Reborn as the Failed Lord with my Resource Gathering System. - Chapter 236

Chapter 236: Where witches meet.
[Location xxxx identified.]

[Location cxxx identified.]

In under a few seconds, Dorian was shown multiple areas where the entire witch population had been hiding.

Thanks to the versatility of his skill, he could easily see the images of the witches and pinpoint exactly where they were all camped.

While some of them were living in houses, disguised as ordinary humans, others were hiding in forests, along riverbanks, or even living amongst wild animals.

A look of disdain played on Dorian’s face for a moment.

‘The fact I know so little about witches makes this even more terrifying. It is not as if there was a wealth of information about them in the books for me to rely on.

Other than the fact that they killed humans and were known to be predominantly women, there is absolutely nothing more I know.’

He sighed deeply.

‘I have avoided this confrontation for a while because it involves Yahoshi. That woman is as unpredictable as she can get. But now, my options are thin. If I can keep my plan the same, good. If I can’t… then a battle is the only way to settle this.’

Once he was done convincing himself to take action, he looked toward Ciel. She was already standing at the edge of the building, as though waiting for him to give her the go-ahead.

“If you plan on going, then I will be going too. As your dragon, it is simply my duty.”

Her tone didn’t leave room for much argument.

Dorian could also sense the rest of his summons sharing the exact same sentiment as Ciel.

It seemed they had sensed he was in distress and, as such, wanted to do as much as they could for him.

Smiling, Dorian touched the side of his neck.

‘Every single person around me can be so problematic.’

He sighed, then looked at Ciel as a huge, dark dragon wing grew from one side of his shoulder.

“Let’s go then. I need to get this all done before the sun rises.”

With that, both Dorian and Ciel took to the night sky, flying toward their intended target.

It took them quite some time to fully reach the location, but when they did, their surprise was immediately hinted on their faces.

They found themselves hovering right above a vast, empty land filled with nothing but dead soil, mountains, cliffs, and a river source that stretched all the way to the outskirts of the duchy.

From high up, Dorian could also see multiple caves in every rock face. Frankly, there was no difference between that and looking at an ant’s nest.

In any case, his eyes diverted toward one specific cave located right in the middle of two cliffs. To get there, flight was not the proper way.

That very room contained the entrance to Yahoshi; that was where she was hiding.

Dorian and his dragon slowly descended to the ground, a slight flutter of dust puffing away as they landed.

Once they were on the ground, Dorian placed one hand in his pocket.

The dry earth crunched beneath Dorian’s boots. The silence of the desolate land was thick, broken only by the faint, eerie hiss of the wind carving through the jagged cliffs.

He and Ciel stood near the base of the central ravine, the air charged with latent, dark energy—the unmistakable signature of powerful magic.

Then, the shadows began to move.

It wasn’t a sudden, aggressive emergence, but a slow, almost liquid transition from nothingness.

First, the periphery of their vision caught slight distortions in the air, like heat shimmering off asphalt. These distortions solidified, coalescing into forms that were undeniably human, yet subtly wrong.

Dozens of figures detached themselves from the deeper gloom of the rocks and crevices.

They were women, their faces pale and unreadable in the scant moonlight, eyes reflecting the darkness around them. They wore practical yet oddly archaic clothing, a mixture of dark leathers and roughspun cloth that allowed for swift movement.

Each held an air of cold, disciplined threat. They weren’t wild crones, but organized soldiers imbued with a quiet, lethal power.

Dorian estimated thirty of them, possibly more hidden deeper in the recesses. They formed a semi-circle, effectively blocking the winding path that led into the heart of the central cave.

Ciel’s response was immediate and visceral.

Her dragon wing twitched, the scales along her neck bristling, and a low, resonant growl—less sound and more vibration—began to rumble in her chest.

“Master, allow me,” Ciel projected into his mind, her mental voice sharp with protective fury. “They dare to block your path. I can clear a way in less than a breath.”

Dorian merely raised a hand, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but one that instantly quelled the growing tempest around Ciel.

The growl ceased, and the dragon wing settled, though her posture remained coiled and ready.

“Not yet, Ciel,” Dorian murmured, his voice cutting through the stillness with surprising clarity.

He took a single, deliberate step forward, his eyes sweeping across the assembly of witches.

The witches didn’t flinch. Their silence was total, a wall of disciplined hostility.

It was clear that any further movement would be met with overwhelming force. They were waiting for his move, anticipating a fight, and he could feel the threads of various complex spells already woven and ready to be triggered.

A genuine smile, cold and thin, touched Dorian’s lips. It wasn’t one of amusement, but of confident authority. He wasn’t here to brawl with foot soldiers.

“My name is Dorian,” he began, his voice neither loud nor demanding, yet it carried an undeniable weight—the weight of ancient power and ultimate dominion. “I am the Dragon Monarch. I did not come here to spill blood, nor do I intend to disturb your solitude unnecessarily.”

He paused, letting the title sink into their minds.

The faces of the witches remained impassive, but he detected minute shifts in the magical signatures emanating from the front ranks—a flicker of recognition, a shadow of fear.

“I seek an audience with Yahoshi,” Dorian stated plainly. “Tell her the Monarch has arrived. I have come to discuss.”

There was a moment of profound silence. It stretched, taut and fragile, under the judgment of the moon.

This was the moment where the witches had to decide: challenge the Monarch, or obey.

A witch in the center of the formation, who appeared to be the leader—distinguished only by a slightly more intense, focused magical aura—took a slow breath.

Her gaze was direct, meeting Dorian’s without wavering, an act of significant defiance and courage.

“The Mistress is not expecting visitors,” the witch finally spoke, her voice low and raspy, like dry leaves scuttling across stone. “You must depart.”

Dorian simply maintained his gaze, his expression unchanging.

He didn’t raise his voice, nor did he allow his immense aura to flare. He merely let the truth of his position hang in the air.

“I have seen every hidden place you and your kind occupy within this territory,” Dorian countered, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “From the rivers to the forest camps, to the villages where you pose as humans. My knowledge is absolute.”

He took another step.

“I am here now, and I will not depart without speaking to her. The choice you have is simple: step aside, or force my hand to step over you.”

The air crackled. Ciel let out a nearly silent, controlled exhalation.

Then, something shifted.

The lead witch’s eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in calculation. She must have weighed the cost.

The death of thirty elite witches, even if they managed to inflict slight damage on the Monarch or his dragon, was a devastating loss for their entire community.

The Dragon Monarch was not known for idle threats. If he saw them all, then he had them checkmated before he even arrived.

The collective magical pressure of the witches receded, the pre-cast spells dissolving back into the night air.

The lead witch slowly lowered her head, a gesture of profound submission that resonated through the entire group. It was an acknowledgment of ultimate, unchallengeable power.

“The Dragon Monarch is welcome,” she announced, her voice losing its rasp and taking on a formal reverence.

As if rehearsed, the witches in the semicircle began to move, dissolving their formation.

They did not retreat; instead, they smoothly rearranged themselves, stepping back into the shadows they had emerged from, creating a wide, clear path leading directly into the fissure between the two great cliffs.

The path was dark, winding, and seemed to lead straight into the earth’s throat.

Every witch bowed low, their heads nearly touching their chests, carving a silent, respectful corridor for him to follow.

Dorian accepted the deference without comment. He nodded slightly, a small acknowledgment of their wisdom, and then began to walk.

He placed his hand back into his pocket, his posture relaxed, yet radiating a terrible, latent energy.

Ciel followed close behind, her gaze sharp, her head swiveling, assessing every shadow, every rock face. She was his living shield, ready to incinerate anything that made a sudden move.