Dawn was slowly breaking over the Chinese lands, unfurling its first golden rays through a morning mist that clung to the mountain contours. Mordred had been in motion for several hours already, crouched in the damp undergrowth that bordered the valley. He had spent the entire night methodically observing the improvised fortress where Syleane had established her command center, his piercing orange eyes scrutinizing every detail with the patience of an experienced hunter.

The fortress itself bore witness to the brutal efficiency of draconic occupation. This former Chinese military base, requisitioned during the first months of the invasion, had been transformed into a formidable defensive complex. The original walls, already imposing with their reinforced concrete and steel structures, had been strengthened by draconic enchantments that made the surface shimmer intermittently with a subtle bluish gleam. Additional watchtowers had been erected at strategic points, their angular silhouettes cutting against the sky like so many sharpened fangs.

From his observation post, Mordred could distinguish the draconic sentries who paced the ramparts with mechanical regularity. Their scales reflected the dawning light, creating golden and copper flashes that betrayed their presence from a distance. He methodically counted their number, observed their rotations, memorized their habits. Three guards on the main tower, two mobile patrols that crossed every ten minutes, static sentries at access points. An impressive setup, but not impenetrable for someone of his caliber.

What fundamentally distinguished Mordred from other predators was his ability to become literally invisible to draconic senses. His mana, the fruit of multiple absorptions and relentless training, deployed around him in a protective envelope of remarkable sophistication. This energy layer not only neutralized his magical signature, but also modulated odors, vibrations, and even his body temperature. He had become a perfect ghost, a conscious absence in the fabric of reality.

The approach was long and meticulous. Mordred progressed in calculated bounds, using every depression in the terrain, every thick bush, every play of shadows cast by the dense vegetation. Morning dew soaked his dark clothing, but he paid it no attention, entirely focused on his objective. Each breath was controlled, each heartbeat mastered. He had learned to synchronize his movements with the natural sounds of the forest—the rustling of leaves, the song of morning birds, the distant babbling of a stream.

For more than three hours, he maintained this patient surveillance, studying not only the guards' movements but also their individual personalities. The one on the left tended to look eastward more often, probably out of boredom. The mobile patrol systematically stopped near the main entrance to exchange a few words. These apparently insignificant details constituted so many potential flaws in their defensive system.

The opportunity finally presented itself in the form of a minor incident. A messenger dragon arrived in a rush, visibly bearing urgent news. His arrival disrupted the established routine: guards turned toward him, patrols slowed to observe, and for exactly forty-three seconds, a blind spot formed near the western wall of the enclosure.

Mordred sprang. His run was fluid, silent, his feet barely grazing the ground. He covered the twenty meters separating him from the wall in record time, slipping through a crack in the concrete blocks that had escaped draconic repairs. Once inside, he immediately pressed himself against the wall, letting his senses adapt to this new environment.

The interior of the base revealed a fascinating mixture of human military architecture and draconic adaptations. The corridors, initially designed for human soldiers, had been widened and raised to accommodate the imposing builds of dragons in hybrid form. Mana conduits ran along the ceilings, feeding magical lighting that cast white, cold light, creating sharp, deep shadows that Mordred immediately exploited.

His progression through the complex was a masterpiece of stealth. He automatically memorized each intersection, each door, each corner that could serve as hiding place or escape route. The voices he heard through the partitions gave him precious clues about the occupants' disposition. Here, subordinate dragons discussed logistics. There, an officer reprimanded a recruit. And always, floating above these daily sounds, a stronger, more authoritative presence emanating from the heart of the complex.

The command center was located on the third level, in what had once been the base's main briefing room. Mordred identified it thanks to the constant comings and goings of messengers and the intensity of magical energies escaping from it. He settled in an adjacent alcove, a recess in the wall that had probably housed technical equipment, and resumed his patient surveillance.

