The Milf's Dragon-Chapter 132. The Demon Tide

Morning came and the demons arrived like a tide. A flood of darkness that spilled over the eastern horizon and kept coming, kept spreading, kept consuming the plains below Drak’thar. Demons by the tens of thousands. War beasts the size of buildings. Siege towers that walked on iron legs. And among them, flying above them, leading them....

The demonic dragons.

Owen counted as they approached. Forty-three. Less than the fifty who’d followed Vorthraxx to his final battle. Some had died in the sealing’s aftermath. Others had simply fled, their purpose broken. But these forty-three had regrouped. Had chosen to fight on. Had found new generals to follow.

Dragons who had trained with Vorthraxx. Who had been familiar with Celeste when she was in drak’thar. Their scales were twisted now, corrupted by miasma.

Zephron stood on the wall beside him, his injured arm bound tight, his good hand gripping the stone. "And here they come....again," he said quietly. "Dragons I Taught how to fly. How to fight. And Watched them grow..."

"And now?"

"And now I’ll watch them die." His voice was steady. "Or they’ll watch me die. Either way, it ends today." He shrugged his shoulder.

Below, the allied armies took their positions.

Elven archers lined the ridges to the north, their bows already drawn, waiting for the signal. Dwarven heavy infantry formed shield walls at the plains’ edge, their formations tight, their axes gleaming. Druids moved among the rocks, whispering to the earth, preparing traps and barriers. Fairies flickered at the army’s edges, too fast to track, too small to target.

And in the center, ready to meet the demon charge directly, the dragons waited.

Verida stood at their head despite her grounded wing. She couldn’t fly, but she could fight...her toxic aura still potent, her claws still sharp, her presence still enough to steady the younger dragons around her.

Chronara had taken position in the palace’s highest tower, her futuresight spread across the battlefield, feeding information to every commander through whispered magic. She saw the demon charge before it happened. Saw the flanking maneuvers. Saw the moment when the demonic dragons would break formation and dive.

She saw deaths, too. Hundreds of them. Thousands. She didn’t share those.

Owen stayed on the wall. Witness only. But Chronara had given him a task: watch and remember.

The demons crossed the line, signalling the start of the battle.

---

The first wave hit the dwarven shield wall like water against rock.

Demons crashed and broke. Dwarven axes rose and fell. The line held, barely. Borin Ironfoot fought at its center, his great axe carving through demon after demon, his roar rising above the chaos.

"STAND FAST! LET THEM BREAK ON US!"

They stood. They held. The demons couldn’t breach.

So they went around.

Flanking forces swept toward the elven positions, but Sylnara’s archers were ready. Arrows darkened the sky...not normal arrows, but elven shafts enchanted to seek demonic hearts. Hundreds of demons fell mid-charge. Thousands. But more kept coming.

The druids struck next. The earth itself rose against the demon tide—walls of stone, pits of sudden flame, roots that wrapped and crushed. Demons screamed as the land turned on them.

And then the demonic dragons dove.

Zephron met them in the air.

His injured arm slowed him, but his fury carried him forward. Lightning crackled from his good hand, arcing between corrupted scales, sending demonic dragons tumbling. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t pause. Didn’t let himself see the faces behind the twisted forms.

One demonic dragon—blue-black scales, eyes burning purple—veered toward him. Zephron recognized her flight pattern. Recognized her.

"Lianthak." His voice broke. "Lianthak, please—"

She didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Her claws raked across his chest, opening wounds that spilled golden blood.

Zephron roared—not in pain, but in grief—and drove his lightning through her heart.

She fell.

He didn’t watch her hit ground and lunged towards the other demonic dragons.

---

The battle raged for hours.

Owen watched from the wall, his Dragon’s Eye tracking every movement, every death, every moment of heroism and horror. He saw dwarven lines bend but never break. Saw elven archers fight hand-to-hand when demons finally reached their positions. Saw druids transform into beasts of claws and fang, tearing into demon ranks with primal fury. Saw fairies lead demon charges into traps, their tiny forms flickering just out of reach.

And he saw many dragons die.

One by one, they fell. Young dragons who’d barely learned to fight. Old dragons who’d survived centuries only to end here. Dragons who’d chosen to stand rather than flee.

Zephron fought on despite his wounds, his lightning growing weaker with each strike, his movements slower. Verida directed ground forces despite her grounded wing, her toxic aura thinning as her reserves drained. Chronara’s futuresight flickered—too many possibilities, too many deaths, too much chaos to track.

By midday, the demon tide had slowed. By late afternoon, it had broken.

The surviving demons fled, again. The demonic dragons who still lived followed—some flying, some crawling, some dragging themselves toward the nearest Nether rift with whatever strength remained.

The battlefield was carpeted with bodies. Demon bodies. Dragon bodies. Dwarf bodies. Elf bodies. The cost was incalculable.

But they’d won, for now.

Zephron landed heavily beside Owen, his legs giving out as soon as his claws touched stone. Blood covered his chest, his arms, his face. Most of it wasn’t his.

"Fucking hell..." he gasped. "We actually held."

Verida limped up from the ground forces, her toxic aura barely visible. "But at what cost? Look at them." She gestured at the field. "Look at what’s left."

What was left was half the dwarven army, two-thirds of the elven forces, Druids scattered and exhausted. Fairies regrouping in the distance, and Dragons...less than a hundred still fit to fight.

And worst part was that the celestials were still coming, this was just the tip of the iceberg.

Chronara’s voice echoed through their minds, urgent, strained: "The celestial army has accelerated. They’ll be here by dawn. Maybe sooner."

The feeling of victory faded immediately, the war wasn’t over, it was just beginning.