Chapter 567: Bloodthirsty Demon Dragon, My True Form as a Star, Eyes of Death Perception

Chapter 567 Bloodthirsty Demon Dragon, Star-Self True Body, Straight-Death Eye 9

In the Central Soldier Continent, northeast by north, near the border of the Northern Borders, there was a black oil field belonging to the Farrel Kingdom.

It was deep in the night.

An autumn wind swept down from the Northern Borders, cutting across the ridge, carrying a deep chill that seemed to get into the bones and make them cold.

This northeastern strip of the Farrel Kingdom was normally desolate; after nightfall it became even bleaker. Only the direction of the black oil field still glowed like a lone lamp in the dark.

It was the coldest hour of the night.

Behind the outpost, a pile of campfire logs popped and crackled. The flames played over the faces of several men sitting around, stretching and shrinking their shadows.

Four garrison soldiers were gathered around the fire.

They wore the Farrel Kingdom’s drab gray-brown autumn tunics, with leather armor over them. Their weapons lay within reach.

The fire wasn’t fierce, but in this cold night that little warmth was their only comfort.

The oldest of them was named Harold. In his early forties, his face was lined and unshaven. He leaned against the wall, eyes narrowed, half dozing and half lost in thought.

Opposite him sat a young man.

Just turned twenty, lanky, his features still showing traces of boyishness. He stretched his hands toward the fire, fingers splayed, greedily drawing in that meager heat, breathing white puffs into the night.

The veteran skewered a piece of dried meat and roasted it over the flames; fat dripped with a sizzling sound and sent out a savory scent.

At the same time, he cast a warning glance at the soldier across from him and said lazily,

“All right, all right, don’t stick your hands so close. You’ll burn them and not even know it.”

The young soldier drew his hands back and chuckled, “It’s only early autumn, but this damned weather keeps getting colder. At this rate, by winter won’t we all freeze into popsicles?”

“You know it,” another soldier chimed in. He tightened his coat and shuffled closer to the fire, “Those outposts further north are even colder, and I hear their patrols run into Aola’s patrols every few days. We’re lucky here. At least we don’t have to worry about getting crept up on in the middle of the night.”

“Runs into them or not, it’s not like they’re actually fighting.”

The last man said in a muffled voice, as if forcing the words out of his throat,

“Both sides posture; nobody dares strike first. We and Aola have been neighbors on this border for so many years—real clashes you can count on one hand.”

“We used to not dare.”

The veteran turned the meat with a sizzle. “Now it’s different. Since the Red Emperor woke, Aola’s people have a lot more confidence. Their patrols have been getting much more brazen lately.”

That blunt remark dampened the mood, and the men fell silent for a while.

The fire crackled, sending sparks into the ash where they winked and died.

The young soldier chewed a few bites of dried rations and then lowered his voice, “I heard the legendaries went to attack Aola’s Red Emperor, and—well, they all fell in there.”

The fire popped, scattering sparks that dimmed as they hit the ground.

No one answered.

Harold paused mid-chew, then continued eating, expression unreadable.

“The authorities should’ve known what to do,” the veteran said, sighing faintly as he felt the mood shift, “With the legendaries gone, what’s left of Halden? Our people don’t even have anyone backing them up anymore.”

His tone slipped into despair as he went on, voice growing quieter.

“What’s left?” Harold said. “What’s left is us foot soldiers. What else can we do? The people above handle the big matters—what does that have to do with us? We just guard this damned oil field and mind our own business.”

“If the sky falls, tall people will catch it. It’s not our worry.”

He spoke tough, but the hollow in his voice was obvious to everyone present.

The Farrel legendaries perishing at the Red Emperor’s hand had been hush-hush from higher-ups, but such things couldn’t be completely hidden. Soldiers below all had a sense of it.

“Why worry? We still have Halden, don’t we?”

One soldier snorted lightly and tried to sound composed.

The others looked toward him.

He said casually, “The Halden Empire isn’t nothing. In strength and foundation, Halden outclasses Aola by many times. Aola may be fearsome, but it’s just a kingdom. Halden is a proper empire.”

“No matter what, Halden is still primarily human. Can they really let other human kingdoms be bullied by a single dragon?”

Hearing that, the guards visibly relaxed, as if reassured. The youngest soldier nodded and added, “The Red Emperor’s powerful and his fame skyrocketing, but Farrel and Halden are kin. Halden won’t just sit by while humans are oppressed by one dragon.”

“That’s right,” another agreed, voice louder than before. “Even if Aola has ideas, they’ll think twice about Halden’s stance. If things go too far, Halden won’t ignore it.”

“Right. We still have a backing.”

