After four long and treacherous months crossing distant seas, the battered slaver fleet finally returned to familiar shores. The dark hulls of their ships creaked as they approached the fortified dockyard of the Hena Kingdom, their sails torn by storm and shame.

As the first ship moored, Master Slaver Caliver descended the gangplank with a calm stride that hid his inner frustration. His fine coat, though dulled by salt and time, still bore the sigil of the royal license—marking him as a state-sanctioned slaver, a rare position of authority and favor.

He approached the port authority stationed at the dock, flanked by a dozen loyal slavers. Caliver reached into his coat, pulled out a weathered scroll bearing the royal seal, and presented it with practiced pride.

“By decree of the Hena Crown, I return with a report on the elven insurgents—and a matter of grave importance.”

The harbor guard, a bearded officer with a monocle etched with enchantment, reviewed the documents. After confirming their authenticity, he handed Caliver a sealed summons, bearing the royal crest of the Castle of Hena.

“You are granted audience. The King awaits your report.”

Without wasting time, Caliver and his entourage moved through the bustling capital, streets lined with marble spires and armored patrols. The city was alive, but the castle—a fortress of silver walls and violet banners—stood above all, cold and unyielding.

As they reached the outer gates of the castle, Caliver handed the summons to a stone-faced castle guard. The guard glanced at the letter, raised two fingers into the air, and with a whistle, signaled the opening of the grand doors.

The slavers were escorted through polished halls to the heart of the kingdom—the Throne Room of Hena.

High upon a raised dais sat King Drovan IX, his armor blackened with obsidian trim, his crown jagged like mountain peaks. He looked down, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned forward in his throne of dragonbone.

“Ahh… Master Slaver Caliver. What tale have you returned with? And where are your rebellious elven wretches?”

Caliver bowed low, then stood straight with steel in his eyes.

“Your Majesty, I arrived at a previously unknown island to sell the rebels… only to be met with resistance from an emergent force. This land—ruled by a man called Lu Sang—is defended by humanoid monsters, dragons the size of warships, and even humanoid dragons. They destroyed my trade and liberated the elves.”

A low murmur passed through the gathered nobles and advisors.

King Drovan's smirk faded, replaced with intrigue.

“Humanoid monsters… and dragons, you say?”

“Yes, my liege. And not just feral beasts. Organized. They had an air of civilization—tribes, war formations, even divine symbols. Their leader… he is no savage. He dreams like a king.”

The King stood, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.

“Then let us meet this dreamer with steel and discipline.”

He turned to his Grand Admiral and War Minister.

“Prepare a fleet. Two hundred ships, each armed with ballista, warded sails, and demonbone bolts. We will test the resolve of this island. If they speak peacefully, we stay our hand. But if they resist… a fourth front will open. And we will reduce their sanctuary to salt and smoke. Unless... they have over three hundred monsters ready to bleed for them, they will fall.”

Four months later…

The fleet of the Kingdom of Hena approached the edge of Lu Sang’s island, cutting through the sea like a blade through silk. The ships spread out in a fan formation, smoke trailing from enchanted furnaces powering their internal defenses.

Aboard every deck, sailors manned their stations, eyes sharp, bolts loaded. The ballistae glinted beneath the morning sun. Drums of war began to beat low and steady.

And above them, unseen and silent in the clouds, dragons circled—watching.

Above the calm waves of the sea, the mighty Hena Kingdom fleet—two hundred ships strong—pressed forward with unwavering formation. Their sails were warded, their ballistae loaded, and their captains confident in the might of their armada.

That confidence would not last.

For from the clouds, the sky itself split open.

With a roar that turned the air to flame, 3,000 humanoid dragons descended in formation, their armored forms gleaming like falling suns. Behind them, the heavens trembled as 3,000 true dragons followed—massive serpents of war, wings stretching hundreds of feet wide, their eyes ancient and glowing with divine wrath.

In moments, the fleet was surrounded—from above, from below, from every direction.

The dragons hovered like an executioner’s blade.

Some bared their fangs, others merely watched, but the air was so thick with magic and fear that it choked the men on deck. Officers shouted orders, sailors scrambled, but panic spread faster than flame.

One captain fell to his knees, whispering prayers. Another drew his sword in sheer futility. Ballista crews held their fire, too aware that a single wrong shot would bring fire and death.

From the highest point of his divine island, Lu Sang observed the scene through a floating jade crystal, his expression calm. By his side, the ever-present voice of the Cultivation Great Sage echoed.

“Master Lu Sang… the army you see is but a fraction. From the Dungeon below, 100 new dragons are born each day.”

Lu Sang raised an eyebrow.

“How?”

The Great Sage responded, its voice distant and wise.

“The dreams of your Beastkin fuel it. Their nightmares, in particular, have spawned monsters inspired by your old world—Earth’s most feared myths and predators. And the elves dream of rebellion—of a massive 15-mile fortress defended by 1.5 million elves, with 50,000 armed rebels spawning on Floor Two.”

Lu Sang nodded.

“And Floor Three?”

“There, I have begun generating goblins—born from twisted instinct. 10,000 low-ranking goblins are spawned per day. 50 higher-ranked goblins, stronger and more cunning, rise as well.”

“They drink from the Green Blood Lake, which increases their aggression and… affects women who enter. Their blood stirs lust and the urge to dominate. Each goblin must consume flesh of what they slay—to gain its genetic traits, building themselves stronger with every kill.”

Lu Sang smirked.

“Efficient. And monstrous.”

The Great Sage added with quiet pride:

“All this… shaped by your memories. I continue digging deeper, forging the Dungeon into an impenetrable stronghold. No invader will pass without suffering.”

Lu Sang looked once more at the floating vision of the surrounded fleet. The ships—though powerful—were frozen in fear.

Back on the flagship of the Hena Kingdom, the admiral gripped the railing, his lips pale.

“They… they have six thousand dragons. We only have two hundred ships. We can't invade this place. Retreat!”

Horns were blown. Sailcloths twisted. And the once-proud fleet of the Hena Kingdom turned its bows westward, humbled by the silent threat above.

The dragons did not pursue. They only watched—like gods deciding the fate of ants.

Back on the island, Lu Sang turned from the crystal.

“Let the world remember what happens… when they try to enslave those under my protection.”

And below, the Dungeon pulsed again—dreams becoming soldiers, nightmares becoming walls, and Lu Sang’s legend growing with every breath.