Apocalyptic Dragon Riders

Chapter7

Both empires’ mage corps were pouring every ounce of power into controlling the input of their magic, pushing their respective doomsday spell clouds toward the enemy. Because of the limits of mental strength and precision, the clouds couldn’t be dropped directly over the enemy’s heads — the best they could do was strain to push them past their own lines. At this point, neither empire had the luxury of worrying about its airborne cavalry anymore. They could only pray their riders would retreat on their own before it was too late.

The elemental storm raging high above churned the air into chaos. Airborne units relying on wing-beats for lift were struggling to maintain control, many spiraling downward toward the ground. As dangerous as the battlefield below was, losing altitude meant a much greater risk — one bad stall and you’d be a bloody smear on the dirt. No one had the will to keep fighting. Both sides’ riders were flailing to stay aloft, their speeds dropping dramatically as they staggered toward safer airspace.

From the ground, the once-tangled swarm of dots in the sky split apart, scattering in two different directions.

Even the metal dragon Goldie, master of manipulating magnetic fields, was struggling to keep himself steady. Morin clung tight to the saddle — if he lost his grip now, he’d better hope luck was on his side, because he knew better than to expect Goldie to swoop back to save him. Getting through this without the dragon stabbing him in the back was already more mercy than he had a right to ask for.

Looking down, there was no word strong enough to describe the c*****e left by the first wave of doomsday spells. In an instant, ten percent of both armies had been wiped out — over a hundred thousand lives snuffed out in the blink of an eye.

The commanders on both sides had gone bloodshot with rage. If they didn’t turn this m******e into a decisive victory, they knew what awaited them back in the capital: no rewards, only disgrace. And the widows and orphans of a hundred thousand soldiers would want their pound of flesh.

The mages had abandoned their usual calm, scholarly airs. Faces flushed, eyes glazed, veins bulging at the temples, they chanted faster and faster, pouring every last drop of mental focus, control, and mana into the spell. One by one, they floated off the ground as though under a levitation charm, forming the heart of the spell as the black and crimson clouds above swelled again — larger, denser, far more destructive than the first wave.

Massive fireballs and lightning blasts collided midair. Riders who failed to dodge were vaporized without even a scream, reduced to drifting ash on the wind. Even the aftershocks of this clash reached the ground, scything down whole swaths of infantry as though hell’s gates had swung open.

Then suddenly — the world seemed to freeze. The wind howled.

Twelve, maybe fifteen tornadoes dropped from the sky, ripping heaven and earth into one.

Crack! c***k! c***k!

The sound was like endless bolts of cloth being torn apart — magnified a thousandfold — roaring across the battlefield.

And then, black cracks spiderwebbed out from the lightning-wracked stormcloud overhead. But this wasn’t ordinary black. It was deeper, darker — like all light was swallowed into it. Staring at it felt like it might rip your very soul from your body.

“It’s the Spatial Prison Grand Curse!” one mage of the Slaan Empire shrieked in despair. His mana flared out of control; blood sprayed from his mouth as he fell like a stone, unconscious.

The other mages blanched white. Even the commanders on the ground showed unmistakable fear in their eyes. No one had expected the Texi Empire to still have such a trump card hidden away. The Spatial Prison ranked fourth among the Ten Forbidden Spells — a legendary, space-shattering magic. Space mages were so rare that even the weakest of their forbidden spells usually took several casters to perform. And once a space curse was unleashed, it could devour anything, tear apart anything. The officers of the Slaan Empire knew then and there — they were doomed. Even with a perfectly intact mage corps and unlimited mana, they couldn’t hope to withstand this annihilation.

On ground and sky alike, everyone felt the pull. The cracks in the black cloud seemed to rip everything apart — air, spell clouds, even reality itself — clawing their way straight into the crimson firestorm overhead. The fiery clouds shredded like wet paper, ripped wide open and desecrated, like a defenseless girl being stripped bare by brute force.

The Slaan Empire’s doomsday firestorm was shredded to tatters by Texi’s Spatial Prison, and the space-rending power showed no sign of stopping. Mages who had been feeding the firestorm spat blood and dropped from the sky like stones — most likely dead. On the Texi side, losses were minimal. They had been prepared for this moment. Their mages downed priceless potions, each one worth more than the entire treasury of a vassal kingdom, just to survive the backlash.

The Texi space mage corps was a sight to behold: perfectly matched high-tier robes, identical masterwork staves, their formation chanting as one, voices weaving together in perfect magical resonance, wringing every last drop of efficiency from the spell. The very air seemed to ripple with their synchronized incantation.

“Spatial Prison!”

High above, Slaan’s dragon riders felt their pupils constrict as they heard the words. Their mounts didn’t need orders — every dragon pushed itself past its limits, flying faster than ever before. Even the proudest dragon would not face a space curse head-on. If the Slaan dragon rider corps was annihilated here, the empire wouldn’t just lose soldiers — it would lose political clout, deterrence power, and military dominance for decades.

“Those Texi bastards have lost their minds!” Goldie roared, beating his wings furiously. His whole body was charred, his metallic spikes glowing red-hot from absorbing too many lightning strikes. The heat dulled his control over his own body, forcing his magnetic field to shimmer faintly, forming a jagged diamond shape as he careened through the sky.

“Help me! Somebody help me!” came a shrill, desperate scream from far off. It was the Minister of Civil Affairs’ pampered son, clinging to his wyvern. Wyverns were no true dragons — they had neither the speed nor the stamina. Both mount and rider were barely holding together under the crushing magical turbulence.

“You bastards better save me! If I die, my father will make you pay!” Even on death’s door, the little parasite still found time to issue threats.

Morin’s lips curled into a cold smile. Pretend he didn’t hear? Absolutely. Mercy? Sure — when a dog bites a man, the man doesn’t bite back. But when a dog falls in the river, you don’t pull it out — that’s already kindness. Morin had grown up fighting stray dogs for scraps of food. He had no pity left to give.

“Aka! Save me! If I die, my father will wipe out your whole family!” The spoiled brat turned his threats on the nearest rider.

“You—!” Aka’s face turned ashen. His fire dragon, Misael, was already bleeding from a dozen wounds, barely able to keep flying.

How had this coward even ended up this close to the battlefield? Trying to steal glory was one thing — this was suicide! Aka wanted to ignore him, but the threat was real. If he let the brat die, the Minister of Civil Affairs would go rabid with vengeance. Even a baronial house like Aka’s might not survive the retaliation.

He cursed under his breath. This walking disaster was about to drag him down with him.

“Misael — grab him!” Aka snapped through gritted teeth. He had no choice.

The fire dragon nodded silently, forcing out another burst of heat from the fireballs gathered at its wings, propelling itself toward the faltering wyvern. With a swoop of its claws, it snatched wyvern and rider both and immediately veered toward the edge of the battlefield, straining every muscle to get clear.

“Morin! Wait up!” Aka shouted after him. Misael was flying slower now, burdened and injured.

“Move it, Aka! That’s a space curse — we stay here, we die!” Morin yelled back, waving frantically. The battle had gone completely out of control. All he could do now was warn whoever was still alive to get out while they could.