They traded words and the atmosphere brightened. Someone tossed in more firewood and the flames jumped, lighting a small area.

The youngest soldier rubbed his hands and was about to say more.

Suddenly,

the sky flared.

In an instant the heavens seemed ignited by something, the black changing to dark crimson, then to a bright, burning red.

They instinctively looked up and saw a sight they would never forget.

The cloud layer had been torn open; a huge hole split the cloud sea, its rim rimmed with scorching red light, as if ripped by a giant hand.

In the center of that hole, a dragon hung in midair.

Its scarlet scales glowed like heated iron in the night, each plate radiating scorching light.

Its wings spread, blotting out half the sky. The wing membranes were etched with flowing patterns—like veins, like runes—pulsing with each breath and radiating a pressure that tightened chests and stole breath.

The emperor’s son, a red dragon, Garcro.

His renown didn’t match his father’s, but seeing him in person was enough; the pressure he exuded felt like a mountain on the chest, making it hard to breathe.

The soldiers gripped their weapons, only to find their hands trembling.

Behind Garcro, three figures hovered in the air.

Human-shaped.

All of them broad and hulking, far bulkier than normal humans, their expressions cold and stern—looked not to be trifled with.

They were typical Aola people at legendary rank.

They stood silently behind the red dragon like three statues.

A dragon and three humans—four legendaries descended at once.

The oil field instantly erupted into chaos.

The garrison panicked: people shouted, others ran about, some tried to form lines with their weapons, while others already retreated.

It was a mess like a pot of boiling porridge.

But Farrel’s garrison also had legendaries.

In an important place like a black oil field, when the location was large and risky, leaving a legendary to guard it was normal.

One figure rushed into the sky, donning armor hastily, barely strapped into a breastplate, hair whipped by the night wind—disheveled and ragged.

When he saw Garcro, his heart jolted; his pupils contracted. He clenched his teeth and forced himself forward.

“Honored legendaries of the Aola Kingdom, this land belongs to the Farrel Kingdom—according to—”

He did not finish.

A low roar from the red dragon cut him off.

“Loud reptiles.”

“This place, from now on, belongs to Aola.”

The Farrel legendary paled and opened his mouth as if to protest, but when he met Garcro’s cold, cruel eyes, the words fled his throat.

Several Aola legendaries moved in.

They were practiced and coordinated; in a few motions they stripped him of his weaponry and controlled him. The Farrel legendary offered no resistance, not even a struggle.

He knew full well that resisting could get him killed.

This Red Emperor’s eldest son, feared as the “Crimson Calamity,” was notorious for bloodthirst and savagery—more vicious than even his father.

His reputation alone could hush crying children in human kingdoms.

As for the Red Emperor himself... he inspired deep awe.

Even among those who stood opposed, knowing the dragon emperor’s wisdom and strength left few with much bias or hostility—only a sense of a powerful, dignified sovereign.

Silence settled.

Only wind whistled, tugging the outpost’s banners.

Then—swords clattered as one soldier dropped his blade, then another, then a third. The metal’s noise cut sharply through the night.

“We... we surrender.”

Someone stammered, voice trembling. “We surrender.”

Most chose submission.

Their own legendaries were sparse and of low renown; the strong had fallen in the Red Emperor’s awakening battle.

Farrel’s garrison had no backbone left. Their spines were broken.

But there were always a few who would not bow.

“You Aola don’t follow rules!” a hoarse voice rang from the crowd, brimming with anger and defiance.

“You cloak yourselves in civility, you call yourselves a kingdom, but beasts are beasts—you’ll never be truly accepted! We Farrel will never kneel!”

Garcro lowered his head and traced the voice to a figure.

A middle-aged soldier, dust embedded in his wrinkles, veins bulging on his neck, trembling—perhaps from fury or fear. He still held his sword, its tip pointing at himself.

“Good, good.”

“You make this interesting.”

Garcro’s lips split into a grin, teeth irregular and sharp, his eyes lighting up as if he’d found a new toy.

In the next instant, the red dragon’s bulk vanished from the sky.

His enormous body appeared before the soldier and slammed a forepaw down.

There was a dull thud; the soldier was crushed into the earth, his sword flying far away into the crowd. Those near him staggered back in terror.

Garcro did not hurry to kill.

He eased his paw down inch by inch, feeling flesh twist and bones break. He let a delighted smile show and even closed his eyes, savoring the moment as if tasting a delicacy.

Crack, crack...

The soldier made muffled cries of pain; blood flowed, but he offered no plea—only choked sounds of agony before falling silent.

Garcro lifted his head.

“Anyone else?”

