Dragon Raja 4; Chapter 39: Journey to the End of the World (39)

Dragon Raja 4

“Still can’t see the truth?” The girl’s voice suddenly turned cold, dripping with sarcasm. “Xia Mi was nothing but a figment of your imagination, a fleeting shadow from your memory. But she’s dead. You killed her with your own hands.” Her tone was biting.

She stood up and removed her hairband. Her long hair grew rapidly in the wind, and the oversized jersey she wore transformed into a crimson gown, burning from top to bottom. Her body shot skyward like a towering tree, her crimson gown broad enough to cover the entire basketball court. Jörmungandr looked down at him from above, her golden dragon eyes glowing fiercely. This might have been her true form, with the body of a massive dragon hidden beneath her gown and only the upper half retaining the appearance of a girl, like the mythical Fuxi and Nüwa.

But Chu Zihang wasn’t afraid. He raised his head and met her gaze, with confusion in his eyes.

“So, this is the cage you’ve built for me? If I accept it, will you take over my body?” Chu Zihang asked.

“Who doesn’t live in a cage?” Jörmungandr’s tone was unexpectedly gentle. “You humans, working nine to five, trapped between your cubicles and buses. When you’re tired, you look out the window at the passing crowds, and many people never realize how vast the world is. Even those high-ranking officials—what of them? They live in their towers built of fame and fortune, and those towers are their cages. If you like it, you call it your life. If you don’t, you call it a prison.” Her voice was calm, almost understanding. “Even the Dragon Kings have cages they cannot escape—what you humans call fate.”

“What’s so bad about a cage like that?” She leaned down, her colossal dragon form curving like a bow, placing a basketball gently in Chu Zihang’s hand. “In my cage, you’ll find peace. And I will give you an extra gift: I’ll return your girl to you. Here, she’s completely yours. She will always, always be with you.”

In a flash, Jörmungandr vanished, and Xia Mi was once again sitting beside Chu Zihang, dressed in her oversized jersey. She stretched lazily, pulled a sports drink from her bag, and handed it to him. “So, are you playing or not? If you’re not, I’ll go join the girls for their workout!”

Chu Zihang didn’t take the drink. Instead, he reached out and gently stroked her cheek. “Let’s wait a little longer, until the fog lifts.”

Xia Mi jumped in surprise at his gesture, her face turning bright red as she stared at him wide-eyed, as if about to scold him.

But she didn’t push his hand away. Instead, she glared at him angrily, puffing her cheeks like a little lion ready to roar.

The ice emitted a loud crack as it split into a long, narrow chasm ahead of the Yamal, pointing straight toward the red hatchery. In the sky, the aurora surged like galloping horses, as if guiding their way. Fate was already set in motion; they sounded the horn and passed through the mysterious gate, heading toward the land of gods.

Trembling servants carried eight coffins, and Macallan used a specially made key to open the lids. Vincent had thought the contents of the coffins might come to life, but they turned out to be nothing but bones. Some skeletons were clad in ornate armor, their hands clasping swords across their chests, their fingers adorned with rings encrusted with multicolored gems. Others were tightly wrapped in silver-glowing white cloth, concealing their features—likely figures of royal status. The bones were soaked in pale pink coffin liquid, and fine white threads grew from the bones, sticking to the walls of the coffins.

Muttering something under his breath, Macallan poured some whiskey into each coffin. The language he used was completely foreign to Vincent.

The Yamal broke through an ice beam, and at last, the blood-red mirror-like sea appeared ahead. The passengers fell to their knees, silencing themselves, as a solemn and reverent atmosphere enveloped the deck.

“Is Her Highness the Saintess still not done dressing?” Macallan glanced at Vincent. “She hasn’t escaped, has she?”

Vincent had already guessed that something had gone wrong with Reginleif when he couldn’t contact Hervor or Orlune, but he didn’t know the details. Afraid to relay the bad news to Macallan, he instead sent people to search the ship for Reginleif. Before he could respond, Macallan shifted his gaze, seemingly uninterested in Reginleif, as if casually asking.

The Yamal slowly entered the hatchery. It was calm and unruffled, and when the wind blew, ripples formed like those of a peaceful inland lake. Although the seawater contained a large amount of red tide algae, it was unnaturally clear. When the lights from the Yamal shone on it, it reflected intensely, appearing from afar like a giant pigeon-blood ruby.

The Yamal stopped at the center of the hatchery, but no anchor was dropped. No one dared to disturb what lay beneath the sea.

“Feeding on the sea for thousands of years, and yet it hasn’t awakened?” Jörmungandr asked gravely.

“Feeding for thousands of years only proves it’s a glutton,” Macallan said softly.

Even they weren’t entirely sure what lurked below, so their voices instinctively lowered.

“Do you want to capture it alive, or just take its bones?” Jörmungandr asked again.

