The Red Emperor slept, but time did not stop because of it.

Days passed one by one, years by years; the sun still rose, the seasons still cycled.

However, the kingdom did not halt—only its strategy shifted. Territory development prioritized stability: take what could be taken, and for what couldn’t be secured, leave it be for now.

The great beast that was the Aola Kingdom sheathed its edges and closed its eyes to rest.

New Calendar 512, spring.

The Iron Dragon Sorog began sensing the signs of slumber.

Like a river inevitably flowing to the sea, like day inevitably giving way to night—unavoidable and irresistible—a drowsiness welled up from his core, growing heavier with each passing day.

“I should sleep soon too.”

He said this to the red dragon.

Samantha was curled up beside him, feeling her own state. Her condition was similar: drowsiness gathering, though not yet at the point of mandatory sleep.

“At most two years, and I’ll begin to slumber as well.”

She flicked her tail irritably; the tip cracked against the ground with sharp pops. “We’re roughly the same age, our sleep cycles always overlap.”

“That’s a risk.”

“When the emperor sleeps, the royal dukes sleep too, and the entire Aola horde is left leaderless.”

The Iron Dragon was silent for several seconds, thoughtful.

“No, this might be the last time.”

He said slowly, “If Garoth can awaken earlier as he claims, our sleep cycles will gradually stagger. The emperor’s sons are also growing up; they’ll learn to stand on their own.”

He paused, then added, “Besides, one of us will remain awake.”

Samantha pinched the scales between her brows, leaving a few grooves across her plated armor.

“You mean... Gordon?”

Sorog nodded.

“When he broke through to legendary, he entered his prime slumber far ahead of schedule.”

“That was many years ago; his timing is already offset from ours. When we sleep, he will be awake. When he sleeps, we should already be stirring. His rhythm is different now.”

The red dragon shook her massive head, exhaling a blast of hot air from her nostrils.

“Whether Gordon is awake or asleep makes no real difference to us. Can you trust him to govern the realm in our stead?”

Sorog turned to his kin, his expression serious.

“Samantha, my sister, do not forget: although Gordon started late, he never stopped growing. Similar blood runs through him; that ensures he will not remain an ordinary dragon forever.”

He paused, then said, “When you sleep, have him act as regent for the kingdom.”

The red dragon shook her head again, spitting a few sparks and laughing.

“Make him regent?”

Her tone dripped disdain. “I’d sooner hand everything over to Aola’s followers.”

She meant Garoth’s three legendary lieutenants.

Fang of Aola, the Gluttonous Ogre Karu; Aola’s Edge, the centaur Elvy; Aola’s Claw, the werewolf Russell.

These three had followed Garoth the longest, were the strongest, and their loyalty was beyond doubt.

Back when the Aola Kingdom was still the Molten Iron Tribe, the policy for the sleeping years was already set.

When the king slept, his lieutenants strictly carried out his will.

Even Sorog or Samantha would refuse any order that clearly contradicted the king’s intent. It was rule and tradition.

“In Aola, only a true great dragon can lead the sovereign state.”

The Iron Dragon said.

He was not a dragon supremacist; Sorog acknowledged the strength and contributions of non-dragon followers.

But he understood clearly: no matter how strong the lieutenants were, they could never truly rule the kingdom. Many matters only a true great dragon could shoulder.

Without more argument, the Iron Dragon turned and strode into the sleeping grounds.

New Calendar 513, autumn.

The red dragon Samantha began to feel an overwhelming drowsiness, as if countless hands were pulling her downward. She knew she could not delay.

After much deliberation, she recalled Sorog’s words.

In the end, he did summon Gordon from Valdo to the Red Emperor Capital.

After Aola became the Northern Borders’ hegemon, Iron Dragon Gordon had, thanks to his extensive experience in Lothrian, continuously handled affairs in the Romania nations.

Diplomacy, infiltration, influence, pacification, intimidation...

He performed those tasks well, without flaw.

This time, however, his kin were all about to sleep while he remained awake.

In the wide hall, the two great dragons faced each other.

Gordon looked far stronger than at their last meeting: deeper scales, steadier eyes. He lay quietly, waiting for his sister to speak.

“Gordon, my foolish brother, Aola will be temporarily entrusted to you.”

“Prioritize stability, develop internally, and don’t stir up trouble.”

The red dragon pronounced each word, “Garoth instructed this before he slept; Sorog repeated it. Now I tell you the same: do not be rash, do not cause problems, do not let power make you forget who you are.”

