Chapter 126: The Boy Who Worshiped Dragons

Chapter 126: The Boy Who Worshiped Dragons

The bleak cries of crows echoed across the sky.

The flock gathered into a black cloud, circling above the plaza outside the castle.

They were waiting for dinner.

An executioner in a black leather hood stood at the center of a bloodsoaked square. His bare body was covered in strange patterns painted in blood: tattoos venerating malice and cruelty, the handiwork of demons from the Hells.

One ragged slave after another was dragged before him.

Gouged eyes, severed tongues, stripped bones, sliced tendons... At his whim, the executioner inflicted every torture imaginable upon the slaves.

Their screams were the finest of accompaniments, driving him to greater excitement and ever more unrestrained brutality.

Most of the slaves died amidst their wailing. Their blood seeped into the ground, filling some dreadful magic circle, while their tortured souls were swallowed by the demonic shadows hovering overhead.

This was a sacrificial ritual the House of Cerberus had conducted in perpetuity.

There were many lords of the Nine Hells. The House of Cerberus worshiped the Dragon Queen Tiamat of the First Hell, Avernus.

Tiamat's true form was a colossal chromatic dragon. Legend said that she possessed five heads, and that all five-colored dragons in the world were her descendants.

Yet because the House of Cerberus had long hidden in Alkhemia, scraping by in disgrace, Tiamat looked down on them. They were unworthy of bearing her five-headed dragon sigil and forced instead to use the shameful emblem of a three-headed hound.

Only now did they dare to openly hang the five-headed dragon once more.

Times were changing.

When the Alchemists' Council still stood, the House of Cerberus would never have dared to carry out sacrifices so brazenly. After all, Alkhemia was one of the very few kingdoms that tolerated infernal faiths.

But when the city suddenly fell, the House of Cerberus immediately understood that a turning point was upon them.

Anyone could foresee that, with Alkhemia's destruction, the entire kingdom would descend into chaos, inevitably leading to large-scale war. And war was a breeding ground for pain and suffering, the greatest offering to Hell.

Slaves had been sacrificed in droves to open the gates of Hell and summon infernal demons into the world.

After all this, the House of Cerberus had finally regained Tiamat's favor. Its members were able to hold their heads high once again.

Yet they also knew they stood on the brink of crisis. Their plan to assassinate the elven delegation had failed. The Hellgate had been destroyed, and countless pawns had died for nothing. Not only had the peace talks not been stopped, they now faced inevitable retaliation from the elves.

Left with no choice, the House of Cerberus had no choice but to double down.

Taking advantage of the chaos, they captured large numbers of prisoners and sacrificed them all at once.

And though such brutal slaughter had continued for two days, the results were... underwhelming.

Though Tiamat was a lord of Hell, she was not a devil obsessed with torture and cruelty. She was the Mother of Dragons, a deity who cherished power and dominion above all else.

The House of Cerberus's earlier actions—expanding its territory, plundering slaves, and stirring up wars for profit—were exactly what pleased her, and her rewards had been generous.

But after the assassination failed, it had resorted to crude, bloody spectacle. Tiamat found this rather dull.

Tormented souls were valuable currency in the Hells, yes, but such simple-minded brutality held little appeal for the Dragon Queen.

Still, the House of Cerberus had no other choice. They had to grow stronger by any means necessary to face the elves' coming vengeance.

This was no blind desperation. The family had produced a prodigy, a scion on the verge of legend. Tiamat's previous blessings had all been channeled into the prodigy, leaving him only one step away from transcendence. If this sacrifice succeeded, he would surely ascend immediately.

A single legend might not stop an elven army, but it would be enough to protect a handful of elites and start anew elsewhere.

If they couldn't win, they would flee. Packing up shop was part and parcel of infernal worship.

For the prisoners and slaves, however, this was the greatest tragedy imaginable.

Among them was a young boy, his legs shackled, shuffling forward with difficulty.

Unlike the other numb, hollow-eyed captives, he kept his head lowered, hiding the fury in his gaze. His lips moved ceaselessly as he whispered prayers in the faintest of voices.

He was reciting prayers to the Lord of Dawn, prayers he had learned not long ago from a paladin named Starfall.

This was Geronimo.

Geronimo had been terribly unlucky. He had initially been chosen by Starfall as a secret weapon against Ambrose. His talent was so outstanding that even the seasoned paladin had marveled at it and decided to take him as a disciple once the war ended.

But Ambrose hadn't played by the rules. As the evil mastermind, he hadn't waited in his castle for the righteous hero to challenge him. Instead, he struck first, personally ambushing the protagonist.

Geronimo's first chance to transcend his station vanished just like that. He became an unnoticed serf once more, forgotten in the ruins of Alkhemia.

Yet Geronimo did not give up. He remembered the teachings of the Lord of Dawn: "Perfect thyself, and never grow arrogant. Let thy body and spirit be fertile, cautious yet brave in the face of danger. Uphold justice, and live unto death."

Inspired by those words, Geronimo led the farmers who had not yet fallen into despair into the final battle of Alkhemia on Lyon's side.

Alongside the farmers, he had helped the paladins open the city gates, aiding trapped civilians and escorting them out of the city.

Had Geronimo survived and reached the Lyon Empire, his future would have been boundless.

