Chương 138: 06. Dragon Advent 1

The beacon tower's emergency report reached Cliffhold Fortress before dawn had fully broken. At first, it was just a single fire flaring on the southern highlands. The night watch assumed it was routine military traffic from a border relay—until the second and third fires ignited in rapid succession along the ridgeline and post roads, the fire-line biting its way north. Only then did the night-duty officers at City Defense Command finally lose color in their faces.

The urgent dispatch was delivered personally by a courier knight covered head-to-toe in ash and road dust. His horse had essentially crashed through the outer gate, white foam streaming from its muzzle, iron shoes screaming against the flagstones. When the knight dismounted, his legs nearly gave out—but he didn't pause to catch his breath, shoving the night-damp, ash-stained military report directly into the duty officer's hands. The report was brief. Only a few words. Great dragon. Heading north.

The moment those words were unfolded under lamplight, it was as though someone had thrown a basin of ice water directly into the face of the entire City Defense Command. No one asked a follow-up question. Because with intelligence like this, if it was false, no courier would stake his life on delivering it. And if it was true—this was no longer something any single beacon tower or border checkpoint could handle. The moment the message reached the palace complex, Cliffhold Fortress's defense bells began to ring.

Not the operational bells used for drills and routine commands. The ancient bell suspended in the main keep's high tower. That bell was so heavy it carried its own sense of ill omen—the kind that on ordinary days no one looked up at, much less wanted to hear. But now it rang. The first strike fell like an invisible iron hammer descending on the entire capital.

The second followed immediately, rolling outward through walls, bell towers, stone streets, bridges, and outer district rooftops in successive waves—violently dragging sleeping Cliffhold from the night. According to palace archives, the last time that bell had rung was during the reign of Valerian II. Back then, northern monster hordes had broken the defensive lines and struck directly at Cliffhold Fortress—the outer districts and suburbs turned into a slaughterhouse overnight.

The bell had rung until dawn, and when it finally fell silent, more than forty thousand bodies remained, along with nightmares an entire generation carried in their bones. Now, over a century later, the bell was ringing again. And before its sound had even finished spreading through the city, the palace—inside and out—was already descending into chaos. Valerian III was essentially dragged from sleep by force.

Footsteps crowded the corridors outside his bedchamber—attendants, Royal Guards, dispatch officers moving back and forth, their suppressed voices failing to hide the urgency underneath. By the time the Emperor stepped out in his outer robe, intelligence had already been placed before him. But he hadn't even finished reading the thin military report when the anomalous light through the high windows seized his attention. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen.

Please report the violation. Against the sky where night met morning, a dragon was circling above Cliffhold Fortress. It wasn't flying particularly low, but it was nowhere near high enough for comfort. The massive crimson body cast heavy, muted light through the dim sky, each sweep of its wings looking as though it might tear half the night open. It didn't dive immediately.

It didn't unleash sustained dragon fire—only short bursts of flame from its jaws at intervals, brief but blindingly bright against the darkness. From a distance, they read as something between probing and demonstration. Dead silence fell at the window. No one dared speak first. Finally, it was a Royal Guard officer standing at the high window who found his voice, face already drained of color.

"Your Majesty... there is someone on the dragon's back." Valerian III's gaze sharpened instantly. He looked up and focused. Dragon cavalry? No. That was not an Imperial dragon cavalry mount. Not in scale, not in coloration, not in presence—not in that particular oppressive weight that pressed against the chest even through darkness and altitude. This was a true dragon.

And in the next instant, the figure on the dragon's back stepped forward, voice carried by amplification magic across the high wind and the city's bells, landing clearly above the palace grounds.

"Your Majesty—" At that voice, Valerian III's brow first drew together, then his entire expression went rigid. Because he knew that voice. And the person on the dragon's back didn't leave anyone guessing for long.

"Your servant has returned." Dead silence at the high window. The first to react wasn't the Emperor—it was the entire line of Royal Guards inside and outside the bedchamber, who had already moved their hands to their sword hilts. When those words—Your Majesty, your servant has returned—finished falling, every face looked as though someone had drawn a blade across it. Shock, disbelief, and something that couldn't decide what it was seeped through all at once. Returned? From where? And how?

Returning on dragonback—even as the premise of the most outrageous court gossip, that line would get someone thrown out of the tavern on principle. Yet Cedric Rosa was indisputably there. Standing on the back of that massive crimson dragon. The City Defense response was faster and considerably more direct. Heavy crossbows on every outer tower had already swiveled skyward. Warning horns sounded in overlapping waves. Imperial Guard and city defense troops ran along the wall roads.

Through the outer city streets, lamps were being lit in rapid succession—some people jolted awake by the bell, others who hadn't finished putting on their boots before rushing outside, all craning their necks toward the dragon circling above the capital. The entire nervous system of Cliffhold Fortress pulled taut under that dragon's shadow. Valerian III didn't ask questions immediately. He simply stood at the window, watching the red dragon above and the young man on its back, his expression darkening by degrees.

Not simple shock. The expression of an Emperor who, within less than fifteen minutes of waking, had been required to process: the south has exploded, the capital's ancient bell has rung, a dragon is circling the city, and the person on its back is the envoy he sent out yesterday—all arriving simultaneously. When he finally spoke, his voice wasn't loud. It carried the kind of weight that was more alarming than shouting.

"Who authorized it to fly this far?" The guard officer beside him swallowed hard and immediately lowered his head.

"Your Majesty, by the time the southern beacons reached the capital, the dragon had already entered the alert perimeter. Its speed—""I can see that it's fast." Valerian III cut him off, ice in his tone.

"What I need to know is what it came here to do." The question wasn't only directed at the guard. It was directed at himself. Because if the dragon had come to wage war, standing at a window watching it circle was no longer an appropriate response. Yet it hadn't dived. It hadn't released sustained fire. It simply circled the palace perimeter at altitude—as though waiting for something. Or more precisely: as though waiting for the person on its back to finish speaking first.

Every heavy crossbow on the city defense towers was locked and ready. Not one operator dared fire. Because no one knew whether the first arrow would strike an enemy—or trigger a misinterpretation sufficient to drag the entire capital into fire.

"Your Majesty," another guard said quietly, "should we first allow Lord Cedric to explain the situation, before deciding whether to issue the order—" Valerian III didn't nod immediately. But he didn't say no. That moment of silence, for the entire palace, was already a form of permission.