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The northern district of Tyrosh was situated adjacent to a range of steep, rugged mountains, giving it a naturally elevated terrain.
Because of this, the estates of the archon, magisters, and wealthy merchants—those who delighted in surveying the world from above—were all constructed in this region.
Surrounding them were numerous administrative departments, established nearby for convenience and to better serve the ruling class.
Thus, the entire northern district could rightly be called a fusion of governmental and aristocratic zones, combining power and privilege within a single enclave.
WHOOSH—
Over a dozen black fire meteors plummeted from the sky, crashing into an expansive courtyard adorned with vividly colored flowers and exotic plants arranged in the distinct style of Tyrosh.
Black-gray flames erupted on impact, igniting the ground in an instant. The fire devoured the surrounding flora with unnatural speed, feeding on the very life of the plants to fuel its rapid growth.
"It's on fire! Someone, come quick—put it out!"
Alarming cries echoed across the estate as well-dressed male slaves rushed over, each carrying a wooden bucket brimming with water.
SPLASH! SPLASH!
*BOOOOOM!!!*
They flung water toward the expanding blaze, but instead of being extinguished, the black-gray fire roared even higher, growing fiercer and more volatile.
"Ahhh!"
A slave standing too close was caught by a sudden burst of the infernal flame. His right hand, just moments ago intact, was now engulfed in the writhing blaze.
The black-gray fire writhed like a living creature, rapidly consuming the flesh and muscle of the man's hand, then began creeping up his forearm, hungrily devouring everything in its path.
SLASH!
A blade flashed, cold and merciless, and in the next instant, the slave's burning arm was severed cleanly at the elbow.
"The flames of the abyss cannot be extinguished! Fetch the lady of the house, the young master and mistresses—get them out of here now! Then flee, and report straight to the Archon!"
The voice belonged to the captain of Archon Pachek's personal guard. A man well-versed in the horrors of these unearthly flames, he wasted no time in issuing orders.
Chaos erupted.
Amid frantic shouting and the pounding of hurried footsteps, the captain rallied several of his elite guards.
The archon's wife and children, escorted by terrified slaves, were swiftly ushered away from the courtyard, half of which was already consumed by the black-gray inferno.
But this terrifying fire was not limited to Pachek's estate.
Throughout the northern district, other luxurious residences were similarly ablaze. Screams and cries of agony rang out from every direction. The once-prosperous streets, broad and clean, were now filled with panic-stricken crowds fleeing for their lives.
And in such desperate moments, no one cared if you were kin to an archon or a magister. Survival took precedence above all.
The captain of the guards surveyed the flaming cityscape, eyes narrowing. Then, with ruthless precision, he raised his longsword and struck down the people blocking his way.
"By order of the Archon—those who stand in our path shall die!"
Following his lead, the guards did not hesitate. They drew their weapons and began cutting a bloody path through the mass of fleeing civilians, shouting as they carved their way forward.
Led by their captain, the group fought its way through the panicked crowd, the screams and blood blending into a surreal nightmare of fire and violence.
CRASH!!!
Just as the bloodied captain was about to lead his group out of the northern district, a tall domed spire, crumbling from above, collapsed and crashed into the road ahead, blocking the only exit.
Terrifying black-gray flames erupted anew, forming a wall of death that sealed off their escape route.
Despair flickered in the captain's eyes. Behind him, the nobles and the remaining survivors broke down into sobs and hopeless cries.
RUSTLE… RUSTLE…
Beyond the wall of flames, red silhouettes began to appear—figures dressed in crimson robes, barely visible through the smoke. They moved with purpose, tossing unknown objects into the heart of the blaze.
Strangely, the fire, once unquenchable, began to subside. It shrank rapidly and then vanished completely, leaving behind only smoldering ruins and rising steam.
The captain, still wary, gave a subtle signal with his eyes. One of his guards understood and seized a nearby slave, throwing him forward into the smoldering rubble.
Caught off guard, the slave stumbled and fell among the heated stones. He cried out as the heat scorched his skin, but aside from the burns, he was unharmed. The flames were truly gone.
Relieved, the captain gave a silent nod and led his group forward.
As they passed over the ruined spire, the captain lowered his gaze and noticed something unusual on the ground.
The objects tossed by the red-robed figures were wet clumps of clay—moist soil packed tightly together.
So that's how it's done… damp clay can extinguish hellfire.
The moment he etched this critical knowledge into his mind, a man stepped forward to block his path. He wore a robe of deep crimson that billowed like smoke in the heat. His expression was serene, yet his eyes gleamed with purpose.
He said, "The night is dark, and full of terrors. But my lord, the Lord of Light, shall show you the way."
A Red Priest from the Temple of R'hllor.
The captain immediately recognized the man's identity and responded without hesitation, his voice respectful and solemn, "Glory to the Lord of Light. I shall report everything that has happened here today to Archon Pachek, without omission."
Under ordinary circumstances, a man of his standing—a personal guard captain of Tyrosh's archon—would have little reason to show deference to a priest. After all, in Tyrosh, the Faith of the Three-headed God reigned supreme.
But after today's events, everything had changed.
The miracles of the Red Priests and their god would soon spread like wildfire through the city. The faith of the Lord of Light stood ready to grow in both followers and influence.