His gaze swept the crowd as if searching for the next target.

“I would gladly grind you to dust, hear your bones snap, and taste your dying wails. Yes, that would put me in a good mood.”

He paused and his smile deepened.

“I enjoy this. I hope more choose to resist.”

He spoke with a calm, almost tender tone that was more terrifying than any roar—like a cat playing with a mouse.

Under his stare, heads bowed.

No one dared meet his eyes or speak. Breathing became careful and small.

No one continued to resist, which displeased Garcro.

The magic runes on his scales trembled; previously faint abyssal patterns flared with blackish-purple light. Vein-like marks crawled from his chest up his neck to his skull.

Suddenly a savage emotion surged from his deepest core.

Like a tide, swift and fierce, it nearly drowned his reason.

Garcro viewed the trembling humans as annoyances.

Not merely annoyances—he felt disgust.

These antlike things, those who cannot even hold a weapon properly, those cravenly pleading for life—why should they live? What right do they have? He concluded their only remaining value was to please him with their deaths.

A dim voice seemed to whisper, low and poisonous, like an echo from the Abyss.

“Kill them.”

“Kill them all.”

The voice was not external; it felt grown from inside his head, seeping from bone and blood, mixed with his heartbeat, indistinguishable between self and other.

Thud, thud.

Each beat pushed a blade named slaughter outward.

Bloodthirst Demon Dragon.

You carry a red dragon’s feral bloodline and have devoured many demons; the Abyss favors your madness. The more you kill, the stronger you become. The stronger you become, the fewer can stop you; you may continue killing unrestrained...

This trait had been forged during Garcro’s legendary formation.

Each time he killed a living being, he grew a little, like a demon devouring power—small gains that accumulated into great strength.

“Killing everyone here will push me up another notch.”

Garcro thought and flicked his gaze across the crowd to estimate the power he might gain.

Then his sight slid to the restrained figure—Farrel’s legendary—and beyond him to the Aola legendaries behind.

“Killing them too. Kill and grow without end.”

The invisible whisper returned, clearer than before.

This time Garcro did not fall into stupor. He snapped awake.

A vivid scene rose before him as if from yesterday.

He saw the Dragon Father suspended between heaven and earth, wings spread to blot out the sun, countless Dragon Qi bombs pouring from his claws—dense and overwhelming, each like a small sun.

He saw himself as a hatchling, crushed nearly to death by the Dragon Father for defiance, tasting death for the first time—the terror of life hanging by a thread and consciousness ebbing away. The memory still chilled him to the core.

The memory made Garcro shudder.

As cold water poured over him, the violent bloodlust that had filled his mind moments ago dissipated.

He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“Bloodthirst Demon Dragon—this trait is subtly influencing me.”

“Just like Father said, these abyssal patterns are double-edged. They granted me a powerful trait, but it’s unstable.”

“Tried to make me commit parricide?!”

Garcro’s eyes widened with fear and fury.

“What a filthy piece of dogshit—why not let me kill myself outright?!”

He cursed inwardly for a long time before calming down.

Garcro revered Garoth as his standard; his ultimate dream was to challenge the Dragon Father and inherit Aola’s throne.

He had never considered murdering his father. He wanted to challenge openly, to win honorably, and to make the Dragon Father proud.

He found a high spot and landed.

He faced the ridge and crouched, wings folded at his sides.

“Bloodthirst Demon Dragon can make me stronger, but it drives me mad.”

“I must find a balance. Until then, I must restrain myself—no killing.”

Garcro thought.

For him, killing was a pleasure, not easy to suppress. Dark urges popped up frequently, scratching at his heart and lungs.

But on the other hand,

this fight against his own desires was a form of training he’d long practiced.

Garcro had grown used to pain and torment during training.

In some ways, he derived pleasure from it.

Pain? Good—means the body grows stronger. Torture? Good—means pushing beyond limits.

“Power must be held in my own hands.”

He inhaled deeply and resolved himself.

He would not let a trait dictate him nor become a beast that only knew slaughter. He would control his power, not be controlled by it.

A night breeze swept past the red dragon, carrying autumn’s chill.

The abyssal runes on his scales dimmed bit by bit, returning to their usual appearance.

Meanwhile, lights appeared along a distant ridge.

At first a few scattered flames, then patches that multiplied into a flowing line of fire like a fiery serpent sliding over the ridge and down the slope, growing brighter and brighter.

Aola’s army had crossed the ridge.

Their ranks were orderly, armor gleaming, banners snapping in the night wind.

Heavy infantry led the way, wearing thick armor, spears and Tower Shields at the ready, their steps so measured the ground trembled.

