Iron Dragon's Advancement Journey

Page 161

　“Impossible!” Elminster retorted excitedly, his white beard trembling with emotion. “All the floating cities crashed because of Karsus’s folly! History clearly records that when the magic network collapsed, not a single floating city was able to maintain its levitation!”

　"Old man, you speak of history? Whose history? Humanity's fleeting memories? Or the elves' biased accounts?" It stretched its body, reverting to its dragon form, shaking its head and flicking its tail. The low clanging of metallic scales mingled with the crackling of electric arcs, the smell of ionized air and the scorching fumes filling everyone's nostrils. "Not all floating cities crashed. As you can see, at least one floating city successfully escaped into the Shadow Dimension a few days before the Magic Network collapsed."

　The dragon's iron beak tapped slightly in the cold wind of the watchtower, conveying its excited disdain for Elminster. Its gaze was fixed on the northern horizon, where the inverted floating city of Sultanza had fully emerged from the teleportation array, hovering stably three thousand meters above the ground. The black walls were as sharp as blades, the pointed towers pointed directly to the ground, and the silver dragon-language chains gleamed eerily in the sunlight, like giant pythons coiling around this ghostly city. Shadow bats circled at the city's base, their shrill cries like sobs, carrying an ominous aura that sent chills down the spine.

　“The Shadow Dimension?” Kelben Black Staff seized on the key point in Casalos’s words. “You mean this floating city has been hidden in the Shadow Dimension all along?”

　“Exactly.” Casalos nodded and began to recount the secret forgotten by the history of Faerûn. “This city is called Sultanza, founded in 1471 BC, more than a decade after the first floating city of Archmage Iolem. Its ruler, Lord Shador, was an Archmage immersed in the study of other planes, and he conducted long experiments in the Shadow Plane. Just days before Karthus unleashed that foolish twelfth-circle spell in an attempt to usurp the goddess of magic, Lord Shador successfully transferred the entire city to the Shadow Plane.”

　"So they escaped the catastrophe of the magic network collapsing," Elasdra said thoughtfully. "Truly... lucky."

　“Lucky?” Casalos sneered, its deep dragon throat echoing in the wind. “If drifting in the Shadow Plane for seventeen hundred years is considered lucky.” Its dragon wings pointed to the floating city bound by chains. “It took them weeks to return to the Prime Material Plane, only to find the Netheril Empire in ruins. Lord Shador initially sought revenge, believing that the Ancient Magisterium of Felin was responsible for the Empire’s destruction. But when he realized that a single city could not withstand the Ancient Magisterium, and that his citizens might be the last survivors of the Empire, he chose to retreat, returning to the Shadow Plane, vowing to rebuild the Empire one day.”

　“Seventeen hundred years…” Lyra Silverhand sighed, her eyes filled with complex emotions. “Having survived in the Shadow Dimension for so long, are they still human?”

　“Of course not.” Casalos’s voice turned cold, a chilling glint flashing in his indigo dragon eyes. “Seventeen hundred years of negative energy erosion, they fought against the terrifying creatures of the Shadow Realm, coexisting with the Shadows. Each generation became more adapted to that plane, eventually becoming a new semi-physical humanoid species closely integrated with the negative energy of the Shadow Realm, just like the ‘Wraiths’.”

　The full view of the floating city gradually became clear. In addition to the silver runic chains, there were also dragons in key locations of the city. The arrogant thorns of the Razor pointed diagonally to the sky, the bronze body of the Thinker exuded an ancient luster, the green-spotted dragon wings of the Tide Chanter rose and fell like waves, and there was also a female ancient golden dragon with many scars on its back, but its eyes were as firm as steel.

　“Dracor.” Eros Krugipara recognized its kin’s “elder.” “She is also our ally?”

　Casalos nodded in acknowledgment: "It was with her help that we found a way to open the portal to the Shadow Dimension."

