CHAPTER 969: THE FAVOR OF THE WOMAN IN WHITE

"The fight’s just begun. Don’t get ahead of yourself!" Orion reached out and snatched one of the blood-soaked spider spears from the air—one that had just torn through Adras’s scales. The blood that stained it was that of a dragon.

"Dragon-ghost, slumbering in the endless dark, hear my call..."

Titanion Realm, the city of Stoneheart.

Orion sat upon his throne, his gaze lost in the space before him, a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

"So the human kingdom’s Divine Artifact(Godly Artifact) is a true relic," he mused. "With that kind of power in reserve, it’s no wonder they’ve dominated the southern continent for so long. But... why didn’t Noel use it when that old dragon Icekra started the war? Is there some secret I’m missing? One that concerns the dragons, or one that belongs to the human kingdom alone?"

The higher one stood, the farther one could see. Now, as one of the apex predators in the continent’s food chain, Orion saw things he never could have before. Prior to becoming an arch lord, he would never have imagined the complex, hidden relationships that existed between the dragons and the human kingdom.

Through the Deathly Soul-Reaper he had hidden with Lorelia, Orion had a clear picture of the current war. He had truly not expected the humans to be hiding such a trump card. He also now knew its true form: a crown.

"The Utessar Continent..." he whispered to himself. "I remember this land once had another name, but it seems the creatures living here have long forgotten it. When can I finally rename it the Titan Continent?"

He had never abandoned his ambition to unite the continent. Before, he had held back because his strength was insufficient. Now, he held back because neither his strength nor the time was right. The unification would have to wait.

To the east, in the lands of the Dwarven Tribes.

The fires of war raged. Bodies littered the ground. The battle was far from over.

Is this how Mentor dominated the battlefield in his early days? Rolan thought, awestruck. It’s so powerful!

He wrenched his trident from the chest of a Dark Dwarf warrior, and a surge of vitality flowed from the weapon into his own body, replenishing his strength and stamina.

He was finally understanding the true power of the Bloodthirsty Trident. It was this vampiric quality that allowed him to remain on the front lines, honing his skills, earning his first bloody battle honors.

"Well done, Rolan! To think you can still swing that trident!" Gort’s voice boomed nearby.

"He’s the lord’s disciple, through and through."

Ursa, Tarn, and Gort were all surprised by the boy’s combat prowess. Steelblade, who was two years Rolan’s senior, had collapsed from exhaustion hours ago and been carried to the rear. Yet the younger Rolan was still fighting, his energy seeming to grow with every kill. His spirit and willpower were a match for some of their Alpha-level warriors.

"I will keep fighting! I won’t bring shame to my mentor’s name!" Rolan declared. "After him, I will be the strongest warrior of the giant’s bloodline!"

He hefted his trident once more and charged toward a dire wolf in the distance.

The three veterans watched his every move—every thrust, every dodge, every leap. Ursa, Tarn, and Gort exchanged a look of shared admiration. They had all possessed that same fire when they were young; they wouldn’t have reached the Alpha-level otherwise. Ursa, in particular, remembered the serpentfolk and cave spider assault on Moonshadow Valley.

Driven by sheer grit, she had run on her own two feet all the way to the succubus territory to call for aid. It was that same ferocious spirit her father, Rendall, had always been so proud of.

"Orion’s disciple is on the field. Keep an eye on him," Delilah said quietly from behind Lorelia. While managing the larger battle, she made a point to watch over the Horde’s key figures.

"Don’t worry," Lorelia chirped. "Rolan is the master’s disciple, which makes him my little apprentice too! Of course I’m watching him. I’ve already sent two of my big spiders to stick close by. They’ll make sure no Alpha-level threats get near him. Heh heh..." She turned and gave Delilah a quick, tongue-out smile.

Suddenly, Lorelia’s expression changed. "Xalathar, we’ve got company!" She sensed a Legendary-level power approaching them fast.

It was the werewolf lord, Orwar. His pack was being torn to shreds by the cave spider armies, and he was suffering heavy losses. To stanch the bleeding, Orwar had broken away from the human earl he’d been fighting and was now making a beeline for Lorelia.

ROAR!

The abyss dragon, Xalathar, had sensed the threat as well. It raised its head and unleashed a terrifying Abyssal Flame Bomb from its maw. The projectile struck Orwar mid-air, blasting him out of the sky.

The werewolf lord was wounded but not seriously. He landed, transformed into a colossal wolf, and charged again.

"Xalathar, this big brute is looking down on us!" Lorelia called out. Orwar was a mid-tier lord, while she and Xalathar were both lower-tier. That was the only reason he would dare to engage them both.

From within the roiling mist that surrounded him, Xalathar let out a low, furious growl, but he did not lose his composure and charge out of his domain.

From the distant field, the human earl who had been crossing blades with Orwar felt the stirring of Lorelia and the abyssal dragon. Without hesitation, he broke away and turned back toward the storm where the Legendary combatants clashed. There, the struggle between Torin and King Harold had risen to a fever pitch, driving the other human lords to press their assaults with ruthless force.

The probing skirmishes were no more—steel rang in earnest, and every stroke was meant to kill.

"Die, you old dog!" Torin snarled, tearing a scroll in half.

A figure emerged before him—a woman in flowing white robes. Her beauty was striking but utterly lifeless. Her face was as stiff as a doll’s, frozen in a faint, serene smile.

Torin had acquired from Ogu the clown a one-use cursed puppet—The Favor of the Woman in White.

Whomever her gaze fell upon would inherit her so-called "favor." In the eyes of a vengeful spirit, that favor was nothing less than a death curse.

The woman in white fixed her hollow stare upon King Harold and, with a stiff, puppet-like motion, stretched out her arms as if to embrace him from across the battlefield.

In the same heartbeat, a colossal wraith-phantom unfurled behind the king, gathering him into its icy hold. Malevolent power seeped from the specter, and a tide of cryptic runes writhed over Harold’s body, vermin swarming a corpse.

"The majesty of a king," Harold snarled, straining against the spectral bonds, "cannot be defied!"