Finally, it was time for the delegation to depart.
Knights and beasts made their final checks, bustling about.
The kings and high-ranking nobles began to prepare to mount their beasts.
Then, in the center of the plaza, a massive presence descended gracefully, drawing all attention.
As the enormous dragon touched down, an overwhelming pressure swept across the courtyard like a wave.
"This should do it, right?"
Marcus subtly glanced in Michael's direction.
Michael had asked him to make a dramatic entrance—to exude majesty.
Michael stepped forward, wearing a calm smile, standing confidently beside Marcus.
His intent was clear:
To show off the prestige of having a dragon at his command and stir envy among the gathered rulers.
And just as he hoped, the kings and nobles began to eye Marcus with undisguised interest.
"Ahem… Lord Michael. Your dragon is truly magnificent."
Romano II was the first to speak, his gaze filled with greed and longing.
King Edmund, too, chimed in.
"Indeed. I've heard it's far faster than ordinary beasts?"
As he recalled Marcus's elegant flight earlier, he licked his lips unconsciously.
Even though his own mount was impressive, it couldn't compare to a first-class divine beast.
"With our packed schedule, a quicker mode of transport wouldn't be a bad thing."
Chancellor Guinness of the Pasha Kingdom let his personal desires show.
As soon as he spoke, the others' gazes became even more intense.
Michael responded with a kind smile.
"Those who wish to ride along are more than welcome. However…"
He paused, his tone turning gently cautionary.
"Be advised—Marcus's flying style is unlike anything you've experienced. He is far faster… and far more unpredictable."
Despite the warning, cheers broke out among the group.
Even Queen Dowager Guinevere stepped forward.
After all, riding a dragon was a once-in-a-lifetime experience—one no noble could easily pass up.
Of course, some approached Marcus strategically, not out of desire but to gauge his capabilities firsthand.
Those who had been tipped off in advance—Henry III, Sigmund, and Oswald—smiled knowingly and stepped back.
Their envoys followed suit, refraining from boarding.
Michael smiled faintly.
With a single beat of his wings, Marcus sliced through the clouds and soared upward.
The expressions on the envoys' faces had turned ghostly pale.
When the flight began, they had been utterly thrilled.
To sit upon a dragon's back and gaze down upon the continent below—surely, it would be a tale to boast of for a lifetime.
Romano II clamped a hand over his mouth, his face ashen.
Thanks to the anti-nausea potion Michael had provided beforehand, nothing came up.
And that, somehow, made things worse.
It would probably feel better to just throw up and get it over with...
He clung to the harness at his waist like it was a lifeline.
His fingers were clenched so tightly that the knuckles had gone white.
He tried desperately to maintain his balance, but the dragon's movements were completely unpredictable.
Queen Dowager Guinevere was barely conscious.
Half-fainted, she slumped against her brother, Chancellor Guinness, though he himself looked no more coherent.
Marcus wasn't just flying.
He was rising and diving at breakneck speed, flipping in midair, and performing dazzling aerial maneuvers that would put a circus act to shame.
His elegant silk garments were in ruins, and the turban he wore for warmth had been blown off long ago.
But not one of them dared complain.
Lord Michael had warned them—repeatedly.
They had all insisted on riding despite his caution, driven by pride or greed. Who could they possibly blame now?
When Michael saw that they had all reached their limit, he called out cheerfully,
"Is everyone alright? Shall we take a break and land for a moment?"
Without hesitation, every head shook furiously.
"N-no, no! We're fine! Absolutely no need to land!"
They had already learned the hard way: getting off and then taking off again was pure hell.
Anyone who dared unbuckle their saddle straps was met with a piercing glare from Marcus.
With a first-class divine beast staring them down like it might actually eat them, no one had the guts to refuse the ride.
As the royals violently shook their heads, Marcus gleefully began another steep dive.
The kings and envoys screamed in unison, voices hoarse with terror.
The roaring wind battered their ears, and their stomachs flipped once again.
Meanwhile, Michael, unstrapped and moving effortlessly, reassured them with graceful movements and calm words.
Even those who had harbored contempt or jealousy toward him stared with wide, fearful eyes.
A single thought echoed through all their minds:
"Just how powerful is this man?"
The highest-ranking elites of the continent had begun to feel not just awe—but genuine fear and reverence toward Michael.
At last, the massive peaks of the Argo Mountains appeared on the horizon.
Beneath the setting sun, the snow-covered summits glowed gold, a breathtaking spectacle.
But no one had the strength or composure to enjoy it.
The kings and envoys clinging to Marcus's back were completely drained.
Where there had once been excitement and curiosity, now only regret and dread remained.
They stared blankly at the vast mountain range, faces pale and eyes bloodshot.
Their clothes were in disarray, sweat dripped down their foreheads, and every inch of their appearance testified to their suffering.
And in that moment, a single desire consumed them all:
"Let me off this thing. Please."
Never in the history of the continent had the minds of so many kings been so perfectly in sync.
As the mountains grew closer, they stared longingly at the ground, as though it were salvation.
Michael's voice called out, full of encouragement.
"Just a little more. Once we pass the range, we'll be there."
Romano II, trying to gather some shred of dignity, spoke up.
His face, still pale with motion sickness, twitched with effort.
"Hah... I've ridden plenty of flying beasts before—but this... this truly is in a class of its own."
He was doing relatively well, all things considered.