A ray of sunlight pierced through the gaps in the lead-gray clouds, falling straight onto the peak of the rocky hill.
In the light, the scales of the pale-gold dragon shimmered with a luster like liquid gold, each one seeming to breathe.
It swallowed the light, then refracted an even more majestic and brilliant golden glow.
And that black-armored, silver-haired knight sat astride the dragon's back, his blood-red cloak like a burning flame in the light.
The light enveloped them, defining their existence as something beyond the mundane.
Below, the gathered Skull Squad and Bloodsworn.
As well as those hundred-plus ashen-faced survivors from Tyrosh who had been escorted over, all involuntarily held their breath.
Looking up at this scene, which seemed to have stepped out of an ancient mural or a mythical epic.
The sunlight also fell on Aegon's face, illuminating his sharp profile and reflecting deep within those violet eyes.
In those pupils, it was as if sparks were ignited by this beam of light, silently spreading like a wildfire.
He tilted his head slightly, looking toward the direction the light came from, toward the sky he had just conquered.
The swift wind, the drifting clouds, the unfettered soaring, the perspective of looking down upon all living beings... that feeling was not merely one of power, but a deeper "freedom," as if innate shackles had suddenly been broken open.
To command the gale, to command the thunder, to command this massive beast, it was as if... he commanded his own destiny.
The corner of his mouth curled up in a nearly imperceptible, subtle arc.
The faint gloom that often lingered between his brows seemed to have been swept away by the high-altitude winds during that flight where he broke through the clouds and dominated the thunder.
He withdrew his gaze from the horizon, his eyes becoming calm and profound once more.
Raising his left hand, he gently patted the cold, tough scales on the side of Ghidorah's neck.
The dragon's middle head turned slightly, its molten gold eyes meeting his for a moment, conveying a silent response.
Then, Aegon's gaze fell like physical icicles, sweeping across the crowd gathered below the rocky hill, finally settling on the group of trembling, vacant-eyed Tyrosh prisoners.
Touched by that gaze, the prisoners shuddered violently, as if cold water had been poured over their heads.
"You," Aegon spoke, his voice not loud, yet it clearly suppressed the sound of the wind in the rift and the crashing waves, carrying an unquestionable tone of interrogation, "Why are you here? What is your purpose?"
A wave of frantic commotion went through the prisoners; they opened their mouths but were speechless due to extreme fear.
A man wearing a tattered officer's surcoat with burn scars on his face struggled, crawling forward a few steps, and kowtowed heavily, his voice distorted and out of tune from suppressed terror:
"My... My Lord! We... we were originally the army of Tyrosh and... and hired mercenaries. Because of long-term arrears and withholding of pay, we couldn't survive... so... so we joined forces with a general, wanting... wanting to find a new way to live..."
He was incoherent, but his will to survive forced him to continue: "In the end... in the end, the matter was exposed! We could only steal a ship and flee!"
"The Stepstones... only here could we hide temporarily! Driftmark is too large, easy to be exposed... so we chose this godforsaken place for temporary shelter, thinking we'd wait for the trouble to blow over, or... or find another way out... My... Lord..."
As he spoke, he suddenly paused; a title long forgotten by most, existing only in legends and stories, suddenly flashed through his mind and blurted out:
"Dragonlord—!"
"We... we really didn't know this was your territory! We have offended... offended the majesty of the Dragonlord! Please show mercy! Spare the lives of us blind, reckless ants!"
Dragonlord.
A long-lost title carrying the weight of blood and fire made many pirates of the Skull Squad shudder as well, their gazes toward Aegon becoming even more fervent and reverent.
Aegon listened quietly, a flash of understanding appearing deep in his violet eyes.
So that was it.
It wasn't an intelligence leak, nor was it targeted at him or that batch of armor.
It was merely a group of desperate rebels who had blundered into these waters in their panic and coincidentally chosen this stronghold where the armor was hidden.
Was he... being too cautious? Jumping at shadows?
A wrongful killing?
A trace of cold indifference flickered through his eyes.
If they were killed, they were killed.
In the Stepstones, in this world where the strong prey on the weak, mercy is the most useless luxury.
They chose this path and ran into his dragon; it was simply fate.
"You want to live?" Aegon's voice betrayed no emotion.
"Yes! Yes! My Lord, we want to live!" The officer and the prisoners behind him kowtowed frantically, as if grabbing onto a final straw.
"Very well."
Aegon said indifferently, "Pick up your weapons and fight for me. Use your lives and blood to trade for a new path to survival."
"We are willing! We are willing! Thank you, My Lord! Thank you, Dragonlord, for sparing our lives!" The prisoners wept with joy, kowtowing like pounding garlic, as if they had been pulled back from the edge of hell.
Aegon looked at them no longer.
He moved his body slightly, and Ghidorah's middle head lowered in tacit understanding, its slender neck and folded wing membranes forming a stable slope.
Aegon descended, his boots stepping onto the charred rock with a light sound.
The Valyrian Steel armor shimmered with a cold metallic luster under the sunlight.
"Enough." He stood still, his gaze sweeping over the newly recruited Tyrosh prisoners and the eagerly watching leaders of the Skull Squad.
"The time has come to show your value. You have been entrenched here for many days; you should have some understanding of this rift and the surrounding terrain."