Her voice paused, then turned fierce.

“If when I wake I find the realm harmed because of you, I will not go easy on you.”

“Do you understand?”

Gordon nodded heavily.

His gaze was earnest; there was no resentment or fear at his sister’s threat.

“Rest assured, my dear sister.”

“I promise you: when you awaken, you will see a prosperous and flourishing Aola.”

Samantha stared at him for a few seconds, her eyes sharp as if she wanted to pierce into his mind to confirm his memory. Then she withdrew her light and turned away.

After the emperor, the Iron Royal Duke and the Red Royal Duke fell into slumber one after another.

That year Gordon governed the realm, wielding great power.

His temperament was neither as steady as Sorog nor as volatile as Samantha’s.

He stood between the two: firm when needed, gentle when needed.

During his years in Lothrian he’d learned when to advance, when to retreat, when to stay silent.

Most importantly, he listened to his elder siblings.

Garoth had told them: the kingdom must prioritize caution.

Sorog and Samantha had both repeated: do not provoke, do not be impetuous. Gordon kept those words close, forgetting none.

He did not become arrogant because power rested in his claws.

He simply followed the set course, advancing the work already underway and executing his duties as well as possible.

Develop territory, accumulate resources, advance technology, perfect military formations, fortify borders...

Step by step, patient and steady.

New Calendar 524, summer.

Aola’s first Sky Island rose.

Its diameter was under three hundred meters, with only a few crude buildings: wooden frames, stone foundations, built for experimental use.

From afar it looked like a large floating rock.

Clumsy and rough, but undeniably afloat.

It was a true sky island, kept aloft by a Skysoar Engine.

After obtaining two major technologies from Halden, the Aola Kingdom never ceased development.

Those technologies were repeatedly studied, tested, and refined. While Gordon governed, domestic development intensified, naturally including the Skysoar Engine.

“Ha, this feels incredible.”

Iron Dragon Gordon stood at the island’s edge, eyes lowered to the vast land below.

Many could not understand why Halden had gone to such lengths to build cities in the sky.

It seemed pointless—wasteful of resources, energy-consuming, and an easy target.

Why not stay on the ground? Firmly rooted, safe and comfortable.

Why bother?

Gordon had once asked the same.

But now, standing here, overlooking the kingdom, looking down on mountains and plains, looking upon countless tiny creatures...he roughly understood.

Not for strategic calculations or security or grand plans.

Simply because...

the feeling was too exhilarating.

To be above, looking down upon all, feeling godlike.

Those running, crawling, walking below seemed so small and insignificant while he stood high and surveyed everything.

“Halden’s so-called nationwide ascension is really a pursuit of the spirit, a kind of self-satisfaction.”

He murmured to himself.

The Iron Dragon lingered a moment longer, feeling the wind slip under him, clouds brush beneath his feet. Then, without regret, he leapt off the island’s edge.

A dive, acceleration; the air howled across his scales.

The ground rushed nearer, details sharpened, and at the last instant he pulled up hard, skimming the treetops and startling a flock of birds.

Grounded life is still best, he thought.

New Calendar 531, spring.

Northern Border of the Central Land, at a certain mine.

Rumble! Rumble!

Engineering golems worked without pause; their huge bodies moved through the pit, drills on their arms chipping the rock, fragments flying. Dust clouds billowed; deafening clamor echoed through the valley, scaring away nearby beasts.

Suddenly the earth quaked.

It was not the golems’ work.

A deeper, more violent tremor surged. The ground heaved and cracked; fissures spread in all directions. Then an enormous ferocious beast burst from the soil.

Its trunk exceeded a hundred meters in diameter, its body sheathed in deep black chitin that shone with a dim luster in sunlight.

Six segmented limbs, thick and powerful, each dozens of meters long, ending in razor-sharp spikes.

Its mandibles clacked open and shut, revealing layered teeth. Its eyes were compound eyes, composed of countless tiny lenses, each reflecting a shattered scene.

A Devourer Insect.

This was a species of legendary subterranean predator: enormous, irritable, and delighting in devouring all life. They slept for eons in the deep earth, but if roused they brought ruin and death upon the land.

The golems’ mining had awakened it.

The Devourer emitted an ear-piercing hiss; the soundwave made the air tremble.

It swept its limbs and smashed nearby golems to fragments in moments. The mine collapsed, the resource node destroyed, but the beast did not stop.

It rampaged across the Northern Border, toppling trees and cracking the ground in its wake.

Until—

The dragon might descended from the skies.