But his luck was truly abysmal. In the final battle, he had been gravely wounded and lost consciousness. His companions, with no time to tend to him, were slain by other undead.

The chaos was overwhelming—even the paladins suffered heavy casualties. Gareth's charge had devastated entire districts, and falling rubble buried the unconscious boy.

By the time Geronimo awoke, he was deep underground.

Worse still, his right arm was pinned beneath the debris, his bone shattered.

He exhausted every last ounce of strength to crawl out, only to see ruins all the way into the horizon. The paladins were long gone.

With no choice, he hastily bound his arm and searched for another way to survive.

The destruction of Alkhemia had plunged the land into chaos. Geronimo was a wounded serf, young and alone. Survival itself was a struggle.

After days of hiding, he was forced to abandon his plan to catch up with the Lyon army. Survival came first.

Eventually, however, a fever claimed him. By the time he next awoke, he had been tossed into a dungeon of the House of Cerberus.

He was being herded toward the raised platform, toward the bloody and bloodied executioner before him.

But Geronimo's prayers never stopped. He recited everything Starfall had taught him. Once, these prayers had summoned warriors of holy light—but now, no matter how desperately he prayed, the light did not respond.

The more frantic he became, the more disordered his prayers grew. Then, by accident, he bit down on his tongue.

Agonizing pain wracked his body. He stumbled. The whip cracked behind him.

As the platform loomed closer, Geronimo finally cried out, "O holy light! Do you not protect your faithful?! I did everything you told me to do. Was it all a lie?!"

The executioner heard him and burst into laughter.

"You believe in the divine, brat? I'll make your death especially cruel."

He grabbed Geronimo by the hair and dragged his small body onto the platform. Lifting a skinning knife, he sneered. "Why don't I peel the skin off your back and make you a pair of angel wings?"

Geronimo had no time to struggle. Pain exploded across his back as the blade cut into his flesh, shaving away blood and muscle inch by inch.

He screamed in agony. The executioner showed no mercy.

The savage sacrifice continued. Under the endless torment, Geronimo's mind began to break.

Holy light. The Lord of Dawn. A life of his own... These were all lies, all deception. Those hypocritical paladins had abandoned him and fled. They had promised him a new life if he survived the war.

He had survived—so where were they?!

His frail body could not endure the torture. Soon he was barely breathing. His consciousness began to fade.

At death's edge, Geronimo thought he could see a two-headed crow land before him. One head was bald and skinned raw, just like him.

The grotesque bird pecked at his eyes.

Pain flared. His right eye went dark.

Somehow, the boy found strength he didn't know he had. He reached out, seized the two-headed crow, and stuffed it into his mouth.

If he was going to die, he would drag this beast with him!

He swallowed its foul blood in great gulps. His shattered body felt as though molten lava had been poured into it. Searing agony caused his limbs to convulse.

Yet his fierce will at the brink of death overwhelmed the pain, and his consciousness sharpened rather than faded.

A long-buried memory surfaced.

It was a story his mother had told him when he was a child.

There was a people who worshiped dragons. They mimicked the roars of dragons, forging a unique language. When they spoke those ancient syllables, they gained power like that of the ancient dragons of yore.

They were remnants of the age of draconic tyranny, survivors of a fallen civilization. The Cult of Dragonkind.

Ancient syllables poured from Geronimo's mouth. Once more, the roar of dragons echoed across the continent.

High above, a demonic shadow paused, staring at the dying boy in astonished delight.

The Dragon Queen, Tiamat, heard that desperate draconic cry.

Blood-tears streamed from the shadow's eyes, dyeing the sky crimson as clouds transformed into countless snarling dragon souls that roared in unison.

A single drop of the Dragon Queen's blood, dark red, fell upon Geronimo.

The vision passed unseen by others.

The executioner knew nothing of this. He thought the strange sound was merely a death rattle and prepared to strip the boy's spine to make a grisly sculpture.

Then he realized his arm would not move. The arm holding the knife slammed uncontrollably onto Geronimo's wounds, as if drawn by a magnet.

From the mangled flesh burst sharp, tooth-lined buds. Like jaws, they clamped onto the executioner's arm and began to tear at it.

Flesh ripped free. Bones snapped. The executioner screamed in unbearable pain.

But no matter how he struggled, he could not escape.

Every wound on Geronimo's body became mouths bristling with teeth. His form twisted grotesquely, bonelessly wrapping around the executioner.

The screams stopped quickly. The executioner's body was torn apart and devoured by those horrific mouths.

After consuming him, the monstrous mass emitted wet, grinding sounds and slowly reshaped itself into human form.

Geronimo stood atop the blood-soaked platform, staring at his hands in disbelief.

On his palms, on his arms, everywhere along his body, mouths lined with sharp teeth opened and closed. His body seemed to be nothing but a mass of ravenous maws. It was horrifying, revolting, and overwhelmingly powerful.

Geronimo bent over. Seconds later, he burst into manic laughter.

"Haha! HAHAHAHA! The holy light is bullshit! My faith belongs to dragons! I soar through the skies. I devour all! I am a dragon!"

As he roared, the flayed skin on his back regenerated, forming a pair of crimson, membranous wings like those of a true dragon.

With a single powerful flap, Geronimo took flight, charging toward the members of the House of Cerberus.

Flesh and blood flew. The boy who had become a dragon would return all the pain the world had inflicted on him tenfold.