He raised his hand and pointed toward the cliffs and reef areas where the waves were constantly crashing: "Go and search for places suitable for hiding large quantities of items, especially sea caves and rock crevices that are only revealed at low tide."
"The Skull Squad as well, spread out and search."
"Bloodsworn, maintain vigilance and supervise the search."
The orders were concise and clear.
The desire to survive and the urgency to prove their new loyalty drove the Tyrosh prisoners and the Skull Squad pirates to act immediately, pouncing toward every corner of The Abyss of Torture like hounds catching a scent.
The Bloodsworn soldiers held their weapons, monitoring the entire process with cold gazes, especially wary of any potential movements from the new surrenders.
With many people and a clear goal, efficiency became apparent.
The tide was slowly rising; time was of the essence.
Finally, just before the tide was about to submerge a low-lying reef area, a newly recruited Tyrosh man signaled.
Behind a dense, slippery patch of marine plants that almost blended in with the black reefs, he had found a narrow cave entrance.
Hearing the news, Aegon personally waded over.
The entrance could only accommodate two people side by side; the dim seawater reached their calves, bone-chillingly cold.
After walking a few steps inward, the terrain began to rise gradually, soon exceeding sea level.
Even when the tide rose, the seawater would not flood in.
The air became damp and cold, carrying a heavy scent of sea salt and rock.
The interior of the cave was much more spacious than the entrance, with signs of manual leveling on the ground.
At the deepest part, wooden crates piled like small mountains came into view, standing silently in the darkness in neat rows.
The surfaces of the crates were covered with thick, specially tanned waterproof animal hides, their edges tightly sealed with resin and wax.
They were preserved quite carefully.
Aegon thought to himself.
But considering the value of the items inside—five hundred sets of plate armor—it was enough to arm an elite force capable of changing the course of a small-scale war.
Such caution was not surprising.
The annual output of an ordinary village of thirty or forty households might only be enough to support one fully equipped plate-armored knight.
And here, five hundred such suits of plate armor lay quietly.
"Open them." Aegon gestured.
Two Bloodsworn soldiers stepped forward, using their blades to pry open the lid of the topmost crate.
"Screech—"
An indescribable, pungent smell similar to rancid grease suddenly surged out, filling the confined cave and making one want to gag.
Inside the crate, there was no expected glint of armor.
Only a crate full of a grayish-black, viscous substance like semi-solidified mud, its surface dried and cracked into patterns.
The soldiers were stunned, looking at Aegon in confusion.
Aegon's expression remained unchanged as he took a step forward.
He unsheathed the longsword at his waist, the tip probing into the viscous sludge, slowly piercing in as he felt a certain resistance.
With a slight flick of his wrist, he jerked it upward.
"Clang."
A hard object, covered in the same black mud, was flicked out of the crate and landed on the ground.
Aegon used the tip of his sword to scrape away the layer of semi-solidified rancid grease.
Once, twice... a dull but unmistakable metallic luster gradually revealed itself under the torchlight.
It was a piece of plate armor.
"Move them out." Aegon sheathed his sword, speaking succinctly, "Everyone—"
"Before the tide submerges the cave entrance, move all the crates to higher ground on the shore."
With the order given, whether it was the new surrenders eager to prove themselves, the curious pirates, or the steady Bloodsworn soldiers, they all turned into porters.
Heavy wooden crates were laboriously dragged, shouldered, and carried across the damp reefs and slopes.
Before the rising tide flooded the cave, everything was transferred to a relatively flat and dry charred clearing above the rift.
The crates were piled like a mountain.
Aegon sat down on a charred rock.
Ghidorah's massive body lay lazily near him, its three heads resting on its crossed front claws, six golden eyes half-closed.
It seemed to be dozing, but that invisible pressure still enveloped the entire area.
"Clean them all." Aegon ordered again.
The soldiers used swords, and even sharp rocks picked up nearby, to scrape off the disgusting, rancid grease clinging to the plate armor.
Black, foul-smelling chunks were continuously scraped off, piling up like a small hill to the side, the smell becoming even more pungent.
As the grease was stripped away, the suits of plate armor gradually revealed their true forms.
They lay silently on the scorched earth; after years of erosion and the effects of the anti-corrosion coating, there were inevitably rust spots and dullness on the surface.
But the main structures were intact, the rivets at the joints of the plates were still firm, and the whole set still exuded a cold, grim aura.
The eyes of the former pirates of the Skull Squad changed as they watched.
They were no longer filled with initial shock or fear, but a nearly tangible, burning heat.
Living a life on the edge of a blade at sea, they knew all too well what this meant.
A complete suit of plate armor was a second life during boarding actions or landings!
It was the confidence to act without restraint! The guarantee for plundering even wealthier merchant ships!
Their gazes were like hooks, repeatedly scraping over the armor as it was revealed, estimating the thickness, craftsmanship, and value.
The sound of swallowing could be heard faintly in the silent rift.
However, whenever those greedy, burning gazes involuntarily drifted toward the silver-haired figure sitting on the charred rock, calmly watching everything, or caught sight of the pale-gold dragon lying quietly nearby... all that heat was like having ice water poured over it.
Any trace of greed or delusion that shouldn't exist, belonging to a pirate, that had just sprouted in their hearts was washed "crystal clear" in the reflection of the dragon's pale-gold pupils..
Wealth was right before their eyes, within reach.
But even closer was destruction!
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