A dragon—but formed of pure energy, its outline distinct.

Dark red across its whole form, scales clear, horns imposing, eyes like torches.

Its size dwarfed the Devourer Insect; its wings blotted the sun. It did not look like an ordinary dragon but like a creature from myth, wrapped in invisible flames that warped the air with each breath.

It looked down at the insect with a cold gaze.

The Devourer froze.

Its compound eyes caught the unexpected arrival; instinct warned of danger, but fury overwhelmed caution. It hissed and lunged, all six limbs propelling it forward.

The great dragon did not dodge.

It lifted a foreclaw and gently pressed down.

Boom!

The Devourer was slammed into the earth.

The ground caved, leaving a massive pit; the insect’s carapace shattered inch by inch under the force, its body fluids spewing and soaking the soil.

Its limbs scrabbled wildly; its mandibles snapped, trying to bite at the crushing claw.

No matter how it struggled, it could not break free.

The dragon lowered its head and regarded the trapped beast with calm eyes, as one might view a common insect. Then it opened its maw.

Whoosh!

A torrent of searing flame engulfed the Devourer, burning it inch by inch into ash. Its hissing dwindled and finally ceased.

When the flames died down, only charred remains filled the pit.

Having eliminated the threat, the dragon roared, its cry shaking the plains and ringing through the sky. Then its entire form condensed into light, shot heavenward, and vanished into the high reaches of space.

The Aola folk who had witnessed the scene came out from their hiding places.

They erupted into cheers that swelled and could not be contained.

They all knew what that dragon was.

It was the product of years of effort by the Steel Royal Dukes: the Aola Dragon Spirit.

Over the years Aola continuously improved its formations and strengthened the Sanctuary of Heroic Spirits.

Gordon had a sudden idea: could the two be merged?

Thus the Dragon Spirit was born.

Essentially it was an evolution of Aola’s war-soul, akin to Lothrian’s Holy Spirit.

Its strength depended on the prowess of the Aola army: the stronger the legion, the stronger the Dragon Spirit.

It manifested as a giant dragon, normally residing in the Sanctuary, but able to fight independently when needed. Wherever it manifested, surrounding Aola soldiers received amplified strength, their combat power multiplying.

This was the Dragon Spirit’s first real battle.

“Not bad. When Garoth and the others wake, they’ll be a bit surprised,” Gordon thought as he watched from afar.

New Calendar 536.

Theo, Silverglow City.

A figure stood at the city gate for a long time without moving.

Reinhardt lifted his head and watched the flags fluttering from the ramparts.

A hundred years.

The gate remained the gate, the wall remained the wall; the stone had not changed much, but the flags on the battlements had changed—most conspicuously, a new banner flew high.

Aola’s crimson dragon banner.

The flag snapped in the wind; the dragon motif bared fangs and claws as if looking down on every traveler. It hung higher and more prominently than Theo’s own flags.

Reinhardt inhaled and entered the city.

The streets were wider than his memory, the buildings taller and more refined—some newly built, some renovated, blending the Northern Border’s ruggedness with Theo’s elegance.

Crowds flowed: locals of Theo and a scattering of Aola citizens.

They mingled—talking, trading, laughing—without any visible divisions.

Reinhardt’s gaze swept the crowd.

Vendors argued loudly by the roadside, then all laughed together when the sale concluded. A patrol of soldiers marched past in neat formation; their bright armor was patterned with dragon motifs.

At important intersections, towering ogres stood guard.

They reached several meters tall and carried massive axes, yet passersby bore no fear; some even nodded greetings when passing.

Reinhardt withdrew his gaze and continued forward.

Around a corner he stopped.

A massive statue dominated the central square.

Lord of the Northern Borders, the Red Emperor.

In dragon form, three-headed and six-armed, head held to the sky, lifelike—every scale carved with exquisite detail, every eye sharp and vigilant.

The pedestal was engraved with inscriptions recounting the Red Emperor’s deeds:

Founding the Aola Kingdom, unifying the Romania nations, sealing the Abyssal Rifts, slaying Great Demons, destroying runaway Sky Cities...

Bold and imposing, with wreaths of flowers arrayed around it—some wilted, some fresh, clearly replaced often.

Children played at the statue’s base.

They ran around the pedestal, chased one another, occasionally imitating dragon roars—arms spread, mouths open, roughhousing; a few bold ones tried to climb the statue, grabbing scale ridges to pull themselves up.

Aola centaur guards were nearby but did not intervene.

