Empire's Reckoning: The Death Dragon Falls
At that very moment, as Kairan and her hero party prepared to depart from the Succubus Village in the capital, the imperial capital was in turmoil. The reason was a purge of the major noble houses. Even amid wartime, during this fragile peace, the emperor had finally drawn her sword.
"Minister."
"Yes, Your Majesty. What is your command?"
"Was I too hasty?"
The emperor posed the question to the Minister of Internal Affairs, who stood behind her, thrusting deep into her womb.
It wasn't an accusation or interrogation—just pure curiosity.
"Not at all, Your Majesty."
And so the minister shared her honest thoughts. In her view, the emperor hadn't been hasty in the slightest. Quite the opposite—she was amazed by the superhuman patience that had held back the purge even after confirming signs of rebellion and discussions underway. The emperor hadn't wanted to shatter this peaceful interlude. That's why she'd endured, waiting despite the plotting. But one problem had arisen, becoming the trigger.
'Why was the Household Minister there...!'
The Household Minister: a loyal servant of the previous emperor, whose merits had earned her a position that remained unchanged even after the current emperor's ascension. By tradition, a single Household Minister served only one emperor for life—a blatant exception. Yet objectively, she was worthy of it. Competent, incorruptible. Always rational, viewing situations with clear objectivity. Nobles without greed were rare; noble bureaucrats even rarer. A minister-level one? Unheard of.
That's why Her Majesty had wanted her by her side... but...
"Traditions exist for a reason, it seems."
"Your Majesty."
"The predecessors must have faced these same headaches."
The emperor forced a wry smile as she spoke.
"How far has the purge progressed?"
"Your Majesty, the Polin Viscount and Fallen Count families are resisting with their private armies, but they'll be subdued shortly."
"The Tax Bureau Chief?"
"Yes, and Aya-me's hero party is lending a hand."
The emperor's eyes widened at the minister's words.
"Hmm. I should send them a gift soon."
"A word of warning, Your Majesty—you can't be the gift yourself."
"...I can't?"
"No, you cannot."
"Eek."
⁎ ⁎ ⁎
The Fallen Count estate lay on the outskirts of the capital. A peaceful spot, somewhat removed from the city center. Yet not tucked away in some rural backwater like lesser baronies or viscountcies, so they had to restrain their power.
"What a pain."
The woman—a Tax Bureau Chief under the Ministry of Finance—spat curses as she swung her sword, flicking off the blood coating it. The splattered droplets hissed on the ground, slowly corroding the stone. Faintly acidic blood. One reason black magic was shunned.
"Disgusting..."
"Looks like undead from the appearance."
Samuel, the priest of Aya-me's hero party, remarked while fondling her breasts. Black magic granted immense power and flesh, but at the cost of blood turning acidic. Could be seen as an advantage, but the issue was it corroded their own bodies too. Limbs flopping, flesh melting, held together by dark spells—these monsters approached. The sight of the rebels, who outright rejected the continent's current system under the banner of "republicanism."
■ ■ ■ ■—!
One sword stroke, and dozens of heads tumbled. The chief covered her grimaced face and turned to Aya-me.
"With the hero stepping in like this, it's reassuring."
"Huh? I didn't even do anything...?"
"Haha, just your presence as the 'hero' boosts our allies' morale and sows doubt in the enemy ranks."
The hero was absolute good. Opposing absolute good meant evil. The rebels—especially the rank-and-file swayed to the cause—must be rattled. Their leaders might not be, but the followers would waver. And that doubt would create cracks.
"One floor smoother than expected."
The chief glanced at the Fallen Count mansion as she spoke. Far too grand for a mere count's residence, its antique elegance now gone. Blood splattered everywhere, walls melted by acid or scarred by brutal sword marks. The noble manor resembled ruins from centuries past.
"Fallen Count."
Through a massive hole where her office should have been, the Fallen Count emerged. Blood-soaked, clutching a tome bound in human skin, she cackled madly.
"Ha, hahaha! Hahahahaha! It's over! Dogs of the empire!!!"
Even as her acidic blood melted her from within, she bellowed a horrific laugh through her torn vocal cords. The chief snarled in disgust.
"Fucking lunatic."
"Don't look at that crap, Aya-me."
"Eek. Don't cover my eyes...!"
"No way, Aya-me. You can't unsee that."
"I want this level of overprotection in bed too..."
Aya-me shook off her party members' hands covering her eyes. Onahole in bed, baby outside. She'd thought she'd gotten used to it, but the disconnect lingered. Channeling mana into her sword, she unleashed a massive slash at the count.
"Gurk! Kr, krahak!"
Sword scars etched into her flesh. Blood sprayed, melting the mansion walls. The count spat blood but didn't stop laughing. Black smoke began seeping from beside her.
"All of it! It's all over! Die for the new era, empire!!!"
Thunderclap. Cawing ravens. Screams. Thousands, tens of thousands of screams and wails converging in one horrific chorus.
The mood shifted in an instant. The chief and Aya-me gripped their swords tighter; Samuel aimed his M3 submachine gun at the count. Party mage Lucy recast her reinforcement spells.
■ ■ ■ ■ ■—!
Thousands of holy-enhanced silver bullets tore through the air toward the count. A roar that could shred space itself. Bullets that pulverized thick wood or steel plates riddled her body. Hideous holes gaped open, turning her into a zombie risen from an ancient tomb.
Yet she didn't fall. Instead, she glared at Samuel, eyes bulging.
"Ah, aah! Aaaah!"
Vocal cords and jaw gone, she couldn't speak properly. A black shadow formed behind her.
"That's..."
The shadow grew. The din intensified. The air grew heavier, damp, sticky.
Yeah. If he had to compare...
"A battlefield."
The chief spat another curse. Battlefields held only regret, despair, corpses, and blood, they said. But there was one lesser-known element veterans called the "incarnation of hell."
Born from devouring dozens, thousands of corpses, fueled by tens, hundreds of thousands of despairs—the first emissary of "death."
Death Dragon (Saryong).
"How many did you sacrifice? Dozens? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Is this your new era?"
"····"
"Revolting."
The count—reduced to bones—smiled with her eyes. No voice, but her words were clear. That's what made it sickening.
A faint crunch.
The awakened death dragon crushed the count's body underfoot. No blood or flesh left to splatter—only bone shards flew.
"Interesting."
Gazing at the death dragon, the chief readjusted her grip.
"That makes exactly a thousand."
The Tax Bureau Chief. No—Elishia Bernhard, bearer of the Thousand-Mile Eyes, gleamed with resolve.
One of the specialists in dragon-slaying. Sword in hand, she advanced. With each step, the souls of dragons she'd slain resonated.
"One Sword."
Waste Dragon (Paeryong).
"...Impossible."
The slicing shrrk echoed belatedly. The dragon's head hit the ground.
"Hah, the empire really..."
"Why is someone like that in the Tax Bureau...?"
A death dragon wasn't just some monster. A reaper born in places like battlefields where death was routine—a mythical calamity. The first child "death" discarded, the world's primal curse. Where it appeared, battles ended; ancient kingdoms recorded their doom at its claws.
"Whew..."
Aya-me watched the chief. Her breathing steady, she strolled forward like on a walk, waving casually like greeting a friend.
Too fast for the eye. One blink. One breath. Less than a second—a fleeting moment. Yet in that instant, she'd soared skyward.
Standing atop the dragon's head, looking down upon it.
"Did you see it clearly?"
The chief called to Aya-me. She nodded.
There. That was the path she had to follow.
In Aya-me's eyes, having witnessed the pinnacle of dragon-slaying, burned not fear or despair—but fighting spirit.