　“Wait,” the Lord of the Mist suddenly spoke, his voice, ethereal beneath his cloak, “You said ‘we’? What have you done?”

　Casalos didn't answer directly, but continued, "Sultanza is ruled by the Twelve Princes, powerful arcanists who have merged with the essence of shadow. However—" a cold smile curled at the corner of its mouth, "as Lady Lyra said, having lived in the shadow plane for seventeen hundred years, they are no longer human. Negative energy has corrupted their minds, and arrogance has twisted their souls. When Razor and the others entered Sultanza, these wraiths were plotting an invasion of the Prime Material Plane, of Faerûn."

　"Invasion?" Elasdra frowned, his expression full of vigilance.

　“That’s right.” Casalos nodded. “They believe the Faerûn have stolen Netheril’s heritage and intend to reclaim everything that belongs to them.” It pointed to the city’s central square. “Do you see those twelve figures bound in chains? Those are the Twelve Princes.”

　Only then did everyone notice that twelve figures in black robes were kneeling on the ground in the square, each bound by thick chains, with countless runes swirling and emerging within their dark green, translucent bodies. "The sealing spell of Razor," Casalos explained, "combined with the mithril-forged magic-sealing chains, is enough to completely imprison their power."

　"You... captured the entire city?" Forrell Blackhammer asked incredulously, his rough fingers pointing at the handle of his warhammer.

　“To be precise, they were captured by Dracol and his men,” Casalos corrected. “The old golden dragons and bronze dragons dislike pointless killing. Otherwise, given the strength of the Wraiths, they wouldn’t have survived until now. No matter how powerful the Wraiths are, they are nothing more than a group of ancient magic casters abandoned by the times. Facing my army, they are as fragile as paper. There are only a few hundred Wraiths in the city, and even most of the ordinary residents have some level of spellcasting ability…”

　"A few hundred people controlling a floating city?" Helm Dwarf's eyes widened.

　"To be precise, it's one person controlling an entire floating city. The floating city of Netheril is like that; the entire city is a giant magical contraption, requiring only one archmage to function properly. This is also their weakness—the entire city has only one unique core, without even a redundant backup. If the core malfunctions, then…"

　The iron dragon's tail curled up a pebble that protruded outside the tower, then it released it easily, letting it fall to the ground faster under the pull of gravity.

　boom!

　The stones fell onto the steel plate base of the watchtower, making a crisp sound, and shattered into several pieces.

　Casaloz turned to the stunned crowd, "Gentlemen, a complete floating city of Netheril now belongs to us. And I will use it to fight the demons..."

　Storm Silverhand seemed about to say something, but Elasdra stopped her. The High Lady of Silvermoon City gave Casalos a deep look: "It seems you had a complete plan all along."

　“Of course.” Casalos made no attempt to hide it. “From the moment Charson’s intelligence network discovered the unusual activity at Hellgate, I’ve been preparing this plan.” It looked up at Sultanza in the sky. “Hellgate—and indeed, the source of many disasters on the continent of Faerûn—is a legacy of history created by the reckless misuse of arcane magic by these self-important Netheril fishermen. Now, it’s time for them to make a small contribution to the peace and prosperity of Faerûn.”

　Ilminster finally spoke, his voice tinged with worry: "Cassaloz, do you know what you're doing...?"

　“Of course I know.” Casalos turned around and looked down at the white-bearded sage. “Elminster, I know very well that in DR261, you participated in the construction of the Mystron Energy Core Barrier in Mystron. Although you were only one of the third-level mages at the time, I think no one here knows better than you what kind of power is contained in the core of this floating city—the Mystron Energy Core. Why don’t you guess what I will do with that power?”

16. Undercover agent?

　"You...do you intend to...?"

　Elminster's voice trembled slightly in the cold wind, his aged fingers gripping the never-ending spellbook tightly. As a legendary mage who had lived for over a thousand years, he almost immediately connected the dots to a terrifying possibility. The iron dragon's insane act of burying hundreds of tons of "white powder" in Waterdeep in an attempt to blow Baal into the sky remained a painful memory for some.

