Chapter 130: Declaration of War

When the sun rose the next day, an earth-shattering piece of news completely shook this once peaceful world.

The spokesperson of Heaven appeared on the screens of everyone watching television—a strikingly handsome man with a calm expression.

More than a spokesperson, with his eyes closed, he resembled a welcoming monk from a temple, immediately bringing a sense of peace to those who saw him.

Then, with a composed tone, he announced: "The leader has issued two messages. First, Heaven will officially be established in four days. Anyone unwilling to remain in Heaven is granted a final four days to leave."

"Second, in three days, the leader will destroy this region."

Behind him, a world map emerged, with a massive red circle centered on the Cassell Academy grounds, encompassing several hundred kilometers of land.

Before anyone could fully react, the forcibly inserted video ended, and the internet instantly overflowed with detailed information about dragons and hybrids.

Prior to this, the secret laboratory guarded by tens of thousands and the vault buried hundreds of meters underground—both housing the equipment necessary to operate Cassell Academy’s exclusive AI—had suffered physical sabotage.

Although Heaven did not strike at Norma, who was based in Cassell Academy’s core, the damage severely impaired her operational efficiency, preventing her from rapidly erasing all related information.

Everything about dragons, the truth of this world, was finally stripped of all veils, laid bare before every person on Earth.

…

“Heaven has finally taken this step!” Frost Gatuso was the first to receive the news. Seated at his desk, he appeared unchanged from two years ago. A black-and-white photo sat on the desk alongside some once-critical documents. “Ange’s actions have completely rattled the fragile nerve of their leader.”

“But it was only a matter of time.”

Frost sighed involuntarily, his eyes scanning a report on Cassell Academy’s capture of the unborn Bronze and Fire Kings—now rendered meaningless.

“How’s Caesar?” Frost looked up at his secretary. “Still in the training chamber the family built for him?”

“Yes. This failure seems to have seriously bruised his pride,” said the blond youth, Pasci Gatuso. “He swore he won’t come out until he reaches Ange’s level.”

“Any progress?” Frost asked.

“Not ideal,” Pasci flipped through a report. “Though stimulated by failure, his power growth has accelerated considerably, it’s still less than half of what Ange’s data suggests.”

“Is that so?” Frost said. “And Pompey? Where is he?”

“Fifteen minutes ago, he was in deep conversation with Princess Angelina,” Pasci replied. The idea of an acting head monitoring the head of the family was so outrageous that it barely caused a ripple in his mind. Since that plan was finalized, Pompey Gatuso had effectively been cast aside—just like them and those being thawed out of the freezer, the Gatuso family’s last remnants: monsters averaging over three hundred years old.

“Heaven has made its move. We can’t wait any longer,” Frost said calmly. He extended his hand, a small flame sparked between his fingers. “Are the planes ready?”

“All ready,” Pasci answered. “Thirty-six of the fastest supersonic jets, and the sealed weapons have been unsealed.”

“Good—The Gatuso family will die charging forward,” Frost said quietly. “I hope we die so fiercely that it awakens every ounce of potential in Caesar Gatuso.”

…

“Everything else is in your hands, Pasci.” Frost passed by the blond youth, his expression steely. This man, who had long wielded power and considered himself a wise strategist, now looked like a daredevil about to enter battle, radiating deadly intent. “The final order—if Caesar Gatuso can’t make it through, everything will be yours. From then on, you will be Caesar Gatuso.”

“That won’t happen,” Pasci said with a gentle smile. “I believe he will surpass me, who is propelled by only half a million volts of current—after all, Caesar’s emotions burn far hotter and fiercer than this half-human, half-ghost.”

…

In Northern Europe, the Beowulf family, blood drinkers of the thirsting dragons.

This was a highly prestigious yet wildly fanatical clan—they fed every newborn infant with deadly dragon blood crystals. Only those who survived earned the Beowulf name.

In an era where most had become gentle and civilized, killing with blades that drew no blood, they remained like ancient remnants, steadfast believers in the power of iron and blood.

