28 Fragile Humans, Meet Your End!

The battlefield was a mosaic of chaos and strategy, where warriors of formidable skill and magicians of profound knowledge clashed in an intricate dance of war. The air was thick with the scent of iron and magic, as the human army showcased its might. Among them, Bruce observed, were warriors whose prowess peaked at the third and fourth tiers, and even a select few who boasted the esteemed rank of fifth-level warriors. This was no ordinary assembly; it was the crème de la crème of the human military, a spine of steel in the flesh of their forces.

Bruce's eyes narrowed with curiosity. It was peculiar, almost unfathomable, that such a guarded treasure, more precious than gold or the finest jewels, could be threatened, even with the protection of these stalwart guardians and the arcane prowess of high-level magicians.

In the heart of this maelstrom of steel and spellcraft, the warriors formed an impenetrable ring around the magicians, a living barrier against all threats. The magicians, in turn, were a spectacle of concentration, their lips moving in a silent symphony of incantations. Bruce understood the reality behind their murmured spells; they were not mere words but a complex series of mental constructs, a framework for the intricate architecture of magical matrices.

To the uninitiated, this ritual might seem the pinnacle of arcane mastery, but Bruce, with his draconic intellect and unmatched memory, saw it for what it was – a crutch for those whose minds could not hold the vastness of magical structures. With a scornful glance at the magicians, Bruce let their ceaseless chanting wash over him, his keen hearing capturing every syllable.

His recent forays into the realm of magic, devouring tome after tome, had elevated his understanding of magical constructs to an exceptional level. From the fiery tempests of pyromancy to the serene, frost-laden paths of cryomancy, and from the crackling arcs of electromancy to the nurturing embrace of biomancy, Bruce had immersed himself in the arcane arts. He might not stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the most revered human archmages yet, but his knowledge certainly eclipsed that of your run-of-the-mill spellcaster.

As the spells continued to unfold, Bruce deciphered their nature with ease. The fourth-level magician was conjuring a Fireball, a staple of pyromantic warfare, while his fifth-level counterpart was weaving an Ice Spear, another fundamental yet potent spell.

Despite his grasp of the elemental forces, Bruce had yet to harness them fully into spells of his own. Nonetheless, he recognized the magic being wielded before him, spells as familiar to mages as the air they breathed.

The air crackled with energy as the fourth-level magician unleashed his spell. A Fireball roared to life in his palm, a miniature sun of seething flame, before being hurled with a fierce cry towards the advancing Cyclops.

"Roar!" The Cyclops, named Sansanruo, responded with a thunderous bellow. Wielding a massive mallet forged from the finest iron, he met the fiery projectile head-on. The collision was cataclysmic, sending a shower of embers and flames cascading onto the unfortunate wild boars in the vicinity. Their cries of agony pierced the battlefield, a testament to the spell's destructive power.

Yet, the Cyclops stood unscathed, a testament to resilience that defied common sense. A creature of such size should have succumbed to the fiery onslaught, but there stood Sansanruo, as imposing and unyielding as ever.

From his vantage point on the hillside, Bruce nodded in approval. This was the outcome he had anticipated. Sansanruo's formidable defense, a legacy of his draconic heritage, provided an advantage on the battlefield that was undeniable, even if it fell short of the formidable might of the true Dragon Clan.

But the battle was far from over. The fifth-level magician's spell, an Ice Spear, crystallized from the ether, slicing through the air with a chilling hiss. It was a deadly missile, aimed with precision at Sansanruo.

Once more, the Cyclops roared, his sinewy muscles tensing as he braced for impact. The Ice Spear struck with the force of a winter gale, shattering against his rugged form. While some scales were breached, drawing shallow wounds, the majority of the icy onslaught was repelled, leaving Sansham a formidable foe still standing amidst the tumult of battle.

Sansham exulted in newfound might, a testament to the potent legacy flowing through his veins. His master, the true dragon Bruce, had bestowed upon him a strength beyond reckoning.

In the heart of the fray, Sansham towered, a colossus of wrath. With a bellow that shook the very air, he declared, "Fragile humans, meet your end!" His club, an extension of his fury, arced through the sky, sending second and third-tier warriors reeling. They tumbled, battered and broken, their lifeblood painting the ground in desperate strokes.

Yet, the more seasoned warriors, those of the fourth and fifth tiers, braced and bore the onslaught, albeit staggering under the sheer force.

Joining this tumultuous onslaught were five more Cyclopes, their bodies etched with scars from past battles – a testament to their resilience. Even wounds that once threatened their lives were now mere badges of honor, barely slowing their formidable advance. Equally matched with the human elite, their presence tipped the scales further.

And then there was Mike, the goblin transformed by draconic grace. With his kin, he plunged into the fray, turning the once orderly ranks of humanity into a disarray of desperation and fear. No ordinary goblin, Mike wielded strength rivaling seasoned human fighters, his newfound powers a marvel wrought by Bruce's blood. He burrowed through the earth, a phantom assailant, his fangs a weapon of terror as they found purchase in the flesh and bone of his foes.

After the skirmish, Mike emerged, triumphant, before Bruce. His report was a litany of riches: "Agate, gold, jewels, antiquities, potions of unknown provenance, and a deity's effigy shrouded in crimson," he listed, his voice a rasp of excitement.

Bruce nodded, a gesture of quiet approval. "Well done. Withdraw with the goblins to the perimeter. The others will handle the fray. Your mission is fulfilled."

He understood the limits of his goblin allies. Their recent charge had sown chaos, but at a cost. The humans, regrouping, had exacted a grim toll. Yet, in the grand tapestry of war, the loss was a mere ripple. Goblins, prolific in their numbers, would soon fill the ranks anew. So Bruce felt no pang for the fallen, only the cold calculus of battle.

Amidst this maelstrom, other figures loomed large. Sam, now a leviathan of muscle and sinew, his claws reaping a grim harvest from the ranks of humanity. Sesth, the kobold, his magic nascent but promising, a nuisance now but harbinger of havoc to come.

From his vantage, Bruce surveyed the unfolding chaos. His kin, each a unique mosaic of draconic inheritance, were turning the tide. Humanity, for all its valor, was faltering.

Bruce's purpose was not conquest, but observation. The might of his bloodline, manifest in his kin, was his to witness, not wield.

"It's another tedious day," he mused, a yawn escaping his lips. Yet, his gaze lingered on the spoils of war, a trove of treasures soon to be his. He could already taste victory, foreseeing the impending rout of humanity and the ascension of his lineage. All in due time, all in due time.