizard with its tail pinned down before him, unable even to struggle.
Dark-red blood seeped through the gaps between his scales, staining the rocks and soil beneath him.
King Ghidorah had not struck to kill. Not because he was softhearted, but because there was no need. This black dragon was too weak for him, too weak to even qualify for his interest. Slapping him to death or sparing him made no difference to him.
Still, since this fellow had delivered himself right to his doorstep, he might as well ask a few questions.
Back in the present.
King Ghidorah withdrew his foot and took a step back, looking down at Voraksa as he lay dying on the ground.
"So, in other words." King Ghidorah's middle head dipped slightly, his golden slit pupils fixed on Voraksa. "You don't have a castle?"
Voraksa opened his mouth, all four eyes blinking at once. His life was still flashing before his eyes, and he was still processing the fact that less than a minute had passed between waking up and being beaten into a cripple.
A castle? What castle? This golden, three-headed monster who had crippled him with a single slap-the first question he asked was whether he had a castle?
He remained silent for a long time.
"N... no." Voraksa's voice was hoarse and weak, carrying a bewilderment that said, "I don't understand what happened, but I'd better answer honestly."
All three of King Ghidorah's heads tilted at once.
"Then do you know where there's a castle?"
Voraksa fell silent for another moment. His brain finally switched from "life-flashing-before-his-eyes mode" back to "survival mode" and began working furiously.
A castle? This monster wants a castle? He had lived so long and seen countless castles, the gods' palaces, human city-states, dwarven fortresses, elven tree cities-he knew them all. If I say yes, will this monster let me go?
"Yes," Voraksa said, his four eyes watching King Ghidorah's expression intently for any change.
King Ghidorah nodded. A trace of satisfaction flashed through his golden slit pupils.
"Lead the way."