Chapter 62: Those Who Wander in Search of God and Paradise (3)
Dean, lost for a moment in thought, cleared his throat.
"Ahem! Anyway, before Skal retired, he told me something. Paradise lies somewhere within the Azerlisia Mountains."
Rohaim frowned. "Wait—that's the same thing mentioned in Parus's Adventures, isn't it?"
"Oh, was it? Hah… damn, getting old is a curse, memory starts to get fuzzy… But listen. The secret Skal confided in me alone is this: Paradise is real."
"What? If that were true, then what about the thousands of people who've spent over 150 years combing the Azerlisia for it after reading Parus's Adventures? Are you saying they were all wasting their time…?"
Dean leaned in, lowering his voice, as though the shadows themselves might be eavesdropping. Though it was only the three of them in the clearing, his caution made Rohaim instinctively edge closer.
"Don't you find it strange?"
"What's strange?"
"Our own house—Dragon's Dream. Doesn't it strike you as odd? The patriarch's and the branch leaders' power, sure, that makes sense. But think about this: we regularly auction off magic items, sell legendary weapons… and yet no one knows where they come from."
"…Now that you mention it…"
Rohaim blinked. Dragon's Dream wasn't just a militant order; it was also an intelligence network, a broker of artifacts. Every item that came out of their auctions was of the highest grade, artifacts that even dwarven masters acknowledged as top-tier.
In fact, the name "Dragon's Dream" had become a brand: a guarantee of quality. So much so that some dwarves had bought pieces purely to stoke their own competitive fire, swearing, "We'll forge something even greater than this!" That rivalry had even sparked trade and relations between them later. But still…
Dean went on, his voice grave. "We're supposed to be high-ranking members of the main house, yet even we don't know the source of those items. The information division doesn't know either. They say the Patriarch himself brings them in. Now, does that sound like he's crafting them one by one? No. There's a place, somewhere, where they're being produced. A true stronghold of the family."
Rohaim whistled low. "Huh. That's some sharp thinking, old man. I'm a mage and even I never thought of that."
Dean smacked him across the head.
"Hey!" Rohaim yelped.
"That wasn't a compliment. And you get one more for good measure." Dean cuffed him again, ignoring Rohaim's exaggerated groan. He cast a wary glance into the trees—half-expecting monsters to be drawn by the noise—but all was still.
"Two jokes, two hits. Fair. Now shut up and listen. If there's a forge, a facility churning out high-grade magical gear as though it were mass-produced, and the dwarves aren't behind it—in fact, records say they were fired up to compete with us—then where else could it be? I say that's where our true power lies."
"Then what does that make Dragon's Dream itself?"
Dean's eyes hardened. "…The gate. The customs post. In national terms? Just the border city. The real nation lies elsewhere."
"Don't you think your evaluation's a little harsh?"
"Then how else do you explain the monstrous talent of every heir the Patriarch has ever brought back? Honestly, I always figured that if Lord Monkyspanner ever named his successor, that alone would be proof enough. Power that brushes against the realm of myth… that doesn't just pop up anywhere."
Dean had heard the news from the capital and felt it in his bones—a realization born not of logic but of instinct. There were powers in this world that dwarfed even what Dragon's Dream prided itself upon. And if such powers existed, then all their glory could be crushed like glass underfoot.
So he thought of what must exist behind the family. A greater force, one hidden in shadow, that might resolve this entire calamity.
"That's why I came here. Skal's words, the hints in Parus's Adventures—if they're true, then something lies beneath the Azerlisia Mountains. Something real. And that place… must be Paradise."
Rohaim frowned. "But the Patriarch almost never left the capital, right? Ouch! Did you just hit me again!?"
"You're supposed to be a mage and you can't even think of [Teleport] or [Gate] magic? Stop measuring everything by your limits. Think in terms of legends—no, myths. Otherwise you'll never even scratch the surface."
Dean rapped him on the head again, then continued in a calmer voice. "From here on, we need to change our perspective. We're not just Adamantite-ranked adventurers of Dragon's Dream anymore. We're challengers, peering into the realm of myth."
Rohaim groaned. "So what, we're heading back into the Azerlisia Mountains? We were about to finish the mission and return to the capital…"
"Yes. But we're in better shape than most adventurers. You two—finished with the dwarves?"
