r18novel Page 166
Page 166
Casalos, having received the signal, glanced back, shook its head, and didn't have high hopes for the teamwork of its temporary allies. But it didn't matter, as long as the goal was achieved. It raised its head and let out another resounding dragon roar:
"Deepwater Territory, attack!"
"rush!"
The army of Deepwater Territory surged in like a steel torrent, led by steel golems, followed by half-dragons and dragonblood warriors, their heavy footsteps shaking the earth. The dragon hordes and astral constructs secured air superiority, their dragon wings and the silvery light of the astral plane blotting out the sun.
The two bronze dragons, which had remained silent when the barrier was broken, suddenly unleashed their power.
First, four halos of different colors unfolded on the battlefield in sequence:
A crimson, blood-red ring of power lit up first, amplifying destructive force to its purest form. Under its glow, every Deepwater warrior's attack became even more lethal. The dragonpuppet kobolds' dragonstrike spears were wreathed in a faint red aura; their spell resistance, previously requiring special enchantments to overcome, was now as fragile as paper. As the half-dragon warriors wielded their weapons, they could clearly feel a mysterious force guiding them, ensuring each strike hit its mark precisely at the enemy's vitals.
A jade-green ring of resolve followed closely behind, a guardian of willpower. The demons' most potent spells—fear, charm, and mind control—were rendered useless before this halo. The young soldiers, initially gripped by terror at the sight of the Balrog, suddenly found their fear receding like a tide, replaced by unwavering courage. Even the already resolute veterans experienced an unprecedented focus—as if the entire world had become clearer, every detail imperceptible to their perception.
As the thick, earthen-yellow Ring of Endurance unfolded, the entire earth trembled slightly. This wasn't destruction, but some kind of profound resonance. The warriors standing on the ground suddenly felt as if their feet were firmly rooted to the ground; their once heavy armor became as light as a feather, and their breathing became long and powerful. The blood in their bodies surged like rivers, delivering abundant life force to every corner of their bodies. Even the exhausted warriors who had fought continuously for hours felt their strength renewed.
Finally, there was a gleaming, resilient ring of silver, like an invisible armor enveloping everyone. This was the most direct protection—the tangible silver light blocked all direct attacks aimed at the target, providing the warriors of Deepwater Territory with comprehensive and rapid self-healing. The moment the demon's claws tore through their skin, the wounds began to heal at a visible speed. The corrosive abyssal toxins that had just entered their bodies were completely purified by the silvery light.
With all four rings activated, the radiance spread like a tide, enveloping the entire battlefield!
This is no longer a simple matter of range. Even legendary-level buff spells have a range of only about a hundred meters. Yet the Thinker's aura covers a battlefield with a radius of ten kilometers! Every friendly unit within this area, whether it's the steel golem charging at the front or the mage casting spells from the rear, receives the blessing of four auras.
25. Dragon Soul and Dragon Song
"This...this is..." Elminster's voice trembled slightly, his aged fingers hovering in mid-air, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. His signature long, silvery-white beard hung silently, even forgetting his habitual stroking. As a great mage who had lived for a thousand years, he had witnessed countless awe-inspiring miracles—he had personally witnessed the fall of the floating city of Netheril, fought alongside the gods when they roamed the mortal realm, and seen unimaginable magical wonders during countless dimensional travels. Yet now, faced with the four enormous halos enveloping the entire battlefield, this learned sage was still deeply shaken.
Sunlight filtered through the layers of halos, casting dappled shadows across the battlefield. The bronze radiance surged like a tide, each ripple resonating with the magic in the air. Ilminster could clearly sense that this wasn't a simple accumulation of magical effects, but a manifestation of a deeper, more fundamental power—the might of the dragon soul, the primordial power contained within the bloodline of ancient dragons.
"This would require at least four mage legions led by legendary high elf mages to accomplish such a feat." The white-bearded old sage's voice was filled with disbelief. His pupils contracted slightly as he struggled to analyze the impossible scene before him. "No, even that wouldn't be enough. High elf ritual magic, though powerful, requires extensive preparation and complex magic arrays. And yet… it accomplished it all by itself, and with such effortless ease."