　Whitebeard trembled violently in the wind, and Ilminster's pupils suddenly contracted: "You actually want to detonate the Miser Core!"

　The air at the top of the watchtower seemed to freeze.

　This deduction struck like a hammer blow to the hearts of every spellcaster present. Elasdra's silver hair fluttered slightly under the invisible magical fluctuations, and Storm Silverhand instinctively tightened his grip on his sword hilt. Kelburn and Lyra exchanged a glance, their eyes filled with disbelief and shock.

　"As expected of a great sage, you've already come up with a solution." Casalos's dragon beak clicked, his tone full of sarcasm. The silvery-white metallic scales gleamed coldly under the magical lights of the watchtower, and his indigo vertical pupils revealed a chilling terror.

　This affirmative response caused the faces of the magic goddess voters present to change drastically.

　"You bastard!"

　Elminster finally snapped. This legendary mage, usually so composed, now resembled an enraged, incompetent young man. His sympathetic nervous system activated instantly, a torrent of adrenaline and noradrenaline flooding his bloodstream. Blood vessels in his skin and limbs constricted sharply, muscles began to tremble uncontrollably, and his metabolism surged to its limit.

　A bone-chilling cold spread from his spine to his limbs, giving the over-1,000-year-old man a long-lost feeling of coldness. His muscle fibers involuntarily contracted, and his entire body trembled slightly. His oxygen consumption increased dramatically, his breathing became rapid and erratic, and his heart pounded wildly like a war drum.

　Immediately following, hyperventilation caused a sharp drop in the concentration of carbon dioxide in the blood. Numbness began to creep into his hands and feet, and a wave of dizziness washed over him, making the trembling even more intense. This old master, who had seen countless storms, was so angered that he exhibited a noticeable physiological reaction.

　Storm Silverhand leaped out immediately upon seeing this, his long silver hair flying wildly in his rage: "You... do you know what will happen?"

　Her voice was so shrill it almost pierced eardrums, and the longsword in her hand was already half an inch from its sheath, its blade gleaming with a dangerous cold light. As one of Mystra's chosen ones, she knew better than anyone what the Mystra Core meant.

　"I know." Casaroz tilted his head, gazing lazily at the sky, swishing his tail, his tone as casual as if discussing the weather. "Of course I know what's going to happen."

　It deliberately slowed its speech, each word like a meticulously crafted blade piercing the hearts of the chosen goddesses of magic: "The essence of the Mysriel Core is the confluence of the Mysriel magic network, the hub of the magical cycle of all things in the celestial realm. Detonating the Mysriel Core will create a massive, devastating, and irreversible zone of dead magic..."

　This calm, almost cruel statement caused the green eyes of the Golden Dragon Druid, Eros Krujipala, to widen sharply. The treant Tulang's wooden body creaked uneasily, as if the entire High Forest trembled at this terrifying idea. The aura beneath the Mist Lord's cloak became erratic; clearly, even this mysterious spellcaster was shocked by this insane plan.

　But Casalos's words were not yet finished.

　Iron Dragon slightly raised his head, a near-mad glint flashing in his indigo vertical pupils: "Moreover, Hellgate Fortress has opened a super-sized portal directly to the Abyss. Since the Abyss is the source of chaos, after the magical order constructed by the magic network collapses, this area of ​​dead magic will become a pressure vent, constantly drawing chaotic power from the Abyss to sustain itself, continuously expanding and strengthening into the Abyss until it devours the entire layer of the Abyss on the other side of the portal—just like how Galos Dragon Nightmare and his men destroyed Thanatos."

　It paused, its beak curving into a dangerous arc: "Of course, the destruction of the Miser core will be more thorough and faster."