The current head of the Beowulf family was an old monster no younger than Ange, who had fought at the forefront of dragon slaying thirty years ago.

But as age advanced, he ultimately could not withstand Ange’s burning desire fueled to the point of self-destruction and was forced to retreat to the sidelines.

Two years ago, the dawn of the “current-driven” new era injected fresh vitality into him. Yet perhaps because his desires were not as fierce as Ange’s vengeance-obsessed mind, or simply due to his advanced age, despite his desperate efforts, he could only barely reach a level of two hundred thousand volts of current.

Ange, originally on the same level, now killed him as easily as crushing a chick. This had rendered the old man increasingly silent, even rarely going out for dragon hunts.

“…”

Standing atop the altar, Beowulf gazed upon his descendants.

Unlike the Gatuso family, with their stallion bloodline and tradition of feeding infants dragon blood, the Beowulfs had always been few in number. Now, only ten qualified to stand beneath the altar, yet they spanned eight generations.

Each wore a cold expression—elite warriors, fanatical dragon slayers. Even the youngest, a fifteen-year-old boy, bore no less blood on his hands than the so-called elite enforcers of Cassell Academy.

The Beowulf family altar was rarely opened, but whenever it was, it signified a momentous decision.

The flames on the altar were lit. Before they extinguished, Beowulf had to decide—Heaven? Or the Secret Society?

His instinct told him this was the family’s best chance.

…

Cassell Academy, Sikodi District.

“Good, release it.” Ange clapped his hands.

Four mechanical arms retracted, and the brass container floated steadily in the superconducting magnetic field immersed in liquid nitrogen, surrounded by half-meter-thick quartz glass walls.

It resembled a developing fetus in slumber, the protective vessel being the specially crafted elliptical quartz glass dome.

If he were alone, such precautions would be unnecessary. Even if the Dragon King inside the brass container awakened, Ange was confident he could kill it. But the researchers nearby lacked his strength and confidence.

…

Norma’s notification echoed in his earpiece. Despite holding back, Heaven’s madness still shocked him. Ange closed his eyes—no, in truth, he had anticipated this.

The laughter and joy of students on the surface hundreds of meters above seemed to seep through the thick earth. Ange sighed.

At that moment, the current driving his power, once capped at 960,000 volts, surged upward again. The world’s endless obstacles could no longer restrain this ‘passive’ madman who had made his decision.

Emotion was merely an obstacle to vengeance. He would sacrifice everything and kill every Dragon King in the world.

A single thought flashed through Ange’s mind, and the acceleration of current within him grew ever faster.

…

“Isn’t it just over a hundred dollars in internet fees? I’m not refusing to pay, I just don’t have the money right now. Is it really necessary?” Old Tang grumbled as he was thrown out of the door with his bag in his sleep.

No one paid him any heed. The solid bulletproof glass seemed to mock this destitute man, who didn’t even know what his own name was. He stood up, grabbed his bag, and walked forward—maybe he could earn some money on Hunter’s Web? Then come back and continue playing.

Without thinking about tomorrow or the future, forever living in the moment, this slacker driven by life took a step forward.

…

In the far north, an isolated space greeted an unwelcome visitor.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

A cloaked figure repeatedly struck the door forged by an alchemical matrix. A strange wave transmitted to the connected Nibelungen, in whose arms lay a looping amplifier—

“Odin, I’m here to negotiate.”

“Odin, I’m here to negotiate.”

The door remained firmly shut. Odin, seemingly recovering inside, had no intention of responding to this uninvited guest.

Yet the visitor was clearly patient, indifferent to the cold rejection, continuing to knock again and again. The freezing temperatures seemed to have no effect on her.

This was the third day of knocking. She appeared ready to endure a battle of attrition with Odin until the end of time.

Finally, a voice emerged from the Nibelungen: “State your purpose, King of Sky and Wind, the chief deity who devoured his own brother, the god of vengeance, Veda.”

“Let us unite,” Veda said.