They simply stood and glanced from time to time.

Reinhardt stood watching the statue, the flowers, the playing children, the guards—silent for a while.

“Sir, are you here to pay respects to the emperor statue too?”

A clear voice came from beside him.

Reinhardt turned.

A young woman stood nearby, in her early twenties, wearing an enthusiastic smile.

Her attire differed somewhat from the Theo style he remembered: accessories shaped like little dragon claws or wings, dragon-patterned trim on her sleeves and collar—a fashion trend.

“Pay respects?”

Reinhardt repeated the word.

“Yes.”

The girl said matter-of-factly, “It’s Silverglow City’s most famous attraction.”

“This spot used to be the old palace site. Legend has it the great Red Emperor once stood here; since then it became sacred. Everyone who visits Silverglow comes to see and offer respects.”

“You’re a Theo native?”

Reinhardt asked.

“Yes, I was born and raised in Theo.” The girl laughed. “But you, sir, where are you from? You don’t look like a Theo native—or even like someone from the North Border. Perhaps you came from another kingdom?”

Reinhardt fell silent.

He suddenly felt a strangeness in the Theo Kingdom.

Not strangeness, but... change into something else.

The Theo of his memory was not like this.

He exhaled lightly and said, “I’m a traveler from very far away. I’m curious—what do you people of Theo think of Aola?”

The girl blinked, then beamed.

“What do we think? Proud, of course!”

Her tone was full of pride.

“Our Theo is now Aola’s closest partner.”

“Back then, thank goodness Aola corrected our mistakes and guided us to the right path. Without Aola and without the Red Emperor, we might have stagnated—or even regressed.”

Reinhardt listened without speaking.

The girl continued, excited: “You come from far away, but you must have heard of the Red Emperor. All of the North Border takes pride in him.”

“You could even say he’s the pride of all Atlan!”

She pointed at the statue.

“If not for the great Red Emperor destroying those rogue Sky Cities, how could Atlan be peaceful now?”

“Heh, now the whole continent is saying even Halden’s high lords have to plead with His Majesty for help! Those floating cities—if not for the emperor, they would have smashed the surface to rubble.”

Reinhardt nodded slowly.

“His name thunders across the land. I heard of him long ago; the impression stuck.”

After a few more casual words, the girl waved and turned away, humming a tune as she walked, her steps light like a happy bird.

Reinhardt remained, watching the dragon statue, the wreaths, the playing children.

Everything looked so fine.

So fine that people had completely forgotten former hatred and pain.

“Is a hundred years enough time to forget the past?” Reinhardt muttered.

He suddenly recalled himself.

He had once been the Light of Theo—the kingdom’s hope.

Everyone had said he would lead Theo’s revival and defeat the Red Iron Dragon’s tyranny.

And yet? He had not even faced the Red Emperor directly.

In his duel with the emperor’s lieutenant, Aola’s Edge, he was defeated and almost lost his life. If the old king had not spared no expense to treat him, he would have died.

So many years had passed.

On the Arotala Continent Reinhardt had faced countless life-and-death trials, cut through brambles, encountered danger and opportunity.

During that time he obtained the Elves’ Sacred Spring to mend his body. Now he had finally reached the crown-level ceiling, lacking only the Mandate of Heaven by a single step.

Accumulation was sufficient; all conditions met.

Yet that final step would not come.

Every attempt to break through summoned that indifferent vertical pupil in his mind.

It was calm and unfathomable, devoid of emotion—just watching him as one watches an ant, a speck of dust, an insignificant existence.

Under that gaze he could not calm himself.

His heart raced, his breathing faltered, his will wavered... he could not shake it.

He knew what it was.

So he returned.

To calm his heart, to soothe the shadow of that past, to break through the Mandate of Heaven.

As for Theo...

Reinhardt looked around.

He swept his gaze across laughing children, contented passersby, the wreath-laden statue, and the fluttering dragon banner.

Now Theo was proud of Aola and the Red Emperor, having long forgotten past grievances—perhaps never even knowing such grievances existed.

Those old events were filed into yellowed records, swept into history’s corners, and the new generation had forgotten them completely.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Reinhardt thought.

He had planned to meet the king and discuss the future personally, but seeing things as they were, he felt it unnecessary. The king likely thought the same way.

The whole kingdom had changed—how could the king not have?

One last look at the towering dragon statue, and Reinhardt turned and walked against the crowd. His figure faded into the depths of the street, swallowed by the flow of people like a drop merging into a river, disappearing from sight.