Beside them, Kelben Black Staff and Lyra, this "special" couple, were communicating in a way only they could understand. Their eyes met briefly in the air before casually looking away—a tacit understanding cultivated only after countless life-or-death trials. To outsiders, they might seem like a couple in the throes of a passionate, twilight romance, but only those who truly knew them understood that the bond between these two voters was far deeper and more complex than it appeared.
Kelburn frowned slightly, a hint of understanding flashing in his deep black eyes: "We all underestimated it."
"Yes," Leila responded softly, her long silver hair fluttering in the wind, highlighting her still beautiful but weathered face. "Who would have thought that the guy who liked to turn into an old man and sit in the street basking in the sun, that 'harmless old dragon' who always chatted with passersby with a smile, actually possessed such terrifying power."
These three chosen ones of Mystra were not unaware of the Thinker's power. They knew that this bronze dragon had once fought a colossal battle beneath the deep sea against the ancient dragon Hai'anzu, empowered by Baal. But that battle took place in the unfathomable depths of the abyss, and aside from the subsequent earthquakes and tsunamis, few had truly witnessed its details. The power of the natural disaster had obscured the bronze dragon's true strength, leading people to attribute the victory more to environmental factors than to the individual dragon's prowess.
Now, as the power of the thinker is revealed to the light without reservation, everyone is awestruck.
"Lord of the Dragons..." The golden dragon Eros Krujipala's voice was deep and complex, its green eyes revealing indescribable emotions—shock, awe, and an undisguised longing. As a golden dragon, its pride did not allow it to easily show respect to other dragons; as a great druid, it was bound by the balance of nature. But at this moment, faced with such a display of power, even a proud golden dragon and a composed great druid had to lower their heads.
"I once saw a few words about this advanced profession in the oldest library in Mysdrono," the golden dragon's voice became hazy, as if recalling some distant memory. "Those yellowed parchments recorded that this was originally an advancement path created by orcs imitating dragons. I always thought it was just some exaggerated legend, but I never imagined... I never imagined that dragons could actually reach such a level."
It paused, a flash of understanding in its eyes: "That's right. If there's one dragon subspecies most likely to become the ruler of dragons, it's undoubtedly the Bronze Dragons. They aren't as overly obsessed with goodness as we Gold Dragons, nor as engrossed in mortal life as Silver Dragons, and certainly not as preoccupied with collecting 'knowledge' and gossiping as Brass Dragons. Bronze Dragons… they see war as a philosophy, and conflict as a necessary evil that drives the world forward. Only by truly understanding the essence of war can one become its master."
"The earth trembles where the dragon roams." The old treant Tulang suddenly spoke, its voice, as aged as tree bark, carrying an ancient rhythm. Its massive, slowly unfolding canopy rustled in the wind, each leaf seeming to tell an ancient story. It chanted slowly in orcish, its rough and powerful tone sending a shiver down the spines of everyone present: "Let this land tremble with my steps, let all who dare to glare at me fall in my shadow."
A flicker of reminiscence crossed the old treant's eyes, awakening memories buried deep within its rings: "These words came from the Overlord Gokol, a leader of orc dragons. When I was still a young sapling, I was fortunate—or perhaps unfortunate—to witness them. That was two thousand years ago; time has flowed on, but that scene remains deeply etched in my memory."
Tulang's branches trembled slightly, as if reliving the shock of that year in his memories: "Under its halo, the entire orcish legion underwent a qualitative change. Even the weakest and most timid half-orcs unleashed terrifying fighting power like a teenage dragon at that moment. Their eyes burned with a frenzied fighting spirit, and their simple weapons could cleave through fine steel armor. That wasn't just an ordinary amplification, but a fundamental sublimation."
"Are you sure that really compares to the power of a teenage dragon?" Helm Dwarf couldn't help but interject, his eyes fixed on Casalos's retreating figure, his bearded face etched with skepticism. As a dwarf, he was naturally wary of any story that sounded too exaggerated, even though dwarves were the most fond of boasting.
