Translator: AnubisTL
"I can see you have the heart of a warrior," Garos said slowly, gazing at Manefire.
"You have a keen eye, my lord!" Manefire replied, lifting his chin.
Garos spread his wings, straightened his body, his gaze turning calm yet dangerous, his voice dropping to a low tone. "I've heard this saying:"
"The strong strike at those stronger than themselves, while the weak strike at those weaker than themselves."
Manefire didn't fully grasp Garos's meaning, but he nodded in agreement, trying to appear respectful. "A truly profound saying."
Garos suddenly grinned.
"If you agree, then challenge me. Prove your strength to me."
Manefire froze, staring at Garos's massive frame and the terrifying pressure radiating from him. His breathing hitched, and the smile on his wolf-like face became strained. "You... you must be joking, my lord."
Only then did he realize he had overstepped, and he suppressed his arrogance.
Garos took a step forward, standing before Manefire. His powerful body blocked the moonlight, casting a shadow that enveloped the younger werewolf.
"So, were you mocking me with your words earlier?" Garos's voice turned icy, his eyes locking onto Manefire, causing the werewolf's fur to stand on end.
How dare you? Instead of immediately kneeling and begging for mercy?
"I wouldn't dare. Please forgive me," Manefire said, kneeling and lowering his head.
Garos remained expressionless. "I admire your courage. If you can leave even a single scratch on me, your challenge will be successful, and I will grant you the position of chieftain."
Manefire's eyes lit up with eagerness. He stood up, his gaze burning with determination.
"Great Dragon Lord, I will give it my all," he declared.
The other werewolves scattered in panic, leaving a wide, empty space.
Russell and the old shaman exchanged silent sighs, already anticipating the disastrous outcome of Manefire's reckless challenge. The dragon lord had given him multiple chances, but he had failed to seize them.
Manefire retreated dozens of meters, took a deep breath, and tensed his muscles until they were like iron.
His hind paws dug deep gouges into the ground. A fierce glint flashed in his eyes as he fixed his gaze on the dragon before him.
Manefire had faced and wounded larger ferocious beasts and demonic creatures before, even successfully hunting them with his pack.
In his view, while Garos might be stronger than a dragon of equal size, the difference wouldn't be overwhelming.
At least, he was confident he could leave a scratch on the dragon.
Roar—!
With a deafening howl, Manefire's muscles bulged beneath his bristly mane. He leaped forward, his hind legs exploding with astonishing power.
His claws glinted coldly in the moonlight as he lunged for Garos's vulnerable throat.
The strike carried all of his strength and skill, moving so fast it left afterimages in the air.
Garos didn't even lift an eyelid.
Slap!
A soft sound, and his dragon claw swiped casually, as if swatting an annoying fly.
Manefire's body froze mid-air for a bizarre instant before being sent hurtling backward at even greater speed.
Boom!
His body slammed into the rock face with a thunderous impact, shaking the cliff and sending a cascade of debris and dust billowing into the air.
When the dust settled, the assembled werewolves stared in horror to see Manefire's body embedded deep within the rock, his posture twisted and unnatural.
Garos had thought Manefire might have some hidden trick, so he had only used a fraction of his strength in the first strike as a test.
The result left him deeply disappointed.
This young werewolf had no tricks—just a natural talent that made him arrogant and unaware of his own limitations.
Garos approached slowly and leaned down to examine Manefire.
The werewolf's eyes were still open, his ribs completely caved in, and blood mixed with fragments of internal organs bubbled from the corner of his mouth.
"Too weak. Your arrogance is worth nothing," Garos stated calmly.
The wolf pack fell into a deathly silence.
Frostfang's claws dug into the ground involuntarily, and only then did she understand why the old shaman always said, "Dragon might is immeasurable."
That arrogant Manefire was less than a toy in the face of the dragon lord.
Grr. Manefire let out a low growl of defiance.
Crack! Crack! A series of cracking sounds erupted from within its body. Its severely injured form began to contort, fangs sprouting in its mouth and its body stretching. In an instant, it transformed into a blood-soaked giant wolf, roaring as it lunged at Garos.
Garos flicked his tail.
Boom!
The giant wolf's body exploded instantly into a crimson mist, its form torn apart mid-air.