“Alive or dead doesn’t matter, but under no circumstances can it leave the hatchery.”

Jörmungandr nodded, stepping back slightly. Macallan signaled with his eyes, and a few servants carried one of the coffins and threw it into the sea. The coffin shattered as it struck the water, and Macallan and Jörmungandr watched as the noble skeleton sank to the bottom. After a moment, the surface calmed again. The hatchery did not respond to the offering. Vincent had already guessed why Macallan had brought so many coffins aboard. The bones still contained powerful dragon genes, valuable food for the deep hole beneath the sea.

“Not a high enough level?” Jörmungandr frowned slightly. “What kind of trash did you bring?”

“Though these are mere bones, none of them were below S-Rank in life. The one just now might have been King Arthur,” Macallan said gravely.

Vincent was dumbfounded. Could it be the remains of the legendary King of ancient Britain? To this day, historians still couldn’t confirm whether he had truly existed, but Macallan had even dug up his bones. The legendary king, once called the “Red Dragon of Britain,” had not just a poetic nickname—it was his hidden true identity.

“Have the genes in the bones degraded from long storage?” Jörmungandr asked.

“Maybe it doesn’t need King Arthur’s genes right now, or perhaps its appetite has waned,” Macallan replied, beckoning with his finger. Three more coffins were thrown into the sea. One of the skeletons’ burial garments tore upon impact, revealing bones covered in iridescent scales, graceful and slender, half-human and half-serpent. Another skeleton was bound tightly with chains, with iron nails driven into every critical joint—clearly, the people who buried it feared its return from the world of the dead. Yet, as before, the offerings were swallowed by the sea with nothing but a few small bubbles as a reply.

Macallan stared at the bubbles on the surface for a moment, then ordered the Yamal to raise its anchor. One of the skeletons, wrapped in plain cloth, was hung from the anchor. Slowly, the anchor and skeleton were lowered into the depths of the sea. Vincent began to understand Macallan’s plan: he intended to use the anchor chain as a fishing line and the skeleton as bait to catch whatever lurked in the deep. From the surface, they couldn’t know what was happening below, but a camera attached to the anchor chain would reveal it.

A fiber optic cable transmitted the underwater images to a tablet in Macallan’s hand. They saw the same breathtaking scene Chu Zihang had witnessed earlier. The map indicated that the water here was over a thousand meters deep, yet the anchor hit an underwater mountain at just over three hundred meters. The seamounts displayed intricate fractal structures—some resembled the tender antlers of deer, others were as large as a football field-sized mushroom, and some looked like majestic castles. The seamounts were covered with tree-like structures, their thousands of tiny tendrils swaying gently with the current. They were alive, occasionally releasing deep green or dark blue streams of water, as if pollinating each other like male and female plants.

That was the true landscape of mountains and flower trees Maria of the Stars spoke of. When they came here, they had taken the submarine Prince Gauguin, once sailing through these undersea mountains.

Suddenly, the screen went dark, and the Yamal shook violently. A powerful force tugged on the anchor chain, trying to drag the giant ship into the depths. Whatever it was, it encountered the Yamal, a ship with a displacement of over 30,000 tons. The Yamal activated its propellers to counter the force, and the anchor chain strained, emitting a teeth-grinding sound. Moments later, the creature below gave up on the anchor chain, and the camera attached to it was no longer operational. They couldn’t see what was happening beneath the sea, but it was clear that the bait had been consumed.

“In this ecosystem, it probably doesn’t need to actively feed,” Jörmungandr murmured. “No matter who feeds here, in the end, it’s always him who eats.”

Macallan nodded. “Only when the accumulated genes in the hatchery are abundant enough to be worth his awakening will he stir, but only briefly.”

All the remaining coffins were thrown into the water, and this time there was a noticeable disturbance on the surface. Faint ripples circled around the Yamal, and occasionally, a dark spine would breach the surface. It belonged to a massive creature, larger and heavier than those monstrous serpents. Not long ago, the hatchery had been cleared by a vortex, but this creature had escaped the purge. It was an even higher-level predator than the serpents, and it had been the one devouring the bait Macallan had been offering. Now, realizing that the ship was a continuous source of food, its appetite had overtaken its caution.

Even the passengers, ensnared in illusions, changed their expressions. Their brains, deep in the illusion, were subconsciously warning them of the impending danger. This was a human self-preservation mechanism, something that even ordinary people sometimes experience. People in seemingly safe and comfortable environments may suddenly feel a chill or shiver with fear, a signal from the body’s protective instincts. Macallan’s Saha World still held them, creating beautiful illusions, but no matter how much it beautified the sight of a giant spiny creature devouring bones in front of them, the terror remained.

“Just kill it,” Jörmungandr said, her gaze fixed on the ripples in the water. She twirled her twin blades, eager for action.

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