A meaningful expression—if it could even be called an expression—appeared on the old treant's bark-like face: "Dwarf, I'm not referring to the power of this teenage iron dragon before us. I'm using the metaphor of the power an ordinary orc can unleash under the aura of a dragon's dominion. Can you imagine what a terrifying scene it would be if every single soldier in the entire legion possessed the power of a dragon?"
"I didn't expect a treant to be so humorous..." Storm Silverhand pursed her lips, trying to hide her jealousy and resentment with a lighthearted tone, but her grip on her longsword betrayed her true emotions.
"Two thousand years ago..." Ilminster stroked his beard thoughtfully, his memory searching through the vast ocean of knowledge. "Wait, are you perhaps referring to the Orcish War?"
"Yes." Tulang nodded slowly, the massive canopy rustling softly. "It was that war that changed the landscape of eastern Faerûn. In the conflict between Enther and Mulholland, the ambitious orc war god Gruush dispatched his most capable lieutenant, Inaf. That mad god embarked on an unprecedented path, creating the first Dragon Lord in history by forcibly injecting the souls of hunted chromatic dragons into orcs."
"Blasphemy!" Eros Krugipara roared in fury, his golden scales bristling. "That's blasphemy against dragons! Stealing their power in such a barbaric way..."
"But this is the power of the dragon!" The golden dragon suddenly changed its tone, its anger replaced by a deeper understanding. Its eyes, blessed by Melikai, saw more deeply than anyone else's; its natural perception allowed it to touch the essence of power. "I understand… the Thinkers did not imitate the orcs' path, but rather rediscovered the power that was inherently theirs to the dragons. You see…"
The golden dragon extended a winged arm, pointing to the warriors on the battlefield enveloped in halos: "Every ally under the halo is having their life force restored in a miraculous way—a strengthening of the very essence of life. Wounds are healing, but in a way akin to the regenerative abilities of dragons; fatigue is fading, but the vitality carries the fiery heat of dragon blood; even mental trauma is being soothed, like the innate resilience of the dragon race."
"I see." Elasdra's voice came from the side, the leader of the Harpists' Alliance's eyes gleaming with wisdom. "The Dragon Lord—the master of battlefield conflict, a war leader who shares his power, will, and even the essence of his life with his followers."
"My God..." Helm the Dwarf's eyes widened. He could clearly feel the power surging within him. The feeling was so real, so powerful, that even this usually cautious dwarf felt a little giddy. "I feel like I could tear a Balrog to shreds with my bare hands! No, two! Three would be no problem!"
"Heh." While Forel Blackhammer was equally stunned by the power, as Helm's old nemesis, he wouldn't miss any opportunity to mock him. His meticulously maintained armor gleamed, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "I think you can really polish the Balrog's hooves to a gleaming shine. Remember last time you boasted you could take on an ogre one-on-one? And what happened? You got slapped into a mud pit. If I hadn't intervened in time…"
"That was an accident!" Helm's face flushed red. "And that ogre was clearly a mutant! Who knew it would have four arms!"
"Oh? So you can handle a normal ogre?"
"What right do you have to talk to me, you coward who only knows how to hide in the back and shoot arrows from the shadows!"
"Much better than that guy who calls himself a 'friend of dwarves' but can't even drink three cups of dwarven wine!"
Just as the two were bickering, the young "tide chanter" Kenneth Zimno began his performance.
This bronze dragon, who usually loves to show off at the Deepwater City Grand Theatre, the playboy who uses illusionary gems and sweet words to seduce human noblewomen, the narcissist who always talks about "art" but is often off-key, is now showing a completely different side.
It hovered in mid-air, its enormous wings flapping slowly, each flap creating a magical breeze. Its bronze scales shimmered in the sunlight, but what truly captivated the eye were its eyes—those emerald dragon pupils that usually carried a frivolous smile were now as deep and unfathomable as a bottomless abyss.