　A deathly silence hung over the watchtower. Only the howling wind and the occasional explosions from the distant defensive lines reminded everyone that the war was still raging.

　"Look," Casalos's voice suddenly brightened, as if sharing a brilliant joke, "isn't this the complete solution?"

　"You...you..."

　Elminster's finger trembled as he pointed at Casalos, his lips quivering for a long time, unable to utter a complete sentence. The sage, renowned for his eloquence, now resembled a stuttering apprentice. The spellbook slipped from his hand, striking the stone surface with a dull thud. (The remaining text appears to be unrelated and possibly machine-generated gibberish.)

　Elasdra finally couldn't hold back any longer. The High Lady of Silvermoon City, her elegance gone, trembled noticeably in her voice: "And what about the impact this has on the Prime Material Plane?!"

　The impact of the Death Magic Zone itself is actually insignificant, but when a Death Magic Zone nurtured by the source of chaos is formed, the destruction caused by the transformation of magic power from the order controlled by the magic network to chaos is enough to tear apart a true god, let alone the fragile material world and mortals within its range.

　"It's not like other Miser cores haven't been detonated before." Casalos tilted his head to the other side indifferently, his tail held high, swaying rhythmically with his folded wings, a posture that exuded an arrogance that made one's teeth itch.

　"The Prime Material Plane—Faerûn—is limited by the magic network and lacks the source of chaos for replenishment. How much impact can it possibly have?" Its voice was full of disdain. "At most, it will devour a small portion of the High Forest and part of the Nether Mountains."

　At most? That's all?

　These two words were like two slaps to the face of everyone present. The High Forest was the most important natural barrier in the entire Northlands, and the Nether Mountains were the home of many races of the Silvermoon Federation. And yet, from the mouth of this iron dragon, it was merely "at most" and "that's all"?

　Casalos continued with a playful tone, "Although our new Goddess of Magic hasn't fully completed the handover of her divine duties and powers, dealing with this small area of ​​dead magic is no longer a problem, is it?"

　"Before that!"

　The Lord of the Mist could no longer remain silent. The spellcaster, who had maintained a mysterious demeanor, now spoke with a voice filled with rage from beneath his cloak: "Mist Fortress is right next to Hell's Gate!"

　His territory, the foundation he had built over hundreds of years, was merely a bargaining chip to be sacrificed in Casalos's plan.

　The Golden Dragon Druid, Eros Krujipala, also wanted to say something. As one of the guardians of the High Forest, how could he stand by and watch this ancient forest be destroyed? But the treant Tulang suddenly stretched out a thick branch and gently tugged at him.

　The ancient tree-men were conveying a message in a natural language that only they could understand. The golden dragon's expression became complicated, and in the end, he stopped and chose to remain silent.

　"You even know that Misthold is closest to Hellgate Keep."

　Casalos's sneer, like a dwarf's warhammer, mercilessly struck the Mist Lord's sore spot. Its massive body leaned slightly forward, its silvery-white scales reflecting a cold light under the lamplight.

　"And you all," Iron Dragon's gaze swept across everyone present, "after all this time subtly probing, you've been bringing up the impact on the Forgotten Realms..."

　Its voice suddenly turned deep, each word seemingly forged in a furnace: "Is this what you truly care about? Is this the root of your anger?"

　The air atop the watchtower grew even more oppressive. Casalos's questioning was like a sharp sword, piercing the most hidden corners of the hearts of the chosen ones of the goddess of magic present.

　"No," Tie Long shook his head, his tone even more sarcastic, "put away your hypocrisy that you yourselves can no longer even distinguish!"

　These words struck them like a thunderclap.

　Casalos's voice carried a chilling, all-knowing edge: "As a short-lived species, yet possessing an evergreen life, these millennia of existence have long since eroded the empathy and compassion of your short-lived kind."

