Pestilence: Rise Of The Pure Undead

Chapter 193 Thirst For Conflict

Things did, in fact, not go smoothly.

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Lately, it seemed like everytime Loimos attempted something, someone would come along with a metal bar and hit him in the knees, he was well aware that it was naught but coincidences, but one could have readily assumed that Lady Luck was looking down on them, puking her last meal to demonstrate the esteem in which they were held by her.

Because, as it turns out, there is more than one dragon inhabiting this place, it made sense after all, somewhat, Dracula had a strong affinity with the lizardous characters, amongst the vampire lord, only he held the ability to reliably turn one of such beasts into vampire by sharing his blood with them.

Although not the strongest of the gravelords, the manpower and forces he could bring to the table made him an invaluable asset anyone would like to have by their side, a great commander, earning him the special spot of second in command when it came to the armies of the undead king.

The fact that he was the one whose location could actually be reliably guessed was a great boon, but it also seemed like his mere presence had attracted many dragon-blooded beings to make home here, perhaps not even understanding why they felt such a powerful call, maybe the gravelord was willfully calling them, luring them into his domain.

It was all baseless conjecture, what mattered right now was that countless, small dragons, which didn't even have wings, were endlessly spewing their foggy breath at Loimos, crawling around like incessant cockroaches, harassing him in spite of being shown that their breath attack was much too weak against the corrosion he enacted upon the ice forming on his body and caravan.

Clearly, the one from before had higher thinking and agency than them, they were nothing short of feral, and honestly quite idiotic too, they were simply hyper aggressive against all that wasn't themselves, fighting even occurred amongst themselves, indeed, even when Loimos was ripping them apart, quarrelling would not cease.

Some others had gathered other techniques from times before their seclusion in the mountains.

Which was why Loimos was currently on fire, burning whilst also freezing, no wonder the survivors of explorations despised and feared this place, the locals were absolutely awful to be around, not comprehending that they should perhaps, give up after their hundreds of attempts resulted in failures.

Loimos was not dropping inert no matter what they did, he could get over broken parts of the road, he could extinguished the flames, he could decay ice, he could regrow his head and defend himself even without one, he had slayed many of them as well over the course of more than a week now.

But there must have been a factory creating all of them, they kept on coming, attacking from high vantage points, up until Loimos reached yet another very top of a mountain, this one not nearly as flat as the first one, slight protrusions of sharp rocks, frail trees without leaves populating the area, all attacks ceased as he approached it.

There, another one of those cultists, garbed in a hefty amount of fur, adorned with fallen feather of dragons, this was one of the cultists that venerated the dragons, worshipping them like gods, slowly transforming his body into one resembling them, the particular dragon this one had chosen to praise endlessly was clear, an old, discarded piece of flesh was the current object of his attention, the frost dragon had no true scales, but rather thick skin, feathers and something like down feathers arranged like a beard.

Thinking about it, the mighty beast was actually quite the fuzzy and fluffy fellow.

In any case, the cultist must have been scouring the areas the creature passed through to gather pieces of it, it was unclear what this man had originally looked like, but his face had already begun turning more reptilian.

Loimos manifested the familiar dark blade that had been broken, the man having already noticed him, dragon worship stopped, flexing his clawed hands, the cultist wanted to fight.