Kenneth Zmno slowly closed his eyes and took a deep breath. In that instant, the magic of the entire battlefield fluctuated with his breath. When he opened his eyes again, all frivolity and narcissism had vanished, replaced by an almost divine focus.
The enormous harp hovering above its head began to tremble slightly. It was a true artifact, crafted by ancient elven artisans from the heartwood of the World Tree, its strings woven from unicorn mane and feathers of celestial creatures. Normally, Kenneth Zmnor used it merely as a tool for showing off, but now, this artifact was finally about to reveal its true power.
The first note was produced as the strings were plucked by an invisible hand.
The moment that note sounded, the whole world trembled.
Like an echo from the beginning of creation, it seemed to be the fundamental vibrational frequency that constitutes reality. The air resonated, the earth responded, and even the clouds in the sky changed shape with this note. Everyone felt it—not just heard it, but felt its presence deep within their souls. Mei ne ne me mei lin kong ni lin zai zai me ne...
Then, the second note rang out, like a second pebble thrown into a calm lake, ripples intertwining and creating even more complex patterns. The third note, the fourth note… each note was like a pearl plucked from the deepest part of the magic net, strung together by the chanter into a necklace that runs through heaven and earth.
That was the rhythm of the magic network itself, the fundamental rhythm of magic operating in the world of Toril. The Chanter wasn't playing music; he was directing the flow of magic throughout the entire world.
The dragon-vein kobold, which was loading ammunition, suddenly froze. Its previously somewhat cloudy eyes cleared, as if a layer of mist had been lifted. Normally, loading a dragon blaster was a task requiring extreme concentration—aligning the magical array, balancing the elemental energy, adjusting the trigger mechanism—every step was fraught with danger. A small mistake could cause the barrel to explode, resulting in injury or even death.
But now, everything has changed.
The kobold found its claws had become incredibly dexterous; complex maneuvers that previously required utmost care now flowed effortlessly. Even more miraculously, it could "see" the magical flow within the Dragonslayer Spear—the energy pathways that it could only guess at through experience and luck were now as clear as an unfolded map.
Red fire elemental energy swirled within the barrel, while blue arcane power formed a stable framework; the two were perfectly fused together by the golden dragon energy. The kobold could even predict the critical point of energy accumulation, completing the reload at the most opportune moment, allowing the Dragonslayer Gun to reach its theoretical maximum power.
"By Arthas..." The kobold warlock's eyes widened as he stared at the arcane sparks dancing on his claws. The magical energy that had previously required immense effort to control was now as obedient as a well-trained pet. It flowed with the kobold's will, precise, elegant, and powerful.
It tentatively chanted the incantation, and a fireball spell model instantly took shape. But this fireball was completely different from the usual one—it was nearly twice the size, its core temperature was increased by at least 30%, and most importantly, it consumed only two-thirds of the usual amount of magic power.
"Is this the true essence of arcane magic?" the kobold murmured to itself, sensing the very origin of magic.
It's not just the spellcaster who benefits.
A half-dragon heavy cavalryman was preparing to charge on his steel mount. It was the latest magical construct developed by Waterdeep, a fusion of dwarven mechanical technology and grey dwarven psionic craftsmanship. Normally, piloting such a war machine required extensive training, and there was always an invisible barrier between man and machine.
But when the music started, that barrier disappeared.
The half-dragon rider suddenly could "feel" every component of the construct—the pulsation of the magic core was like a heartbeat, the rotation of the transmission gears was like breathing, and the flow of the hydraulic system was like blood circulation. He was no longer "driving" a machine, but the machine had become an extension of his body, just like a paladin blessed by the gods and his divine mount.
The moment he conceived the idea of turning left, the construct was already in motion; when he wanted to accelerate, the magic core's output power was already increasing. Man and machine achieved perfect synchronization, every movement precise and elegant, as if they were one.
The performance by the "Tide Chanter" continued, and the melody gradually became more stirring.
