Starting out as a Dragon Slave-Chapter 151: The Earth Resists

Paris was dying in an apocalyptic inferno, an infernal symphony where each scarlet flame licked the millennial monuments with devouring obscenity. The air itself seemed putrefied by the acrid smoke rising from the still-smoldering rubble, mixing the smell of burnt limestone with the more terrible odor of charred flesh. The gargoyles of Notre-Dame, miraculously spared, contemplated with their stone eyes the apocalypse that devoured the City of Light, transforming centuries of human history into an incandescent charnel house where the echoes of the last death cries still resonated.

At the summit of the Montparnasse Tower, spared by a strategic calculation of refined cruelty to serve as an improvised command post, stood a silhouette that embodied death itself. Vaerath was not simply a dragon; he was an avatar of destruction forged in the primordial flames of interdimensional wars. His blood-red scales, as large as knight’s shields, were inlaid with black veins that pulsed faintly, living scars from a thousand battles. Each mark engraved in his chitinous carapace told the story of a civilization reduced to ashes, of an exterminated species, of a conquered world.

His imposing stature dominated the space, his four-meter height in humanoid form betraying only an infinitesimal part of his true nature. His arms, thick as century-old tree trunks, ended in hands with obsidian claws capable of lacerating steel. His face, a terrifying fusion between human and reptilian features, bore eyes that were two golden braziers in which infernal flames danced. These vertical pupils, split like those of a primordial serpent, knew neither pity nor remorse.

The dark steel armor that girded his massive torso was adorned with ancient draconic runes, symbols of power engraved in metal forged in the forges of his native world. At the center of this breastplate was embedded a communication stone, a purple crystal that pulsed with malevolent magical energy.

- "Immediate situation report, all units!" His voice was a telluric rumble that seemed to emanate from the depths of the earth itself, amplified by the magic stone until it became a sonic shock wave that made the still-intact windows of the tower tremble.

The first response crackled immediately in the crystal, clear and metallic despite the ambient tumult:

- "East Unit operational and victorious. We have secured all strategic zones of the capital. The human hunters are in complete rout. Their bodies litter the streets from Belleville to Ménilmontant. The civilian resistance pockets have been crushed without mercy."

A second voice followed, tinged with cruel satisfaction:

- "West Unit reporting complete. The Defense and Versailles sectors are under our absolute control. The Palace of Versailles is still burning. The resistance pockets were minor and have been annihilated. We have taken prisoner a few A-rank hunters for interrogation before execution."

Vaerath clenched his massive fist, his sharp claws dangerously grazing his scaly palm until drops of golden blood beaded. A cruel smile stretched his lips, revealing yellowed fangs as long as daggers.

- "Excellent work, my faithful warriors. The time has come to proceed to the next phase of our conquest: strategic dispersion across the entire French territory."

He marked a theatrical pause, savoring the moment, his reptilian eyes sweeping the blazing horizon of Paris with obscene satisfaction.

- "I want squadrons of ten dragons each, perfectly coordinated. Select your targets with the precision of a surgeon and the cruelty of an executioner: Lyon, Bordeaux, Marseille, Lille, Toulouse and Strasbourg. Your mission is threefold: first, destroy their administrative centers and symbols of power. Then, annihilate their military installations and weapons depots. Finally, strangle their vital resources - power plants, water treatment plants, communication networks. Break them totally, methodically, without leaving the slightest glimmer of hope. Let them understand in their flesh what a true war is, waged by perfect predators."

- "At your orders, Commander Vaerath! Glory to the Draconic Empire!" responded the officers in chorus, their voices mixing in a guttural clamor that resonated through the smoking ruins of the capital.

Throughout devastated Paris, the dragon-soldiers regrouped with terrifying mechanical efficiency. Some maintained their deceptive humanoid form, their elegant and seductive silhouettes hiding an implacable predatory nature. Their gazes, with a metallic gleam, scrutinized the environment with the acuity of born hunters. In their hands with slightly elongated nails, they held enchanted weapons - runic swords that pulsed with destructive energy, spears whose points crackled with violet lightning, magical bows capable of piercing the most resistant armor.

Other dragons had chosen to resume their true form, abandoning all pretense of humanity. These winged titans deployed wingspans of thirty meters or more, their scarlet membranous wings undulating in the smoke-saturated air. Their serpentine bodies, fifty meters long, were perfect war machines, each scale natural armor, each claw a deadly weapon. Their gaping maws, bristling with sharp fangs, could project torrents of flames capable of melting steel in seconds.

Vaerath observed them from his improvised observation post with morbid paternal pride, his reptilian pupils calculating every detail of the formation, analyzing the perfection of his war machine. Each dragon was an investment of centuries of training, a predator shaped by the most brutal interdimensional wars. They were his work, his spiritual children forged in violence and domination.

A young dragon officer named Zyrath approached with respectful deference tinged with morbid curiosity. His scales, still relatively virgin of enemy blood, bore the bright red tint of draconic youth. His golden eyes shone with barely contained warrior enthusiasm, the excitement of his first real war against an organized civilization.

- "Commander Vaerath, allow me to ask you a question that burns my mind... why not simply immediately annihilate this entire planet? We incontestably have the capacity, our forces are overwhelming. Why this... patience?"

Vaerath slowly turned his massive head toward the young dragon, piercing him with a gaze where the severity of the commander mixed with the contempt of the veteran facing inexperience. His eyes narrowed into murderous slits, and when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of millennia of conquests.

