Chapter 66: The World Seen by God (1)
The dwarves' nation, the Dwarven Kingdom.
Yet the title of "kingdom" is only in name—for the last king to exist here lived over two hundred years ago.
More than two centuries past, the final monarch, King Rune the Public, left his country behind in pursuit of becoming a hero, taking up his arms and setting out. With his departure, no royal bloodline remained.
Since then, with no heirs to carry on the line, the kingdom has been ruled by the Regency Council, eight chiefs presiding over each division of governance.
They take turns serving as chairman, and whenever an important matter arises, decisions are reached through majority vote.
Even so, the atmosphere is not all rigid and severe.
The dwarves are not numerous, and with their characteristically hearty temperament and love of drink, they treat one another as brothers and comrades.
When the day's work is done, they gather in taverns to drink and share stories. Arguments and brawls sometimes break out, but such things are merely expressions of camaraderie, not true hostility.
Indeed, it is not unusual for a meeting of the Regency Council—formal and serious while in session—to end with the chamber turning into an impromptu drinking party.
Though their numbers are few, these open and convivial dwarves have long welcomed outsiders, never shunning guests regardless of whether they were human or of another race. Thus they have lived for ages within the mountains.
But in recent years, the Dwarven Kingdom has faced a grave crisis of survival.
The threat came from a demi-human race called the Quagoa. At first glance, they resemble oversized moles that burrow through the earth—but it would be dangerous to dismiss them as mere moles.
These demi-humans walk upright, standing at about 140 cm with an average weight approaching 70 kg. Despite their small frames, their remarkable mass comes from their unique racial trait.
Like other demi-humans, they possess both agility and physical resilience, but what sets them apart is their peculiar practice during childhood: they consume ore. The minerals they ingest in youth determine the durability of their fur as they mature.
Even ordinary iron ore can give them fur and claws as tough and sharp as steel. If they consume rarer metals such as mithril, orichalcum, or adamantite, they grow into adults with even greater toughness, strength, and physical durability.
But there is a tradeoff—their steel-like pelts leave them extremely vulnerable to cold. Though their bodies are covered in thick fur, they dwell underground and seldom emerge to the surface for this very reason.
They possess no magical power, wield no crafted weapons, relying solely on their claws. Their intellect is shallow and their civilization primitive, and so they rarely venture outside, instead forming tribal societies in caves and tunnels.
At one point, the dwarves attempted to exploit this racial trait: raising quagoa from youth and feeding them ores, hoping to harvest fur with the strength of rare metals yet the flexibility and lightness of hide. Such material would have been invaluable.
Yet the attempt failed. However clever the dwarves, raising a demi-human race of such power was beyond them. Most captured quagoa perished under the conditions of captivity. But some survived—and those survivors grew even stronger and more cunning.
Perhaps because of the varied ores they were fed, these individuals developed greater intellect and toughness than ordinary quagoa. Hiding their abilities, they waited until the dwarves turned their attention elsewhere—then broke free of their cages and escaped.
In time, those escapees formed tribes of their own, gathering followers and waging war on the dwarves. Though the dwarves eventually hunted them down, the cost was great, and the losses severe.
Since then, their policy toward the quagoa has been uncompromising. They regarded them as troublesome beasts, vermin that devoured ores. If hunted, their metal-infused pelts could be used for armor, but otherwise dwarves avoided unnecessary entanglement.
Yet in recent years, the situation changed. The scattered quagoa tribes of the Azerlisia Mountains began to unite—and launched an invasion against the dwarves.
The exact cause remains unclear. Some elder dwarves cautiously speculate that a mutant leader may have arisen.
Just as those once-captive quagoa grew stronger from feeding on rare ores, a new specimen might have appeared—one with intelligence and power far beyond the rest. Under such leadership, this sudden unification and aggression would not be impossible.
The dwarves were driven back helplessly by the sudden onslaught; before they knew it they had lost the capital and been pushed into scattered stronghold cities, fleeing for their lives.
What happened to the groups that retreated elsewhere was unknown—contact had been lost—but the fortress, to which most of the main force had withdrawn, was their last bastion.
In that situation the dwarves resorted to a last measure.
"We can't hold out any longer. Send for outside help!"
