The next day, the death march resumed.
Following the Dragon Road deeper in, all that met the eye were the remains of cities.
Ash-white marble and pitch-black basalt lay tumbled together, charred beams jutting through the thick fog.
Sailors and slaves went silent as crickets; only the crunch of boots crushing dry bones could be heard.
Yet in Leon's mind ran fragments of his past-life memories about the Valyrian Ruins.
Legend claimed that in the depths of the Sea of Smoke two Valyrian cities—Oros and Teria—still had inhabitants.
He had no idea where he was, but at least he'd spotted no sign of life nearby.
Leon would bet his life that Gillian, that madman, wasn't looking for Teria or Oros at all—he meant to strike straight at Valyria.
The capital of Valyria lay at the heart of the Fourteen Fires, hiding the truth and clues to its fall; something lethally dangerous would be waiting there.
Leon hesitated, wondering if he should slip away now—he couldn't swagger into Valyria with the main force.
What kept him dithering was doubt: did he have enough mana to survive a peril-ridden land alone?
At the moment his ultimate dragon-shift was unusable—it demanded at least a thousand points of mana. All he could cast were Dragon Flame Breath and Prairie Fire.
Could those two skills keep him alive by himself?
He felt lost. He'd had the system too short a time, while the madman's hunger for treasure far outran his imagination; he dared not gamble his life.
After long deliberation Leon made a quiet resolve.
If before reaching Valyria he couldn't gather enough dragon spirits and mana to unlock the ultimate skill, he would find a chance to bolt.
As he weighed this, shouts erupted ahead; the column halted in a plaza littered with the foundations of titanic buildings to rest.
Before the exhausted gasps had settled, a ghastly cry rang in their ears.
'Eee-yaaa!!!'
A shriek, far too shrill for any human throat, burst from the dense woods on the right like nails scraping glass.
Every hair on every neck stood erect.
Next came the snap and rasp of heavy branches breaking; fog churned as something huge wove between twisted trunks.
'You—go look!'
Gillian scowled and jabbed a finger at the nearest guard by the trees.
The man's face turned ashen; under Gillian's icy stare he clenched his spear and inched toward that wall of eerie dead timber.
When he was still a few steps from the edge—
CRASH!
A dark-green blur burst through the branches on a reeking wind, hurling the guard to the ground.
In the uproar the creature came clear.
It had a hunched, man-like torso sheathed in deep-green, crocodile-thick scales.
Its limbs were grotesquely long and twisted, ending in black talons that glinted like cold iron.
A bald head bore only ridged layers of horn.
Two blood-red vertical eyes glared from its face, bright with hate and hunger.
A mouth split to the ears, packed with needle fangs, drooled sticky yellow slime in a steady fall.
Hiss—!
The slime struck the fallen guard's face; acrid white smoke rose as flesh melted like hot wax, exposing white cheekbone beneath.
The man screamed.
'Loose!'
Gillian roared.
Arrows stormed toward the monster.
Clink! Clink! Clink!
Sparks showered from its hide.
Shafts met scales with a sound of iron on iron and rebounded or snapped.
Hearts sank: the beast's armor was stronger than steel.
'Forward—cut it down!' Gillian bellowed at the guard detachment.
Yet those usually elite Jicheng Soldiers seemed to have lead in their legs; not one stepped up.
In that frozen instant another despairing shriek tore skyward—this time from the rear of the slave column.
Heads whipped around.
A second, slightly smaller creature had slithered like a gecko down the trunk of a great dead tree and silently pried open a slave's skull; now it guzzled the red-and-white cavity with revolting slurps.
Sss… sss… sss… Bone-chilling scrapes sounded on every side.
In the fog-choked woods pairs of blood-red vertical eyes ignited, one after another, thick as stars.
Dark green, deep grey, iron-black—scales of every hue flickered among the branches.
They stepped forward, hunched silhouettes forming a moving wall of armor in the mist, hemming the tiny column in on the ashes of the Dragon Road.
