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CLATTER, CLATTER, CLATTER!
The rhythmic sound of footsteps echoed across the central square of Pryr Town. Apart from the 280 individuals who had just been counted—now reduced to mere "human loudspeakers"—there were over four thousand other civilians present, standing in tense anticipation, awaiting their fate under the shadow of a looming dragon.
Under Jacaerys' command, the crowd was divided into two distinct groups.
On the left side of the square stood the women and children, while on the right, a tightly packed formation of men awaited further orders.
Once the division was complete, the "human loudspeakers" quickly estimated the number of people in each group.
The left side held approximately 1,900 individuals, while the right side contained 2,300 men.
Jacaerys narrowed his eyes in thought, carefully considering his next move before issuing another command.
"From the left side, select 180 of the eldest women and move them to the right."
The order was quickly carried out. The 180 women, most of them with streaks of silver in their hair and wrinkles on their faces, hesitantly stepped across the invisible boundary that had separated them from the men.
Jacearys then swept his gaze across the remaining individuals and, with a composed yet commanding tone, declared:
"I have always been a man of my word. The women and children on the left, along with my interpreters, will be spared."
A brief pause. Then his sharp eyes shifted toward the men.
"As for those of you on the right, I shall grant you an opportunity. If just one among you manages to land a single blow on me, I will spare all of you."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Of course," he continued, his voice tinged with a knowing amusement, "I am well aware that none of you possess such courage at the moment. But turn around. Look at the faces of those standing on the left. Do you see your wives? Your children?"
His voice became colder.
"If you do not fight, then everyone will die."
The words struck like a hammer, shattering whatever feeble hope still lingered in the men's hearts.
"Perhaps some of you have no family left to worry about. But let me tell you this—my fleet will soon arrive at Pryr Island. Once the flames consuming this town have been extinguished, they will slaughter every living soul except for the two thousand individuals present here."
The threat was absolute, an inescapable noose tightening around their necks.
"So, whether for them or for yourselves—gather your courage and fight me!"
Jacearys had conducted numerous experiments before, refining his ability to manipulate the human heart. This time was no different.
Sure enough, as his words were relayed through the human loudspeakers, a transformation swept through the right-side crowd. Fear turned into determination, hesitation into burning resolve.
A furious roar erupted from their throats, and with reckless desperation, the men surged forward, their feet pounding against the stone pavement as they charged toward Jacearys and the mighty dragon perched high atop the stone structure.
But they were charging toward death itself.
WHOOSH!
A torrent of scorching orange-red flames burst forth from Vermex's maw, sweeping across the square like a wrathful tidal wave.
The men at the front never even had a chance to scream. Their flesh blistered and blackened in an instant, their bodies crumbling into charred husks before they even hit the ground.
Yet those behind them did not falter.
Driven by desperation, they trampled over the fallen, pressing forward, oblivious to the futility of their struggle.
Like moths drawn to a blazing inferno, they hurled themselves into the dragon's breath, their figures vanishing in the searing embrace of the flames.
Not a single one made it past Vermex's fan-shaped firestorm.
Not a single one reached the base of the stone platform.
On the left side of the square, nearly two thousand women and children could only watch in horror. Tears streamed down their faces, their hearts breaking at the sight of their husbands, fathers, and brothers perishing in agony.
Despair. Sorrow. Hatred.
Their eyes burned with these emotions.
There is an old saying—if the grass is not uprooted, it will grow again when the spring wind blows.
Jacearys knew this all too well.
A seed of vengeance had been planted within these people. One day, it would take root and grow, and they would rise against him as sworn enemies.
But so what?
Everything was proceeding exactly as he had planned.
Had he not already discovered this method of harvesting trait points back when he conducted his experiments in the Stepstone Islands?
Of course, he had considered this approach long ago.
But up until now, he had adhered to a strict principle—he would only target enemy soldiers who wielded weapons against him.
However, the treacherous assassination attempt on Bloodstone had changed everything.
His enemies had shown no bottom line, resorting to the filthiest, most underhanded tactics imaginable.
So why should he restrain himself any longer?
He would harvest half of his trait points now.
Then, when the seeds of hatred blossomed into defiance, he would reap the rest.
And so the cycle would continue—a self-sustaining system of harvesting power.
For the next twenty minutes, the massacre persisted.