Behind them came cavalry and heavy wagons; hooves and wheels clattered like thunder.

A few smaller dragons skimmed low, wingtips grazing treetops and whipping up gusts that rustled the leaves.

When the Aola soldiers reached the oil field, Farrel’s guards still stood where they were, weapons cast aside at their feet, hands hanging limply like livestock awaiting slaughter.

No one resisted.

Aola officers began counting heads, taking registers, and assigning men to secure the oil field’s exits. Their movements were practiced and efficient—this was not the first time they’d done this.

Legendaries assert dominance.

The legion’s mission was to take the black oil field.

Two Aola legendaries escorted the Farrel legendary away, leaving one to garrison the field. The red dragon Garcro soared upward and headed back toward the Red Emperor Capital, his wings cutting an arc across the night before fading into the distance.

At the same time,

under a leaden sky, a three-headed, six-armed crimson iron dragon stood tall on the ground.

He closed his eyes, his skull and massive arms trembling slightly, as if entering a special state.

At the same time, the Star Path limbs that had been solid and nearly indistinguishable from flesh became ethereal. Their edges glowed faintly, as if about to turn into pure energy—

the Star-Self true body.

The giant dragon growled low.

In an instant, the ethereal Star-Self limbs began to ripple and peel away from his body inch by inch.

As they detached, two dragon heads and two pairs of massive arms merged, Dragon Qi surged, and a robust, imposing body took shape piece by piece.

Torso, scales, claws—every detail formed as Dragon Qi suffused it.

Seconds later,

another crimson iron dragon stood opposite Garoth.

Both were now regular dragon forms, looking almost carved from the same mold—indistinguishable. Scale patterns, claw curvature—no difference at all.

Garoth narrowed his eyes and studied the dragon before him.

A strange feeling arose.

The Star-Self dragon felt like a part of him, one he could wield. He could sense every scale, every breath of the Star-Self, and even the flow of Dragon Qi within its body.

The Star-Self also had a distinct perception.

Thus Garoth now possessed the sensations of both himself and the Star-Self simultaneously, as if split into two selves—his main body primary, the Star-Self secondary.

Garoth raised his claw and the Star-Self mirrored the motion precisely, with no delay.

Then he suppressed the movement and closed his eyes, focusing on controlling the Star-Self giant.

Hum!

Dragon Qi rolled within the Star-Self, turning golden and shooting skyward to explode into a blinding pillar of light.

Explosive Qi.

The Star-Self executed the technique smoothly and naturally, identical to when the main body did it.

Like a child given a new toy, Garoth continued experimenting.

As time passed, forms and traits like Stellar-Star state, Wild State, Colossus Stance, Undying Life, and Born from Death all manifested on the Star-Self giant.

It could also consume Dragon Qi to revert to a three-headed, six-armed combat posture.

The transformation process was identical to the main body’s.

Not only that.

Spell-Extinguishing Claws, True Eye, Dragon Pearl, Furnace Stomach... it possessed all these traits, nearly a complete Garoth in its own right.

That was the power of this skill.

The stronger the main body, the stronger the Star-Self.

Garoth paused his control and let it stand quietly as Dragon Qi flowed slowly over its surface.

“Star-Self true body... no wonder it’s the core skill granted only when the Star Path reaches legendary.”

He opened his eyes and regarded the Star-Self thoughtfully.

Since awakening, besides his crown-level life rank, Garoth’s greatest gain was that through the awakening battle and fighting Reinhardt, his Star Path level had matured to 21, officially breaking into legendary.

“I’m over three hundred and thirty years old, and my Star Path just became legendary.”

“Minus the sleep time, in human terms... roughly around one hundred and fifty years old to reach legendary—not bad.”

Garoth thought.

A human legendary at age one hundred fifty would be barely scraping the bottom tier with little room to improve.

Even subtracting sleep time, dragons and humans differed.

For Garoth, his focus was always his own body. He prioritized training his body, treating other path skills as secondary and not spending much time on them.

His body was fundamental; paths were branches. One must not confuse the two.

Humans prioritized path level because their bodies were weaker; path rank compensated for their physical shortcomings.

This was a fundamental difference between species.

Garoth, having practiced multiple paths, managed to make the Star Path legendary at this age—rapid progress.

Other dragons, dabbling across multiple paths, would likely accomplish little at the same age.

Regardless, a legendary path was a major improvement.

Take his newly obtained skill:

Star-Self true body.

It consumes Dragon Qi to form a Star-Self identical to you.

The Star-Self cannot think independently; it must be controlled by the main body’s focused dual-use, like a soul split into two bodies.

