Devouring Dragon Heir

Klaus sank deeper into the cushioned chair, its soft embrace slowly melting away the fatigue that had built up in his body after weeks of relentless battles and the repeated, draining use of Dragon's Might.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself breathe without the weight of immediate bloodshed on his shoulders.

Since morning, he had been talking mostly to himself, organizing his scattered thoughts and reviewing the flaws in his current approach. The conclusion was clear: he needed a cultivation technique of his own to increase his mana capacity and strengthen his other aspects, although it won't provide a rank up, but it would still be very beneficial to him.

Something permanent and powerful.

The system had already told him its opinion, the system wanted Klaus to cultivate nothing short of a godly-ranked technique.

Godly rank. The term itself was foreign to him. He had heard of divine rank, but godly? That was supposedly a step higher.

"It must be rare, right?" Klaus muttered, staring up at the ceiling.

The entire Dragon Treasury contains only one such technique. Across the entire universe, only ten of them exist.

"Damn…" Klaus whispered, tilting his head with a faint smirk. "Must be extraordinary."

[Extraordinary is an understatement…]

The system droned on, describing the unfathomable greatness of a godly technique. But Klaus's mind drifted elsewhere. His sharp eyes softened for the briefest moment as an old memory stirred.

"Fuck… why can't I get her out of my head?" He muttered, frustrated as a familiar face surfaced in his thoughts.

Julie, the little brat who used to nag him dramatically in his sleep. For weeks now, he hadn't seen her in his dreams, and though he would never admit it openly, he missed the chaos she brought with her.

And as soon as he thought of Julie, another face appeared, the quiet, mute girl from the academy. The granddaughter of Magnus. Her calm eyes, her silence, and the way she had looked at him while summoning a meteor back then had left a spark in him.

"She's cute though," Klaus admitted to himself with a subtle grin. "I was really pissed, though, when that violet-haired brat mouthed off to her."

[Heh! The dragon has finally found himself a mate…]

"Shut up, asshole virgin system."

[⊙﹏⊙∥]

"Fuck you. When I'm in real trouble, you're stiff and robotic. But now you've suddenly grown a sense of humor? Bitch."

[ding!! The host seems unstable.

"Fuck off with that ding shit! You sound like a dollar-store knockoffof Jarvis."

[Host is suffering from a burnout. The host needs to relax.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever." Klaus leaned back, closing his eyes, his shoulders sinking into the cushions.

A moment of silence passed before he casually said, "Call the Lords."

The peaceful room he had taken over inside Lionhart Palace overlooked a series of green hills bathed in sunlight. The chamber had once belonged to one of the princesses of the royal family.

But since they were currently rotting in the underground cellar, at least until the control of the kingdom was fully secured, Klaus had simply cleaned the place and claimed it for himself.

Six shadows flickered against the marble floor. The next heartbeat, six kneeling figures appeared behind him. The Lords had answered his call.

"Go drag Kaziraik to my feet," Klaus ordered flatly. His tone was casual, but the weight behind it was suffocating. "He relies on coercion as his primary force; it's really dangerous. Take these with you."

He tossed them a set of high-grade potions and a silver ring. The very same Ring of Invisibility that had been used against him days ago by one of Kaziraik's lapdogs.

"Don't let your numbers fool you into arrogance," Klaus continued, his voice like steel.

"Kaziraik is a nightmare even for empires with multiple Transcendents. He has countless allies, a trove of treasures, and mastery over the concept of corrosion. That alone makes him near-unbeatable. So tread carefully."

Beads of sweat glistened on the foreheads of the six lords. Even hardened warriors like them could not hide their unease.

"My lord," Necrolord finally spoke up, his voice edged with tension, "please give us guidance. If the demon lord is truly that troublesome, how are we to proceed?"

Klaus chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. He stretched his stiff body, arms cracking as though he'd just woken from a nap.

"The demons," he began, "are said to be the most evil, scheming race in existence." His smile widened.

"So show them who their father is in scheming. Play dirty. Play as filthily as you can. Forget honor; demons don't deserve it. There's a reason they're every race's common enemy."

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming.

