Sichuan Province, People's Republic of China

2:32 PM, local time

The sky above Sichuan Province was gradually darkening, clouds accumulating in compact masses that filtered the sunlight. The humidity was oppressive, creating a heavy atmosphere that seemed to weigh down on the devastated landscape. The dragons of the Parisian noble families were approaching their destination at a cruising speed of 180 kilometers per hour, their wings beating in a synchronized rhythm that betrayed their military training.

The group consisted of twelve elite dragons, all from the oldest bloodlines of the French capital. Their leader, Aldric Montclair, was a bronze dragon of one hundred and forty-three years, veteran of three major territorial conflicts. His experience had taught him to quickly assess combat situations, but nothing had prepared him for what he would discover in the following minutes.

As they approached the Chinese command center, the characteristic smell of dragon blood began to invade their nostrils. This metallic odor, mixed with that of burned flesh and heated steel, created an olfactory cocktail that even the most hardened dragons found disturbing.

Aldric was the first to spot the mangled structures of the military complex. The reinforced concrete buildings had been literally gutted, their thick two-meter walls pierced like paper. The communication towers lay on the ground, twisted at impossible angles. But it was only when arriving above the central square that Aldric understood the true scope of what had unfolded here.

The central square, which measured approximately two hundred meters by one hundred and fifty, had been transformed into a macabre display of bodies. Four-meter-high steel spikes had been planted according to a precise geometric pattern, creating a metallic forest on which the bodies of Chinese dragons were impaled.

A quick count revealed the presence of one hundred and thirty-seven spikes, each bearing at least one body. Some supported two, pierced one above the other. The steel used was of military quality, probably recovered from the command center structures themselves. The precision of the arrangement suggested method, deliberate organization rather than blind massacre.

What made the scene particularly disturbing was the state of the victims. Many showed signs of life: weak breathing movements, muffled moans, involuntary muscle contractions. The impalement had not been performed to kill immediately, but to maintain the victims in a state of prolonged agony.

At the exact center of this geometric arrangement sat a man. He was seated on a cylindrical concrete block, probably a fragment of a collapsed column. His posture was relaxed, almost nonchalant. His back leaned against a sword one and a half meters long, planted vertically in the cracked ground. The blade was entirely covered with black and coagulated blood that formed viscous streaks down to the guard.

The man himself presented the physical characteristics of a European of Nordic type. Estimated height: one meter eighty-five. Athletic build without excess. Short-cut blond hair, slightly disheveled. Ordinary civilian clothing: black jeans, dark gray t-shirt, brown leather boots. No visible military equipment, except for the sword.

What was most striking about his appearance was his facial expression. His features were relaxed, almost peaceful, as if he were resting after moderate physical effort. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and regular. He gave the impression of a man who had just completed a routine task and was taking a well-deserved break.

Aldric performed his landing according to standard procedure: descending spiral approach, progressively slowed wing beats, ground contact on all four paws before straightening up. His claws, fifteen centimeters long each, sank into the crumbling stone with an audible crack. The sound seemed to resonate in the strange silence that reigned over the square.

His companions landed in defensive formation around him: three dragons on each side, three in rear guard. This arrangement allowed them to cover all potential attack angles while maintaining clear evacuation routes. Their formation betrayed their growing nervousness in the face of the magnitude of the massacre they were witnessing.

Aldric took time to assess the situation before speaking. His dragon eyes, capable of perceiving details at a distance of several kilometers, methodically analyzed the scene. He counted the bodies, evaluated the state of visible wounds, searched for clues about the methods used. Everything indicated that this carnage was the work of a single individual.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried naturally in the still air. Dragon vocal cords produce a deeper and more powerful sound than those of humans, creating a resonance that can be intimidating even without aggressive intent.

- "We are the representatives of the noble families of Paris, delegated by the authority of Syléane de Montblanc. We respond to a distress call issued by the Chinese forces of this region."

He paused, giving the man time to react. Getting no response, he continued in a firmer tone:

- "Human. I address you. What is your name? What is your role in the events that took place here?"

The man who was indeed Mordred, though Aldric did not yet know it did not move immediately. His eyelids remained closed, his breathing stayed perfectly regular. For several seconds, one might have thought he was sleeping deeply, indifferent to the presence of the twelve dragons surrounding him.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he opened his eyes.

What occurred at that precise instant defied all rational explanation according to conventional draconic standards. A wave of magical pressure of unprecedented intensity swept from Mordred's position, propagating in a fifty-meter radius like an invisible shock wave.