The musical notes were no longer merely sounds; they had become tangible entities. Each note, composed of pure magic, danced across the battlefield like colorful butterflies, shimmering with iridescent light, and each containing a different blessing. When these notes touched the warriors, they seeped into their bodies like spring rain, bringing about a comprehensive enhancement.
Strength is increasing—but not in a crude, muscular way; it's a more refined enhancement. Muscle fibers become tougher, able to withstand greater loads; bone density subtly increases without adding extra weight; tendons and ligaments become more elastic, allowing force to be transmitted more efficiently. An ordinary soldier who could previously only lift 500 kilograms can now wield a massive sword or musket weighing over 100 kilograms with one hand, without feeling any strain.
The speed increased—the steel golem's bulky body suddenly became agile. Its heavy steps, which used to leave deep imprints on the ground with every step, were now as light as a dancer's. Every mechanical joint seemed to be injected with the finest lubricant; parts that used to creak and groan now operated silently. Its massive mechanical arms swung, even leaving afterimages; the speed was unbelievable for a metal behemoth weighing several tons.
The changes in the Dragonvein kobolds were even more pronounced. Already more agile than ordinary kobolds, they were now astonishingly fast. When running, their figures blurred into streaks of bronze light; when leaping, they could easily clear obstacles three meters high, and even briefly run along walls. Their reaction speed had also undergone a qualitative leap, allowing them to dodge arrows the instant they flew and predict attack trajectories the moment an enemy made a move.
Perception becomes more acute—an enhancement that is all-encompassing. Vision becomes clearer, allowing one to see the expressions of enemies a kilometer away; hearing becomes more sensitive, enabling one to discern the location of every clash of weapons in the midst of battle; the sense of smell can detect the distinctive sulfurous odor of demons, even when they attempt to conceal it with illusions; and the sense of touch can feel the slightest vibrations in the ground, allowing one to detect enemies lurking underground in advance.
More importantly, their magical perception has been enhanced. The traps hidden by the demons in the shadows, which previously required experienced rangers to spot, are now as conspicuous as campfires in the night to every warrior. Every unusual magical fluctuation in the air cannot escape their perception; they can even "see" the flow of magic and predict the trajectory of spells.
A stronger will—perhaps the most important and subtle blessing. The abyss's aura, which would normally disgust and terrify mortals, and the demonic pressure, would make a warrior's legs go weak, but now all of that had no effect. The warriors' hearts were as hard as steel, and the pride of the dragon burned within them. They no longer feared death, no longer dreaded pain; only one thought echoed in their minds: victory.
But what truly shocked all the spellcasters was the change in the flow of magic.
"Incredible..." a Silvermoon City elven war mage who had followed Deepwater into the battlefield murmured to herself. She was an old high elf who had lived for over five hundred years and was proficient in all kinds of war spells, but at this moment she felt like an apprentice who had just begun to learn magic.
She could clearly feel the magic within her flowing in an unprecedented way. Originally, the magic within her was like a stream, requiring her careful guidance to gather the power needed for casting spells. But now, that stream had become a rushing river, its magic surging and flowing endlessly.
What surprised her even more was that this surging magic was unusually docile. Usually, such a vast amount of magic would be like a wild horse, easily backfiring on the caster. But now, every wisp of magic flowed obediently to where it was meant to go, making the process of constructing the spell model exceptionally easy. She tried casting a sixth-circle Chain Lightning, maintaining focus for half the time, while increasing its power by thirty percent.
"Impossible!" Storm Silverhand gasped, covering her mouth in shock, her silver eyes filled with disbelief. Her hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from excitement and undisguised jealousy.
As one of Mystra's chosen ones on the path of the bards, Storm Silverhand considered herself to have reached the pinnacle of musical magic. She could heal fatal wounds with her songs, inspire warriors with her melodies, and construct powerful protective barriers with her chords. Throughout the entire continent of Faerûn, those who could surpass her in musical magic were few and far between.
But the scene before her completely overturned her understanding.
"Such a massive group buff, such exquisite magical manipulation..." Her voice trembled, "The amount of magic required is astronomical! How did it achieve this? It couldn't possibly be done solely through its own power!"
