Devouring Dragon Heir

The winds screamed over the deserts of the east, tearing at the fortress walls as if the heavens themselves raged against what was happening inside.

Torches sputtered and gutters smoked.

The throne hall of the Engrasia, once a place of pride, filled with jeweled banners and golden idols of their ancestors, now trembled under a storm of a different kind.

The storm had a face.

Thunder Lord stood in the middle of the chamber, his cloak sparking with arcs of lightning that crawled across his shoulders and down his arms.

His hand was clamped around the throat of the eastern king, lifting him into the air like he weighed no more than a sack of grain. The king's crown had already fallen, rolling across the marble floor with a metallic clatter that echoed through the chamber.

The courtiers who had gathered to witness their monarch's strength now cowered, hands pressed against their ears as the thunder cracked overhead. Every time Thunder Lord spoke, his voice rumbled with a bass that shook the walls.

"You dare to insult my lord? With a flick of my finger, I can end your whole bloodline here and bury your kingdom with you." He growled, arcs of blue light flashing between his teeth.

"If there is to be an Engrasia, it has to be under Riverdale, or else there will be no land of such name from today."

The king clawed at the hand holding him, veins bulging, face purple from lack of air. His eyes darted to his guards, but none dared move. Lightning had already charred three soldiers into smoking husks when they'd tried.

"Think carefully," Thunder Lord said, bringing the king closer until the monarch could smell the death, the raw power humming in his aura. "Yield, and live as Riverdale's vassal. Resist, and your bones will feed the crows."

The storm outside crashed in tandem with his words. Lightning tore open the skies, thunder slammed into the mountains, and the marble tiles beneath them cracked with the weight of the aura pressing down.

The king broke. His eyes watered, tears streaming down his cheeks. His lips trembled as he croaked out, "I yield!" I yield! Spare us! We… we belong to Riverdale!"

Thunder Lord dropped him to the ground like a sack of grain. The king collapsed on his knees, coughing violently, clutching at his bruised throat. Around him, his ministers scrambled forward, bowing, voices raised in desperate oaths of loyalty.

The final kingdom of the east had fallen. And it had fallen with a simple interaction of 5 minutes.

In the North

While thunder shook the east, shadows consumed the north.

The northern kingdoms were proud, their warriors hardened by icy winters and barren lands. They had mocked Riverdale once, sneering that no southern warlord could survive the blizzards of their homeland. But their pride withered the moment Necrolord stepped into their halls.

The torches in the throne room of the northern high-king flickered once, then died. Darkness rushed in, thick and suffocating. The warriors who had sworn to die before surrender now found their throats tight, their breath stolen.

Necrolord emerged from the shadows, his skeletal frame towering, his cloak writhing as though alive. His eyes glowed faintly, twin coals of malice in the void of his face. His voice was not loud, but it carried to every ear in the chamber, filling their skulls like a whisper from death itself.

"Submit… or become my thralls."

The northern king gripped the arms of his throne until his knuckles turned white. He wanted to defy. He wanted to stand. But as he looked into those hollow eyes, all courage drained out of him.

Right now he and his subjects were under a very potent curse, getting visions of their family, their kingdom, and their whole bloodline being turned into puppets.

The first to kneel was not the king.

It was his warlord, the strongest of his men. One by one, the others followed. The sound of armor clattering against stone as they fell to their knees echoed like a dirge.

Necrolord smiled. By dawn, the north belonged to Riverdale.

The war room in Riverdale glowed with lamplight, maps sprawled across the central table. Soldiers and scribes hurried in and out, whispering updates. The air was thick with anticipation.

Klaus stood at the head of the table, hands clasped behind his back. His crimson eyes scanned the 3D map of Lionhart, tracing borders, troop placements, and choke points. His expression was calm, but beneath that stillness was a cold fire.

The doors opened. Thunder Lord entered first, his aura still humming with storm, followed by Necrolord, his cloak trailing wisps of darkness. Both knelt.

"It is done," Thunder Lord rumbled. "The east has submitted. Their armies and coffers are yours to use now, my lord."

"The north as well," Necrolord added, his voice echoing unnaturally. "They will comply with every single order of yours."

Klaus's lips curved faintly. A lot of land had been covered by him, and after conquering Lionhart, it will only be a matter of going south. And moving in one direction was always easier than having your back exposed to enemies; that is why Klaus had chosen the current order of conquest.

Piece by piece, the continent was folding into his grasp.

As night approached, he dismissed everyone and told everyone about tomorrow's final discussion, where a proper offensive strategy will be framed.

That night, Klaus retreated into the sanctuary, his personal space; he went to the training area of zero division.

Inside the special cultivation chamber, he sat cross-legged on a dais, closing his eyes, drawing in the ambient death essence.

Power coursed through him, thick and heavy, trying to remake his body, his soul. His breathing slowed, his veins glowed faintly, and the air trembled around him.

