NOVPUB
Chapter 74: Dragon Ruins: A Small Episode (4)
"I don’t think so," he said coolly. "We haven’t negotiated. Or do you expect me to just hand it over? I could simply walk in there... with my people."
His words rang out—bold, unflinching, and echoing with authority.
The crowd froze in hushed tension. Several Emperor-level figures frowned, their expressions growing cold and unreadable.
The air, once tense, now trembled on the edge of eruption.
"What do you mean?" one of the Emperor-level figures asked sharply, all eyes fixated on Drakion.
"You heard me right," Drakion replied, voice firm and unwavering.
The crowd stirred in disbelief. Shock rippled through them—what gave Drakion the audacity to speak to an Emperor-level figure like that, when he was only at the Origin King Realm? Did he not realize he was but an ant before these towering powers?
The man who had spoken—a figure with brown hair and eyes that had now turned icy—stepped forward, his expression chilling.
"Young man. I advise you—bring out the Dragon Scale right now or..."
The frosty-haired elder’s voice cut in, laced with killing intent that seeped coldly from his eyes.
"Or what? What are you going to do?" Drakion butted in, voice sharp and domineering, his defiance shocking the onlookers.
"You going to kill me and silence me, just to claim the Dragon Scale? Here’s something you should know—if I die, the key dies with me," Drakion declared coldly, his voice like steel in the wind.
Many wondered at Drakion’s defiance. But from the moment he met the Progenitor Dragons and learned of the devastating force that had nearly annihilated them—his true enemy—his mentality had shifted.
If he couldn’t stand toe-to-toe with these so-called giants—figures still far from godhood—how could he ever hope to face what was coming?
Besides, he had something to rely on.
"Young man, you’re playing with fire you aren’t meant to handle," another Emperor-level figure growled.
"Then let me play... and we’ll see whether it burns me—
or burns you instead," Drakion said, radiating dominance.
His words cast a wave of silence over the gathering. All eyes widened—bewildered by how daring he was.
Members of the other races stared coldly at Drakion. Many shook their heads in pity.
"It seems you won’t shed tears until you see your coffin," the icy-haired elder said, his killing intent now flooding outward like a blizzard.
"Then let me shed tears," Drakion chuckled, sending another wave of disbelief through the crowd.
"What a surprise," came a sudden voice.
From the Blood Race and Elven faction, two figures stepped forward—their auras crackling with Emperor-level might.
The Blood Race Emperor was a man with deep blood-red eyes and flowing crimson hair.
The Elven Emperor, a voluptuous green-haired lady with pointed hair and an aura as serene as it was dangerous, stood beside him.
"I wonder how sweet your blood would be," the Blood Emperor murmured, licking his lips as he stared hungrily at Drakion.
"Well, it might be just sweet enough to charm your wife... or shall I say—your wives?"
Drakion dropped another verbal bomb, and the entire crowd froze—the atmosphere now veering into a dangerous and unpredictable storm.
The Blood Emperor’s expression turned glacial. He unleashed an overwhelming pressure upon Drakion—a crushing tide of raw might.
Drakion merely yawned.
He honestly missed the presence of a drink and popcorn—this chicken-level pressure wasn’t even worth the effort.
"Are you done?" he asked lazily, his casual tone enraging and confusing the audience.
The Emperor-level figures now wore serious expressions, beginning to question whether Drakion was truly just in the Origin King Realm—yet what they sensed had not changed.
"What’s your name?" the Blood Emperor asked.
"Speaking of etiquette, you guys are just getting to it now," Drakion said with a smirk. "Oh, by the way, my name is Drakion. Don’t forget that name."
Another wave of shock rippled through the crowd as they watched Drakion speak to an Emperor-level figure as though he stood above them.
"Young man, stop testing our patience. Bring the scale over," the icy-haired old man said coldly.
"Then let that patience run out," Drakion smiled darkly.
In the blink of an eye, the icy old man moved—his fist striking forward, swift and brutal.
Drakion’s eyes widened. He reacted instantly.
"Devouring Art: Devourer Barrier!"
A barrier surged into existence before him, intercepting the incoming punch. Though it fractured swiftly, it managed to blunt a portion of the devastating force.
"Death Art: Phantom Step!"
Gasps rang out as the fist passed clean through Drakion’s body—untouched, unharmed. The crowd stared, stunned by the impossible.
"Well... you struck first. Don’t blame me for striking back," Drakion said coldly, drawing out Quin’s summoning card.
"Draconic Art: Dragonoid Summoning!"
A massive rune blazed into existence as an ancient grey door emerged from the void—etched with dragon motifs, it radiated a timeless, primal power.
When the crowd saw it, realization dawned: Drakion and his people were undeniably linked to dragons. The aura spilling from the door was ancient—primordial.
The door creaked open.
A black-haired young man stepped out—pale, frail-looking, with the lazy aura of someone who had just awoken from a thousand-year nap. He radiated no killing intent, only overwhelming sloth. The moment his eyes met the vast crowd, he flinched, shielding his face like a schoolboy caught skipping class.
The Ancestor of the Ignis Clan narrowed his eyes, his face turning grim.
Everyone scrutinized Quin—his cultivation only at the peak middle stage of the Origin Saint Realm.
But they failed to realize—Drakion had grown stronger, and so too had Quin. His strength now far surpassed what his realm suggested.
The icy-haired old man snorted.
"So this is the source of your confidence? Just a middle-stage Saint?"
With a scoff, he lunged toward Drakion, determined to teach him the consequences of mocking the Emperors.
SMACK!
Before he could reach him, a thunderous slap shattered the air. Gasps erupted as everyone turned to see—Quin now stood before Drakion, and the old man was flying backward.
"What a disrespectful child," Quin said calmly.
The Emperor-level figures froze, stunned beyond belief, eyes locked on Drakion and Quin.
Then Quin’s form began to shift—his hair and eyes now shining in five iridescent colors, his aura surging outward like a tidal wave. The Emperors trembled.
The Blood Emperor and the icy-haired elder moved again, unwilling to accept humiliation.
SMACK! SMACK!
Two more deafening slaps echoed through the forest.
"Bad children need to be punished," Quin said, sending both Emperors hurtling away like ragdolls.
Silence fell.
The crowd stared at Drakion and Quin—shocked, speechless, humbled.
At last, the Elven Empress stepped forward, her voice calm, poised.
"So... what do you want in return for allowing us to enter the ruins?"
Drakion rested his chin in his hand, pretending to ponder.
"Hmm... Let me think... I have nothing in mind. It was just fun seeing all of this," he giggled.
Everyone froze again.
They had just been played.
Frowns deepened across the crowd. They all had the same thought—they wanted nothing more than to beat the hell out of him.
The reason Drakion demanded nothing was simple—because they had nothing worth offering. Protection? A laughable notion. The moment their Draconic identity was exposed, betrayal would follow like a shadow. There could be no alliance between them.