The two guards posted before the main door were impressive specimens, even by draconic standards. Their scales, of dark green streaked with gold, indicated a respectable lineage. Their weapons, enchanted halberds whose blades crackled with energy, testified to their elite status. But Mordred also noted their small weaknesses: the one on the right tended to shift his weight to his left leg, sign of an old injury. The other regularly consulted a magical chronometer, revealing a somewhat anxious nature.

Syleane's voice reached him through the door's thickness, clear and cutting like a blade. She was giving orders concerning the distribution of patrols in newly pacified territories, her voice betraying natural authority and contained impatience. Mordred listened, analyzing not only the words but also the inflections, the pauses, building a psychological profile of his prey.

The occasion he waited for materialized unexpectedly. An urgent report concerning troubles in a distant province required immediate reinforcement of exterior patrols. Syleane's voice cracked like a whip, ordering the entrance guards to immediately join the reconnaissance teams. The two dragons, visibly unaccustomed to being contested, exchanged a hesitant look before obeying, their heavy steps quickly fading down the corridor.

Mordred waited still. Not from excessive precaution, but because he knew that a plan's perfection often resided in those few additional seconds that transformed the possible into the inevitable. He silently counted to thirty, ensuring the guards were sufficiently distant, then emerged from his hiding place with the fluidity of a shadow regaining form.

He approached the door with calculated casualness, his movements devoid of any suspicious haste. His gloved hand rose toward the cold metal, and he struck three measured knocks, neither too strong nor too weak, exactly the type of signal a respectful but confident subordinate might use.

The silence that followed was charged with electricity. Mordred could almost feel Syleane's surprise, her momentary confusion at this unexpected interruption. Then her voice rang out, tinged with irritation but retaining that natural authority characteristic of superior draconic lineages:

- "Enter!"

The smile that stretched Mordred's lips had nothing human about it. It was the expression of a predator seeing its prey voluntarily heading toward the trap. He pushed the door with a fluid gesture and entered the room with the quiet assurance of someone coming to claim what rightfully belonged to him.

The command room was impressive, dominated by a holographic tactical table that projected a three-dimensional map of the region. Military documents spread across auxiliary surfaces, magical communications blinked on control panels, and at the center of this strategic orchestration stood Syleane.

She was exactly as he remembered her: tall, elegant, with that lethal grace characteristic of high-lineage dragons. Her deep black hair framed a face with aristocratic features, and her eyes of piercing emerald green gradually widened as she realized who had just entered her sanctuary.

Syleane's expression traversed an entire spectrum of emotions in the space of a few seconds: surprise, incredulity, then a cold anger that made her irises shine with dangerous brilliance. Her posture imperceptibly modified, shifting from administrative relaxation to the tension of a fighter recognizing a mortal threat.

Mordred savored this moment. There was something exquisite in this confrontation, this mutual recognition between predators. He let the silence stretch a few more seconds, observing the micro-expressions that betrayed his adversary's furious calculations, then finally broke the tension with studied casualness:

- "Hello there, it's me."

The words floated in the air like a death sentence pronounced with biting courtesy.

Syleane slowly raised her head upon hearing this unknown voice, annoyed at being disturbed in her crucial reflections. A shiver of incomprehension quickly ran down her spine as she examined the intruder's face: a silhouette she didn't immediately recognize. For a brief second, her brows furrowed, her silver eyes squinted with the effort of memory, seeking to identify this strange presence.

But when her gaze met the orange, flaming and provocative pupils of Mordred, a brutal flash of recognition and fury immediately coursed through her body. A painful memory violently imposed itself in her mind. Her draconic mana suddenly exploded, releasing a wave of raw power, making the walls tremble and windows crack.

- "You..." she growled in a voice charged with pure hatred.

But Mordred, far from being intimidated, burst into light, provocative laughter, his gaze shining with displayed insolence.

- "Well, well, what a tigress!" he launched with false innocence, an arrogant smirk stretching across his lips. "My mistake, I'm flattered."

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Hi everyone, I had some trouble transferring the chapters from Word to Webnovel, so if there are any errors, please feel free to point them out.