The corpse of the Dragon Emperor had not merely fallen. It had arrived as if hurled by the fist of a god. For many days straight, the Dragon Nest shuddered with the aftershocks of impact. Shockwaves radiated across biomes like tidal waves of force, splitting mountains, boiling lakes, and turning lesser dragon flights into drifting clouds of glittering dust. Smoke, ash, and starlit motes of emperor-blood drifted across the horizon like a second dawn. By the time the tremors ceased, the world itself had changed.
The Dragon Emperor's gargantuan remains lay half-buried across ten different war-scarred biomes, ribs jutting skyward like spires, organs the size of hills bulging through torn, petrified flesh. Its golden ichor pooled into rivers. Bone fragments formed cliffs taller than fortress walls. Its wings, if such titanic membrane masses could be called wings, lay like collapsed mountains.
The Nest had always been a crucible of brutality. But with the fall of an Emperor? It became a feeding frenzy. And into that frenzy marched Artorius Pendrath.
The sky above the corpse boiled with war banners. Flights of dragons soared overhead, their cries tearing the air; bronze, crimson, cerulean, obsidian. Caravans of landbound dragons marched below in long lines like pilgrims. Mercenary bands flew colors of every stripe along with different tribes that lived in the wilds, lone dragons prowled the corpse's outer organs like wolves circling a colossal kill.
Artorius surveyed the battlefield that sprawled below like a war-torn city frozen in motion. The sheer scale of the corpse defied comprehension. Just the outer regions alone was a labyrinth of shattered bone, petrified muscle, and writhing veins of golden ichor, some still pulsing faintly with residual power and they had not reached the corpse proper.
Chaos reigned. Scavenger dragons flitted through the skeletal corridors, picking over the carcass for treasure or sustenance. Mercenary bands carved out their own territories, claiming towers of bone or shattered limbs as temporary fortresses. The noble blooded dragons kept their entourages close, staking claims with quiet authority, while the Monarch blooded dragons, the true apex predators, dominated the higher points with their forces, their eyes sharp and calculating, daring anyone to challenge them.
What was strange though was that ever since Artorius and his army stepped near the corpse he felt something calling out to him.
Artorius' forces moved with precise intent. The army he was given by the Sword Dragon was an eclectic bunch made up of all the prisoners in the colosseum that were cleared out and handed to him to go fight. Along with gladiators that came from all over to fight in the arena now part of his army who were brutal and bloodthirsty madmen. Plus the elite Sword Dragon troops whose loyalty was absolute and they had sleek, well adorned armor who stood in perfect formation. Finally there were the draconic constructs that hummed faintly with power made of dead dragon parts. They were an army cobbled together by circumstance, but under Artorius' command, they were precise, methodical, and deadly.
Raijin and Zoklath flanked him as they advanced, their presence a signal of both reassurance and authority. Both were veterans of the pit and of war, and their confidence lent weight to Artorius' orders. Beside them was the old asteroid dragon healer and the Crimson Drakonar.
He had his order and swore his oath to the eternal flame to serve the Sword Dragon for this war. For now they were to be the sharp sword that cut through the rabble and secure their launch point into the dragon corpse. Even though he made his oath to the Eternal flame, the Sword Dragon king kept the Mana suppression collar on him. The dragon must have been quite terrified at what he had done in the Pale Snowfields calling upon a long dead dragon lord.
He was basically a walking nuclear option which no one would unleash in their right mind. And the dragon had the nerve to remark he would do fine since he was doing fine in the arena.
The Crimson Drakonar pointed toward the horizon, where the outer regions of the corpse writhed with chaos dragons fighting dragons, scavengers tearing flesh, mercenary bands clashing over golden ichor. "The Sword Dragon King commands you," Drakonar barked, "to secure the southern flank of the corpse, the Dragon Tail. The Monarch Blooded have taken an interest in that region. You will deny them."
Artorius rolled his eyes, the dragon was angry that he was in command, not it. Every order Artorius gave only made the noble-born brute look more constipated with outrage. Good, Artorius thought. Let him stew in it.
The corpse-landscape shifted beneath their feet as they marched. The terrain here was not natural, nothing in the Dragon Nest ever truly was but here the land twisted more violently the closer they came to the southern region.
The closer they marched to the corpse, the more reality unraveled. Lightning bolts struck before they formed with thunder rumbled from directions no storm existed. Rain fell sideways, upwards, then froze midair in cubes.
One gladiator sneered at it, "What's the worse it can—" A cube of rain slid through his helmet and cut his head clean off.
Shimmering bubbles of warped space appeared like mirages. When a mercenary camp wandered into one, the world distorted and suddenly they weren't there. A moment later, they appeared at the ridge behind the army but younger. Clothing was different, weapons replaced with sticks.
For miles they crossed the shattered outskirts of the Emperor's remains: slabs of petrified flesh, valleys formed from collapsed organs, gnarled spires of bone jutting skyward like the ruins of some skyscrapers. The air was heavy with the metallic stench of emperor-ichor and the sulfurous breath of active dragon flights circling somewhere above the haze.
But as the army moved deeper, the land began to rise subtle at first, then sharply, as though the earth itself were lifting its spine. The ground hardened underfoot, changing from shredded flesh and ossified skin into colossal ridges of pure bone. The Dragon Tail was close.
They felt it before they saw it. A cold, sharp wind that whistled like a dirge. The Dragon was so massive its tail was a mountain range, a colossal, serrated landscape formed from the Emperor's hindmost vertebrae and the massive tail-blade at its end.
