Chapter 75: Because It Is All Too Fragile (5)
Perhaps it was because of his rash command. Feeling faintly uneasy, Tiamat vaulted the dwarven citadel walls once more, intending to return to the Leaky Cask. Yet before he had even trudged back to the tavern's rooftop, a [Message] reached him.
「My Lord, we have fulfilled your command.」
"…Already?"
「Indeed. As you ordered, the number of Quagoa has been reduced to less than one-quarter. We judged that they shall trouble you with their noise no longer, and in accordance with your decree, we refrained from exterminating them completely.」
"…I see."
Tiamat instinctively rubbed his head. His body produced no sweat, yet he felt as if cold perspiration were running down his neck. His draconic frame was far too strong to secrete fluids from mere nerves or temperature shifts—yet the feeling remained.
One careless word of his, and an entire race's population had been cut to a fourth. And this, within only minutes of their summoning.
The epic spell Dragon Strike lasted no more than five minutes. He had already wasted thirty seconds of that span with his own mistaken command. That left four and a half minutes—barely enough time, yet in that short interval, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, had perished. If extinction had been mentioned, then the death toll may well have climbed into five figures.
A lie? For an instant the thought rose. But then, he admitted it made sense. Considering this world's balance of power, the outcome was believable. He had invoked one of Yggdrasil's most devastating skills, an Epic Spell among the strongest. Such destruction was to be expected.
Even his own casual breath could tunnel through hundreds of meters of solid cavern. Ten dragons, each of level 70—against Quagoa, pitiful creatures barely level 20 at best—slaughter was inevitable.
That he had caused it gave him pause… but only briefly.
Well, they're just monsters anyway!
The dwarves had been kind, even welcoming, stirring his fantasy sensibilities in a way he enjoyed. Clearing out the pests that plagued them was hardly a crime. In Yggdrasil, he had massacred not thousands, but millions upon millions, grinding mobs for experience. Any veteran player would have.
Thus Tiamat swept away his brief pangs of guilt. They're only mobs. Worthless trash. If it keeps the dwarves safe, what does it matter?
"So then, is there anything else?"
「Yes, my Lord. During the culling of the Quagoa, we discovered what appears to be a dwarven city. As we proceeded with the purge, within its largest building we sensed the presence of another kin.」
"Another kin?"
「Indeed. Though we could not confirm with sight, we believe it may have been a White—or Frost Dragon. Likely a very young one, or a feeble-minded whelp.」
"…A White, is it. A rather nostalgic breed."
In Yggdrasil, dragons had long been divided into two great categories: True Dragons, the mighty—masters of power, magic, intelligence, and wisdom. And Lesser Dragons, creatures that bore the shape but lacked the essence, pale imitations. The former were called dragons; the latter, wyverns or drakes.
True Dragons are broadly divided into four lineages: the Chromatic Dragons, whose scales gleam in vivid colors; the Metallic Dragons, whose bodies shine with the luster of precious metals; the Gem Dragons, whose scales sparkle like radiant jewels; and the Lung Dragons, whose serpentine forms and branch-like horns set them apart from their kin.
Beyond these, there exist other rare lineages that defy such categories—transcendent beings such as the Dragon Gods or the legendary Epic Dragons.
White Dragons belong to the Chromatic lineage. Among the five great chromatics—Red, Blue, Green, Black, and White—they are considered the lowest in standing. Yet "lowest" hardly means weak. In terms of attributes, Whites can even counter Reds, who are often ranked as the strongest of all.
In Yggdrasil, however, they were infamous for their rarity. Unlike other dragons, they dwelled deep in Helheim and Niflheim, their snowy hides blending into glaciers and blizzards as natural camouflage.
Even when discovered, they were a nightmare to face: slowing foes, sapping stamina, reducing item durability, and inflicting endless cold-based debuffs.
Their notoriety was high—yet their actual stats were underwhelming, making them an unpopular choice even among dragon enthusiasts.
For Tiamat, that history lent a certain nostalgia. To think that a White Dragon existed here—when in Yggdrasil, even hunting them down was nearly impossible.
And more, that this one was said to be young… or even feeble-minded. Such an individual case had never existed in Yggdrasil's bestiary. His interest was piqued.
"So, what did you do with them?"
「Nothing. Your command was strictly to deal with the Quagoa. We dared not touch them, nor even lower our guard. That judgment, we believed, belonged only to you. We will transmit their coordinates.」
"Well done."
Tiamat praised his loyal servants. Their report had stirred genuine curiosity within him. He wanted to see these White Dragons with his own eyes.
「O Lord, to receive praise even after our earlier failure… such honor is beyond us.」
"It's fine. You did well. Now—the summoning time must be almost up. Any problems?"
「None. The time is nearly finished. We eagerly await the day you call upon us again.」
And with that, the connection ended. Not with a timer ticking down like in a game, but with a distinct sense of finality. So that's how this works, Tiamat thought. Good work, Red Dragons. Now then… let's pay a visit, shall we?
The Leaky Cask was just nearby, but the thought of White Dragons tugged at him. He had already stepped away from his cover; what harm would a few more minutes cause? Barely ten minutes had passed since his earlier excursion. He might as well indulge his curiosity.