　Elminster's face grew even paler. As a legendary mage who had lived for over a thousand years, he knew better than anyone how time eroded the soul. Those ideals that once ignited his passion, those beliefs that once drove him to fight without hesitation, had gradually faded over the long years, turning into inertia, into habit.

　"You disregard this land, and you disregard all living beings," Casalos's voice was like a judgment. "Your acts of kindness are nothing but a habit and self-comfort."

　Storm Silverhand wanted to retort, but no sound came out of her open mouth. She thought about what she had done over the years, how many of those actions she considered righteous were truly from the heart, and how many were merely to maintain her image as a "hero"?

　"Deep down, you don't care at all about the impact of the Dead Magic Quarter on Faerûn, nor do you care about the High Forest and the Nether Mountains being swallowed up by the Dead Magic Quarter."

　Casalos's words transformed from a sharp sword into the most poisonous curse, each syllable eroding their facade: "What you care about is the Dead Magic Quarter itself!"

　This accusation shocked all the voters of the goddess of magic.

　"As chosen ones of the Goddess of Magic, any act that damages the magic network is what you abhor and are most indignant about!" Iron Dragon's voice grew increasingly loud. "The invasion of the Abyss is not, nor is the disaster it has caused to the people of Faerûn!"

　"Because this is a duty you can never escape," Casalos's eyes flashed with pity, but mostly with sarcasm, "it's the truth hidden beneath your facade!"

　Ilminster, Kelben Black Staff, Elasdra, Storm Silverhand, and Lyra Silverhand—these five chosen ones of the goddess of magic—were as pale as paper.

　They wanted to refute, to deny, but deep down a voice told them: Casalos was right.

　A thousand years have changed them. They still do good, still protect, but it's more of a responsibility, a habit, than a heartfelt impulse. When they heard that the Miser Core might be destroyed, their first thought wasn't how many people would die, but how much damage would be done to the Magic Network.

　This understanding has long been buried beneath the shell they have woven for themselves, and is deeply rooted in their souls.

　In the midst of this deathly silence, Casalos suddenly changed the subject.

　"But have you forgotten," Iron Dragon tilted his head, a sly glint in his indigo vertical pupils, "that I now have the same duties as you?"

　This turn of events came so suddenly that everyone was stunned.

　Casalos said slowly, "Although it's not strictly mandatory, Isis is my most beloved apprentice..."

　Isis! One of the new goddesses of magic!

　The name struck like lightning, instantly illuminating everyone's thoughts. They then remembered that the seemingly crazed iron dragon before them was also a mentor of the Goddess of Magic, and in a sense, a chosen one of the Goddess of Magic. At the same time, it was also a chosen one of the Dragon God.

　If it really intends to destroy the magic network, wouldn't that be betraying its duty?

　"You..." Ilminster was dumbfounded, and for a moment he didn't know what to say.

　"What do you mean, 'you'?"

　Casalos stretched his neck, bringing his massive dragon head close to Elminster. His scorching breath, crackling with electric sparks, sent the old man's white beard flying, sparks dancing between his whiskers, and a burnt smell filled the air.

　"Can't your wooden head, which's been stuck for thousands of years, come up with any other solution?"

　Tie Long's voice was filled with exasperated anger: "I've laid out the answers right in front of you, and your first thought is to blow it up?"

　Its dragon eyes widened, its indigo vertical pupils filled with disdain: "Who do you think you are, a chosen one of the goddess of magic? Are you perhaps a spy sent by Shar?!"

　Shar—the primordial darkness, the utter nothingness before time began to flow, a cold and powerful divinity, the nemesis of the goddess of magic. This accusation, though absurd, struck Ilminster like a resounding slap across the face.

　"I...I..."

　The legendary mage, who had dealt with countless calamities, was speechless; his millennia-old eloquence had completely failed him at this moment. He realized he might have truly misunderstood something, but what exactly it was, his mind, still reeling from the recent ups and downs, couldn't quite grasp.