Vermex's flames consumed wave after wave of desperate souls, their screams drowned out by the relentless roar of the inferno.
When the last embers settled, the right-side crowd had been reduced to less than two hundred men—those who had been too afraid to move, who had cowered in place, paralyzed by fear.
Jacaerys glanced at them with mild disdain.
"Vermex," he murmured.
The massive dragon let out a guttural growl and unfurled its wings, casting an enormous shadow over the trembling survivors.
WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
With powerful strokes of its wings, Vermex swooped down, descending upon the remaining men like a harbinger of death.
The prolonged battle, the ceaseless flames, and the relentless destruction had begun to take a toll on its massive body. Its throat ached from the continuous spewing of fire.
Thus, Jacaerys decided that, instead of exhausting it further with fire, he would let it slaughter the last of these cowards using its sheer physical might.
BOOM—CRUNCH!
The colossal body of Vermex, larger than even the container trucks of his past life, crashed heavily into the gathering of helpless men.
Dozens of unfortunate souls were instantly crushed into pulp beneath its overwhelming weight.
The dragon's jaws tore, its claws struck, and its tail lashed out.
Against the might of a dragon, the fragile human body was nothing—just brushing against its movements led to grave injuries, while direct impact meant instant death.
Urghh!—
Compared to the previous burning deaths caused by dragonfire, Vermex's melee slaughter was far more gruesome and gory.
From the left encampment, the sound of retching rose in waves.
At last, when the final man who had abandoned all resistance was swatted away by Vermex's tail, the massacre in Pryr Town came to an end.
By now, the lower half of its body had been stained from emerald green to a dark red by the drying blood.
Seated upon the dragon saddle, Jacaerys gazed down at the two thousand survivors, a god surveying mere mortals.
His voice, deep and resonant, carried the chilling allure of a devil's whisper as he proclaimed:
"Hate me. Resent me. Abhor me! Then spread the tale of what has transpired here! If you seek vengeance, remember this name well—"
"Jacaerys Velaryon!"
WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
As the human translators echoed his ominous decree, one man and one dragon ascended into the sky, wings carving through the air as they soared higher and higher—until they vanished into the clouds.
---
In his past life, it was often said that power was as addictive as any drug.
And the ability to decide the fate of thousands at will was even more so!
Jacaerys understood this well—his power was built upon the foundation of Vermex and the trait panel.
Thus, as soon as they soared into the sky, he immediately turned his focus to enhancing his abilities with trait points.
There was no denying it—discarding morality to burn cities and slaughter people had yielded immense rewards.
Before today, his remaining trait points had been 4,352.
His largest single gain had come from burning the four hundred surrendered soldiers of Racallio, which had granted him 2,800 points.
But now, his trait points had surged to 34,882.
A single massacre had reaped an astounding 30,000 points!
Of these, nearly 20,000 had come from the two thousand civilians who had bravely charged to their deaths.
Another 10,000 came from the slave garrison and the two thousand additional civilians who perished in the three rounds of city burning.
As for the last two hundred cowards that Vermex had finished off? They had contributed almost nothing.
Time to enhance!
Without hesitation, Jacaerys spent 5,000 points to unlock a new trait slot.
Rather than expending a vast number of points to improve a single trait's quality, adding more slots and stacking buffs across his entire arsenal was undeniably the superior strategy.
The newly unlocked fifth trait turned out to be a familiar gray-tier trait.
Jacaerys paid it little mind and prepared to unlock a sixth trait slot.
But then, he noticed something—there was no longer a (Unlockable) prompt after the pet trait slot.
Even with nearly 30,000 points left, he could not unlock any more slots…
Was five the maximum number of traits?
Or was there some other condition preventing further unlocks?
No matter. First, I'll refresh for a better trait.
Hmm?
Intending to reroll the newly unlocked fifth trait, Jacaerys was about to proceed when he suddenly noticed something unusual—
Beside the usual (Random Refresh) option, there was now a new one: (Special Reward Trait Refresh).
Focusing on it, he quickly obtained more details—it required 10,000 trait points to activate.
There was no hesitation.
Both "Special" and "Reward" signified immense value—there was nothing to consider!
[Trait points: -10,000]
A notification appeared:
[Iron-Walled Strategist (White): Provides the owner with a 10% defense boost.
Would you like to replace your current pet trait with this one?]
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[Chapter End's]
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