She felt like a painter who considered herself highly skilled, suddenly confronted with the work of a true master. The feeling of being utterly overwhelmed filled her with anger and frustration, yet also a deep longing.
Elminster noticed the unusual storm. The old mage gently shook his head, his tone reassuring: "I've seen countless powerful bards—from the ancient elf singers to the masters of Harpers, and even Minsk—I'm not talking about that ranger with the hamster—but this performance…" He paused, "and with all due respect, is beyond my comprehension."
He looked up at the bronze dragon in the sky and added thoughtfully, "Perhaps Varo could do something similar—in his own epic tales."
"I think it's best not to provoke Storm now, my old friend," Kelben Black Staff spoke up at the opportune moment, gently shaking his head. As a pure mage, his understanding of musical magic might not be as profound as Storm's, but his perception of the essence of magic was exceptionally keen—something Storm Silverhand had overlooked in his rage.
"The Chanter doesn't simply consume their own magic," Kelburn's voice was steady and insightful. "It resonates with the magic of the entire battlefield. Listen carefully; every note mobilizes the wandering magic in the environment, weaving it into the melody. This isn't brute force, but the ultimate expression of skill."
He turned to the storm, his dark eyes carrying a warning: "Sheena, don't forget that Kenneth Zmnor is a dragon. For us, magic is a skill to be learned and mastered; but for dragons, they are the embodiment of magic themselves. If you still stubbornly believe, like those closed-minded 'scholars' of Candlehold, that dragons are merely beasts with the ability to cast spells..."
"Don't let pride and prejudice blind you, my sister," Lyra said gently but firmly, her hand lightly resting on her husband's arm—a simple gesture conveying deep support. "Look, that bronze dragon is using the drifting magic in its environment, weaving it into its own melody. This technique... it really does remind me of some ancient magic."
Her gaze deepened: "Like Nesserin."
"Don't mention Nesserin to me!" Storm retorted almost reflexively. She could despise Elasdra with his ripped crotch, and mock the 'cowardly' Hillon, but in front of Simb, she was always inferior in every way. Lyra mentioning Simb's name made her even angrier, but her anger was quickly replaced by a new shock.
Because just as they were speaking, the chanters' performance entered a completely new phase.
The melody shifts from fervent to profound, like the gentle ebb and flow of the ocean tide. Each note seems to carry the weight of time, telling a story older than history itself. It is no longer just music, but a narrative, a legacy, a call that transcends time and space.
Suddenly, a strange sight appeared in the sky.
The dancing musical notes began to gather spontaneously, forming illusory yet incredibly real scenes in mid-air. First appeared a chaotic sphere, in the primordial past before time began to flow, when the entire multiverse was still a primordial void. Then, the first ray of light pierced the darkness, accompanied by the first roar of a dragon.
That's the creation myth of the dragon race.
The scene shifts, revealing the birth of the first dragon god. It hatches from the primordial egg, its outstretched wings obscuring the newly born sky. Its first roar defines majesty, and its first flight demarcates the boundaries of the heavens.
Then came the golden age of dragons. Countless dragons soared through the skies, their silhouettes blotting out the sun. Golden dragons built magnificent lairs atop mountains, silver dragons frolicked in the clouds, red dragons slept in volcanoes, and blue dragons hunted in the deserts. It was an age belonging to dragons, and the whole world trembled in the shadow of their wings.
The scene continues, depicting the millennia-long war between dragons and giants. Mountains crumble upon impact, and oceans boil in fury. Giants hurl mountains as weapons, and dragons unleash flames powerful enough to incinerate everything. That war transformed the entire world's landscape.
Then came the elves, and the complex relationships between dragons and these elegant, long-lived beings. There was conflict, cooperation, betrayal, and loyalty. Amidst the endless dragon frenzy, some dragons chose to coexist with the elves, while others saw them as a threat that must be eradicated.
Every important historical moment is depicted by musical notes, like a silent epic unfolding in the sky. The scenes are so realistic that viewers can almost feel the smoke of ancient battlefields, hear the roar of ancient dragons, and touch the pulse of history.
