Chương 277: BECMI Chapter 276 – Dragon Farming

It be bloody fucking surreal, it be, the Mick thought, as he and his team of ex-Zanzyrans started in on their fourth dragon of the night. Fourth. Dragon. And there were more to come! This caterwauling, complaining bastard flapping at the air and unable to get off the ground was a young adult black, if he had the sizes right... His sister and the others had opted to sign up with Lady Edge's efforts in Erendyl, as that had promised excitement, further advancement in the magical arts…

and reportedly the elves were showing signs of magical skills that were not taught in the Great School, and weren't part of the Secret Societies, either! And the old Siricilan Tradition of Rangers… seemed to have come to Zanzyr. A whole class of people who literally had no magical ability, and all they could do was fight… had suddenly been given spellcasting powers and instantly become nobility in doing so.

He'd seen more than a few other Princes get rather red in the face as they demanded that Princess Brittabelle 'share' her method for making 'elf-men' and the like, and she had just gaffed them. From the outside, her choices in who might be eligible for such looked frightfully random, paying no attention to bloodlines, relationships, wealth, ancestry, or anything else. First and foremost, the Rangers had to be Good people.

Nothing else mattered more, and failing to stay Good meant losing the Blessing of the Tree and going back to being just a human warrior again. Not a single damn Ranger elevated to that status had any intention of returning to mundanity. They got to revel in being good, hearty, noble, and cheerful people, among a population who tilted strongly towards and supported that kind of behavior. All of them, like him, were Marked.

One glance in the Markspace, and those Marked knew they'd found kindred souls, even if how they went about carrying themselves and doing their required duties might differ wildly. Being a spellcaster didn't mean you shone brighter than others there, especially the warriors trained by Warlord Sama and Commander Briggs. They could trust one another.

That simple fact was almost overwhelming in its importance, a massive family not bound by blood, but by shared beliefs, and able to work together across species and genders with very little problem because of it. Seeing Isadora's face and those of the others when they earned their Marks and opened their Markdoors had been worth every minute of the wait and the reveal.

They had gaped stupidly at him and Chekwort, Braun, Owshiva, and Rika, all of whom had gained Levels fast and furiously during the nigh-continuous fighting all of this time. When they hadn't been fighting, they had been training under the two best weapons experts on the whole planet. Their souls were singing with the things they had learned, and as the Null among them, that went double for Miklan McMikal!

Messime was salivating in the Markspace for the opportunity to examine so many evil dragon corpses, and extremely pleased that no Gold, Ruby, or Sapphire dragons were present, while the few Crystals had already wisely chosen to scamper away as fast as possible. None of the infantry forces had bothered to follow them, and the artillery on overwatch was ignoring them, as were the aircraft now sniping down dragons attempting to flee or gather outside the Stillflight zones.

Flying dragons made great targets for railgun loads or streaking missiles. Their terrifying inability to fly was constantly driving the dragons back so they could escape if need be, and once in motion backwards, there was little stopping them from keeping going. Some tried going Invisible, but the spotters had the magic to see through that.

The most prepared had dimensional magic to either whisk them away entirely, or at least get a good jump on a retreat, and got over the ridge of the hill before they could be picked off. He jumped off the dragon's leg with more power and range than mere muscles could provide, his ki pulsing through him and making him feel lighter than a child. Laird slashed down behind the dragon's neck, and thick red blood tainted black by this swamp-dweller spilled forth as he hit something vital.

The batting wing crashed into Laird's guard, and rather than fight it, he instead skidded back across the hard ground, right out of range of the true force of the strike or a follow-up bite. Even as he did so, he was bracing, and when the wing peeled away, he was coming right back in, just as the scrabbling dragon was lunging for Braun, who smashed his Shield up into the gaping jaws with a magic-enhanced slam, and his Axe hewed down to split open a wheezing nostril and spray more hissing blood around.

They were avoiding the eyes, because the eyes were worth money, see. Chekwort set him up, the big lupin Mountaire racing in and smashing the dragon's neck up and out of the way with a combination of crushing mace and slamming shoulder that arched and whipped the long neck up and out of his path, taking the claws that clamped down around his plate armor stoically as the dragon, blood spraying from his neck, loomed up… and the Mick inserted Laird right at the heartscale, plunging the point in very deep, indeed.

Banefire spurted up at the end to split its black heart apart with a shriek and a disbelieving roar that its short and savage life could be over so quickly at the hands of food. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"Butcher Mark!" Owshiva purred loudly, slapping a metal disk onto its hide, which adhered swiftly. The Butcher Teams would get to it when they did. There was a straight, sharp rumbling overhead, the sound of a supersonic projectile inside a Cyclonic field punching through the air. A mournful cry came ranging back to them a moment later, along with a pitiful blast of fire released in protest to the uncaring sky. -Red spotted and taken down! - Rika /confirmed, already on the way to her next target.