The Star-Self’s physical condition is nearly identical to the main body and can exist for extended periods, but it requires enough Dragon Qi to sustain.

It can integrate skills from other paths provided those paths are lower than the Star Path level.

The Star-Self’s limit is not just one; the number relates to path level.

“Star-Self is almost identical to me, but there are differences.”

“The Dragon Qi quality forming the Star-Self isn’t enough for it to use Shining Form; my evolution trait doesn’t appear in it. Also, it requires multi-threaded control—high proficiency to fight simultaneously with it.”

“This skill is strong, but flawed.”

Garoth thought.

Even without Shining Form or the evolution trait, the Star-Self’s possession of nearly all the main body’s skills and traits made it terrifying.

The biggest problem: because the Star-Self is almost the same as the main body, its Dragon Qi demand is calculated as a percentage.

Garoth estimated carefully.

The first time a Star-Self forms, it could exist for at least half an hour. The initial formation consumed the most Dragon Qi, once cutting nearly one-third of his Dragon Qi maximum.

That’s an enormous ratio.

Moreover, after thirty minutes, every additional second demands more Dragon Qi—the Star-Self’s maintenance is a continuous infusion, never stopping.

Although the Star-Self’s gains could exceed this consumption, Dragon Qi is, in a sense, Garoth’s life.

The cost to form a Star-Self is terrible; it cannot be used at whim.

“Using this skill is like spending my life to form a Star-Self.”

“However, it has large room for improvement.”

“With higher Star Path level, the Star-Self will improve, and I can adapt to its flaws—maybe even use it to forcibly increase my total Dragon Qi.”

Garoth wore a contemplative expression.

If he could endure and accustom himself to this drain, it would effectively raise his Dragon Qi pool.

He loved oppressive training.

His spiritual energy pulsed as he entered a thought storm, pondering the Star-Self’s possibilities.

What if he formed two Star-Selves at once? Three? Not possible now, but with higher levels maybe—perhaps he could even enable a Star-Self to use Shining Form someday.

After some time he reined in his thoughts and turned to other paths.

“With frenzied flame, the Wild Path’s leveling is fast—already reached level 18.”

“Unfortunately that path lacks many skills. Level increases mainly convert rage into more power. Once you get Rage Without Fear of Death, unless you reach legendary, there aren’t many noteworthy new skills.”

Garoth reflected.

The Wild Path’s early skills were useful, but mid-to-late game it tapered off. With frenzied flame though, the leveling was effortless—why not train it?

Star Path, Wild Path, Eternal Death Path, and Mind Path were among those he cultivated.

He treated the Mind Path as auxiliary for thought, not combat; it was the newest and least prioritized, currently at level six, with limited practical uses.

Of the other three,

the Eternal Death Path had reached level fourteen.

This path had few skills; at level fourteen there were no new skills, but each Eternal Death skill was powerful—no trash abilities.

For example, a skill unlocked only at level seventeen:

Straight-Death Eye.

Concentrate death’s power in the eyes and channel it into the target with a gaze. Depending on bodily differences, it can instant-kill a target in a blink. It cannot be used repeatedly in a short time.

“If I get this skill, I could probably glare and kill a human of Mandate of Heaven rank.”

Garoth thought.

Take Reinhardt, for instance. If he lacked Nine Lives of Fortune or was unprepared, and if Garoth’s abnormal physique targeted him, the Straight-Death Eye could overwhelmingly cause instant death.

No defensive skill could be activated in time—one look, and dead.

“Seventeen... not that high.”

“I can no longer resurrect like before; Eternal Death leveling will slow a bit, but now if I lose blood I’ll be near death. It won’t be much slower than before.”

Straight-Death Eye could be devastating by surprise.

Garoth looked forward to it.

He imagined his Star-Self’s extra heads—three pairs of eyes—using Straight-Death Eye simultaneously... Even against Mandate of Heaven rank, most species might not endure it; insufficient constitution would mean immediate death.

“Should I take on more paths? Many have useful skills.”

Garoth thought.

Skills that enhance perception, fortify the body, or speed recovery—many paths had highlights.

But he shook his head and dismissed the idea.

Too many paths meant more time spread thin, and he knew the root of his strength—his body—was primary.

Moreover, path skills affect species differently.

A skill like Straight-Death Eye might be ornamental in others; Garoth could use it to glare-death a Mandate because he was already powerful. Another, even at level seventeen, might only discomfort an equal-level opponent.

He’d roughly sorted the major paths.

The crimson iron dragon calmed his mind, looked at the still-standing Star-Self, and then controlled it. Like a synchronized bimanual exercise, he practiced fighting with both bodies—training himself and improving his multi-thread control proficiency.