- "You understand nothing about the subtleties of true war, young blood. Your question betrays the impatience of youth and ignorance of military art. We could indeed carbonize this blue sphere in a few hours of intensive bombardment. Our reserve forces could transform every continent into a sea of lava in a day."

He took a few steps toward the broken window, contemplating Paris in flames with an expression close to philosophical meditation.

- "But an effective conquest, lasting domination, never feeds on sterile ashes. Each strategic target destroyed, each city brought to its knees according to a precise plan, each human hunted and publicly exterminated, is a clear and implacable message sent to those who still think they can resist our empire."

Zyrath respectfully bowed his head, captivated by the strategic lesson from his venerated commander.

- "Understand this well, young warrior: each stage of our conquest is a calculated demonstration of force, a way to break not only their fragile bodies, but also their spirits, their souls, their collective will to resist."

Vaerath turned around, his flaming eyes intensely fixing his subordinate.

- "Humans must lose all illusion of possible victory. We must tear from them every fragment of hope, every glimmer of courage, until they beg on their knees for our domination as deliverance. Terror is our best ally - it kills before our claws touch flesh."

The young dragon nodded respectfully, his eyes illuminating with new and cruel understanding. "I understand perfectly now, my commander. Prolonged suffering breaks more surely than immediate death."

- "Exactly." Vaerath placed a clawed hand on his protégé’s shoulder. "Now, prepare yourself meticulously. You will command your own squadron over Lyon. This is your true baptism of fire. Be ruthless, methodical, creative in your cruelty. I want that upon your return, there is nothing left standing in that city, not even a chimney, not even a tree. And above all..." his eyes became glacial, "not a single survivor to bear witness."

- "It will be done, my commander. Lyon will be nothing more than a name in history books." responded Zyrath with new determination, his fangs gleaming in a cruel smile.

The squadrons dispersed in the twilight sky with coordination that testified to centuries of military training. Their perfect geometric formations streaked the smoke-saturated atmosphere, creating patterns of death in the glowing firmament. They communicated through modulated cries at frequencies inaudible to the human ear, luminous magical signals that transformed their wings into war beacons, and telepathic impulses that synchronized their movements with mechanical precision.

Each squadron had a detailed tactical map of its target city, engraved on enchanted metal plates, with precise objectives timed to the second. The dragons had studied human urban plans for months, identifying nerve centers, evacuation routes, command centers, resource depots.

At Lyon, Zyrath led his first assault with brutality that surprised even his experienced subordinates. They dove in delta formation on the Presqu’île, their combined breaths transforming the city hall into an apocalyptic inferno in less than ten seconds. Draconic alchemical flames didn’t merely burn - they literally devoured matter, reducing stone and metal to their atomic components in a reaction close to nuclear fission.

The military barracks of La Part-Dieu collapsed under torrents of phosphorescent green fire that consumed everything in its path. French soldiers, even the most hardened, had never faced such destructive power. Their automatic weapons spat their bullets in vain against scales more resistant than tempered steel, while draconic flames reduced their shelters to incandescent dust.

Human screams mixed with the crackling of magical fires in a cacophony of agony that resonated between the gutted buildings. Zyrath, drunk on his first real battle, circled above the burning city, savoring each cry, each explosion, each structure that collapsed under his power.

- "Magnificent!" he roared to his subordinates. "Do you see how they run? How they cry? This is real war!"

At Marseille, the squadron assigned to the ancient port accomplished its mission with terrifying surgical efficiency. The dragons methodically lacerated the hulls of moored ships, their claws cutting steel like paper. Cruise ships, cargo transporters, military vessels - all sank in the port in sprays of boiling water and twisted metal.

Maritime evacuation attempts transformed into deadly traps. Entire families who thought they had found salvation on the waves saw their boats transformed into floating coffins. Dragons dove from the clouds, emerging from the water like mythological leviathans to seize the fugitives in their gaping jaws.

At Bordeaux, energy installations exploded in multicolored flame mushrooms that illuminated the Garonne with supernatural light. Power plants, refineries, transformers - the entire energy network of the region was methodically annihilated. In the darkness that followed, dragons hunted survivors by the light of their own flames, transforming the city into a macabre hunting ground.

Strasbourg lost its voice when its communication centers were reduced to smoking slag. Television and radio antennas collapsed in metallic crashes, telephone exchanges disappeared in explosions of violet sparks. The last calls for help died out in electronic hissing, leaving the city in deathly silence troubled only by the wing beats of predators.

Each city fell according to an implacable tempo, orchestrated by military intelligence forged in millennia of interdimensional conquests. There was no improvisation, no pity, no hesitation. Only the glacial efficiency of perfect predators executing a battle plan designed to maximize terror and destruction.

While Europe bled, Vaerath received real-time reports in his improvised command tower, constantly adjusting his strategies based on field results. His liaison officers, intermediate-rank dragons specialized in tactical communications, relayed every detail to him with bureaucratic precision that contrasted strangely with the horror they described.

- "Commander, Lyon reports total success. Zero organized resistance after the first wave. Zyrath requests authorization to proceed with cleaning of peripheral zones."

- "Granted. Let him leave no witnesses."

- "Marseille confirms neutralization of the port. Maritime evacuation routes are sealed. Bordeaux reports complete destruction of the regional energy network."

Vaerath nodded his massive head, his reptilian eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He showed no emotion at the thousands of civilian deaths, no hesitation before the magnitude of the genocide he was orchestrating. For him, humans were merely parasites to exterminate, minor obstacles on the road to absolute draconic domination.

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