She was with the Hunters and Snipers now, winding through the woods seeking targets to spot for the artillery or waiting gunwings up top. Both forces were keeping the skies busy with streaks of light, fire, or motion, and that was without the black floral forked Thunderbolts coming spinning down out of the sky and detonating like exploding bells into crimson flowers full of the crackling heart of the storm, which tended to abruptly kill any dragon they hit, of any color of skin.

Regular as clockwork, they were punching down, and if an airborne dragon was crossing over one scrabbling on the ground, why, then, the floral lightning decided that was the best time to come down, and one Thunderbolt killed two dragons at a time. Stormclouds rose, and stormclouds sighed. Dragons roared, and dragons died, the Mick thought, attention going to the massive Detect array sweeping across the mountain here.

"East and uphill!" he called out, and Entelia dragged the other wizards behind her as she followed the extremely quick melees, none of them weighed down by their armor in the slightest, towards the Red nearby. If it was an Adult or larger, the wizards would check to make sure it was not Shielded, and then open up with a volley of arrow-like Shards. If it was, different elemental attacks might be in order, or just blocking its fiery breath would do wonders.

The Dawn-priest Sanlor riding with them just smiled, intent on his surroundings and saying nothing. The wizards just wanted to outshine him, and he was perfectly happy to let them have all the flash and glitter. Chekwort stepped to the side, and sat down with perfect timing on the edge of the priest's Disk as it caught up to him. Wizards couldn't Heal effectively, and wasn't that all a Priest needed to be able to do to be irreplaceable?

He didn't even glance back at Laurentine as the crimson-haired Freir in green pulled at his Matrice and replenished two Valence Slots. Zanzyr would have been turned upside down finding out that certain children of Verdain and Caergard had the ability to store magical energy that wizards could draw on to replenish their own, an ability that they would instantly seek to Charm, intimidate, blackmail, or torture into submission for their own use, the Mick had no doubt.

The people who knew about it were all under Mark, Geas, and Oath, and absolutely no word of this incredible development was allowed to leave the Allegiance. It also elevated Null Forsaken to levels of incredible desirability to other wizards. He and the fiery Freir lass had already had a relationship going, being Bonded to a Forsaken was as much an extension of that as anything else, and Lady Edge had already spoken for all of the kids.

Get rid of their dumb prejudices and they were all good people underneath, just needing to be taught away the stupid stuff with proper head-thumping, aye, and weren't that the truth? He caught the flash of crimson scales through the trees as he led the team in, his Null up and around him. A bigger one, one of the adults, and he just pulsed a thought back through the Fellowship to ready up them Shard spells to soften the dragon up.

Then his Null flared up and ready, tempered by a lot of spellcasting, and fully capable of telling even dragonfire to shut the heck up and go away, the non-magical folks weren't having any of it today!... When the sucker found out it couldn't fly, that was going to be fun, too. Chekwort had shifted over to his own Disk, and racked back the string on his heavy Autobow, thing more like a mounted siege crossbow in its power than anything else.

He fit on a thick bolt with silver Runework all around it, and a pile-style head for punching into stuff and sticking there. His Mace at his side with his Shield, the big Mountaire waited with the heavy Autobow at the ready. They really didn't have to fight the thing. Nico was on coms chatting with one of the gunwing pilots up there, who was keeping it low and slow, waiting for the beacon to come on and that red to become a bright red spot in his missile finder. It was how the majority of the dragons were dying.

The infantry was just making sure they couldn't fly away as it happened while they pressed in. At least four hundred dragons, being faced down, slaughtered, and chased away. It was unimaginable by the rules of the world. Such a force should have been able to burn an empire down. Instead, they were being butchered. It was a very good feeling to have…

Charred-Eye materialized at the door to his lair, scattering the grandson and daughter left behind to guard it in their surprise. He had a massive wound on his flank, holes punched through his wings, and scorch marks and sizzling scales the length of him, cooked by lightning that had blasted through his protective spells and nearly ended him. His kingdom of dragons was ruined. His personal might had meant nothing to the combined weapons and magic of the new human land, just as their champions had promised him.

He dragged himself through his caves, the blood dripping from his flesh, the smell of electrified dragon filling the air with a… disturbingly floral reek, like a garden rising from a graveyard. There was his hoard, coins gathered by centuries of effort, tribute and tokens and craftmanship taken from those who could not appreciate such things, deserve such things, suitable only to reflect the strength of the dragon who held them.

Slowly and painfully, he paced his way to it, and sat down upon the millions of scattered coins, mostly copper beneath the gleaming gold that surmounted it all, still vast and comfortable enough to be his bed. And he listened. Listened to the roars of dragons screaming in fear and outrage, because now the humans were here, and were coming for their hoards!