"Dreadwyrm Modred! Face your final judgment! Pay for your deeds!"

A red-haired man chanted, gripping a Holyblade blessed by elves and Celestials. Yes—this was the Champion, the hero everyone admired, clad in silver armor, ready to slay the evil dragon.

The Dreadwyrm opened its golden eyes, staring at humans no bigger than its toes.

"Mortals..."

Team members whispered, "Did we hear that right? The monster actually spoke!"

"That deep voice wasn’t ordinary at all!"

"Are we dreaming?"

The black-scaled giant roared, silencing all. "Quiet! I’ve lived ten thousand years. Is speaking your tongue so strange?"

A random team member asked, "Captain, it talks. Do we still kill it?"

The Champion lowered his Holyblade and flicked the man’s forehead. "The Demon King speaks too! Should we spare him? Get kicked by a mule lately?"

"Mortals... I’ve done no evil. Why slay me?"

"Silence! Your bewitching lies won’t fool me. Take this!"

Dreadwyrm Modred had never met such unreasonable humans. He truly harmed no one. For millennia, he was the last black dragon. Endless loneliness had stripped this mighty wyrm of any will to fight.

The Champion’s sword pierced the dragon’s chest. Even a holy artifact blessed by Celestials and elves could barely breach Dragon Scales—but the Dreadwyrm had surrendered.

Truly... living too long. Immortality meant eternal suffering, didn’t it?

Modred recalled his life. Only his early days with kin were joyful; the rest were monochrome. Beyond sleeping in this cold, damp cave, he had no purpose.

Death might be his best release now.

"Mortals... thank you."

Modred chose not to self-destruct. Let these short-lived, wondrous creatures drag his remains away. Endless wealth awaited them. Slaying a dragon? They’d brag for a lifetime. Their descendants would prosper too.

Unexpected joy filled him. Helping others as he died felt... not bad at all!

This pitiful dragon finally smiled from his heart as he left the world.

That day, the Illusory World embraced lasting peace. The Age of Calamity ended.