Chapter 213: Declaring War on the Molten Iron Tribe....What Do You Mean They've Already Stormed Our Doors?!

“There’s a freshly signed magical pact— the serpentfolk of the Venomtail Tribe won’t take advantage of any gaps.”

“The Molten Iron Tribe has been raiding our river strongholds, disrupting trade and causing us massive losses.”

“Strike first and strike hard. This is no ordinary tribe anymore; we must hit them with everything we have.”

Listening to the elders below, Grand Artificer Scott nodded slowly. The leader of the Gold Fang Tribe’s gaze flickered as he said, “The monopoly plan concerns our future. The Molten Iron Tribe is opposing us; we can’t keep letting them do as they please.”

After deciding to strike the Molten Iron Tribe, the Grand Artificer and the elders began discussing the battle plan.

They carefully weighed each side’s strengths and weaknesses and concluded that to deal with the Molten Iron Tribe, it would be best to assemble a massive legion and push straight through with an all-out frontal assault, leaving the Molten Iron Tribe no time to react. Using alchemical golems and war engines, they would break them head-on.

Not long after, the goblin leadership reached consensus.

Although the Molten Iron Tribe’s accumulated base was weaker than the four major tribes of the convergence lands, it was still significant. To rally morale, the Grand Artificer used a communication device to send readiness orders to each stronghold leader and prepared a war declaration.

“Warriors of the goblin kin!”

“To those arrogant reptiles of the southwest! Scaly brigands! They burned our harbors, plundered our wealth, and challenged the dignity of the Gold Fang Tribe!”

“We will crush their pride with a flood of steel!”

“Let those winged lizards taste the might of alchemical heavy cannons!”

“Strip their scales one by one and make new armor out of them!”

Pausing, the Grand Artificer’s voice echoed through the communication devices and alchemical tools almost simultaneously across all strongholds: “For the honor of the Gold Fang Tribe! Restore the glory of the goblin people! Grind every obstacle into iron!”

A roar!

Almost at the same time, an unusual roar sounded.

The Grand Artificer’s eyes sharpened; he noticed the roar came from one of the communication devices.

“Rogg, what’s happening?” the Grand Artificer asked the stronghold leader connected to that device.

“Enemy attack! Enemy attack— it’s a white dragon and many monsters!” came the urgent reply.

The Grand Artificer’s heart dipped.

The Molten Iron Tribe dared to act so brazenly; attacking river strongholds wasn’t enough for them... he thought. This time they must wipe out the Molten Iron Tribe.

These savage monsters would only take advantage step by step; their existence could no longer be tolerated.

With this mobilization, they would erase the Molten Iron Tribe in one decisive blow!

The Grand Artificer’s face remained calm as he said, “Support will arrive soon—”

Before his words finished, more anxious and tense voices erupted from the communication devices, cutting him off.

“Ogres! Ogres are battering our lines!”

“Lots of giant wolves—they slipped past our covert sentries!”

“Iron Dragon—I see the iron dragon approaching, and a flock of flying dragons!”

Bad news poured in from all directions.

Multiple Gold Fang strongholds were under attack.

“There’s something falling from the sky like a comet toward us? No! It’s—”

Crash—!

With an ear-splitting roar like meteorites striking the earth, the voice behind that communication device was abruptly silenced.

The Grand Artificer’s expression didn’t change, but his calm seemed to become rigid.

The goblins wanted to “strike first.”

But while they were still deliberating in the council hall, the Molten Iron Tribe’s legions—under cover of sorcerers and shamans—had already, slow and silent, concealed their movements and approached the Gold Fang Tribe’s major strongholds along multiple fronts.

To avoid alarming their prey, the forces that first neared the goblin strongholds did not strike immediately but lay in patient ambush, awaiting orders.

The first strike would be the most effective; they needed to wait until their forces were in position to hit the goblin strongholds simultaneously and catch them completely off guard.

As the goblin leadership’s deliberation continued, more and more enemy units took their positions, and the risk of being discovered steadily rose.

This “beast” that was the Molten Iron Tribe did not remain passively hidden; it started revealing its fangs at precisely the right moments.

Let time rewind to before the Grand Artificer announced the call to arms.

Southeast, the quartz mining fields.

The sun cast long shadows from the steam towers across the quarry. A goblin lookout on the watchtower chewed his tobacco leaf and squinted.

Not far off, several glints seemed off.

“Hey.” he shouted down. “The rocks on the west slope look like they’re moving! Take a good look.”

His deputy lounged lazily by a ballista and said, “Probably those damned rock goats again— they chewed things up last week...”

Before he finished speaking, the ground began to tremble, dust kicked up and settled.

As his gaze steadied, the goblin scout’s breath caught and his nerves went taut: what filled his sight were not rocks or goats, but enemies charging at full speed!

Red Iron Riders—centaurs on iron hooves—giant wolf knights, hyena knights... their iron-shod hooves struck the ground first, crushing soil and stone.

Then heavily armored, towering ogres and ogre elites—huge, massed bodies like little mountains of flesh—followed.

Crowding among them were dense packs of gnolls and kobolds, running with guttural cries.