A few drops of warm blood splattered on the faces of the nearest werewolves, but they didn't dare wipe them away.
"Now," Garos's voice echoed through the valley.
"Does anyone else wish to prove their strength of heart?"
The only response was a uniform prostration.
Under the moonlight, the werewolves' foreheads pressed against the ground, their breathing shallow and controlled.
This was submission, and relief—relief that they possessed a heart capable of reverence.
The old shaman loosened his grip on his bone staff, a smile of profound relief spreading across his weathered face.
"Your dragon might grows stronger each day, now eclipsing the sun and moon," it said, fawning.
Russell spoke in a low voice. "I beg you to spare these werewolves. They were misled by Manefire and meant no offense. Moreover, they will be transformed into giant wolves and pledge their loyalty to you under the Clan's command."
The werewolves Russell spoke of were Manefire's trusted confidants, now trembling and limp with fear.
Garos nodded slightly, signaling Russell to handle it.
After this minor interlude, Garos turned to the old shaman and Russell. "Tell me what has transpired in the six years since my departure."
The old shaman's speech was now slurred and slow.
Russell began, "Shortly after you left, the Bonechewer Clan started their savage expansion."
He recounted the events in detail.
Because a watchtower had been built at the highest point of Crescent Moon Valley, the werewolves spotted the approaching ogres immediately. They abandoned their territory and fled. Later, they discovered that after devouring the remaining food reserves in their territory, the ogres had left, only to return later.
The subsequent events unfolded along the Scaly Earth Rift Road.
Due to the ogres' occupation of the best stretches of the Scaly Earth Rift Road and their frequent raids, the werewolves of the Howling Moon Clan had been unable to make contact with any merchant caravans.
The good news was that before the ogres rose to power, the silver-tongued and cunning merchant Nick had brought back a large quantity of black oil. This was stored in the clan's cellars, and the ogres, uninterested in the inedible substance, had left it untouched.
However, this was only the initial shipment.
When Nick was brought to the Howling Moon Clan again, he also brought a message stone, allowing them to communicate across distances.
After the ogre clans seized control of the Scaly Earth Rift Road, the old shaman, fearing the disruption of this vital trade route, used the message stone to instruct Nick to stay away for several years until further notice.
Over the next six years, Nick inquired about the situation via the message stone almost every month.
He wasn't afraid of the werewolves; on the contrary, his profitable trade with them had given him hope of rebuilding his fortune. The merchant deeply valued the Howling Moon Clan.
"My Lord, the Bonechewer Clan has produced a powerful leader unlike any ordinary ogre."
"Under its leadership, the Bonechewer Clan is now at its peak, developing at an astonishing rate."
Russell wanted to warn Garos not to underestimate the Bonechewer Clan.
He had heard that dragonkind were always arrogant and overconfident, making them easy targets.
Before he could finish speaking, his eyes widened as he heard Garos casually say, "No need to worry. The Bonechewer Clan has already submitted to me and are now Dragon's Chosen, just like you."
"Your dragon might is peerless!" Russell immediately offered his flattery.
Six years ago, when he was still young, he wouldn't have known how to say such things. He would have just stood by the old shaman's side, listening to him praise and flatter. Now, with age, he had become more adept at "buttering up dragons."
"Go, bring me some black oil first," Garos commanded.
Russell nodded and quickly returned with his clansmen, carrying an iron barrel of black oil weighing about fifty kilograms.
"We have ten barrels like this in the clan, totaling about a thousand pounds," Russell reported.
Garos's eyes lit up as he lifted the barrel.
He had missed the taste of black oil so much. And having it directly from a barrel, in such abundance compared to the days of stealing oil soil and refining it, meant he could drink it without such caution.
With a flick of his claws, he pried open the lid, and the pungent aroma rushed into his nostrils.
He tilted his head back, opened his mouth, and gulped down the black oil in large mouthfuls.
"Soooo... so potent!"
"This is the taste! This is the feeling!"
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Dark crimson flames surged from the tips of Garos's wing bones, more vigorous and turbulent than even his previous peak state. It was like pouring oil on fire, and in an instant, his body transformed into a comet, shattering the sound barrier as he soared straight into the heavens.
(End of the Chapter)
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