First Legendary Dragon: Starting With The Limitless System novel Chapter 114

Chapter 114: Dantalion

Once he’d cleared most of his plate and downed the last of his tea, Orion stood up and stretched. "Alright. Time to head out."

Eldric nodded and waved a hand. "Learn the Runic Language sooner. You have a lot more work to do than your classmates."

Orion smilingly shook his head and waved his hand while walking out, making his way to the front courtyard as Rina and Fiora left to do their own things.

He soon reached the exit as the entrance came into view. There, the sleek black carriage stood ready, its elegant design looking as good as usual.

Lucan stood by the driver’s seat, tossing a small pebble into the air as if bored out of his mind. He caught it between two fingers and looked up as Orion approached.

"Well, well, look who’s up bright and shining like a prince," Lucan grinned and bowed, "Good morning, Young Master."

"Good morning." Orion stepped up. "Where’s Uncle Edgar?"

Lucan scratched his neck and shrugged. "He’s got some business today. He left early in the morning. Said he’d catch up with you later."

"I see..." Orion glanced once at the estate behind him, then stepped into the carriage. "Let’s go."

"With pleasure," Lucan said, climbing into the driver’s seat with an overly dramatic flourish. "Thunderpeak Royal Academy, here we come!"

The carriage began rolling down the street with only Lucan and Orion inside, heading toward the academy as Orion gazed outside, wondering about the Runic Language.

Far from the vibrant lands of Zorathal, where sunlight still held meaning and civilization thrived in glory, Nytherion brooded beneath a sky forever shrouded in roiling clouds of soot and shadow.

The continent was still a maelstrom of ruin—a scorched, mutilated land where chaos reigned supreme and sanity was an illusion.

The air was thick with sulfur and screams. From the charred peaks of obsidian mountains to the gaping fissures in the ash-streaked plains, death was not an event—it was the norm, happening each second.

Demons of every form and madness crawled this blood-drenched land. Some walked with twisted limbs, others swam across molten rivers, their bodies shaped by agony and a lust for power.

The skies were never clear; winged abominations battled in midair, and lightning storms surged unnaturally, drawn by the bloodshed below.

At the very heart of this hellscape stood a towering obsidian fortress—the Citadel of Vepar. A monument to dread, it rose like a black dagger stabbing the light.

Spires curved like claws into the sky, and infernal gargoyles lined the walls, each one weeping molten tears as if in eternal torment.

Inside the fortress, the throne room was bathed in dim crimson light. Lava flowed beneath the transparent glass floor in slow, bubbling rivers.

Massive banners made from the hides of Humans, Elves, Beastkin, and other enemy lords hung above, swaying gently with the thick, unnatural wind.

Vepar reclined upon her jagged throne, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. Her long, shadowy hair shimmered like oil in the flickering light.

Her crimson eyes stared ahead, unblinking and sharp, like those of a predator who hadn’t eaten in centuries.

A ripple spread through the shadows before her.

And then... it appeared.

A figure—impossible to fully perceive—emerged from the darkness itself. Cloaked in pure shadow, his form was indistinct, more silhouette than substance.

Eyes—if he had any—were hidden, and his presence felt like falling into a bottomless pit.

"Vepar," the figure spoke, his voice a distorted whisper that seemed to crawl inside one’s ears. "You summoned me."

Vepar’s lips curled faintly. "You took your time, Dantalion."

Dantalion, the 71st Demon of Solomon, the King of Manipulation and Lies, gave no reply. He simply waited.

"I’ve verified from my dogs what I sensed before," Vepar began, her voice filled with demonic charm that would make even the dead rise, "There was a pulse... a ripple of something. Subtle, but unmistakable. It originated from the Royal Clan of the Titan Race."

"A ripple?" Dantalion’s form tilted, as though intrigued. "The Titans have grown quiet in recent years. I thought they were bound by oaths and stagnated."

"So did I," Vepar murmured, her claws tapping against the throne’s armrest. "But this ripple... was unnatural. I felt it from the Zorathal Continent. And my underlings confirmed something amiss with the Royal Clan of Titans."