17. What do you want to do?

　Casalozian dragon tail swept lightly across the steel-plated ground of the watchtower, the metallic scales striking the steel with a crisp "clang," as if mocking the speechless astonishment of those present, stunned by its plan. A cold wind howled in from outside the tower, carrying the echoes of explosions from the distant defensive lines, ruffling Elasdra's long silver hair and causing Elminster's white beard to tremble slightly. The air was thick with the acrid smell of crackling electricity from the iron dragon, mingling with the sulfur and blood stench of the distant battlefield. The floating city of Sultanza hovered three thousand meters above the ground, its black walls slicing through the clouds like blades, its silver runic chains shimmering in the sunlight like whispering pythons, recounting the lingering hatred of the Netheril Empire.

　The leaders in the conference room—mages, warriors, and druids—stood or sat, their expressions tense, their faces a mixture of shock, doubt, and suppressed anger, responding to the iron dragon's audacious plan.

　"Could it be..." Elasdra's silver voice was low, tinged with probing and speculation. Her slender fingers lightly traced the mithril gem at the tip of her staff, a complex light flashing in her eyes.

　The ancient treant Tulang, who had remained silent until now, let out a low squeak. This ancient being, who had lived for over a thousand years, gently pulled back the golden dragon druid Eros Krujipala, who was about to speak, with his wooden fingers.

　"If I'm not mistaken," Tulang's voice rustled through the treetops, carrying the wisdom accumulated over the years, "you probably intend to use the Miser Core to create a labyrinthine lock to envelop Hellgate Fortress, don't you?"

　The old treant wasn't familiar with Casalos, yet he held no prejudice against him, thus being the first to guess the direction correctly. His green eyes gleamed with understanding, as if he could see through the iron dragon's boastful words to its true intentions.

　The air on the watchtower suddenly became tense. Elminster's fingers froze in mid-air, Storm Silverhand's silver eyes still burning with rage, but she suppressed her impulse, gripping the hilt of her sword tightly, her knuckles white from the force. Kelben Blackstalker and Lyra Silverhand exchanged a glance, their eyes revealing worry and confusion. Even the Mist Lord, who had maintained a mysterious demeanor, let out a soft gasp from beneath her cloak.

　Meanwhile, the Golden Dragon Druid Eros Krujipala frowned, seemingly weighing the deeper meaning behind the old tree spirit's words.

　"What else~" Casaroz lazily swayed its tail, its silvery-white metallic scales seemingly shimmering with playful ripples. It tilted its head, its indigo vertical pupils filled with disdain for these "little cuties".

　Iron Dragon slowly rose to its feet, its massive body casting a shadow on the watchtower. Its voice carried an almost mocking ease: "If I wanted to use the Miser Core to blow up that abyss opposite Hellgate Keep, why would I suggest killing those three nameless Abyss Lords first?"

　Its claws dug deep scratches into the ground, the metallic scraping sound irritating everyone present: "Why bring the entire floating city here? Why keep Sultanza thousands of meters away?"

　Casalos's neck gracefully curved into an S-shape as its dragon head approached the still-dazed Elminster: "Am I supposed to give the Abyss Lords time to react, allowing them a chance to create some unexpected chaos?"

　It suddenly turned towards the storm, its beak cracking: "Or do you think I'm a red dragon, proud of destroying vast swathes of Faerûn, and therefore insist on announcing to the world that I blew up the High Forest and the Nether Mountains?"

　These words made Storm's expression even more unpleasant. As a master harpist, her prejudice against a certain dragon was deeply ingrained, and even though this iron dragon had repeatedly proven its stance, she still subconsciously categorized it as a potential threat.

　Casalos withdrew his gaze, his tail tracing a graceful arc in the air: "I only need to have Fangs extract Sultanza's Miser Core and teleport it directly into the Abyss Passage."

　Its voice suddenly turned icy: "Secret, sudden, and forever unknown—who did it!"