The red-robed priest gave a silent nod of approval before turning away. He began instructing the other Red Priests and the servants of R'hllor, the temple slaves, to construct a firebreak using the same wet clay that had subdued the hellfire.
People continued to flee through the street entrance, their faces marked by panic and desperation. Yet every soul who passed the red-robed priest instinctively slowed their steps, offered a slight bow, or whispered words of heartfelt gratitude.
To them, this crimson-robed figure had become a beacon of hope amid the black flames of despair.
But the Red Priests remained unmoved by their praise.
Their leader lifted his gaze skyward, toward the heavens above, where a great emerald-green dragon soared through the smoke-filled sky like an omen of death. His eyes, gleaming with solemn reverence, reflected the flickering glow of the dying fires.
In a voice barely louder than a breath, he murmured to himself, "Black fire… terror… death… Could this be it? The power of the Cold God, the one foretold in prophecy and doctrine to be the only true nemesis of the Lord of Light."
…
Far above the city of Tyrosh, Jacaerys soared through the skies atop his dragon, Vermax, observing the chaos below with the same focused calm he once had while watching an esports match in a past life.
From his vantage point, he commanded a sweeping view of the destruction.
More than half of Tyrosh's northern district had already fallen to flames and madness. It was no accident that he chose to circle just out of reach, directly above the heads of the panicked nobility who scrambled desperately for their lives.
His presence alone became a cruel taunt, a living reminder of their helplessness. Perhaps the sheer act of riding above the dying like a dark god of judgment deepened their terror—because Jacaerys noticed that the rate at which his status interface refreshed in the bottom left corner of his vision had begun to accelerate, surpassing even the pace he had witnessed during his earlier onslaught of Dragonfire upon the sea.
Along the eastern wall, nearly half of the slave soldiers stationed there had been ordered away, marching in tight formation.
Judging by their movement, it was clear they were being redirected to reinforce the embattled northern district. That decision, no doubt made by Archon Pachek and his fellow magisters, would prove disastrous.
The black fire spread too fast. By the time those reinforcements arrived, the entire northern district would likely be lost.
And with those soldiers pulled from the eastern wall, that section was now significantly weakened, creating an ideal breach point for the Unsullied legions and the troops from Bloodstone Isle.
This, Jacaerys thought, was the inevitable result of amateurs attempting to command professionals. Yet he had no complaints. The more foolish the enemy, the swifter the victory.
With a thunderous flap of his massive wings, Vermax climbed higher before swooping over the northern walls once more. A third deafening roar split the air.
From behind the lines of expendable slave soldiers, the seven hundred Unsullied who had been lying in wait received the signal.
As one, they lifted their shields and leveled their spears, advancing with precise discipline toward the weakened section of the northern wall.
Meanwhile, the remaining sixteen hundred Bloodstone warriors split into two separate assault groups, flanking left and right to launch a coordinated pincer attack.
Despite their reputation for ferocity, these soldiers moved with tactical purpose, not blind aggression.
It was difficult to say whether Jacaerys was being reckless or simply so confident in his power that hesitation felt unnecessary.
This kind of siege, normally drawn out with prolonged probing and attrition, was instead being executed with a single, overwhelming full-frontal assault. He sought not to weaken the enemy gradually, but to break them in a single decisive strike.
Thousands of expendable soldiers, who had thus far cowered in the slave district, were now being forced forward.
They had no choice but to march toward the walls of Tyrosh, trapped between the looming dragon above and the relentless pressure driving them forward from behind.
With these cannon fodder acting as a living shield at the front, the Unsullied and the Bloodstone troops on the right flank advanced with almost no resistance. The enemy's defenses were too slow to respond.
On the left flank, however, the Bloodstone forces encountered some delay. The Tyroshi fleet stationed offshore began bombarding their approach from the beaches, halting their momentum.
Without any hesitation, Vermax twisted in the air and dove toward the enemy fleet, responding to the threat with terrifying speed.
Tyrosh's defenders had been monitoring the emerald-green dragon's movements closely. The moment it changed course, the warships that had been gradually shifting position since the dragon's appearance now broke formation entirely.
Panic seized them as they desperately turned toward the harbor, seeking shelter from the wrath descending from above.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Just as Vermax came into range, the southernmost end of the eastern wall came to life.
The ballistae stationed there—massive siege weapons designed to pierce dragons—let loose their bolts in unison.
Ordinary projectiles of this size and speed posed little threat to a dragon of Vermax's agility.
Jacaerys, experienced as he was, maneuvered deftly through the air, avoiding most of them with ease. Yet the sheer density of fire made it impossible to dodge them all.
CRACK!!!
He guided Vermax to intercept one of the bolts with the armored front of the dragon's chest, where the scales were thickest.
Several emerald scales shattered on impact, the fragments glinting as they fell like emerald tears. The injury was painful but not crippling.
Thanks to the accelerated growth granted by the "Gluttonous" status effect, the damaged scales would regenerate within two days.
Even so, Jacaerys made a mental note to guard that area more carefully in the battles ahead.
As the enemy ballistae entered their reloading phase, the southern wall fell into a brief silence. It was a fleeting lull.
And now, it was Vermax's turn to strike.
..
..
[IMAGE]
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[Chapter End's]
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