The "mountains" were enormous vertebrae stacked like towers, curving along the horizon in an impossible arc. Each one was bigger than a fortress. The gaps between them formed valleys deep enough to swallow entire battalions. Between these vertebrae, massive tendons now hardened into tough, rope-like ridges ran like bridges across many feet drops. Along the slopes, patches of petrified muscle clung to bone like blackened glaciers.
Higher still, the ridges sharpened into bladelike extensions which was the tail blade. They jutted outward in enormous crescent shapes, each the height of a city wall, curved like scimitars that could cleave through mountains.
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Storms brewed perpetually around the tallest ridges. Winds screamed against the blade-ridges, creating eerie howls that echoed through the range like the cry of some enormous wounded creature. Artorius looked upon it all without flinching.
Raijin, the thunder dragon, exhaled a low whistle. "Hnh. Forgot how damn big these things get."
Zoklath grunted. "You forget because you drink too much."
The old asteroid dragon bowed his head deeply in reverence and a bit of dread. "This is the resting place of a being whose power fed creation itself," he murmured. "We should walk with care."
But the Crimson Drakonar stepped forward with narrowed eyes, his tail lashing with impatience. "We march regardless. The Sword Dragon commands it."
Artorius' attention fixed on the nearest vertebra, an enormous ring of bone large enough for a city to sit inside. Sunlight filtered through the hollow, casting long shadows down the slope. At its base, golden ichor pooled in steaming pits. Scavenger drakes crawled across the surface, drinking, tearing, fighting each other.
Beyond that, the mountain range twisted into a labyrinth of peaks and razorback ridges. Already, he could see signs of competing forces. The Dragon Tail was already a battlefield and they had orders to take it.
Artorius climbed onto a jagged rib spike, the bone the size of a hill and surveyed his forces. They looked up at him in absolute silence. Not as a noble or overseer. Just the Warlord. Artorius's voice rolled out: "Listen well." All heads rose. "You were slaves. Castaways. Experiments. Soldiers nobody wanted. Champions thrown away like broken blades." A murmur rippled of agreement, bitterness, pain. "Not anymore."
Artorius lifted his chained arms. "Today, we're the vanguard. The first onto the corpse. The first into the chaos. Today, the Sword Dragon wants us to die." Growls, snarls, clicks of armor. Rage flared.
Artorius's eyes flashed. "So we won't." Silence. "We will survive. We will fight smarter. Harder. More ruthlessly than anyone else on this battlefield."
His voice grew darker. "We won't fight for the Sword Dragon." Gasps filled the air as many were just shocked at his audacity. "We fight for ourselves. For those left alive. For what we'll take by force."
He pointed toward the roiling battlefield ahead. "There is power in that corpse. Enough to raise kings. Enough to destroy biomes." His fist closed. "And we will carve out our share."
Roars erupted. Drakonar glared, this was too close to rebellion for his comfort but he couldn't deny the army's response. Raijin murmured with a rare smile: "You inspire them." Zoklath grunted. "More like you terrify them."
"Good," Artorius said. "Both are necessary." He turned to the battalion. "Form up! Infantry at front, elites on flanks, constructs at rear! Prepare to march!"
With their units deployed, Artorius began coordinating the first assault on the outer ridges of the corpse. This was not merely a fight, it was a chessboard of territory, power, and survival. Dragons moved in packs, bands of mercenaries prowled the shadowed crevices, and the very corpse beneath them seemed alive, groaning and twitching with residual power. The goal was simple: secure the outer regions, push rival forces back, and establish control before moving deeper.
The first encounter was inevitable. A band of scavenger dragons, wiry and desperate, attempted to cut through the southern flank. Raijin moved first, a surge of electric energy crackling along the ridge. The scavengers froze, wings arched defensively then they took the gambit.
The scavengers advanced, hissing and clawing at the stone-like muscle beneath their feet. At the exact moment, Zoklath's ex-gladiators erupted from the lower veins, forcing the enemy into a narrow kill zone. The constructs advanced from the south, mechanical claws striking with precision, cutting off escape routes.
The battle was quick, surgical. Few of the scavengers survived, and those who did fled into the shadows. Artorius observed the aftermath carefully, noting which of his units had weaknesses, which moved too predictably, and which might be exploited by rival commanders in future encounters.
As the day stretched on, Artorius' forces encountered more organized resistance. Mercenary bands, having observed his movements, began testing his lines. Artorius responded by deploying his Sword Dragon troops as rapid reaction units, intercepting threats before they could destabilize his hold on the outer regions.
Meanwhile, the elite constructs patrolled the far flanks, their presence a deterrent against surprise attacks. Artorius realized quickly that the corpse's very architecture could be weaponized. Veins of hardened ichor were almost like natural barricades, arches of bone could be collapsed to block passage, and the residual power pulses in the muscle tissue could be amplified to destabilize enemy formations. Every section of the battlefield was both an opportunity and a threat.
The other dragons were not the only threats though. In truth, they were the least frightening. For a corpse the size of a continent did not simply die, it continued existing, in a half-living, half-decaying state that made the entire region an unstable nightmare.
The stuff they ran into was things Artorius rather not mention. It made all the different biomes he had travelled through look like cake walks. Still he thankfully made progress in this new very deadly biome.
Congratulations! You have leveled up. Race: [True-Blood DragonMen] → Lv. 27
Stat gains: +1 STR, +1 CON, +1 DEX, +1 Per, +1 CHA
Congratulations! You have leveled up. Archetype: [Leader] → Lv. 27
Stat gains: +1 INT, +1 WIL, +1 CHA