"I don't care how you do it. Abduct his children, poison his wife, burn his kingdom—I couldn't give a shit. Just bring me one thing. The head of Kaziraik."

The six lords lowered their heads in unison. "Understood, my lord." And then, as swiftly as they had appeared, they vanished.

Klaus exhaled heavily, exhaustion leaking from his body. A yawn escaped his mouth. He shifted his gaze back to the rolling green landscape outside the palace window.

"… I miss my sports car," he muttered suddenly. After a pause, he smirked. "Guess I'll try riding bikes once I return."

[The host should consider building a road inside the Sanctuary to enjoy his favorite vehicles. If the Earth is destroyed tomorrow, we will never know…]

Klaus laughed, shaking his head. "Nah. Not happening. Not on my watch." His words carried an iron certainty that no one could mistake.

[That is… if the host stops daydreaming about his mate.]

The smile vanished from Klaus's face. His aura turned sharp. "…Want to hear another round of slurs, system?"

The system fell silent instantly.

"Good," Klaus muttered, leaning back again. "Now show me my DP balance."

[Balance: 593,487 DP.]

"Halfway there." Klaus tapped his finger against the chair's armrest. "Still need another half million before I can draw a godly item."

He clicked his tongue. "This draw system is fucking inconvenient. Don't you have a shop feature instead?"

[Shop is not free. It costs three million DP to unlock.]

Klaus snorted. "Figures. Instead of putting up bullshit prices, maybe you should start giving quests and actual rewards."

[The host should complete the current quests first.]

"Yeah, yeah." Klaus waved lazily, his tone bored. "Fine. Whatever you say."

He picked himself up from the comfortable chair and went inside the chamber to have some good sleep.

---

While Klaus carried out his plans in Lionhart, another storm was building far to the south of the continent.

The southern region burned with shocking news that spread so quickly no authority could contain it.

The magnitude of the report was too great, and within a day it spilled out of military briefings and secret council chambers into the mouths of merchants, messengers, and wandering singers.

The news spread from city to city, travelling faster than official proclamations. By the time the second sun had set, it had reached the ears of the common people and stirred widespread unease.

In the bustling heart of the Obsidian Empire, inside a dim tavern filled with the smell of cheap ale and roasted meat, the tension was thick.

Bards and storytellers stood on wooden platforms, their voices cutting through the noise of mugs slamming against tables.

"Listen well, people of Obsidian!" One bard cried out, his lute resting on his hip as he spoke with a serious tone.

"The Anti-Messenger Alliance, formed with such pride, has fallen. Not just fallen, they have been utterly destroyed."

The crowd, made up of drunkards, merchants, mercenaries, and farmers, quieted quickly. Everyone wanted to hear.

Another bard, standing in the opposite corner, nodded grimly and raised his voice.

"The alliance was defeated in the Lionhart Kingdom itself. All their banners, all their promises, shattered.

The messenger stood with an army numbering forty-eight thousand. Remember that number, friends: forty-eight thousand, and still he brought the empire's one hundred thousand-strong army to its knees.

Murmurs spread like wildfire through the tavern. Tankards were lowered. Dice games halted. Faces turned pale in the glow of candlelight.

"The princes," the bard continued, drawing in a deep breath, "those at the peak of their youth who had been dispatched to the Lionhart kingdom, did not survive."

Another bard took the story from there, adding weight to the words.

"This Messenger, this mysterious force, no one knows his true intent nor his mission.

He gives no declarations, no reason, and no demand. He simply arrives. And wherever he arrives, the outcome is always the same. Slaughter. Death. And fear."

The silence in the tavern deepened. Even the flickering fire in the hearth seemed to dim under the oppressive atmosphere.

People exchanged uneasy glances, some clenching their mugs so hard that their knuckles turned white.

The bard ended with a grim voice that carried across the room.

"Pray, people of Obsidian. Pray harder than you ever have before. May the gods bless this land and shield it, for if the Messenger's shadow falls upon us next, none of us will be spared."

The innkeeper behind the counter stopped polishing mugs and leaned closer, listening as if every word might decide his fate.

The tavern, once full of laughter and drunken songs, had turned into a place of dread.

The news of their own prince's demise had struck deeper than any sword in the hearts of common people.