More terrifying, a streak of white dragon shadow sliced past the clouds, revealing a fierce, icy silhouette.

The quarry alarms instantly rang through the valley.

Steam ballistae with multi-holed barrels extended from camouflaged rock faces, their arrowheads gleaming cold.

Buzz—buzz!

Black oil burned in the mecha golems’ engines, churning energy through pipes; every golem stood ready in formation.

“Open fire!”

Amid shouts from the goblin operators, ballistae launched specially made armor-piercing bolts at the white dragon, but before they could hit, a blast of frigid wind froze the volley in midair; the bolts fell to the ground.

Whoosh!

The white dragon skimmed low; her frost breath froze a Flesh Ripper to a block of ice.

Alchemical cannon fire struck her armored hide, cracking and flaking the ice plating, but it did not knock her down. Before more attacks could lock on, the Molten Iron Tribe’s soldiers surged like a tide, and the goblins had to begin brutal close-quarters fighting.

Dragons streaked across the sky; each strike could destroy a mecha golem. Gnolls and kobolds swarmed like locusts; the goblins without golem support were torn apart by claws and fangs. Ogre elites and centaur warriors tore through the goblin defenses.

Quarries like the quartz mine were not the only targets; the southeast erupted into battle at many points.

Strongholds of the Gold Fang Tribe—like the iron ore mine and the spikebeast ranch—faced attacks. Depending on which garrisons defended them, the Molten Iron Tribe assigned different assault units.

Weaker targets were led by lieutenants such as Gluttonous Ogre Karu, dragon-vein werewolf Russell, and the half-blood centaur Elvy.

Stronger targets were directly commanded by iron dragon Sorog, red dragon Samantha, and white dragon Trixie.

Furthermore, to maximize the first strike’s impact, Garoth himself did not idle in Dragon Valley; he targeted a key Gold Fang stronghold.

Southeast, Steelspike Outpost.

This was a military defense node of the Gold Fang Tribe, guarded more tightly than ordinary resource points.

The goblins had sealed the ground approaches with a spiked wall like iron nails; more than one mecha golem was stationed here. In addition to basic Flesh Rippers, there were higher-grade golems and numerous alchemical heavy cannons, steam ballistae, and other defensive units.

At that moment, the noon sun baked the steel spike wall hot.

A goblin lookout had just pushed his goggles up to wipe sweat when his pupils widened at a streak burning across the sky—a falling red comet. Even in daylight, its trailing flame was clear, and he could sense its extraordinary power.

It fell at incredible speed.

Only after a moment’s shock did the goblin lookout make out the truth.

Not a comet! Not a comet!

It was not a celestial body at all, but a massive dragon folding its wings and diving!

Air tore in a rending shriek, a deathly howl that lagged behind its appearance.

As it closed distance at tremendous speed, continuous booms of sonic breaks rolled like thunder brought close.

Two messages confronted the goblins at Steelspike Outpost.

The good news:

Only one enemy was attacking—unlike other strongholds besieged by many foes.

The bad news:

The attacker was the Wings of the Skyrend, Death’s Harbinger, Redwing Lord— in short, the king of the Molten Iron Tribe.

Garoth’s gaze locked on the alchemical heavy cannon array. As he beat his wings, dark crimson breath boiled and frothed, trailing a long streak of blazing light that seemed to tear a burning wound across the blue sky.

He descended like a red thunderbolt hurled by a god; the noon sun dimmed in comparison.

“Enemy incoming! All guns—open fire!”

The goblin commander tried to react instantly and gave the order.

But the red iron dragon came too fast, too suddenly.

The spiked iron wall could not stop him.

Even with alchemists at the controls, their anti-air heavy cannons needed several seconds to warm and fire; precise targeting would take even longer.

So, just as those heavy cannons were turning toward him but before they could fire, the red iron dragon was already within striking distance.

He carried unrivaled dragon might, unstoppable and irresistible, intent on annihilation—like a meteor plunging through the earth on a vertical, sky-cleaving trajectory.

Boom!

Time seemed to freeze for an instant before an ear-splitting, catastrophic roar exploded like a natural disaster.

Shockwaves burst outward in rings; scalding air rolled. Soil and rocks heaved in waves as if liquefied.

The alchemical cannons’ barrels bowed like wax in extreme heat, then were tossed into the sky like toys.

Every anti-air heavy cannon in the array was nearly obliterated in an instant, and the goblins trying to man them were annihilated.

Sunlight pierced the churning dust and revealed a massive silhouette faintly visible amid a ringed crater and thick haze.

Whoosh!

Gusting winds scattered the dust, and the red iron dragon beat his wings and rose. His impossibly powerful form filled the goblins’ vision.

He looked dominant—iron-muscled ridges rolling, heavy scales too thick to hide his bulk.

His horns were imposing; coldburst scales covered his body like an unbreakable armor, spines sprouting like a blade forest.

Every part of him gleamed with lethal edge, radiating death.

Surrounded by mecha golems, he wore a composed expression and calm eyes. His hard, scale- and spine-lined dragon face showed neither anxiety nor excitement, as if he were not on a battlefield but strolling through a garden.