He was trying to cultivate the death energy cultivation method he had kept common for everyone in the Death Legion, apart from their specialized techniques.

[The death concept is being cultivated. Rate of cultivation—0.00023% per hour]

[Host needs six months' worth of cultivation for a 1% increase.]

Klaus's eyes snapped open, glowing red in the darkness. His jaw tightened, but he forced the frustration away.

"So be it," he murmured. Till he gets a being to harvest for the death concept, he has only one way, and that is to cultivate for now.

the next day

The war room was filled with faces. Generals, Zero Division captains, and Kaiden himself

Maps sprawled across the table, marked with tunnels, rivers, and supply lines.

Klaus stood at the head, his gaze sweeping across them.

"The enemy numbers one hundred thousand," he began. "Four transcendents command them. They believe their numbers and their arrogance will shield them. They are wrong."

"Give me your suggestions on how we could attack."

A general stepped forward, pointing at the map. "We could attack in waves. Piece by piece. Draw them out, bleed them."

Necrolord's hollow voice cut in. "Too slow; we could just poison their rivers. Starve them. Spread disease. They will wither before they even draw swords."

On listening to the Necrolord's suggestion, the righteous Kaiden twitched; he knew that poisoning rivers would cause civilian deaths as much as soldier deaths.

Thunder Lord slammed his fist onto the table, sparks flashing. "Cowards' talk! Armies are broken by force, not by plagues."

Lyssandra tilted her head, her voice smooth. "Umm... but Lord, why don't we use the underground pathways and secret passages of Lionheart that we just got information about from Lord Kaiden?"

On her suggestion, silence spread throughout the room, and everybody stopped speaking, only looking at her.

At this point in time everyone thought only one thing: why did they not think about such an obvious but effective strategy?

At last, Klaus raised his hand. Silence fell instantly.

"We will do what Lyssandra said," he said coldly. "We will strike like the night itself. Zero Division will infiltrate through natural caves and tunnels, Kaiden has revealed. Supplies will burn. Officers will fall. And I…" His eyes gleamed crimson. "…I will kill at least one transcendent during this operation."

"We will give them a huge blow even before starting a war."

Kaiden bowed deeply. His voice trembled, but not with fear but with rage. "My lord… make them pay. For my wife. For all they have done."

"You have my word," Klaus said.

The council ended that afternoon.

The same night, the plan came into motion.

The moon rose in the dark sky of Riverdale, and Klaus's forces moved like phantoms along with him as well.

Through forests, through mountain caves, through hidden tunnels, the Zero Division crept like shadows. Their blades glimmered faintly. Their illusions cloaked them in shadow.

Klaus on the other side walked alone toward the capital of Lionhart, every step silent, his aura suppressed, yet the air seemed colder in his wake.

At the gates, Klaus intercepted a patrol guard who was alone. That guard was then dragged into the shadows, tortured and broken within minutes, and he spilled everything that was asked.

Guided by the knowledge, Klaus slipped through the palace undetected until he reached the chamber of a southern prince, the scion of the Falcon Empire.

Klaus calmly sat on a royal sofa made specially for the prince.

A few minutes later the prince entered, humming casually, but he froze when he felt a presence.

Seated on his sofa, wearing a regal robe as if he owned the palace, was Klaus. His crimson eyes gleamed.

"Who are you?" the prince demanded.

Klaus smiled thinly. "Your new lord."

The prince sneered. "Courting death."

But before the prince could attack, the air ruptured, and the Dragon's Might skill burst forth, crushing the room. The prince collapsed, blood spraying from his lips. His transcendent aura shattered.

One strike and Death met with the prince.

As soon as the prince fell, he was summoned back as a death minion. Now he was the second transcendent bound to Klaus's will.

But then Klaus sensed three more auras of transcendents approaching fast. They were the other princes.

Even he could not face all three alone. Not yet, so he decided to leave and vanished into shadows.

a few hundred miles from the royal palace.

The camps of the four princes sprawled across the plains, tens of thousands of soldiers sleeping under tents, confident in their overwhelming numbers.

Klaus raised his hand, and a huge cloud of death spread on the ground across the whole camp; before anyone could realize it, death monsters erupted from the shadows.

Thirty-six thousand dead soldiers poured forth, tearing through tents, slaughtering men in their sleep. Screams filled the night, turning the camp into a nightmare.

For every soldier that fell, another rose under Klaus's death monarch's influence, their blades turned against their own comrades.

The skies split as meteors of fire rained down on the camp, obliterating whole companies. Glacial boulders crushed tents like paper. The earth itself split, swallowing screaming men.

The army of one hundred thousand and the pride of four empires were now dissolved into chaos, as their discipline shattered.

Klaus looked at the beautiful chaos from a distance.

This night belonged to him.

And the world would never forget it.