Slipping into a shadowed alley, Tiamat opened a [Gate] using the coordinates sent by the Reds. Passing through, he shut it behind him—only to find himself not in the dwarven stronghold's alleys, but standing before a majestic city.
"…Oh."
A low sound of admiration escaped him. It was a fine city indeed.
Though far from Shinshi's grandeur, there was an almost ancient artistry to it—the cracked avenues and towering halls, the massive structures scattered throughout. To think such things were raised without machines, using only stone and timber… it was enough to inspire awe.
Tiamat recalled the dwarven innkeeper's words. This must be the lost dwarven capital. At such scale, it certainly deserved the title. Beautiful, grand, artistic—beyond his vocabulary to capture. He was no critic or artisan. His thoughts went no further than impressive… splendid.
A marvelous city. Perhaps even desirable. Yet he shook the thought away. That could wait. The White Dragon came first.
Leaping into the air, he soared toward the largest building—the palace at the city's heart. Though abandoned by dwarves long ago, its polished halls and gleaming pillars impressed him still. Carvings of armored dwarven warriors, hammer in hand, adorned the columns. No machinery, no enchanted tools—only dwarven craft. Truly remarkable.
"So this is the royal palace… quite a sight."
Admiring it as he went, he strode deeper. Footsteps echoed—clack, clack—but he ignored them. Then, catching a faint aura of [Fear], he followed it inward.
There, he saw them: a mound of gold glittering like a small hill, and before it a creature trembling like some mix between a mole and an anteater—likely a Quagoa. And atop that mound, coiled amid jewels, sat the White Dragons themselves.
Wait… those aren't whelps at all.
The Reds had told him it was only a whelp—yet this creature was far larger than expected.
By sheer size alone it surpassed an Adult dragon, its frame even greater than the ones he had summoned earlier. If Yggdrasil's taxonomy and this world's draconic ecology were not so different, then this would not be a youngling at all but an Ancient.
Even if the standards here differed, to call such a beast a "child" was absurd. Its body easily stretched over ten meters. Clearly a fully grown dragon—or perhaps even some kind of mutation. Tiamat tilted his head slightly, bemused.
....
"You… what are you?"
"Just a spectator."
"Don't mock me! State your name, dwarf!"
"A dwarf, am I…"
Given his current guise, he supposed the mistake was natural. Next to a dragon towering over ten meters, any human seemed pathetically small. Still, a flicker of irritation stirred within him—perhaps because his true form was far larger than this pretender's. He had no intention of revealing it, but his lips curled.
"I am no dwarf. And yes, I came only to watch… to see the White Dragons."
"Then gaze upon me! If it is my majesty you seek, cast aside that rag you wear and bow your head, insect!"
At that, Olasird'arc displayed a hint of uncharacteristic "mercy." He took the words at face value, believing the stranger had come to behold his glory. With a puff of frigid breath, he sought both to strip away the concealing cloth and to assert his dominance.
A blast of icy wind howled through the chamber. Tiamat's cloak billowed wildly; though it did not tear away, the wrappings loosened, revealing the armor and gear beneath.
Jet-black, gleaming equipment shimmered faintly with power—clearly no ordinary relics. Olasird'arc's massive eyes flashed with avarice. He was too fixated on the treasures to notice the subtle shift in Tiamat's expression: the faint smile wiped away.
"Such fine trinkets for one so small… I've never seen treasures like these. If you wish forgiveness for your insolent tongue, surrender them to me."
"…Heh."
For a moment Tiamat's face went blank. Did this witless lizard truly just say that?
Not only had it dared sully his mood with a breath attack, but now it demanded his possessions? Even in Yggdrasil, dragons were considered high-intelligence mobs—greedy, yes, and occasionally whimsical enough to seize players' gear. But to face such insolence here, in this world? Unthinkable.
And worse still, that a "feeble-minded wretch" like this had the gall to command him.
Tiamat's golden eyes snapped open. The black vertical slit of his pupil narrowed and fixed directly on Olasird'arc.
"You… insignificant fool. Did you just presume to order me?"
"What?"
Olasird'arc recoiled, then bristled with rage. Cold fury poured out in waves, filling the palace with biting chill. The Frost Dragon's wrath was suffocating enough to leave Periyuro—still cowering nearby—on the verge of freezing to death. Not that either dragon cared.
The White Dragon rose from his throne of gold, a mountain of scaled muscle cloaked in blizzards. His entire form radiated lethal frost as he glared down at the insolent "dwarf."
"Pitiful insect! Do you comprehend the gulf between us? Look upon me and despair! This is the difference in station!"
To most creatures, such a presence would have been overwhelming. To stand before that towering white form would shatter courage and crush the will to resist.
But to Tiamat, it was nothing. No awe, no fear—only simmering anger… and a trace of pity.
"I see. Then allow me to show you the 'difference in station' you so boast of… though it may be harsher than you expect."
Tiamat's mouth curved into a thin smile. With one hand, he reached up—grasping the invisible crown upon his brow.
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