Those crimson eyes locked on every scrap of living flesh.
Leon's heart sank.
He'd assumed only wolves or beasts hid in the Withered Woods, beasts that might balk at their numbers.
Now he had to admit he'd been arrogant; in Valyria common sense failed, and reality taught harsh lessons.
Could he run?
Leon was no hot-headed youth; the moment the monsters appeared he'd already put the others between himself and danger, ready to flee at the first chance.
To him survival came first—nothing outweighed his own life.
But the thought of fleeing was strangled by icy despair, for from the rear of the column came the same thick, ragged breathing—more of the creatures' kin.
They were surrounded.
Behind them lay the light-devouring Black Forest; ahead, fog rolled like a gray, churning sea.
Leon's knuckles whitened around the makeshift staff he had scavenged.
His mind sank into the realm only he could "see"—the strange presence known as the Panel.
Mana: 500.
In human form, Dragon Flame Breath cost one point per second; Prairie Fire, two.
That reserve might handle a few monsters if he used active skills, but the shadows kept disgorging ranks of them—far beyond what he could face.
Still, the passive bloodline gift True Dragon Physique flooded him with strength; even in human shape he felt inexhaustible.
Leon watched Gillian and the rest, resolved to snatch a decent weapon first, hold the charge with brute force, then slip into the Withered Woods when chaos peaked.
If the creatures pursued, he would funnel them through the trees and burn them back with Dragon Flame Breath.
It was the best plan he had.
Time to think was a luxury death would not grant.
A shrill shriek shredded the stifling silence.
The monsters moved—not probing, but a ravenous tide that swamped the outer ring in an instant.
Screams erupted.
Sailors and slaves, bare-handed or with crude sticks, were paper before the creatures' armored scales.
A young sailor was slammed down; talons tore linen and flesh, his kicking stilled as fangs crunched through his neck, blood spraying the ground.
Another slave swung a club; the blow clacked harmlessly against a carapace, enraging the beast. One hooked sweep tore away half the man's face and an eye.
In that charnel chaos only Gillian Lannister and his guards stood like rock.
Steel rang in a quick chorus as blades cleared scabbards.
Veterans snapped together, backs touching, forming a tight ring.
Gillian stood at the fore, half-plate polished bright over mail, gaze steady.
Hold! Strike the joints!
he roared.
His sword hacked into an oncoming limb-joint; dark-green shell cracked, oozing black, sap-thick blood.
The monster shrieked, faltered, then pressed its attack as the melee surged anew.
Leon hunted his moment.
Eyes sharp, he spotted a guard locked with a hulking beast, attention fixed.
He ducked, darted, fingers hooking the spare longsword at the man's belt.
He recognized the scuffed scabbard—yesterday's unlucky Lenned, devoured by red maggots.
The cold grip settled heavy in his palm, reeking of blood, and steadied him.
A reek of carrion wind slammed him at once.
A monster abandoned its wounded prey and lunged for this new armed threat.
No stance, no time—Leon channeled instinct and dragon-borne strength, hauling the blade upward in a full-power upswing.
Clang!
Steel shrieked.
The jolt numbed his fingers, jarred his arm to the shoulder.
The edge met the blocking talon, sparks spitting.
The creature staggered, green eyes flickering with something like surprise.
Leon reeled half a step, breath hammering his ribs.
So much power!
He felt the change in his bones.
This was not the frail body he had known; it was the True Dragon Physique.
Yet he saw his own glaring flaw.
Raw strength, no skill.
His swings were wild, exhausting, nothing like the veterans who parried, redirected, found openings with economical grace.
And in this melee that clumsy style blazed like a beacon.
Gillian Lannister's green eyes, between sword-strokes, swept the field.
He saw the black-haired Yi slave hack a monster backward with sheer force, and something stirred in his calm mind.
Where does an Yi slave find such strength?
It made no sense.
Eastern slaves were rare but not unknown in the Free Cities—yet he had never heard of one who fought like this.