Just re-read trailblazer and all the comments as a refresher, probably get started writing the next chapter soon
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I found this one story where MC isekais as the Heavenly Dao of a world that's about to die, and the only way to live is to send local superpowers to invade other worlds and steal their essence and then merge worlds, in the end the MC starts laying lures for other isekaiers to devour their systems
The first xicree says terror.
The second xicree says terror.
The third xicree says terror.
The fourth xicree says terror.
The fifth xicree says terror.
The sixth xicree says terror.
The seventh xicree says terror.
The eighth xicree says terror.
The ninth xicree says terror.
The tenth xicree says terror.
The second xicree says terror.
The third xicree says terror.
The fourth xicree says terror.
The fifth xicree says terror.
The sixth xicree says terror.
The seventh xicree says terror.
The eighth xicree says terror.
The ninth xicree says terror.
The tenth xicree says terror.
"Do you know the crazy thing about having luck manipulation? I don't need to aim"
This author beats around the bush more than I beat my meat.
The air hangs heavy, thick with the scent of smoke and the ghosts of screams.
The Golden Horn, stained crimson, reflects a sky bruised with twilight.
Hagia Sophia, once a beacon of Christendom, now echoes with the call to prayer.
A hollow sound, a mournful dirge for a city lost.
The Golden Horn, stained crimson, reflects a sky bruised with twilight.
Hagia Sophia, once a beacon of Christendom, now echoes with the call to prayer.
A hollow sound, a mournful dirge for a city lost.
The walls, scarred and broken, stand as silent witnesses to the carnage.
For centuries they held, a bulwark against the tide of invaders.
Now, they crumble, weeping stone tears for the fallen.
The dust of heroes mingles with the dust of the conquered.
For centuries they held, a bulwark against the tide of invaders.
Now, they crumble, weeping stone tears for the fallen.
The dust of heroes mingles with the dust of the conquered.
I remember the processions, the emperors in their purple robes, the chanting of the priests.
The vibrant markets, bursting with life, the clash of languages, the scent of spices.
Now, only silence reigns.
A silence broken only by the wind whistling through shattered windows and empty streets.
The vibrant markets, bursting with life, the clash of languages, the scent of spices.
Now, only silence reigns.
A silence broken only by the wind whistling through shattered windows and empty streets.
The libraries, once filled with the wisdom of ages, now smolder.
Scrolls and codices, consumed by flames, their knowledge lost forever.
The light of learning extinguished, plunging the city into darkness.
A darkness that mirrors the despair in my heart.
Scrolls and codices, consumed by flames, their knowledge lost forever.
The light of learning extinguished, plunging the city into darkness.
A darkness that mirrors the despair in my heart.
The double-headed eagle, symbol of empire, lies broken in the dust.
The purple robes torn, the imperial crown cast aside.
The bells that once rang out in celebration now toll a death knell.
A death knell for Constantinople, Queen of Cities, now fallen.
The purple robes torn, the imperial crown cast aside.
The bells that once rang out in celebration now toll a death knell.
A death knell for Constantinople, Queen of Cities, now fallen.
The whispers of Constantine haunt the empty streets.
The ghosts of emperors and empresses wander through the ruins.
A thousand years of history reduced to rubble and ash.
A lament for what was, and what will never be again.Istanbul.
A new name, a new master.
But the memory of Constantinople lingers, a wound that will never fully heal.
The ghosts of emperors and empresses wander through the ruins.
A thousand years of history reduced to rubble and ash.
A lament for what was, and what will never be again.Istanbul.
A new name, a new master.
But the memory of Constantinople lingers, a wound that will never fully heal.
Smoke still clings to my scales, though I am leagues from the Smoking Sea.
A phantom scent of ash, of sulfur, forever in my nostrils.
I remember the sun on Valyria, not choked by volcanic fumes,
but brilliant, bathing the fourteen flames in golden light.
A phantom scent of ash, of sulfur, forever in my nostrils.
I remember the sun on Valyria, not choked by volcanic fumes,
but brilliant, bathing the fourteen flames in golden light.
My brothers and sisters, their roars echoing across the hills, a chorus of power, of dominion.
Now, only the wind whispers through the shattered stone, a mournful dirge.
I remember the laughter of my kin, the gleam of their silver hair, the flash of violet eyes.
They are gone.
Now, only the wind whispers through the shattered stone, a mournful dirge.
I remember the laughter of my kin, the gleam of their silver hair, the flash of violet eyes.
They are gone.
Consumed by the earth's fury, swallowed by the sea's wrath.
I flew above the cataclysm, felt the heat scorch my wings,
saw the mountains crumble and the earth split open.
I flew above the cataclysm, felt the heat scorch my wings,
saw the mountains crumble and the earth split open.
A god's tantrum. A world's scream.
And I, a witness, cursed to carry the memory.
The blood of dragons flows in my veins, but it feels like ice now.
The power that once surged through me, a torrent of fire, is now a cold ember.
Valyria…
And I, a witness, cursed to carry the memory.
The blood of dragons flows in my veins, but it feels like ice now.
The power that once surged through me, a torrent of fire, is now a cold ember.
Valyria…
A name that tastes like ash in my mouth.
A dream that haunts my waking hours.
A loss that will never be healed.I fly alone now,
beneath a sky that seems too vast, too empty.
A dream that haunts my waking hours.
A loss that will never be healed.I fly alone now,
beneath a sky that seems too vast, too empty.
The world is diminished without her.
Without them.
And I, a dragonlord without a land, am nothing but a shadow of what I was.
A lament, carried on the wind, for a kingdom lost, a people gone.
Without them.
And I, a dragonlord without a land, am nothing but a shadow of what I was.
A lament, carried on the wind, for a kingdom lost, a people gone.