"Mostly. Didn't wrap up everything, but I don't work for free."
"Well done. Even if you could do more, you don't. That's the rule: no charity. Not for us, not for anyone. That's why guilds exist, why contracts exist, why payment is sacred. It's law."
And leaving the dwarves' requests unfinished left them leverage. Enough to justify lingering in their city, to establish a base, to draw more from them later if needed.
"Good. Then we'll use the dwarves' city as our foothold to explore beneath the Azerlisia. Rohaim—wake Colton. If we've decided, then no more wasting time."
"Can't we rest a little longer?"
"No. Up. Walk it off. Don't think I'll go easy on you."
"Ugh…"
Grumbling aside, Rohaim clammed up the moment Dean raised a fist and went to shake Colton awake. The poor man, still frothing from shock, jolted upright with a wild cry: "Wha—who am I? Where am I? Lord Monkyspanner—!" Only to earn a solid punch from Dean, followed by a quick rundown of the situation. Groggy but resigned, he got to his feet and started walking.
And so, the three of them set off toward a place known as "the Rift," a scar in the Azerlisia near the dwarven kingdoms. That would be their starting point, their path into the vast underground in search of Paradise.
"How long will it take?"
"I don't know."
…But someday, perhaps, they would find it.
....
Meanwhile, far away—
Tiamat was swallowed by darkness.
Leaving Shinshi behind had gone smoothly, but after passing just one outpost, he was running through a pitch-black void. No moon, no starlight. Just endless, suffocating dark.
Of course, his eyes could cut through pitch-blackness like blades, but seeing was not the same as knowing.
"Where… am I supposed to go…?"
The cliché Who am I, where am I? crossed Tiamat's mind as he wandered the cavern. Even at a "slow" pace, his stats meant he moved several times faster than a normal man. And yet, after what felt like half an hour of twisting corridors, he could no longer tell if he was making progress or simply circling back upon himself.
"Why in the world was the guild hall buried under this mountain in the first place…?"
Why the Twelve—now Shinshi—had placed their guild structure beneath the Azerlisia was a mystery, one likely never to be answered. Still, something about the situation nagged at him. Back in Yggdrasil, during his idle hours, he'd often read web novels with this exact setup: ordinary—well, "self-proclaimed ordinary"—men and women summoned or reborn in another world, granted overwhelming power, then strutting about as if they owned the place.
He had chuckled at those tales back then. Who would have thought he would end up in one?
And if this was reincarnation, then his "character build" was beyond absurd. Immense stats, immense magic, fully intact skills—and not only that, loyal subordinates and the guild hall itself had come along. If he were reading it, he would have called the balance broken from chapter one.
The outside world, by comparison, seemed pitiful. Monkyspanner had explained it: the strongest "heroes" out there were barely level 30–40. In Yggdrasil, that was the kind of level you pushed through in the early days of dungeon grinding. With enough dedication—or obsession—you could hit 100 before long. Thirty? That wasn't a peak. That was tutorial.
And yet, the one suffering now was not the weaklings outside. It was Tiamat himself.
"How do I even get out of here?"
He scanned his surroundings, but in truth, he was unprepared.
He'd stormed out without so much as a plan. His inventory was stuffed with weapons and gear, of course, but what he needed now wasn't a sword—it was a map.
And even then, what good would a map be in a place he had never set foot in?
The combination was poison: endless tunnels, oppressive dark, no experience navigating caverns.
His vision cut through shadow, but it didn't make the labyrinth less maddening.
Anxiety curdled into irritation, irritation into outright foul temper.
He had meant to burst into the outside world and savor its sights, sounds, and scents—but instead he found himself stuck wandering aimlessly underground.
Already his mood was bottoming out, weighed with unease about this strange world, guilt toward Ea, and the crushing loneliness of two centuries lost. Now this? His patience snapped.
Perhaps it was because he wore [Tarnhelm], his world item, masking him in human form. Suppressing emotions felt harder like this than in his dragon body. And so he gave in. He let the storm inside his chest loose.
But the storm did not come out as a scream.
It erupted as a torrent of annihilation—an exhalation of blinding power, a breath that seared with transcendent heat.
[Dragon Breath].
Soundless. Merciless. A column of black fire roared forth, gouging through stone, burning away the dark itself, and lancing upward into the unseen vaults of the earth.
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