Lord of Caldera - Chapter 213

Chapter 213: Chapter 213

Did Bjorn, who hadn’t inherited any ancient bloodline, seriously intend to take on a dragon directly?

He’s immune to flames, but what other method does he have…?

Crash.

“Argh!”

Ragnar’s thoughts were shattered in an instant. A single glancing blow from the dragon’s tail sent Bjorn hurtling backward. Watching him tumble across the ground, Ragnar winced.

“L-Lord Bjorn!”

“Don’t worry! It’s just a scratch!”

A scratch, he said—but Ragnar knew it was far more serious, likely even broken ribs. Still, Bjorn forced a smile and clutched his axe once more.

“Fear not! Their attacks are nothing! One of them is nearly dead, so we’ll make history by taking down two dragons!”

The soldiers shouted in response to his bravado. While Ragnar could see through it, to the other soldiers, Bjorn’s confidence looked like sheer strength.

To Ragnar, however, it was as fragile as a sandcastle on the verge of collapse. Suddenly, he realized something.

It’s not just for morale. He’s deliberately drawing attention to himself to focus the dragon’s attacks on him.

Humans, like animals, instinctively recognized the leader among them—the one who stood out, the one whose presence rallied the others. If even ordinary animals could recognize their leader, a dragon certainly wouldn’t miss the distinct appearance of a human commander.

The dragon let out a furious roar.

“It’s coming!”

Just as he anticipated, the dragon charged at Bjorn, swiping with its claws and lashing with its tail. Bjorn barely evaded each attack, retreating step by step.

Boom. Boom, boom!

“Ugh!”

“A-Attack! Stop it!”

Whenever the dragon left an opening, the soldiers would rush in, desperately trying to hinder its movements. Though they couldn’t inflict fatal damage, they managed to hold their formation, weak and fragile as it was.

It was a reckless battle, barely holding together, as if ready to shatter at any moment.

Yet, why can’t I look away? Ragnar found himself entranced, watching the chaotic struggle unfold before him.

“Chieftain, are you all right?”

“Rogain!”

The voice of his lieutenant snapped Ragnar out of his daze. Rogain was slightly singed but otherwise unharmed.

“What about the warriors? How many survived?”

“Just over half, barely. What should we do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Should we retreat, or assist them?”

“As if you need to ask…” Ragnar’s instinct was to scold Rogain for asking such an obvious question. A true warrior would choose the latter without hesitation. But he stopped mid-sentence. Rogain had never been the type to ask questions like this before.

He used to support Ragnar without question, choosing the honorable path and standing by him silently. Now he was offering Ragnar a choice. Why had he changed?

Because I changed first.

As chieftain, he had focused on the politics that came with the role. But when had he begun to prioritize it over the pride of a warrior?

His warriors hadn’t questioned him. They were all deeply loyal to Ragnar, seeing every action he took as the right one.

“Damn it!”

Cursing, Ragnar stood up.

“We’ll assist them and take down the dragon! Lead the surviving warriors and join me in the fight!”

“Yes, Chieftain!”

As loyal as ever, Rogain obeyed without question, but his unswerving devotion now stirred a faint bitterness in Ragnar’s heart.

The battlefield lay quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos that had consumed it moments ago. Bjorn and Ragnar, both bloodied and battered, surveyed the field where dragons once dominated, now reduced to carcasses scattered among the fallen soldiers.

Ragnar glanced at Sylas, who stood calmly amidst the slain beasts, as if the raging battle had been nothing more than a mere skirmish to him. His clothes were marred with streaks of blood, and yet his expression remained untroubled.

“It’s over,” Bjorn muttered, still clutching his axe, though his arm shook from exhaustion.

Ragnar nodded, his own weapon slack in his hand. For all his fury and desperate strikes, he knew that without Sylas, the battle would have cost them everything. Sylas had swept through the dragons as if they were insignificant obstacles, and now he stood there, the head of the mightiest dragon at his feet, proof of his unparalleled strength.

“The North owes you a great debt, Sylas,” Ragnar said, his voice steady but weighted with the humility of a warrior who had faced his limits.

Sylas looked at him, and for a fleeting moment, there was a hint of something close to understanding in his eyes. “I didn’t do it for glory or debt,” he replied, his voice calm. “The North deserves to be free of such threats.”

Bjorn’s gaze shifted from Sylas to Ragnar, sensing the subtle change in Ragnar’s demeanor. A few of Ragnar’s warriors, those who had survived, looked at Sylas with expressions that spoke of awe and loyalty.

Before any more could be said, a loud voice pierced the silence. “Prepare the wounded and gather the fallen!” one of Ragnar’s captains commanded. The remaining soldiers, some still in shock from the intensity of the battle, hurried to obey, their movements quickened by a new sense of purpose.

As the battlefield was cleared, Sylas turned to leave, his role seemingly complete. But Ragnar called after him.

“Sylas,” he began, his voice unusually tentative. “What will you do now?”

Sylas paused, not turning around. “There are still lands that need protection. I’ll go where I’m needed.”

Ragnar’s fists clenched at his sides. “You would walk away from this, from the North, after all you’ve done?”

Sylas glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. “The North must find its own way forward. My place isn’t here, ruling or guiding—it never has been.”

With those words, Sylas walked away, disappearing into the haze of the aftermath, leaving behind a battlefield that would remember his presence long after he was gone.

As Ragnar watched him leave, he realized something unsettling. The North’s victory over the dragons had been achieved not by its future king, not by those who would rule and shape its future, but by a man who had no interest in claiming the throne. Sylas’s shadow loomed over them all, and Ragnar knew that, one way or another, they would always be measured against it.