"But to whom? There's no nation that can spare an army for this place. Even if they did, a human army in those dark caverns would simply be slaughtered. And if it's a nation, what price would they demand…?"
"Call the adventurers!"
"The adventurers? You mean them?"
"Yes. Ordinary adventurers are unreliable, but there is one group we can trust."
Ordinary adventurers are hard to rely on. But there was one band the dwarves could place faith in. A great family with a century-and-a-half of history, the group that had once forged ties with the dwarves through some event—those were the ones to trust.
So the dwarves issued an emergency request—no, a special commission—to them: [Dragon's Dream]. They even hired two Adamantite-rank members of the party.
Given the special terrain of caverns under the mountains, the dwarves reasoned, a small number of powerful elites would be better than a large group of ordinary adventurers. The fewer the better, they thought—but they certainly hadn't expected only two to show up.
The merchant-prince who paid the fee wore a dour face at the cost, but the two repaid every coin.
"Shall we have some fun, then."
"Take it easy. Don't get careless and end up getting badly hurt. Ah—General, please send the payment this way."
"All right, all right. Take care. But two of you will be enough? If you like, we can send support—"
"That's unnecessary. Just provide proper food and lodging. It was a tough journey to get here. If we're doing this, let's make it a pleasant hunt."
They looked, at most, barely thirty—and nothing but overflowing confidence. Hunt? Hunt? The dwarves had hunted small bands of quagoa before, but the raiding quagoa came in the hundreds. Calling that a "hunt" seemed absurd. How much help could just two adventurers be? The dwarves doubted—but starting the next day, the work they did exceeded imagination.
"What day is it today?"
"I haven't used it since 200, but—ah, just handle the cleanup for me."
It wasn't a purge. It was a hunt, just as they had said.
The two—already into the realm of heroes—cut through the quagoa like butchers through livestock. A simple front-line fighter and a rear-line mage: the most basic vanguard-and-support pairing. In front of them no quagoa stood its ground.
While they were blocking tunnels and slaughtering swarms of quagoa that threw themselves against them, a leader-type charged. The warrior,
After a fierce struggle the presumed leader slashed and bled, then fled—remarkably, it fled while shouting in the defeat of the vanquished, "We'll see about this!"
Thus the raids that had tormented the dwarves for years finally came to an end. What thousands of dwarves could not handle was done by two adventurers. That, in itself, proved why the great family was great: they had the skill to match their name.
"That should be worth the fee. We killed a few thousand of them and even drove a blade into what looked like the leader—should be quiet for a while."
"There may be residual groups, but they'll be quiet for now. If they strike again, call us; if we're free we'll come. As for byproducts… it's too much to haul away, so dispose of them as you please. We won't claim any rights."
The dwarves' despair at fortress reached its peak.
Despite slaying thousands of quagoa and even injuring their leader just days ago, the enemy returned in greater numbers—tens of thousands, perhaps.
The commander gripped his beard until it threatened to tear free, staring out beyond the walls where countless red eyes glimmered in the darkness of the tunnels.
The dread was overwhelming: had there always been this many of them in the mountains? If so, the dwarves had been blind to their fate for years.
The fortress's natural defenses were their only saving grace—narrow tunnels that prevented all the beasts from attacking at once. But even so, dwarves were only flesh and blood. Endless waves would eventually break them. The commander knew that, even if today's assault was repelled by some miracle, tomorrow or the next day would bring ruin.
Yet just as he prepared to rally his weary soldiers with a speech of defiance—determined to fight to the death rather than surrender—news came rushing from the outer gate.
Panting soldiers shouted, barely able to speak:
"They… they've returned!"
At first, the commander snapped at the interruption, but realization struck. "They" could only mean one group. Not the empire, not the kingdom, not some faceless aid—no, it could only mean the legendary family of adventurers who had already proven themselves against the quagoa.
In an instant, his stern face broke into something close to relief.
"Bring them here—no, escort them with all honor! Quickly, don't waste a moment!"
Whatever gods the dwarves prayed to, it seemed their blessings had not abandoned them yet. The fate of the fortress—and perhaps the survival of the dwarves as a whole—would once more rest in the hands of Dragon's Dream.
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