As the historical scenes unfolded, all beings on the battlefield with dragon blood felt an ancient call.
It was a resonance from the depths of their blood, a memory etched in their genes awakening. Their ancestors once ruled the world, and the oldest and noblest power flowed in their blood. Now, this long-dormant heritage is awakening.
The ferrets were the first to change; their scales underwent a qualitative transformation. Their once metallic sheen dulled, and each scale became like finely forged steel. When enemy attacks struck them, they produced a metallic clang.
Their dragon breaths became even more terrifying. The already scorching metallic breaths now escalated in temperature, the force field became stronger, the frost grew colder, and the acid became more corrosive. Even more frightening was that these dragon breaths carried a kind of disintegrating and chaotic effect, which even armor formed from abyssal magic could not completely resist.
The transformation of the dragons was equally miraculous. These dragons, renowned for their sound magic, gained unprecedented power in their songs. It was as if scattered musicians had joined an orchestra, singing in unison under the conductor's baton. The sound waves transformed into tangible shockwaves, creating visible ripples in the air. Enemy shields crumbled under the strains of the song, cracks appeared in fortified fortresses strengthened by the power of the abyss, and even the air itself seemed to distort.
But the most surprising thing was the change in the kobold followers who had not yet awakened their dragon veins.
These dragonborn, who are usually considered the lowest of the low, those weak races that can only barely protect themselves by relying on numbers and traps, are now undergoing a tremendous transformation.
Their hunched backs are slowly straightening. This is not a simple change in posture, but a reshaping of their skeletal structure; their spines are lengthening, their shoulders are broadening, and their entire physique is developing in a more imposing direction. Their height has increased by an average of nearly thirty centimeters, and their muscles have become more solid.
The real change is in their eyes.
Those eyes, once timid and fearful, now burned with the pride of a dragon. They were no longer hesitant, no longer timid or cowardly. Every kobold stood tall, their eyes gleaming with fighting spirit and confidence. They remembered that the blood of dragons flowed in their veins, however diluted, it was still the noblest bloodline in the world.
"For the glory of the dragons!" a kobold warrior shouted hoarsely, raising his spear high. His voice was no longer a shrill screech, but a roar filled with the might of a dragon.
This shout acted as a fuse, igniting a flame in the hearts of all the kobolds.
"For Asgras!"
"For our bloodline!"
Shouts rose and fell, eventually coalescing into a deafening roar. Their simple weapons, imbued with dragon's might, seemed to carry the power to tear apart the abyss with every strike. They were no longer mere followers on the battlefield, but true dragon warriors.
"I see." Elasdra's voice rang out amidst the clamor, yet it reached everyone's ears clearly. "'Singer of Harmony'—I've seen this title in an ancient text."
The old tree-man Tulang spoke again, its voice carrying the weight of time: "'Aio's love nourishes all his children.' This is the creed of the Singers of Harmony. They are wandering spiritual guides for the dragons, originally a small organization composed of servants of Aio, the nine-headed dragon god and creator of all dragons."
The leaves of Tulang rustled, as if recalling something: "Their mission was sacred and arduous—to bring peace and comfort to the children scattered across Aion. But their greatest concern was for those often forgotten and abandoned: half-dragons and dragonvein creatures. In the eyes of pure-blooded dragons, these hybrids were often seen as a disgrace, but the Singers of Harmony regarded them as brethren in need of care."
"So the Bronze Dragons learned this ancient art?" Eros Krujipala mused. "No, not just learned it. They refined it, transforming the power originally used for soothing and healing into a war horn. They united scattered individuals into an unstoppable force, elevated the weak to the strong, and forged chaos into order."
"As expected..." Elminster stroked his beard, a knowing glint in his eyes. "The bronze dragons have been observing and learning all along. They may be the most enthusiastic of the metal dragons to intervene in mortal wars, but this intervention isn't to display power; it's to understand the essence of war. Millennia of observation and participation have allowed them to grasp the true meaning of war."