The dragons, creatures naturally sensitive to magical flows, were struck head-on by this discharge. The sensation was comparable to being instantly plunged to a depth of one hundred meters underwater: crushing pressure that compressed every cell of their body, made breathing difficult and triggered primitive panic reflexes.

Aldric, despite his experience and training, instinctively retreated three steps. His muscles contracted involuntarily, his scales bristled according to an ancestral defensive reflex. Around him, his companions showed similar signs of physiological stress: pupil dilation, accelerated heart rate, wing positioning in emergency takeoff position.

One of the youngest dragons in the group, a seventy-three-year-old male named Julien Delamare, verbalized what they all felt:

- "What is... this magical pressure corresponds to nothing we know. Humans are not supposed to be able to generate flows of such amplitude."

His voice trembled slightly, betraying a fear he was trying to mask. The other dragons exchanged worried glances. Their defensive formation, which had seemed adequate to them a few moments earlier, suddenly appeared derisory in the face of this demonstration of power.

Mordred stood up with the same measured slowness he had used to open his eyes. Each of his movements was fluid, economical, devoid of haste. He showed no sign of fatigue despite the surrounding carnage, no trace of stress in the face of the imminent confrontation with twelve elite dragons.

When he had straightened to his full height, he grasped the pommel of his sword and withdrew it from the ground with a perfectly controlled vertical movement. The blade slid out of the compacted earth without resistance, releasing a few drops of coagulated blood that fell with a dull sound on the ground.

The sword itself was of remarkable craftsmanship. Its blade, one meter twenty long, presented a subtle curve characteristic of European cavalry sabers of the 18th century. The steel was of exceptional quality, probably forged according to techniques now lost. Despite the blood traces covering it, one could distinguish complex engravings along the flat of the blade.

Mordred briefly examined the weapon, checking the state of its edge with an expert glance. Then he turned his attention to the dragons encircling him. His eyes, of a deep and luminous orange, settled on each of them in turn, as if he were evaluating their individual capabilities.

When he spoke, his voice was remarkably calm, devoid of any aggression or tension:

- "You may come. I'm finished here anyway."

This declaration, pronounced in an almost conversational tone, had a devastating effect on the morale of the dragons present. Not only did it confirm that the man was indeed responsible for the massacre, but it also suggested that he considered the prospect of facing twelve elite dragons as a simple formality.

Aldric realized that the situation had exceeded the framework of a reconnaissance mission. They were facing an individual whose capabilities defied all logic, and who had just openly challenged them. As commander, he had the responsibility to protect his men, but also to defend the honor of his lineage.

His decision was made in a fraction of a second:

- "Delta attack formation! Immediate elimination of the target!"

The Delta formation was a classic encirclement tactic: six dragons attacked simultaneously from different angles, while the other six provided cover and were ready to intervene in case of a breach in the first wave. This method had proven itself against even exceptionally gifted human targets.

The dragons deployed with military precision. Their movements were coordinated, the fruit of hundreds of hours of joint training. In a collective roar that shook the surrounding structures, they launched themselves toward Mordred, their claws extended, their mouths open letting flames escape.

Mordred observed their approach without moving. His eyes followed each movement, calculated each trajectory. He took no defensive position, didn't even raise his sword. He simply remained standing, perfectly motionless, at the center of the deadly circle closing in on him.

Then, at the precise instant when the first claws were about to reach him, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

When he reopened them, his gaze had changed. The luminous orange of his irises had become more intense, almost incandescent. For the first time since the dragons' arrival, an emotion crossed his features: something that resembled resignation mixed with boredom.

- "Very well," he murmured in a barely audible voice. "Let's get this over with."

North American Theater of Operations - Conquered Zone

10:15 PM, Eastern Time (UTC-5)

The North American continent presented a tableau of desolation that exceeded the most pessimistic projections established by draconic military analysts. In the space of seventy-two hours, a civilization of three hundred and fifty million inhabitants had been reduced to the state of occupied territory.

The great American metropolises no longer existed as functional entities. New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston: all had suffered the same fate. Their skyscrapers, symbols of human economic power, lay collapsed in their own streets. Transportation infrastructures highways, railways, airports had been systematically destroyed to prevent any troop movement or organized evacuation.

Washington D.C., as the federal capital, had concentrated the last organized resistance forces. The American defense plan, hastily developed by General Jonathan Wade and his staff, relied on using urban terrain to limit dragon mobility and allow S-rank hunters to engage them under more favorable conditions.

This strategy had proven partially effective during the first hours of combat. The S-rank hunters, numbering forty-three, had managed to eliminate about ten Borask dragons by using government buildings as cover. Their anti-dragon weapons, developed specifically to pierce the most resistant scales, had proven their worth.

However, Maélor's arrival in person had radically changed the situation. The Borask dragon king possessed capabilities that far exceeded those of his ordinary congeners. His size forty-three meters in length, wingspan of sixty-eight meters made him a mobile force of destruction capable of razing entire city blocks.

But it was his mastery of black flames that had proven decisive. Unlike ordinary draconic flames, which burn at temperatures of approximately 1800°C, Maélor's flames reached 3200°C and possessed corrosive properties that allowed them to pass through most protective materials.

General Wade had established his final command post in the reinforced basements of the Capitol. The reinforced concrete walls, three meters thick and reinforced with steel plates, were designed to withstand a direct nuclear strike. They had not resisted Maélor's flames for more than fifteen minutes.

When the outer defenses had given way, Wade found himself with the last survivors of his unit in the smoking ruins of what had been the symbol of American democracy. Thomas Grant, his adjutant for eight years, already lay lifeless, killed by the collapse of a support beam.

Around them, the bodies of their companions testified to the violence of the last battles. Sergeant Major Harrison, veteran of three conflicts, had been literally cut in two by a Borask dragon's claws. Lieutenant Colonel Martinez, anti-dragon weapons specialist, had died trying to reload his rocket launcher, crushed under an assailant's paw.

Wade himself presented multiple injuries that would normally have required immediate medical evacuation. His legs were broken in several places, consequence of his fall from the third floor during the collapse. Several broken ribs made his breathing laborious. A scalp wound was bleeding abundantly, partially obscuring his vision.

Despite his condition, he still maintained a proud posture when Maélor appeared in the debris. The dragon king had resumed his hybrid form for this final conversation—a mixture of human and draconic characteristics that allowed him to move more easily in confined spaces while retaining part of his power.

Maélor approached slowly, his claws scraping the debris-strewn floor. His hybrid form measured two meters seventy-five in height, with developed musculature covered in black scales with metallic reflections. His eyes, of a deep red, expressed cold and calculating intelligence.

- "General Wade, I presume. Your reputation precedes you."

His voice, even in this form, retained the particular resonance of dragons. Each word seemed to reverberate in the confined space of the ruins.

Wade raised his head with difficulty, mobilizing his last strength to meet his enemy's gaze:

- "Maélor. I suppose introductions are no longer necessary."

- "Indeed. I want to express my respect for the resistance you organized. Your S-rank hunters caused significant losses to my forces."

This declaration was not mere military courtesy. Maélor had indeed lost twenty-three dragons during the American campaign, a significant number for an invasion army. The urban guerrilla tactics developed by Wade had revealed certain vulnerabilities in traditional draconic formations.

- "We did our duty," Wade replied in a hoarse voice. "We defended our homeland and our values."

- "Your values... Tell me about these values, General. What was worth so many deaths?"

Wade took time to think before responding. Around them, the silence was only disturbed by the crackling of still-active fires and the occasional groaning of damaged structures.

- "Freedom. The right of each individual to determine their own destiny. The possibility of living without fearing tyranny."

- "And look where that led you. Your free citizens died by the millions. Your democratic institutions are in ruins. Your territory is conquered."

Maélor took a few steps, stepping over the bodies with calculated indifference:

- "Freedom is a luxury that only the strong can afford, General. The weak need to be guided, protected, governed. It's natural law."

- "We prefer to die free than live enslaved."

- "That's exactly what happened. You died free. And now, the survivors will live under our protection."

Wade closed his eyes for a moment, exhausted by the effort of this conversation. When he reopened them, his gaze had changed. Anger and defiance had given way to a form of resigned serenity.

- "Do what you must do."

Maélor slowly nodded, almost with respect:

- "You will die as a soldier, General. That's more than many can hope for."

Wade's death was quick. A black flame, controlled and precise, enveloped him instantly. At this temperature, death was immediate, the nervous system ceasing to function before pain could even be perceived.

Maélor observed the ashes dispersing in the stale air of the ruins. This ritual officially marked the end of organized resistance on the North American continent. In a few hours, draconic occupation teams would take control of the last pockets of civilian population.

The dragon king turned to his lieutenants, who had joined him in the debris:

- "Transmit to all sector commanders: the occupation phase may begin. I want a complete census of survivors and the establishment of control zones in each region within forty-eight hours."

Yet, even in this moment of triumph, Maélor felt a diffuse unease. Reports from China spoke of unusually high losses among occupation forces. And for several hours, all contact had been lost with units deployed in Sichuan Province.

What he didn't know was that thousands of kilometers away, a man with orange eyes had just completed his own demonstration of force, and that the rules of the conflict were about to change radically.